Anita Bunkley - Spotlight On Desire

“Not overly dramatic. Right?” Jewel finished her costar’s remark. “Caprice wants Darin, but she’s afraid of how she’ll be viewed by the nosy busybodies of Elm Valley if she gives in and returns home too soon.”

“Exactly! Keep the relationship on target but slightly off balance. Jewel, you sure know your girl Caprice,” Brad concurred, blessing Jewel with an appreciative smile. “Caprice might love Darin, but she’s got to look out for herself, too.”

Jewel winked at Sonny, giving him a conspiratorial nod of approval. During the past five years, the on-screen couple had fine-tuned their relationship until it rolled along like raindrops slipping down a windowpane. And even when sticky issues arose on the set, Sonny always had her back and she protected his.

“Caprice can’t come off as too regretful,” Jewel went on, clarifying her character’s motivation. “She’s got her pride, you know?”

“Fine, fine,” Brad stated with a flip of his wrist as he turned around. “We all love Caprice as much as you do. Showing a little hesitant spunk in this scene is totally within character.” A beat. “Okay, let’s take it from the top, people,” Brad called over his shoulder as he walked out of camera range. However, before clearing the illuminated set, he stopped abruptly and spun around, his blue-green eyes wide with shock. His mouth opened, shut and then opened again. “Damn!” he shouted, reeling backward and stumbling to a half fall. Braced on his knees, he groped for words. “I…I feel…Oh my God!” He slammed both hands, palms flat, against his chest and emitted a startling howl.

Shana Dane, the makeup artist whose job it was to keep the cast glossy-photo perfect, tossed her tray of brushes, sponges and cosmetics to the ground and rushed toward Brad, followed closely by Karen Adams, the second-tier segment producer.

“Brad! What’s wrong?” Shana shouted, watching in horror as he collapsed on the sand.

Fred Warner, the executive producer of P & P, who had flown in from Los Angeles that morning to check on progress at the location shoot, jostled Shana and Karen aside to kneel over the fallen man.

“Call an ambulance! Somebody call 911!” Fred shouted frantically, cradling Brad’s head on his lap.

“Doing it now,” Sonny yelled, fumbling with a cell phone that he’d snatched from his pants pocket. He gave the emergency responder directions to their isolated location, unable to tell them more than someone had collapsed in pain and to get there as quickly as possible.

“Brad, Brad. What is it?” Fred urged, slipping an arm beneath Brad’s shoulders to tilt the director closer. He pressed his ear to Brad’s lips.

“I dunno,” Brad managed to whisper. “Got hit with a terrible pain. Here, in my…” Brad’s voice faded as his fingers groped the front of his shirt.

“Hold on, Brad! Hold on,” Jewel urged, dropping to her knees next to Fred.

Sonny jammed his phone back into his pocket and crouched beside Jewel, his shoulder wedged tightly against hers. Jewel grabbed one of Brad’s hands and squeezed it hard, scrunching even closer to urgently whisper, “Brad! Look at me! Open your eyes. Hold on! Hold on! Help is coming.”

Brad’s eyes fluttered open and then closed very quickly, as if trying to focus on Jewel took too much of his energy. His pale face was slick with perspiration, his lips blue and unmoving, his slim body as rigidly immobile as a mannequin’s.

When he shuddered jerkily beneath Jewel’s touch, she felt a jolt of hope.

“Brad! Brad! Don’t you dare give up,” she shouted over the shocked murmurs of the horrified cast and crew. Brad jerked wildly again. His legs shot upward, his arms flew out to the side and his head lolled from side to side before he went still.

“Where’s the doctor? The ambulance? Dammit! We need some help!” Jewel shouted, her words threaded with terror. She gripped Brad’s hand and pressed it hard against her lips, kissing the edge of his palm as she tamped the fingertips of her right hand down against his temple. Looking over at Sonny, a frown etched shadows on her face. “This is bad, Sonny.” Her voice trembled. “I can’t find a pulse. I think Brad is dead.”

The lobby of Tinsel Town Theater in Fox Hills Mall was crammed with die-hard devotees of action/slasher movies who had come out for the premier of Terror Train 4. After viewing the latest installment in the cultlike series, they were milling around, clutching rolled-up posters, stacks of DVDs and commemorative T-shirts to be signed by the stars.

“Terror Train 4 kicked some serious butt,” a short Hispanic boy with long black hair said as he shoved a DVD at Taye Elliott.

Taye eyed the square plastic case with interest, but did not take it from the guy. Instead, he rotated one shoulder in a noncommittal manner. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not one of the actors,” he said. “I’m the director.” He cocked his head toward the outer edge of the lobby where two men and two women sat high on a riser, behind a table draped with gold velvet. “The autographs you want are over there.”

The long-haired boy mugged disinterest and gave Taye a flickering roll of his eyes. “Yeah? But you say you’re the director, huh?”

“Yep. That’s right.”

“Hey, that’s still cool, man. Gimme your autograph, too.”

Taye felt a brief ripple of pleasure flare as he took out the black Sharpie pen he always carried and signed his name on the boy’s DVD.

“You directed all of ’em?” the young man asked.

“All four films,” Taye conceded with a touch of pride.

“That means you directed that wild chase scene on that bomb-rigged bridge in Terror Train 2?”

“Yep. I sure did.”

“Loved it. The bomb! Hey, but I loved number four, too! The best so far, I think.”

“Thanks. Glad you enjoyed it,” Taye replied, appreciating the comment and impressed that the boy concurred with Taye: Terror Train 4 was his best directorial work so far. After having worked as stunt man for fifteen years, he ought to know what made a memorable action film. The Terror Train series had given him the opportunity to prove what he could do and even though the series went straight to DVD and would never hit theaters nationwide, it created a solid base of followers and pulled in substantial international sales.

“Is it true? Is this the last Terror Train movie?” the fan asked, sounding genuinely distressed.

“Yeah. This is it for the series.”

“Damn, man. That sucks,” the boy grumbled. “Why somethin’ this great gotta end?”

Taye offered a noncommittal lift of his eyebrows as the same question hung in his mind, feeling as agitated and frustrated as the boy. However, he understood how the industry worked: Taye was only a director. The money people held all the power. And without funding, there couldn’t be a deal. “Even good things gotta end sometime, you know?” he finally stated.

“I guess,” the boy grudgingly remarked, adding, “Stay cool.”

“Sure will,” Taye agreed, reaching up to slap palms with the guy, who slipped off into the crush of people clumped around the table where the real stars of the movie busily greeted fans.

Moving to a quieter spot in the lobby, Taye leaned against a wall and watched the animated audience move past, liking what he saw: young males in sports-branded clothing, slouch jeans, T-shirts and baseball caps. Girls in tight T-shirts, lots of jewelry, low-rise jeans and flip-flops on their feet. They were white, African American, Asian, Hispanic. Mostly young, but there was also a substantial number of graying baby boomers visible in the crowd.

A fair-skinned woman with dyed blond hair, accompanied by a bearded guy who looked stoned, stopped in front of Taye, breaking into his assessment of the audience. “You look better in person,” she bluntly assessed, blue eyes boring into Taye.