Just Physical (14 page)

Crash looked at her as if wondering which option they were talking about. “You saw me behind the wardrobe trailer on Thursday,” she said, her voice pitched so low that no one else on the plane could hear. “What do you think?”

In the past, Jill had always assumed all stunt people were adrenaline junkies and fearless daredevils not scared of anything. But while Crash was courageous and confident in most situations, the vulnerability she had revealed after the explosion stunt had touched Jill deeply.

Before Jill could answer, Crash shook her head and went on. “We have a saying: there are fearless stuntmen, and there are old stuntmen, but there are no fearless old stuntmen. You can't be a scaredy-cat, of course, but a certain amount of fear is actually healthy. I know I wouldn't want to work with a stunt performer who is too cocky and reckless.”

Fear is actually healthy,
Jill mentally repeated. She sighed.
Too bad it can't heal MS.
She turned a little in her seat and studied Crash. “Have you ever…backed out of doing a stunt?”

Crash immediately shook her head. “I've suggested ways to adjust a stunt to make it safer, but no, I never backed out. I'm not the backing-out type.”

The answer hung in the air between them for a moment. That was part of why Jill couldn't get involved with her. Crash would stay with her out of a sense of duty and obligation, even if it meant ruining her own life.

They sat in silence and watched the world disappear beneath them until the plane leveled off and the fasten-seat-belt light went out.

Floyd rose from his seat, stepped into the aisle, and gave Jill a questioning look. “Want to switch back?”

Jill hesitated. She turned her head and looked at Crash.

Their gazes connected, making it even harder to tear herself away.

Her mind skipped ahead to the landing once they reached San Francisco. Would Crash hold her hand again? She longed to shake her head and tell Floyd that she'd stay where she was, but, finally, reason won out. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't keep clinging to Crash—literally and figuratively. “Sure,” she said and got up.

After one last glance back at Crash, she slipped past Floyd and into the leather seat next to Lauren. She felt Crash's presence in the row behind her yet refused to turn around and peek at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lauren watching her, but she purposefully didn't react.

“Are you okay?” Lauren finally asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

Lauren pointed down. “Because you keep rubbing your hand.”

When Jill followed her gaze, she realized she'd indeed been rubbing her hand. Not the left one, which sometimes got tingly, but the right one. The one Crash had held. She snatched her left hand away and clutched the armrest. “It's nothing.”

The cool breeze from the bay picked up, making Jill shiver in her damp dress.
I'll never, ever complain about the heat in LA again.
After shooting in the City by the Bay for three days, she finally understood why Mark Twain had supposedly said that the coldest winter he'd ever seen was the summer he'd spent in San Francisco.

Well, the sun had been shining earlier today, but they hadn't been able to film this scene then, because apparently rain didn't show well on film when the light came from overhead. Now with the gray clouds above and the cold wind blowing, Floyd had declared it perfect weather. But then again, he wasn't the one who needed to shoot take after take in the pouring movie rain.

Floyd looked up from the monitor showing the video feed from camera one. Lips pursed, he shook his head. “Let's go again, this time with a bit more intensity. You're shouting at the sky, angry at nature's poor timing. Take it from ‘Now of all times it rains,' please.”

Production assistants herded the extras back into position. They were portraying San Franciscans made homeless by the earthquake and fires.

Jill moved to her mark, careful not to slip in the puddles surrounding her. The rest of the set, where the cameras and equipment had been set up, was completely dry.

“Roll sound,” the assistant director shouted.

“Speed,” the sound mixer answered.

“Roll camera!”

“Rolling,” the first assistant camera operator called.

“Marker!”

The second assistant camera operator stepped in front of the camera with a clapperboard and called out the scene and take number. He smacked the top slat down with a loud crack and ducked out of the frame.

“Action,” Floyd called.

Big, fat raindrops began to fall down from the rain tower, which was basically a twenty-foot pipe mounted on a stand and hooked up to a tank truck via a hose.

Jill shivered as the fake rain hit her. Couldn't they have at least heated up the water a little before pouring it down on her? Then she forgot about her complaints as she sank into her role and became Dr. Lucy Sharpe.

Clutching her black doctor's bag, she stopped in the middle of the street and lifted her face to the sky. Water dripped down her chin. “Now of all times it rains?” She let out a disbelieving laugh, bare of any humor, and shook her fist as if threatening the weather gods. “We could have used the darn rain three days ago, not now when the fires are out already and most of the city lies in ruins!”

A cry of pain came from one of the nearby tents.

Lucy shook the rain out of her eyes, jumped over a foot-long fissure in the street, and rushed toward the tent. She ducked inside just as Floyd called, “Cut!”

Please, please, please.
Jill clutched her ice-cold hands together and paused inside of the tent as she waited to hear if the take was finally a wrap.

“We need to go again,” Floyd called, making her groan. “One of the extras is wearing sneakers, and it shows up in the shot. Where the hell is wardrobe?”

Jill inflated her cheeks and blew out a breath of frustration. “Oh, Jesus.” She felt like kicking something or someone—preferably that extra with the sneakers.

“Here.”

The familiar voice made Jill look up and into Crash's blue eyes. She hadn't realized that someone else was in the tent with her.

Crash held out a blanket and a hot water bottle.

“Thanks.” Jill took the hot water bottle and tugged on the blanket, but instead of letting go, Crash wrapped it around her and rubbed her shoulders and arms through the thick material.

Jill knew she should protest and pull away from this intimate gesture, but it felt too good. She shivered, and it wasn't just from the cold. She clutched the hot water bottle with both hands so she wouldn't do something stupid—such as wrapping her arms around Crash and burying herself against Crash's heat. “What are you doing here? I thought you and the other stunt people had gone back to the hotel?”

“The others did, but I thought I'd stick around for a bit. After the scenes I shot this morning, I just couldn't resist seeing someone else be miserable for a change.”

Despite her words, Crash didn't seem gleeful, but Jill didn't comment on it. “Oh, yeah, then take a good long look.”

Crash gave her a compassionate smile. “Maybe you could have that extra fall into the fissure or die some other horrible death in the next scene.”

Laughter bubbled up despite Jill's misery. When Crash settled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, her arm brushed Jill's side, making her shiver again. She covered it by shaking herself. “Ugh. That milk is making me all sticky.”

“Milk?”

Jill nodded. “Apparently, rain doesn't show up well on film, so they add a bit of milk to the water before pouring it down on me.”

“Well,” Crash said, giving her a crooked grin, “isn't bathing in milk supposed to do wonders for the skin? I heard it worked for Cleopatra. Not that you need any help in the looks department, mind you.”

Jill burst out laughing and forgot her bedraggled state for a moment. She suppressed the urge to touch Crash's forearm and pressed the hot water bottle to her chest instead.

The sounds of the crew setting up for yet another take drifted in.

The assistant director stuck his head into the tent. He looked from Jill to Crash and back, visibly surprised to see them in this semi-embrace, with Crash still rubbing the blanket over Jill's back. “Uh, ready to go again?”

Holding on to the hot water bottle for another moment, trying to soak up every last bit of heat—and, truth be told, support from Crash—Jill nodded. She handed the hot water bottle back to Crash and gave her a nod. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Crash said softly.

After one last glance back at her, Jill tugged her drenched costume back into some semblance of order, squared her shoulders, and marched back to her mark beneath the water tower.

Crash crossed her hotel room toward the window and glanced at the street below. Darkness had fallen outside. One of the drivers had delivered Crash and other crew back to the hotel almost an hour ago, but Jill, Shawn, Nikki, and the crew that had been shooting their first-unit scenes today still hadn't returned.

Where the hell are they?
It couldn't take that long to film the last shot of the day, could it?

The more time went by without them returning, the more worried Crash became. Had Jill suffered a relapse, so they had to take her to a hospital?

Bullshit.
According to her research, heat could make MS symptoms flare, but she hadn't heard of wind and rain having the same effect. Still, she couldn't help worrying.

Voices outside in the hallway attracted her attention. She hurried to the door and put her eye to the peephole.

A bald man passed by. He wasn't part of the cast or the crew, only another hotel guest.

Just as Crash was about to turn away from the door, her cell phone rang. She jerked and nearly slammed her eye into the spyhole.

Oh, yeah, that's all I need. Having to explain to Ben or the people in makeup how I managed to get a shiner when I wasn't doing a stunt.
She walked over to the nightstand where she had left her cell phone. The display said, “Mom.” She swiped her finger across the small screen. “Hi, Mom.”

“How is my favorite daughter doing today?”

“Your only daughter is just fine, thanks.” The old joke between them soothed her a little. With the phone pressed to her ear, Crash walked back to the door to take another peek through the spyhole.

The hotel corridor beyond was empty.

“So, tell me about the crazy things you did today,” her mother said.

“Not much to tell,” Crash answered.

Her mother snorted. “Like I believe that even for a second! Remember how you fell off that tree, broke your arm, and didn't want to tell me?”

“Mom!” Crash groaned. “That was ages ago. There really isn't anything to tell today. I have a gag scheduled for tomorrow morning, but the most dangerous thing I did all day was heat up water for a hot water bottle.”

Her mother made a sympathetic noise. “Cramps?”

“Huh?” Another glance through the peephole. Still nothing. “Oh, no. The hot water bottle wasn't for me.”

“Oooh! Have you been holding out on me, Kristine?”

“Holding out on you?”

“Have you met a girl?” her mother clarified.

An image of Jill flashed through Crash's mind—the way she had stood under the rain tower earlier, her face raised to the sky, the drenched dress clinging to her curves. “Not a girl,” she said without thought. “She's a woman.”

“So you did meet someone? What's her name? She isn't another stuntwoman, is she? Did you meet her in San Francisco? When will we get to meet her?”

“Whoa! Slow down, Mom! It's not like that.”

“That's what you said when I caught you in bed with that Jennifer.”

Another groan escaped Crash. “Her name was Jessica. And thanks so much for reminding me of all the highlights of my youth.”