“Alright, everyone,” Alejandro barks. “Sound issue’s fixed. Quiet on the set!”
The takes drag on—there’sa plane rumbling overhead, stray water droplets from the waterfall, a lighting issue, the boom mic dipping into shot—nearly everything that can go wrong does, but after twenty takes, Lana finally calls a wrap for the day.
I break off and jog back to the trailers, not caring who sees; I’ll say I had food poisoning of my own if I have to. The last hour has been torture, knowing my scent’s wearing off and my omega is in pain.
You’ve got to stop calling him your omega.
I push into my trailer, expecting to see Mylo curled up on the couch.
The vacant cushion sends my heart thundering with adrenaline to ready me for pursuit or combat. My nostrils flare, but in the stagnant trailer air, his scent comes from every direction.
I surge inside, searching for him—and nearly knock him over as he steps around from the bathroom.
Only my arm looped around his waist keeps him from falling.
“What the fuck is your problem?” he snaps, even as he folds into my chest and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“How long have you been up?”
“Like you care.”
I give a soft laugh. I’m not sure which is more surprising: that he’s so whiny when he’s heat-sick, or that I find it oddly cute.
“For tonight,” I say, “I think you should stay with me?—”
“No,” he says sharply, though his arms tighten around my waist. “I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.”
“I want to ride back in the van with everyone, and I want to sleep in my own fucking hotel room.”
“If you ride in the van, everyone’s going to see how sick you still are.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then huffs. “Fine.”
“Besides, we should get you to bed early. You need as much time as possible to rest before tomorrow.”
“Fine, fine, whatever. I’ll ride in your stupid car.”
I raise a hand to brush his damp hair back from his forehead, and he leans into my palm.
“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” I soothe.
I move us to the couch, and Mylo drapes against me. Whether resting or moping, it’s hard to say, but there’s not a long wait after I text my driver.
Once the sedan’s just outside my trailer, I carry Mylo down, ignoring his grumbles of protest.
I settle into the car’s bench seat, and Mylo immediately wiggles off my lap, working his way over to the other side of the car.
“Suit yourself,” I say with a shrug.
He clicks his seatbelt into place, staring out the window and ignoring me. I nod to the driver, a middle-aged Kiwi Indian named Ollie, and he pulls along the gravel lot.
For the first few minutes of the drive, Mylo does a poor job of hiding his labored breathing, even with the classic rock radio humming in the speakers.
As the car fills with my scent, he calms.
Mylo watches carefully out the window, and when Ollie doesn’t turn the blinker on to pull off at the crew hotel, he says sharply, “It’s a left here.”
