Between Never and Forever by Brit Benson

21

I’ve never beenon a real movie set, but I assumed it wouldn’t be too much different from the music videos I’ve shot with the band.

I was wrong.

I didn’t expect to get a full trailer to myself, complete with my name on the door and everything. Honestly, it’s nicer than the house I grew up in about an hour from here. There’s a couch, a television, a bathroom, a kitchenette, a desk, a small sleeping area with a bed, and there’s even a little doggie corner with a bed and toys for Ziggs. I don’t know how Red got them to approve her being on set with me, but I don’t even care. She’s here, and it makes me happy. He’s such a good bodyguard.

As I poke around the space, opening cabinets and drawers and checking the mini fridge, Red shuffles through the fruit on my fruit tray, picking out grapes one by one and popping them in his mouth.

The fruit tray I expected. It’s on my basic rider along with my favorite brand of electrolyte water in the glass bottles, extra guitar picks, citrus-scented candles (one for each night we play at a venue), dark chocolate caramel truffles with sea salt, cucumber eye masks, and a package of dental doggy bones for Zigaroo. What I didn’t ask for, though, was the gigantic bouquet of flowers or the welcome basket of pastries.

I dig through the pile of baked goods, pull out a muffin, and take a giant bite.

“Oh, yum,” I say through a mouthful. “This is pretty good.”

Red hums. I take another bite, then am shoved forward by my mannerless dog and her bulky body. She nudges my leg again and hits me with her big pleading puppy eyes, so I laugh and break off a piece of the muffin to feed her.

“You’re just going to make her worse.” Red grunts. “The mutt will never stop begging if you keep feeding her like that.”

I make eye contact with him and hold it as I feed Ziggy the rest of my muffin. He shakes his head, and our grins slip at the same time.

“You’re a brat,” Red grumbles, and my smile falls.

A brat.

Levi.

See you Monday, he’d said. Well, today is Monday, and now I’m on high alert. I’m already a mess of nerves, and Levi’s cryptic statement is just making everything worse.

Asshole.

There’s a knock on my trailer door, so I open it wide and find a girl with a clipboard looking up at me. It’s only dawn, so it’s still fairly dark out and I can’t really make out the fine details of her features, but she looks youngish. Younger than me.

“Ms. Loveless, I’m Dakota, one of the production assistants,” the girl says, her voice steady and clear. “I came to see if you’d want an escort to makeup.”

Red pushes past me and sticks out his hand, and Dakota slaps her badge into it without a word. As he studies it, she continues talking to me.

“I’ve already signed the NDA you provided to the studio. I’ve been assigned to you in case you need anything.” She reaches into her back pocket, then hands me a business card. “That’s the cellphone I use for the studio. If you need anything, you can call me.”

I nod, then glance at Red. He nods, then hands Dakota her badge.

“Cool,” I say, and she gestures to a golf cart parked behind her. “You can call me Sav, though.”

I follow her to the golf cart, sliding onto the passenger seat as Red grabs Ziggy and sits on the back bench. Red will probably trail me a lot the first few days before he finally backs off and gives me some space. It’s how he does things. It’s what I pay him for, honestly. Once we’re in a routine and the new wears off, Ziggy will decide to stay behind with Red because she loves him just as much as she loves me. Even though Red refuses to admit it.

“Have you had a tour of the studio yet?” Dakota asks as she puts the golf cart in drive and pulls away from my trailer.

“I’ve explored a little, but not much. I was going to come in yesterday, but since everyone in North Carolina knows I’m here now, I stayed in and ran lines instead. I’ll poke around today.”

My face in the coffee shop has been everywhere. I’m used to the attention, but I’m nervous about Levi. I don’t exactly want my relationship with him, or some elements of my past, to be dragged through the tabloids.

The paps are cutthroat, and the media is ruthless. I even stand next to someone in a crowd, and they find a way to twist it into headline material. Potential love interest? Drug dealer? Cheating on my “fiancé” again?

It’s disgusting and fascinating to witness. The lengths they will go to sell magazines, the backflips they will turn to get clicks. Their detective skills are top notch, but their understanding of ethical journalism is lacking. It makes for a pretty dangerous game. I never know what I’ll get anytime I step foot in public.

“I can take you around after filming wraps for the day, if you want,” Dakota says, navigating through trailers in the lot like a seasoned pro. “And of course, I’ll be here to escort you anywhere you need to go during the day.”

“Thanks, Dakota,” I say, then rub my hands down my thighs to hide my slight trembling.

God, I’m so fucking nervous.

We’re filming scenes in the back lot today, and I made Red run lines with me until my speech was slurred with exhaustion. I could probably recite the dialogue in my sleep at this point, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be any good at this. I didn’t even audition for this role. They came to me. What if I’m a terrible actress? What if I end up another washed-up rockstar with a failed film career?

I might puke.

“You’re going to be great at this,” Dakota says, and I glance at her with a raised eyebrow.

“You think?”

“Yep.” She pulls the golf cart up to another trailer and puts it in park, then turns to me. “I’ve been working in this industry since I was eighteen. I’ve seen all sorts of stuff, and I can predict an Oscar winner from the casting call. And you? You’re going to crush it.”

I purse my lips, then slowly release a smile.

“We’re going to be friends,” I tell her, and she smiles back.

“I know.”

I hop out of the golf cart and Ziggy is at my feet immediately. I give her head a scratch and wait for Red to step up next to me.

“I’ll be back when you’re done to take you to wardrobe,” Dakota says, and then she drives off.

I take a deep breath, give Red one last glance as he posts up like some secret service guard next to the door, then step up the three metal stairs and pull open the trailer door. My menace of a dog rushes in before I can, and I hear a whoa there shouted from inside.

“Shit, sorry,” I say as I step into the trailer then turn my attention to my dog. “Ziggy, no. You go back outside with Red.”

“Oh, she’s fine, hun,” a man says, crouching down and addressing Ziggs while giving her tons of scratches. “What’s your name, precious?”

“Her name is Ziggy,” I answer awkwardly, bouncing my eyes between the man petting my dog and the woman sitting at one of the vanities behind him. “But she also answers to Ziggs, Zigaroo, Zigalicious, ZeeZee, and Mutt.”

The man and woman both laugh, then he pushes back to standing and hits me with a grin.

“Ziggy, as in Marley?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“Stardust,” I tell him, and he nods.

“My next guess.” He puts out his hand and I shake it. It’s soft and warm. “I’m Pax and this is Tatum. We’ll be working you over every day. Chanel will be here in about an hour, but we’ve got to get started earlier since we’ve got to install your wig and tattoos.”

“Sure,” I say on an exhale, then glance around the space.

There are three large vanity stations with big lighted mirrors and salon chairs, and there’s a skylight in the ceiling through which the first lights of the sunrise are peeking through. A water cooler, mini fridge, and coffee pot stand in the corner, and then on the back wall are built-in cabinets and shelves full of stuff.

“Where do you want me?” I ask, and Tatum stands and waves to the salon chair she was just sitting in.

I walk to it and plop down while Ziggy shoves herself under the table and curls up at my feet. She’s so sleepy, poor thing. I kick off my shoe and use my toes to give her a few more pets.

“Have you seen this beauty yet?” Tatum asks, and I watch in the mirror as she opens one of the cabinets and reveals some mannequin head things and random hair pieces. Then carefully, she lifts a brunette piece off one of the heads and turns to face me. “It turned out great.”

“I haven’t.” My eyes scan over my wig in awe. “Wow. It looks so real.”

“It’s real hair, babe,” Tatum quips. “Wait ‘til we get it on you. You won’t even believe it.”

The wig really is beautiful. Long, dark, silky strands that fall in soft waves. It’s got a natural, healthy shine that my own hair no longer has without tons of conditioning products since I bleach it to high heaven to keep it silver.

After I accepted the role in this film, I attended a fitting appointment to have my head measured and molded so the production company could create a custom wig for me. It was a really weird process that involved wrapping my head in cellophane and tape, then tracing my hairline with a black marker. Very strange, but since I refused to dye my hair back to my natural brown, it was the next best option, and they assured me it would look better than something you pull off a rack at a Halloween store.

“Ready to get started?” Pax asks, and I nod.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The whole process takes about four hours, with most of that time dedicated to applying my half sleeve of fake tattoos. Chanel shows up after about an hour and gets to work on my face, and when that’s done, Tatum finishes up the final touches on my wig.

It’s unsettling how real it looks.

It’s been years since I’ve seen myself as a brunette, and while my makeup is heavier than anything I’d wear back then, I can still see the younger me staring back through the vanity mirror. It’s so overwhelming that I almost want to cry.

The things I would tell her if I could. The warnings. The encouragement.

I smile at my reflection, and I have to swallow back a sob. The resemblance is unnerving. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think I was the same person as that girl back then. But I know better.

“Oh hun, don’t cry,” Pax says, and Chanel attacks my face with a cotton swab.

“You’re not supposed to cry until later,” Chanel grumbles, dabbing under my eyes.

Chanel purposely used non-waterproof eyeliner because the final scene we’re shooting today requires an ugly cry, and the script wants me to look like a hot ass mess, all streaky eye makeup and snot. Weirdly enough, I’m more terrified of the crying scene than I am of the sex scenes. There’s only one crying scene, thank god, but there are three sex scenes.

I’m glad I’m getting the sobbing out of the way on the first day. Then I can focus on the shit I’m comfortable with—sex and betrayal.

“Alright, hun,” Pax says, standing back and clapping his hands. “Off to wardrobe you go. Try not to touch your face or hair, okay? But if you do, we’ll be around to touch you up.”

I push up from the salon chair and Ziggy stands with me, barreling through all our feet and skidding to a halt at the trailer door.

“Sorry,” I say, flashing Ziggs a scowl as I make my way to the door. “She’s rude.”

I reach for the door just as it swings open, revealing my co-star, Paul Northwood, standing in all his broad-chested glory. Paul is a seasoned pro with two Oscar nominations, and he won an Emmy for the few years he spent on one of America’s longest running soaps. We met briefly, albeit digitally, for the table read a few months ago, but I haven’t talked to him since.

“Sav,” he says with a smile, stepping backward off the trailer steps and offering a hand for me to climb down.

I take it even though I don’t need it.

“I was hoping to run into you this morning. Have you been here long?”

“Since about 4:30,” I tell him honestly, then laugh at his grimace. I gesture to my tattoos and hair, and he nods.

“Almost didn’t recognize you. Brown hair suits you.”

“I’d hope so,” I say with a smirk. “It’s what I was born with.”

“Huh.” Paul drags his eyes over my hair, then my face, taking note of my dark eyebrows and eyelashes, before landing back on my eyes. “I can see it.”

“I’m headed to wardrobe,” I tell him.

He’s already dressed in suit pants and a button down, so I’m assuming he’s already been. I gesture to the door I just came out of.

“You in here long?”

“Not as long as you,” he says with a chuckle. “No ink or wigs for me.”

“Okay, well, have fun. See you out there.”

Paul gives me another of his charming smiles, reminding me again why most of the world is in love with him. He really is a beautiful man. Very rugged in build and stature, but his facial features are softer. His skin glows. His lips have the perfect pout. His dark brown hair has that attractive tousled look, and his dark brows and eyelashes make his bright blue eyes pop.

The girlies go gaga for him, and I can honestly see why.

He also has a reputation of being a perfect gentleman. Vocal about human rights, respectful of his castmates, and loves his mom. He even graduated valedictorian from high school despite his budding acting career.

Like, damn. I’m basically co-stars with Hollywood’s idea of perfection.

I snort as I slide into the passenger seat of Dakota’s golf cart where she, Red, and Ziggy are already waiting. I wonder how long it will take the media to run a story speculating on my scandalous relationship with my new co-star. They’d love that—Sav Loveless corrupting Hollywood’s Golden Boy. That article would break the internet.

I stay in my thoughts as Dakota zips to wardrobe, which is a much larger trailer than hair and makeup. This one almost looks like a giant shipping container, and there are no skylights.

I’m introduced to the crew and walked through my wardrobe changes for the movie. I relax when I learn that I’ll be wearing the same outfit for most of filming. Or, one of the several identical copies of the same outfit, anyway. My time in wardrobe is much shorter than my time in makeup. I was already measured and fitted last month in L.A., so all they have to do is double check that everything is the same, dress me, and send me on my merry way.

When the golf cart rounds the corner and the set on the back lot comes into view, my jaw drops. It’s absolutely stunning. It looks like a small Italian village just popped up out of the ground in eastern North Carolina. I’ve been to Italy six times, once for each of our world tours, but I never really got to visit. Not much time to be a tourist when you’re playing shows every night and sleeping while in transit between cities.

“Oh my god,” I breathe out, and Dakota laughs.

“It’s beautiful, right? It’s easily one of the best sets we’ve had in the studio the whole time I’ve worked here.” She pulls the golf cart up behind some lighting equipment and throws it in park. “Plus, the guy who owns the construction company is just as beautiful as the set. Definitely didn’t mind watching him work.”

I laugh and smirk at her.

“Let me guess. Backwards ball cap, tattered blue jeans, and a tool belt with a—” I use my hands to measure out about a foot “—big hammer?”

She smirks back and raises an eyebrow, then reaches up and slowly moves my hands a few more inches apart. I bark out a laugh, and I hear Red sigh with annoyance.

“Fun sucker,” I say over my shoulder, and he sighs louder.

“But seriously though, he’s just a good guy, too,” Dakota cuts in. “He does a lot for the community. Only mark against him is he’s not very friendly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say more than a few words at a time. I saw him smile one time and I about swooned, though, so it’s probably for the best.”

I climb out of the golf cart and give Dakota a wink.

“I think I like them better when they don’t talk, anyway.”

She laughs and nods in agreement before throwing the golf cart back in gear.

“Break a leg today, Sav,” she says, then she zooms off, leaving me, Red, and Zigalicious in her dust.

“You ready for this, kid?”

Red’s gruff voice is low and gentle, and I think it over. I’ve memorized all of my lines plus half of Paul’s. But am I ready?

“I could use a shot of whiskey and a xanny,” I say honestly. It’s about all I’m sure of right now.

Red doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even acknowledge what I said. What do you say to a recovering alcoholic and drug abuser, anyway? Silence them? Tell them, oh no, I know you don’t mean that? He knows I mean it. He also knows that nothing anyone says can change it. Not him. Not Mabel. Not Torren or Jonah. Certainly not Hammond.

Only me.

I sigh loudly and reconsider his question. I pick up a strand of my new brunette hair and twirl it around my finger. My head doesn’t itch as much as I expected it to with this wig on. Neither does my arm where they applied the fake tattoos. If I don’t look in the mirror, I’d never know the difference.

I shrug.

“I guess we’ll find out.”