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nothing but room and board and a bunch of condescending glares. They’re all miserable idiots. But this is my last chance. I can’t fuck it up.
    At best, the crew is indifferent when I pop a seam or smudge my makeup. At worst, like right now, the director is openly hostile when I mess up. I know they’re going to fire me. Why wouldn’t they? I can’t do anything right, and everyone hates me.
    Breathless moments pass. Finally, the director raises his head. When he does, his eyes are polluted with unrestrained hate behind his black-rimmed hipster glasses. I turn away, nervously clenching and releasing rich red fabric in clammy hands.
    “Take an hour for lunch,” he announces, throwing his script on the floor.
    Skirts in hand, I whisk around, ready to run to the safety of my trailer.
    “Not so fast, Miss Klein,” he orders. I freeze midstep, my back breaking under the weight of his voice, feeling every bit a naughty student called to the principal.
    With a smile that goes no further than my lips, I turn to face him. He’s risen from his chair, stretching his back like a grandpa, his face drawn into deep, angry lines.
    “Yes?” My chipper tone belies the hatred I harbor for this man.
    “Oh, is this amusing you, Miss Klein?” He’s not prepared for the zero fucks my smile gives his irritation. If my job weren’t on the line, I’d laugh in his rage-puckered face.
    “Amusing how?” I shrug.
    “Is it amusing to waste everyone’s time and the studio’s money by not remembering your lines or your marks?”
    “No, Gavin, it’s not. I had this scene down, but you’ve changed something on me after every take.”
    “You’re a professional. That’s not an excuse.” He flourishes a splayed hand in the air, waving me to silence. “You’ve had a week to get acclimated to being on set again.” He points an accusing finger at me and nearly breaks into a run rushing over to where I stand. I shrink away from him when he stops, inches from my face, so close I can see his temple throbbing with anger.
    “I’m sorry...” Once again I’m silenced by a raised hand.
    “I don’t want to hear it. You’re running out of chances with me. So you go snort a line, chug some vodka, pray to Allah. Do whatever the fuck it is you need to do. But when you come back, you’d better be perfect. Perfect! Do you understand?” He’s so close, a speck of his spit flies onto my cheek. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s there by wiping it away. Instead, I grit my teeth and swallow all the words scrambling up my throat.
    It’s what he wants. What everyone wants. Slapping this insolent asshole’s face would buy my ticket on the next flight home. He wouldn’t need the studio’s approval. I refuse to let him break me. So I stand frozen in humiliated anger, knowing if my lips part, it won’t be pretty.
    Normally, the instant lunch is called everyone flees like cockroaches in kitchen light. Not today. Today they’re sticking around for the show. Murmurs, lip smacks and sniggers echo around the room as the asshole continues chastising me. My cheeks flame molten red, and I wish the floor would swallow me whole.
    “Gavin.” A voice dares to break the silence, ending our showdown, taking the hot spotlight of everyone’s attention off me. It’s him . I know that much without looking. He arrived on set today, sending the entire place into a frenzy over his greatness. Now, there’s a throng of adoring fans the security guards have to keep at bay. Now, there’s decent coffee in craft services. Now, my failings are amplified by his stupid perfection.
    Gavin’s eyes soften, and he tears them away from me. Together, our heads turn to where he stands, a hand resting on the back of Gavin’s director’s chair, looking so in control of the world, it makes me sick. Only, his eyes don’t meet Gavin’s.
    Instead, they land on me, brushing a glance up the length of me. Devon’s face is tight at first, but pulls into half