Just Physical (10 page)

Crash's forehead furrowed. “You think people with MS shouldn't be in relationships?”

“I can't speak for anyone else, but that's the decision I made for myself. It's not one I made lightly, but I think it's for the best.”

“Why would you think that?”

“A relationship should be an equal give and take, but in five or ten or twenty years, my partner might have to become a caregiver. I don't want to do that to anyone, so I have no business being in a relationship.” A wave of anger at the unfairness of it swept over her and then turned into grief. She pushed back both feelings. It was the right thing to do; she knew that.

Crash studied her with a serious expression. “What if you'd been in a relationship when you were diagnosed? I take it you weren't?”

“No. My last girlfriend and I broke up a few weeks before the first symptoms started, and I've lived like a nun ever since.” She forced a grin onto her face. “Well, one in more attractive garb, but anyway…”

For once, Crash didn't return the smile or respond to the joke.

Jill sighed. “I don't know, okay? I wasn't in a relationship and won't ever be again, so it's pointless to even think about it.”

“Ever,” Crash repeated. “Wow. That's a long time to be alone.”

A lump the size of a fist formed in Jill's throat, preventing her from speaking, so she just shrugged.

For several seconds, only the sound of their breathing filled the trailer.

“Do you really think it'll get so bad that you couldn't be a good partner anymore?” Crash asked quietly.

Thinking about it made the lump spread to her chest. She forced herself to get the words out. Crash needed to hear them, just in case she still harbored ideas of asking her out—and maybe Jill needed to hear them too, as a reminder of why she had to ignore the attraction between them. “I've got a fifty-fifty chance of my MS turning secondary progressive within the next ten years. That means there'll be no more remissions, just a slow, steady worsening of my symptoms. I could end up in a wheelchair, unable to even feed myself.”

Crash's jaw muscles bunched, and she gulped audibly. “But…but you could be one of the fifty percent who don't get worse.”

“I hope so,” Jill said, holding on to that thought with all her strength until she felt the lump dissolve a little. “But I can't tie another person to me just based on hope. Can you understand that?”

Slowly, Crash nodded. “Kind of. I just—”

A knock on the door interrupted whatever Crash had been about to say. One of the PAs stuck his head inside of the trailer. His gaze roved over Jill's T-shirt and her historical underwear. “Uh, you'd better get back into your costume. They need you on the set in five.”

Jill looked to the piece of sky visible behind him. The cloud cover had lifted, and no more lightning bolts flashed from the sky. Jill hadn't even noticed that the thunderstorm had stopped while she and Crash had talked. “I'll be there in a minute,” she told the PA.

“I'll send over someone from wardrobe to help you with that…corset thingy,” he said, pointing at the corset that lay abandoned on the couch.

“Okay.” Better the wardrobe lady than Crash offering to help her again. She felt raw and needed some distance.

When the PA left, she turned to Crash. “Do you want to ask your second question now too?” If they got this over with now, at least Crash would be forced to keep it short.

Crash shook her head. She looked shell-shocked, as if she were still digesting what Jill had told her. “You know what? I'll take a rain check on that second question. See you tomorrow.”

Before Jill could reply, the trailer door fell shut behind Crash.

Crash slowly climbed down the three steps from Jill's trailer.

Outside, grips and set technicians were running around, trying to make up for the time they'd lost during the thunderstorm. PAs with walkie-talkies shooed extras into the right positions.

The chaos on set felt strangely distant, though. Crash's mind was back in the trailer, and Jill's words still rang in her ears.

Fifty-fifty chance.
Jill's whole life, reduced to a coin toss.

No wonder she didn't want to get involved with anyone. If she were in Jill's shoes, Crash wasn't sure she would want to drag a potential partner into it either. It was a courageous decision, and Crash couldn't help admiring Jill for it.

At the same time, the thought of Jill staying alone, facing whatever life and her MS threw at her completely on her own… Crash shook her head. It just felt so wrong. Jill deserved someone in her life.

Someone? You mean you?
Part of her wanted to shout yes, but another, bigger part was scared. No amount of stunt training could help her fight that fear.

Why was she even thinking about this? It was crazy, really. She barely knew Jill, and what she knew of her should make her want to stay away.

Besides, Jill had made it clear that she didn't want to get involved. Even if Crash could get her to change her mind, was she ready to date someone who could take a turn for the worse at any time? Did she really want to gamble on that fifty-fifty chance?

When no answers came, Crash trudged to her car and drove home, away from it all. For now, she had other things to worry about.

Tomorrow, she would have to do a stunt involving fire for the first time since nearly getting burned to a crisp on the set of
Point of Impact
. She couldn't afford to be distracted by thoughts of Jill.

Despite that mental admonishment, she thought of nothing else all the way home.

CHAPTER 7

Crash covered a wide yawn
with one hand while she went over the safety checks, testing the wire pulleys, the cable, and her harness. Staying up until three in the morning the night before a stunt wasn't a good idea. She'd gone to bed at a reasonable hour, but thoughts of the stunt kept her tossing and turning, so she had gotten back up to research secondary progressive MS.

They had rehearsed the ratchet stunt without the wall earlier. Since it had taken the set designers forever to create a wall that looked like a solid brick structure but was actually just drywall, they could do this stunt only once.

Don't mess it up.

She glanced over at Jill, who stood out of camera range along with some of the other actors, watching the stunt crew. Apparently, it was only a half day for Jill, so she had changed out of her costume. When their gazes met, she gave Crash a nod.

Crash scanned her face for any sign of fatigue and her posture for any symptoms of numbness or pain, but she didn't find any. Jill looked healthy and attractive in a pair of tight jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt.

It was hard to wrap her head around the fact that Jill's apparent health was just an illusion that could change any day.

What the heck are you doing? Focus on the stunt, or you'll end up a pile of ashes!
Crash forced her attention back to the job at hand. The ratchet gag she could do in her sleep, but the added element of the fire made her muscles knot with tension.

She watched warily as the technical crew set up four propane tanks just out of view of the cameras. The scar on the back of her neck started to burn as if the flames from those tanks had set it on fire.
Calm down. If all goes according to plan, the fire won't even touch you.

“You okay?” Ben asked as he set a bucket of fire gel down next to her.

She tore her gaze away from the propane tanks and nodded while rubbing the back of her neck.

The rigger hooked the ratchet cable to the harness under Crash's costume, and Ben slathered fire gel onto her hands and face.

Now they had to move fast, because the gel would dry quickly and no longer protect her from the heat of the flames.

Adrenaline replaced her earlier tiredness, and she felt wide-awake. God, she hated fire stunts. Why the hell had she said yes when Ben had asked her if she wanted to do the stunt, even though she wasn't doubling Jill in this scene?

She knew the answer, of course. Once you started running from your fears, you were done in the stunt business. She also didn't want to appear weak or scared in front of her colleagues. She'd worked too hard to establish herself as a stunt performer who could pretty much do it all—high falls, wire work, fight scenes, stunt driving, and fire jobs.

“Ready?” Ben asked.

Crash gave him a thumbs-up sign. She was breathing much too fast, nearly hyperventilating. Her gaze went to Jill, who looked back with a worried expression and mouthed something.

“Are you sure?” Ben asked. “You look—”

“I'm fine. Get on with it.”

Not looking happy, Ben repeated the thumbs-up sign to the crew.

The cameras began rolling, and the countdown started. “Three, two, one…go!”

Crash held her breath, even though her instincts told her to suck as much air into her lungs as she could. If she did, she would singe her lungs. She tucked her chin into her chest and leaned forward at the waist so that the wire rigged to her harness remained taut.

A crew member opened the gas feed. The fireball from the propane tanks raced toward Crash. The scorching heat hit her in the face. For a moment, she thought they had miscalculated and the flames would reach her.

She barely held back a scream.

Just before the fire could engulf her, the ratchet kicked in, yanking her back and off her feet.

She smashed through the wall behind her, landed on a pile of pads, rolled, and used her momentum to come to her feet. Dizziness gripped her for a second, and again it made her think of Jill. Was this what she experienced during the MS flare-ups? She shook off both the distracting thought and the dizziness, brushed pieces of drywall off her costume, and gratefully took the wet towel someone handed her.

The fire gel was starting to burn in her eyes, so she quickly wiped it off before walking over to Ben. Adrenaline still pumped through her veins, making her a bit shaky. “How did it look?”

He waved her over so she could look at the monitor he was watching.

Once he pressed replay, the monitor showed an explosion that created a giant fireball and threw an unsuspecting woman through the air.

Nausea swept over her. She swallowed hard. It didn't look as if she had a snowball's chance in hell of surviving.

“Good job,” Ben said and patted her on the back. “Go get changed.”

Crash didn't need to be told twice. She rushed toward the wardrobe trailer as fast as she could without running.

Jill watched as Crash turned away from the monitor and quickly crossed the cobblestones of the set. Her face was pale beneath the traces of transparent goop that was clinging to her skin despite her attempts to wipe it off.

Crash looked as if she was about to pass her without comment, but then she stopped and said, “Hi, Jill. You okay?”

“Me?” Jill pointed at her own chest. “You are the one who was just thrown through a wall by an explosion.” The mere mention of the stunt made her shiver.

“Yeah, you. You were frowning.”

“Because—” Jill bit her lip. She admitted to herself that she had been worried about Crash, but if she told her that, she'd make her think she was interested in her.
Oh, and you aren't? Lie to her all you want, but be honest with yourself.
Deep down, she knew that she'd never been half as worried about any other stunt person, no matter what daredevil thing they did. “I'm fine, really. But you don't look so good. You didn't get hurt, did you?”

“Nah. Just tired. Late night.”

“I see.” Images of things that might have kept Crash up flashed before Jill's mind's eye, most of them involving hot, sweaty sex. She quickly shook them off. Since she no longer had the energy for marathon sex, she had no right to want to be the woman Crash spent her nights with.

“I need to get over to wardrobe,” Crash said. “See you later.”

Jill watched her walk away. Was it just her imagination, or was there something going on with Crash—something more than just being tired? She wasn't normally so abrupt and uncommunicative.

None of your business. You're not her girlfriend.
Jill wanted to shrug it off, but her gut feeling wouldn't let her. Crash had looked really pale. What if she had hurt herself and was just too proud to admit it?

She'd pick up tomorrow's call sheet from the production office and check up on Crash in wardrobe on her way back. If Crash was fine, she'd drive home and try to put her out of her mind once and for all.

When she climbed the three steps to the wardrobe trailer ten minutes later, a weird sound made her pause.

There it was again—a gagging sound. It came from somewhere behind the trailer.

As fast as she could, Jill hurried down the steps and around.

Crash stood bent over, both palms planted on the trailer, bracing herself as she retched and vomited.

Without thinking twice, Jill rushed over. “Crash! Are you okay?” She groaned as soon as she'd said it.
The prize for the stupidest question in history goes to Jill Corrigan. Does that sound like she's okay?

Still heaving, Crash held up a hand to indicate she couldn't speak.

Gently, Jill touched a hand to Crash's back. God, she was trembling, and the T-shirt she now wore felt damp. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Crash shook her head. She dry-heaved once more and then finally straightened and turned.

Jill pulled an unused tissue from her pocket and held herself back before she could wipe Crash's face. “Here.” She pressed it into her hands.

“Thanks,” Crash mumbled, her voice rough, either from vomiting or because she was embarrassed.

“What happened?” Jill asked again when Crash was done.

“Nothing. That stunt was just…pretty taxing.”

Most of the stunts Jill had seen her perform so far had seemed taxing to her. But in the three weeks since shooting had begun, she had seen Crash do dangerous things that she would have never attempted even for a million bucks. Crash had never batted an eye, and she had certainly never lost her lunch over a stunt. “There's more to it than that, isn't there?”

Crash inhaled through her nose and let the breath escape through her mouth. “Yeah. But I don't want to talk about it.” After a second, she added more softly, “Especially not here.”

Jill looked around and nodded. They had that in common—they both didn't want to show any weakness at work. “Okay. Come on. I'll drive you home.”

“I can drive myself.”

“Now who's stubborn?” Jill nudged her. “I let you help with my buttons. Now it's your turn to be the damsel in distress.”

Crash made a face but then had to laugh. “All right. Show me to your carriage, gallant knight.”

Jill hooked her arm through Crash's and set them off in the direction of the parking lot. It felt wonderful to be the one to take care of Crash, instead of being the one receiving help. For a moment, she felt guilty for enjoying Crash's plight, but then she mentally shrugged and focused on getting Crash home.

The more distance they brought between them and the set, the more Crash's stomach settled—and the sillier she started to feel.
I can't believe I did that.
Barfing my guts out after a gag, like a damn newbie.

She mentally shook her head at herself and peeked over at Jill, who was focused on the dense LA traffic. Crash hadn't wanted anyone—especially not Jill—to see her like that.
Hiding behind the wardrobe trailer to throw up… Not the kind of impression I wanted to make.

Then she immediately rebuked herself. They weren't dating, so there was no need to impress her. But she couldn't help it. She wanted Jill to think of her as strong and capable, not as someone who buckled under pressure.

Suppressing a sigh, she glanced over at her again. Was this how Jill felt when she had to accept help?

“…right?” Jill said.

“Huh?”

“Do I make a right here?” Jill asked.

Crash looked up and realized they were approaching Franklin Avenue. “Yes. Sorry.” She gave Jill directions to the quiet, tree-lined street where she lived. “You can stop here.” She pointed to her two-story apartment complex. “That's me.”

Jill shut off the engine and craned her neck. “Nice.”

“Yeah. It's just a ten-minute walk from Griffith Park, so I can go hiking without having to worry about parking.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Do you want to come up for a coffee or something?” Crash asked after a while.

Jill turned her head toward her and gave her a chiding look. “Really? That's the best line you've got? No wonder you're single.”

Crash laughed. “Not
that
kind of something. I really meant just a cup of coffee between friends. Or don't you do friendships either?” If circumstances were different, friendship wouldn't be what she wanted—at least not all she wanted—but with the way things were, it might be for the best.

After a moment's hesitation, Jill nodded. “I do—as long as it's not the lesbian kind.”

“The lesbian kind?” Crash chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“Lesbians often seem to think that friendship is some kind of foreplay. If they agree to be friends, it's always with the unspoken addition of ‘until we'll be more.'”

“I know what you mean.” But hoping for that kind of friendship with Jill was madness. Her last girlfriend had cheated on her because Crash hadn't been there for her twenty-four/seven. If she hadn't been ready for that sort of commitment with Kyleigh, she certainly wasn't ready for any kind of relationship with Jill. “So let's agree to be the non-lesbian type of friends.”