Once the makeup is done, I switch over to hair, before I bid Jazz goodbye and head to the wardrobe trailer to get my costume on. My stunt-double is there, already rocking the slick light blue and white suit.
I slip mine on—or well, I get shoved into it like they’re stuffing fucking sausage into its casing, the material showing every goddamn ripple, so they poke and prod and tape down and tuck. Mesh, and chrome, and layers of foam, covered in tweaked flexible material made to look like simple spandex without, you know, being spandex.
It’s as uncomfortable as you’re imagining.
“Congratulations, buddy,” my stunt-double says, slapping me on the back. “Heard you got hitched! Lucky man.”
I cringe. “Who told you that?”
“Jasmine.”
Jazz.
I’m going to strangle that woman.
It takes damn near thirty minutes to get me situated in the suit, to get my junk looking right and my muscles padded up, since I’m nowhere near superhero strong. I walk out when I’m done, running right into Serena with her assistant at her heels.
“Well, well, well,” Serena says, grinning, as she looks me over. “It’s good to see you back in that suit.”
I glance down at myself, stretching to try to loosen up the material. “I look ridiculous.”
She laughs. “You do not. You should wear it all the time. I’m talking all day, every day—even at night.”
“Keep dreaming, Ser.”
“Oh, I will.”
She slips past me, biting down on her bottom lip as she ogles me from the backside. It’s fucking embarrassing. I damn near blush, as ridiculous as it is, watching as her assistant steers her to wardrobe so we're not late to start today.
“Hey," I call out. "You should know that Jazz is telling everyone—”
“That we’re married? I know.” Serena rolls her eyes and laughs it off. “Apparently, we made the cover of Chronicles again.”
“Yeah, apparently,” I say as she goes inside the trailer, heading onto set once she’s gone.
It’s a long day. Take after take after take. I’m sweaty from running and tired from standing, my head pounding from the loud bangs and booms, the pyrotechnics rocking the neighborhood. There's a breech of security around mid-afternoon, a woman slipping past the barrier after the shots move to the exterior, but they catch her.
I try to not think about it. Try to not think about any of them. I try to not think about her when I feel eyes watching me, but it's hard pushing her from my mind. We're filming a sequence where Maryanne, the love of Breezeo’s life, had been kidnapped. Serena's tied up with a bomb about to go off, and it's my job to save her from imminent death.
I do it, and I do it well, pouring my soul into every moment. It's nearing the end of the story, even though we're still at the beginning of filming. It takes everything out of me, because endings are hard. Endings are fucking impossible... especially endings that remind me of a girl I'm trying damn hard not to think about.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we wrap for the day, my shoulders slumping as I run a hand through my hair. I try to walk away when Serena throws herself at me. The sun is setting, darkness creeping in, but the shuttering flash of cameras lights up the area as she jumps into my arms.
“That was amazing!” she says. “Like... wow. You acted your ass off, Johnny! You made me believe every word!”
She kisses me before I can respond, more camera flashes going off. It’s just a peck, but I imagine some paparazzo will be making a pretty penny on those pictures tonight. I can see it now. Caption: Johnny fucks Serena in front of everyone!
She pulls away when Cliff approaches.
“Great job, you two,” he says, his voice devoid of excitement, his gaze fixed on his Blackberry as usual. “They're going to stick to the current schedule, so you'll be back here in the morning, Johnny.”
“You, too, Serena,” her assistant says.
“Sounds great to me.” Serena grins as she backs away, her gaze lingering on me. “Get changed, Johnny. We’re celebrating!”
“Don’t stay out too late,” Cliff calls out. “Car will pick you both up tomorrow at six sharp!”
Serena makes a face at him but doesn’t argue, heading for the lingering crowd to greet everyone again.
“You did good, moody prick,” Cliff jokes, smacking me on the back. “Go get out of the suit. I know it has to be uncomfortable.”
I do just that, changing into my jeans and plain white t-shirt, putting my hat on. With filming done for the night, security has gone lax, the crowd moving closer onto set… close enough that some of them surround me when I step out of the trailer. Shit.
Cameras flash, a barrage of questions pelting me. “Johnny, can I have a picture?” “An autograph, Johnny?” “Can I have a hug?” Those I don’t mind, and I would do it all damn day long if it weren’t for the others. The vultures.