Bryce was still talking, but Wilder's eyes stayed on Althea. He'd seen her in some movie, but he couldn't remember what, something to do with the Navy, he thought. LaFavre would remember; he never forgot a great pair of breasts. And now here she was, flesh and blood. If Wilder remembered the movie rightly, she had shown quite a bit of flesh, more than was currently being displayed. She smiled at him again, dimples this time, and he was pretty sure it was an invitation. He dropped his eyes to her long, thin legs and decided that as soon as he remembered the title of whatever she'd been in, he'd go to Savannah and get the DVD.
"And we've got a real helicopter pilot," Bryce was saying to him. "Karen Roeburn. She's Althea's stunt double, but she's a real pilot, too. She thought the helicopter stunt was okay." He finally ran down, uncertain. "But you said you don't like it because of the bridge cables, right?"
Wilder looked away from Althea's legs as Bryce's buzz penetrated. Female chopper pilot. His second ex-wife had been a chopper pilot.
Before he could say anything, Nash faced him. "I know what I'm doing. We can get the chopper down on the roadway with enough safety clearance."
Not if there's a wind, Wilder thought. The guy was a pro so he had to know that trying to land a helicopter on this bridge was dumb. What was up with him?
"Connor," Bryce said. "You should listen to J.T. He's my consultant."
Nash snorted. "He the one that got you that knife?"
"No, no, I got it." Bryce unsnappcd the leather stay and pulled the huge pig-sticker out or the leather sheath. "I had the props department order it special after I saw how my role was rewritten. I told them my character, Brad, would have a big knife. They got it custom made by this guy in Alabama. Same one who did Rambo's knife in First Blood."
Wilder truly believed he was going to have to get a rifle, climb a tower somewhere, and start shooting if one more person here said "Rambo." The blade was at least a foot long, the front edge honed razor-sharp, the back side serrated for—well, Wilder had no clue what Bryce would use that for other than cutting down a tree. If Bryce had shown that thing at Fort Bragg, the howls would have been heard all the way to Smoke Bomb Hill, where Special Forces had been founded long ago by manly men doing manly things with other men in a manly way. Wilder's first team sergeant had told him that line. He'd have told Bryce, but then he'd have had to listen to it for the rest of the shoot.
Bryce slashed the knife awkwardly through the air, making Althea step back.
"Careful," Wilder said automatically. "You never draw a weapon unless you mean to use it."
Bryce slashed again, almost nicking Althea, and Wilder slipped his hand under Bryce's extended arm, caught it at the wrist, twisted, and applied just a little pressure. Bryce screamed and dropped the weapon.
Wilder let go, feeling guilty, especially when Bryce turned those big puppy eyes on him. "What did you do that for?"
People were watching, including Althea, who was staring at the two of them as if making a decision. Wilder bent over and picked up the monstrosity. He felt the balance. Actually pretty good; he was sure the guy in Alabama knew what the hell he was doing. It was Bryce who didn't have a clue.
"Sorry." Wilder flipped the knife and caught it by the blade, extending the handle to Bryce, who eyed the proffered knife warily. He snatched it, almost slicing Wilder's palm open, slid it back in the sheath, and fastened the leather stay to keep it from falling out and impaling his foot.
"I don't get it." Bryce sounded like a kid whose mother had just questioned the drawing he'd done in school that day. "What don't you like about the knife? I got one for you, too, because you're going to be my stunt double."
"Thank you," Wilder said, trying to mean it.
"He's not doubling for you," Nash said, quiet but firm. "I heard your double left, but Doc can cover you." He nodded toward the round-faced stuntman in glasses hitting the craft services table. "He's an ex-Green Beret, just like your pal here."
"Doc doesn't look anything like me," Bryce said.
Wilder smiled, not his forte. "Please, coach, put me in?"
Nash smiled back at Wilder, and he was much better at it than Wilder was, even though the smile didn't reach his eyes. Perfect teeth. Fanned skin. Probably never had hangovers.
Nash shook his head. "He hasn't even read the script," he said to Bryce.
So you had to be a reader to make Nash's team? Yeah, that was tough. What the hell did these people know about being on a team anyway? There was only one kind of team for Wilder, a Special Forces A-Team, the eleven great guys he'd—
Althea shifted into Wilder's field of vision, and he lost his train of thought. He noticed that she wasn't wearing a bra under her thin, tight T-shirt. And the April evening was evidently a little chilly for her. Got to get that DVD.
"We about ready here?" he heard from behind him and turned. Armstrong stood there, the anti-Althea, tall and strong and in charge, not flirting with anybody, which was too bad. That would be something to see, Armstrong smiling, giving somebody the come-on. Probably that asshole Nash. Jesus.
"J.T. doesn't like my knife," Bryce said, and Armstrong turned those dark, steady eyes on Wilder.
Tough woman, he thought, his pulse picking up. Nothing like soft, bouncy Althea. Then he remembered the wind blowing her shirt back. Maybe a little bouncy—
"So I guess we'll have to change it," Bryce went on, close to whining. "I really want the knife, but once I saw the new ending, I went all the way to Fort Bragg and hired J.T. to help me make this real, so we should listen to him. For the movie."
Good for you, Wilder thought.
"And I would have been with you on that," Armstrong said, "if only you'd brought him in at the beginning. But it's the last four days of shooting and we can't afford to reshoot without the knife. I agree that authentic is good, but you filmed with the knife all last week, so that ship has sailed. Now let's get—"
"J.T.?" Bryce said.
Oh, fuck, here we go. Wilder felt bad for saying anything more, but Bryce was paying him to keep things authentic. "It's just not what Bryce's guy would wear. I know this Brad character is supposed to be an ex-Navy SEAL, and they are studs, no doubt about it."
Bryce stood slightly taller, trying to look the description. Wilder tried not to look at him.
"But they spend a lot of time in the water. That knife would tip a canoe over, never mind a swimmer. They carry dive knives. On their calves. And even if his character is only operating on land, you want something that can kill quickly. Your SEAL isn't going to get in a sword fight with a Roman gladiator and that's about all that knife is good for. He's going to sneak up behind someone late at night and slice his throat wide open or, just as good, but more difficult unless you're a pro, jam the blade up into the jaw to the brain so it's a quick and silent kill."
Armstrong winced, and Wilder ignored her.
"So, optimally, you want something slender, pointed, and double-edged. About six to eight inches long. And he's wearing it wrong." Wilder tapped the upside-down sheath that Bryce had the pig-sticker locked into. He stepped behind the actor, grabbed the handle, jerked it down and clear of the sheath, the leather stay giving way easily, then brought it up, the point a quarter inch from Bryce's jugular before Bryce could turn his head. "You want it in a place where you can easily access it, but the bad guy can't. And hell, if you got to use a knife, the shit has hit the fan anyway. I prefer a gun. Ten millimeter at ten feet. Double-tap in the forehead. Lights out."
They were all staring at him. Armstrong. Bryce. Althea. Even Nash had stopped scowling. Perhaps too much detail.
He lowered the weapon and slid it back into the sheath, giving Bryce a comforting pat on the shoulder with one hand as he locked it down with the other.
Armstrong smiled at them all, the kind of smile that said, I'm cheerful but don't fuck with me. "Thank you. The knife stays. Let's get this show on the road."
She walked off and Wilder watched her long, strong legs crossing concrete again, her red cowbo
y boots clicking on the pavement. Yep, she was in charge. He turned to Bryce. "Hey, no big deal. Stallone will have knife envy for sure when he sees you with that thing." He looked Bryce over and felt a wave of sadness. "I guess dumping the tiger stripes is a no go, eh?"
"What's wrong with the tiger stripes?"
Nash stifled a laugh, and Wilder looked out at the surrounding forest and swamp that looked nothing like tiger stripes and thought of John Wayne wearing the same type of camouflage in that terrible movie The Green Berets, detested by all the manly men on Smoke Bomb Hill. Four days of this, he thought. Of course, that was also four days of looking at Althea. And Armstrong.
"J.T.? What's wrong with the tiger stripes?"
Wilder gave up. "Not a thing, Bryce."
Screw the hangover; he really needed a drink.
* * *
Chapter 3
By the time they were ready to shoot, Lucy had spoken to most of the cast and crew and was ready to ditch them all and go back to dog food commercials. The dogs were so much better behaved.
Daisy was refusing to talk about what was wrong with her, Pepper was being manic about some ghost in the swamp, Althea was distracted, Connor was fuming, Bryce wouldn't shut up, and Gloom kept humming "Holding Out tor A Hero" whenever Wilder got close. Even the makeup department was getting on her nerves. A woman had come up to Lucy asking for him, her false eyelashes fluttering and her lipsticked mouth working nervously. "I need to see Bryce," she'd said, and Lucy had thought, Why? A makeup emergency? and sent her back to base camp.
But the worst was Wilder. If she'd had to choose only one of them to drop off the bridge, it would have been him. He wasn't doing anything wrong, but he was the one screwing up her concentration the most.
Shoving him firmly out of her mind, she headed for the rail where Althea Bergdorf, her lead actress, was cabled in under the bright set lights. Pepper followed, and Lucy thought about sending her back to the monitors at video village and then relented. Pepper's mom was having a very bad time. Pepper could stick close until Lucy found out whatever was wrong with Daisy and fixed it.
Lucy slowed. Maybe the problem was more complicated than just Daisy being tired. Maybe Pepper's climb on the rail had been a bid for attention. Maybe she needed somebody to ask what was wrong, somebody to listen to her.
"Is there anything you want to talk about, Pepper?" Lucy said, looking down into her niece's round little face.
Pepper nodded. "There's a ghost in the swamp."
"No, baby, I meant is there anything you're worried about? Anything you want? Anything you need?"
Pepper looked startled, then thoughtful, but before she could answer, Lucy heard Althea call, "Lucy?" and thought, Oh, hell. "We'll talk in a minute, okay?" she said to Pepper, and the little girl nodded, looking relieved.
When they reached her, Althea was leaning over the bridge rail looking at a gator parked on the riverbank below. Meeting of minds, Lucy thought, having heard about Althea in action with men. "Anybody you know?" she said.
Althea smiled, a perfect Hollywood smile. "He kinda reminds me of some of the guys I've dated. Listen, I—"
From behind them a woman said, "We're ready," and Pepper slid neatly between Lucy and the rail, folding herself out of sight.
Lucy turned to see a slender brunette gazing at her with what looked like contempt. I don't even know you, Lucy thought. What's your problem?
"I'm Stephanie, your assistant," the brunette said. "I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier." She didn't sound sorry. "I was helping Connor. He said to tell you Althea's cable is good to go." Her voice gave the slightest emphasis to Connor, as if she were talking about a celebrity, and she lifted her chin a little and met Lucy's eyes as if daring her to challenge any of that, especially the Connor part. "I realize you don't work much with stunt cables on dog food commercials, so I'd just take his word for it if I were you."
Would you now? Lucy thought, now recognizing her as the woman who'd been arguing with Connor. "Lovely to meet you, Stephanie. Get me a script, please. A full script, one with all the pages. Thanks." Now go be snotty to somebody who cares. She turned back to Althea. "You ready for the scene? Terror on tap?"
Althea looked over the rail at the dark river. "There's a gator down there," she said, her face distorted as she faked fear. "They're dangerous."
"Yes, there's an alligator," Stephanie said to Althea, in a voice she'd use to talk to a small child she didn't like. "But since he's not going to be climbing up on the bridge, he's moot."
Watch it, Lucy thought, prepared to drop-kick her off the bridge if Althea took offense, but Althea just smoothed out her face and said, "Moot. That's a funny name for a gator."
"Moot?" Pepper said, forgetting to lie low. She looked over the rail and trained her binoculars down on the gator, floating in the moonlight now.
Stephanie curled her lip. "Yes, it is a funny name. Are you ready?"
"Just about," Althea said.
"You can go now," Lucy said to Stephanie. And later we will talk about not patronizing the talent.
Stephanie walked off into the darkness, and Althea dropped her chin and watched her from under lowered brows, no smile at all.
Mistake, Stephanie, Lucy thought.
"I think Moot only has one eye," Pepper said, still staring through her binoculars.
Althea met Lucy's eyes. "Maybe I'll get a chicken to throw to old Moot tomorrow."
"That would be better than throwing Stephanie."
Althea grinned, a real smile this time.
"It's bad to feed the alligators," Pepper said, looking up at them. "If you feed them, they lose their fear of humans and attack."
Lucy looked down at Moot, sneering at them from the river. "Too late. Moot already thinks we're worthless."
"Bryce throws Ding Dongs from Crafty to him," Pepper said sadly.
Althea rolled her eyes and then leaned a little closer to Lucy. "Listen, can we talk? After this take, I mean? About Bryce. And some other things."
I miss the dogs, Lucy thought. They never want to talk. "Absolutely. You ready to go here?"
Althea nodded, and Lucy smiled encouragingly at her and headed back to video village with Pepper in her wake, thinking, It's going to be a really long four days.
"How's it going?" Gloom said when she got there.
Lucy settled into her chair. "My assistant is an elitist snot who thinks Connor's God, my lead actress wants to chat about the lead actor, and there's a gator underneath the bridge who's gonna call for a wine list if anybody falls off."
"So we're good then."
"Oh, yeah," Lucy said as Pepper climbed up onto the chair to her far right, leaving empty the seat between them where her mother was supposed to be. No script supervisor again, Lucy thought. That's not like Daisy.
"You okay?" Gloom said.
"I'm beginning to sense a distinct lack of enthusiasm on the part of the crew," Lucy said, nodding at Daisy's vacant seat.
"I know how they feel," Gloom said and called, "Stand by," as people melted off the set. Then he called, "Roll sound," and someone echoed, "Rolling," and a cameraman shoved a clapper in front of Althea's face, yelled, "Take one," and smacked it shut.
Lucy called, "Camera," and then, "Action," and Althea slung her leg over the rail and boosted herself up and then screamed halfheart-edly as Rick dragged her back down and called her an idiot with much the same force that he'd use to ask for a latte. Althea said, "What do you care?" as if she didn't, and then let him drag her back to the car.
Lucy yelled, "Cut," and looked at Gloom.
"Distinct Lack of Enthusiasm," he said. "Part Two: The Cast."
Lucy took off her headphones and walked over to Althea. "You feeling okay?"
"Yes." Althea blinked at her. "Why?"
"Because you're a better actress than that." My dogs are better actors than that. "Is there something wrong?"
Althea nodded. "Well, yeah. About Bryce. He—"
"Bryce isn't in this scene," Lucy said. "We'
re going to try it again and—"
"Again?" Althea seemed dumbfounded.
Connor came up. "What's wrong? You got the shot."
Lucy turned to him, glad to have somebody she could snap at. "Go away."
"What?" he asked, as dumbfounded as Althea had been.
"You're the stunt coordinator," Lucy said. "If you're worried about her cable, check it, but do not now or ever tell me when I've got the shot. Understand?" Connor jerked back, and Lucy turned to Althea. "You ready to do this for real?"
"Yeah." Althea straightened. "Yes, I am."
"Go to one," Lucy called to the set, and Althea went back to the rail while Rick took his position beside the car. Lucy stopped to talk to him on her way back to the monitors. "I don't know what's going on here, but we're going to shoot this sucker until we get a good take. That okay with you?"
"Yep," Rick said, also surprised. "More than okay."
"All right, then." Lucy went back to the monitors to sit down and found Daisy back in her chair. "There's something weird about this shoot," she said to Daisy.
"No idea what you're talking about," Daisy said, staring at the set, her notebook in her lap, as the set echoed with "Stand by."
"Roll sound."
"Rolling."
"Take two," and the sound of the clapper.
Lucy watched the monitor and this time Althea flung herself over the bridge rail with such force that Rick really had to catch her and bring her back, and his "You little idiot!" sounded real, as did Althea's sobbed scream, "What do you care?" Rick yelled back, "Dead hostage? I care a lot," and dragged her toward the car while she fought him tooth and nail.
"Cut!" Lucy called, feeling much better. "That was excellent. Really great, guys. Let's go again and then we'll do the close-ups."
Althea beamed at her and motioned her over.
Oh, hell, Lucy thought and went.