Method

“Aren’t I always?” I snap, uncomfortable in the cheap polyester suit. “This suit is bullshit. This isn’t how I dress.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Nikki, that’s a wardrobe issue. Let’s get through this shot, and we can have a discussion after.”

“What’s the fucking point if we have to re-shoot?” I snap, pulling the tie from around my neck. “Where is Wes? I need a word.”

“Don’t be that prick,” Jeremy mutters beneath his breath.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Narrowing my eyes, I see underlying animosity rise in his.

“I said, don’t start the power plays today. We’re all aware you don’t agree with the fucking suits. We’re working on it. We have an exhausted crew trying to wrap up an eighteen-hour day. Thirty of those people haven’t eaten shit since lunch, thanks to the schedule you’ve fucked up. I have no doubt the union is going to hear about this. Let’s wrap the day and we can worry about re-shoot later.”

“I think we both know this has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the fuck-me eyes your wife keeps tossing my way on set.”

His eyes flare, but he waves a dismissive hand. “Come on, man, you can’t be this big of an asshole.”

“I’m not, but I’m pretty sure she thinks you are.”

He shrugs. “Look, Wes wanted you on this one. It’s no secret I’m not a fan of yours, especially now. But this is his show, and I’m just trying to give him what he wants. If that means I have to be the prick, that’s my job, not yours. I need you to focus.”

“Focus?” I snap. “Are you fucking serious right now? You insult me then ask for a favor. Go fuck yourself. I want to speak with Wes.”

“Wes is breaking, so you’ll have to deal with me.”

“Not happening.”

“Fucking figures,” he mutters. “You’re a joke, you know that? All this shit you’re putting us through is ridiculous. You know damn well when word gets around about what a little bitch—”

My fist lands squarely where I intend it to. The bone crunch utterly satisfying as he reels back covering his nose, his eyes wide. I don’t stop there. I swing again and again until I’ve connected at least two more blows.

“Call me a bitch again, you piece of shit,” I snap. “Please, say it again, you stupid motherfucker,” I snarl, charging toward him. “Who am I? I’m the man paying the bills! That’s who the fuck I am.” It takes me a second to realize the cinematographer is shooting every single minute of our altercation and white-hot light erupts from me as I pull the trigger and let the lava flow. I only come to when I’m in my chair and reports are being filed. Bottle in hand, I flex my fist studying the blood on my knuckles before I wipe it on the sad excuse of a shirt.

“Get off set, Walker,” Wes orders as Jeremy glares at me from behind him, holding an ice pack to his nose. “Go get some rest.”

The next hour is a blur of lawyer calls, set announcements, and the production team scrambling around my trailer. Odd looks are tossed my way, and I reciprocate with a wink, taking another drink. “Ah, liberating, I get it now.”

Mila

My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I open my eyes, sitting straight up in bed. Swiping to answer, I ask the only question there is to ask while panic races through my veins. “Lucas? What’s wrong?”

“Mila.”

“What happened?”

His breathing is labored. The hairs on my neck rise. His voice is barely recognizable. “Lucas, please tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know how I got here.” Fear, it’s fear I hear cracking his voice.

“I’m coming.”

“Don’t. You won’t find who you’re looking for,” he says in warning.

Throwing the covers off, I dash for my closet. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Don’t come here.”

That has me pausing in my closet.

“Why?”