CHAPTER
FIVE
CHRISTINE
I returnto my hotel room shortly after midnight, devastatingly sober despite my best attempts otherwise. Getting some of the camera crew and a few supporting actors to join me for drinks—my treat—at the modern hotel’s rooftop bar was an easy sell.
But we all care too much about this movie going well, so the crew was responsibly off to bed by eleven forty-five, hitching a rideshare to a less extravagant hotel closer to the set.
It’s not that I didn’t drink; it’s that it takes a lot to get me drunk. I briefly consider ordering a bottle of wine to my room… but I’m notthatpathetic.
Yet, anyway.
I’m just sick of killing time. Sick of not sleeping.
Reviewing the script knocks out an hour. Rehearsing fight choreo passes another.
Pacing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, gossamer curtains pulled aside to reveal the glittering skyscrapers ofdowntown Auckland, only covers all of ten minutes, but it feels like an eternity.
I suppose if the production is spending so much on my hotel room, as stipulated by a clause in my contract I didn’t realize was there, better that I’m awake to use it.
I draw a bath in the soaking tub by the window, simultaneously charmed and baffled by the all-marble bathroom separated from the bed by only a pane of clear glass. A thoughtfully curated tray offers a variety of bath oils and a cluster of rose petals.
I flick the petals one by one into the rising water.
God, I’m bored.
My assistant was so proud when she showed me this hotel. I half-wonder if she picked it out herself.
How to say I’d rather be in a motel with the rest of the team, that I’m happy to share a room? Hell, I’d rather pitch a tent on set. That way I could stare at the stars or scope out the next filming location.
Anything other than being stuck in this shiny glass box.
But I see the way the crew tenses up when I’m around. They wouldn’t be able to relax properly.
So, shiny box it is.
At least Mylo seems interesting. Based on what Bells and Gabe have said, he’s someone I can learn a thing or two from—really take my stunt work to the next level.
And he’s cute.
I’ve worried for a long time that dating a beta isn’t in the cards for me. Which means love isn’t in the cards for me. I thought at least I had friends to become spinsters with, but then Mor, of all people, abruptly married an omega. I’d give her a harder time for reneging on all her bold commitments to avoid the ethical lapse, if not for how fucking happy they seem.
Plenty of alphas end up with betas—it’s easier, given how omegas avoid us alphas, for good reason—but anyone I’ve ever had chemistry with has been an omega. And I’m not interested in that level of commitment.
I sink into the hot water, letting it soak away the day’s strain and bruises. I even put on some spa music, routed through the room’s built-in speaker system.
That kills fifteen minutes.
By the time I’m wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe and sitting on the bed, it’s three AM. Which makes it… nine on the East Coast. Perfect.
My phone warbles as the screen reads,Dialing Avery Quinn.
As soon as the call connects, I chime, “Hey, Vee! What’s up?”
“Tee? What the fuck do you want?” Avery’s voice is hoarse and husky, with a hint of an old Boston accent. It comes out when she’s drunk or tired.
“Good morning to you too, bitch.”
