The bum grins, displaying stained gums and broken teeth, then repeats more urgently through his mush mouth while flailing his arms at my crotch, “Man, I’ll suck yo DICK!”
I grab his hands, shoving them away from my waist, and then push the bum slightly to the side. He turns back to me, reaching for what looks like a box cutter on his belt. I lash out instinctively with my work boot, catching him straight in that sunken hole of a mouth, and he goes flying back onto the pile of boxes behind him.
“CUT!” someone yells behind me, shocking me out of the scene.
I turn to see a flurry of activity from the stage crew as the director, Jim Thompson, gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up with a goofy grin on his face. “That was great, Anaconda! You nailed him good!”
I grit my teeth at the hated nickname. I’ve told everyone on set not to call me it, and they still persist on doing it. I swear I’m going to blow a gasket by the time filming is over with.
“No fucking shit!” Lance, the bum and stuntman doubling as an actor whines, holding his mouth as he crawls out of the pile of boxes with the help of a young stagehand. Blood is seeping between his fingers as he scowls at me angrily, “Fucking amateur, you’re supposed to pull the kick!”
“Dude, I’m sorry,” I apologize, stepping forward to offer him help.
Lance waves me off as he shoves the stagehand away and climbs to his feet. “You fucking suck, Anaconda.” He removes the fake gum caps from his teeth, showing the crew of onlookers a blood-stained chipped tooth. “Look at this shit.”
“Hey, Lance,” Jim cuts in. “Cut Gavin some slack. It was a mistake. Let’s get you fixed up and redo the scene.”
Jim’s words only seem to make Lance even angrier as he scowls at me with hatred, grabbing a towel from the stagehand he just shoved and pressing it to his lips. “Fuck that! How about getting a real actor in here? This dude needs to go back to being an overhyped and overpaid football star.”
I was sorry before, but now I’m irritated. I didn’t mean to kick the guy, but honestly, this whole scene is fucking stupid. When I read the script, I was under the impression I would be taking down a bad guy and establishing myself as a hero, not beating down a toothless crackhead who was desperate for a hit. The whole movie seems like it’s going to be one of those low-budget, shitty D-rate, straight-to-DVD movies instead of the blockbuster Miranda promised me.
Lance continues his rant, spitting blood-tinged saliva at my feet. “Arrogant prick!”
Keeping my expression neutral, I turn away from Lance and walk off before I do something I end up regretting. The guy is testing my patience with his ranting. I didn’t mean to kick him, but I did feel a little off during the stunt sequence, finding it hard to focus.
It’s her, I think to myself, the image of the hot maid flashing in front of my eyes. The way she bounded from the room, her hair flying like a banner behind her like . . . Bunny. My little Bunny. I don’t know her name, so that’s what I’ll call her. Desire runs through my blood as I clench my jaw and make my way off the set. She’s in my head, fucking up my game.
I’m still smarting from the way she ran from me. No woman has ever done that to me. Not when they knew who I am. And she has to know who I am. Doesn’t she? And that sassy friend of hers, Mindy, knew damn well where she was when I walked into the coffee shop. I could see it in her eyes.
As I walk away, I hear Miranda yell from the agent seat, “Goddammit, Gavin, get back here! We have three more scenes to shoot!”
“They’ll be lucky if I come back at all,” I mutter, ignoring her, not really watching where I’m going.
I hear a short gasp as I bump into someone. Leslie Hart, the vixen who’s supposed to be my leading lady, stumbles back a step before catching herself. Dressed in jeans and a red halter top that showcases her cleavage, she’s pretty enough, with long blonde hair and a sultry smile, but she doesn’t interest me at all. Not after Bunny. I’m already dreading the romantic scenes that I’m sure are loaded throughout the script. Nothing else seems interesting so far. They’re going to have to fill it with something.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her.
Leslie waves my apology off with manicured fingers, the scent of her woodsy fragrance filling my nostrils. “I’m fine.” She frowns, glancing over at the raging Lance. “But do you think he’ll be all right?”
“I’m sure he will,” I say politely, walking past her and continuing on to my trailer. I need a moment to reset. To try to get Bunny off my mind. Or the rest of the day will be a disaster. “But I really don’t care,” I add under my breath.
* * *
I sit back in the leather tufted chair near the window of my suite, a cognac glass sitting on the small arm table beside me. I roll my neck until I hear a pop and let out a satisfied grunt, feeling the ache in the soles of my feet.
Filming was a bitch today. After the fuckup with the ‘bum’, I had to shoot an action scene with Leslie. I’d been hoping that we could be professional, and so far, so good.
Everything after that was a complete mess when it came time to act. Whenever I had to recite my lines, I stumbled over them, fucked them up somehow, or even forgot them altogether.
It’s that damn maid. Bunny. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get her out of my head.
But I know exactly what I need to cure this problem.
