CHAPTER
ONE
MYLO
“So,Christine. When did you first realize you were becoming America’s favorite movie star?”
A mysterious smile pulls across her bright red lips. Piercing blue eyes sparkle, and she toys with a strand of her perfectly curled platinum blonde hair. Even seated, she towers over the affable Tommy Kim—the first Korean-American host ofToday, Tonight.
“Well, Tommy, I think about two seconds ago! You’re making me blush.”
A chuckle rolls through the studio audience. Tommy shakes his head with a miffed grin. “Are you kidding? Everyone loves you!”
I scoff, reach across the two plastic beer crates that pass for a coffee table, and grab the remote.
“Bro, what the fuck? I’m watching this,” snaps my roommate, Scott. “I need to moisturize for another hour!” His loose plastic gloves—some kind of moisturizing hand mask—rustle as he points at me. Scott is a pretty stereotypical-looking gym bro with a too-orange spray tan: not unattractive, but nothing special in LA. He’d book a lot more gigs if he wasn’t such a pain to work with. Instead, he changes career plans every four months when the current pipe dream falls apart. Now it’s hand modeling. Before that was voice-over work, and beforethatwas… TV commercials, maybe?
“You can watch something else,” I snap back.
“You cangosomewhereelse.”
An acidic retort bubbles on my tongue. But the reason I still put up with Scott is that his mom pays most of the rent. I’d pay to not live with him too—if I had any money. If he decides to move or kick me out, I’m royally fucked.
I drop the remote on the beer crate with a sharp sigh. “Fine. Whatever.”
Tommy leans over and asks Christine, “Did you always want to become an actor?”
She gives a light, musical laugh, and the muscles of her arms—intentionally bared by her sleeveless corset top—ripple. “I wanted to be everything but one, actually! Doctor, scientist, firefighter, ballerina, the usual. That’s the thing about acting: it lets me be anyone and anything. No two gigs are the same. I’ve learned an incredible amount from some absolutely amazing people. They’re the real stars.”
Tommy pauses to let the audience cheer and whistle.
I roll my eyes with a groaning sigh.
Scott throws a sidelong glare at me. “Dude, Mylo, what’s your problem? How can you hate Christine Evansworth?”
“How can youlikeher? You know this is all fake, right? She previews and approves all these questions.” I put on a mocking, high-pitched tone. “You’re making me blush. She’s anactor. It’s all bullshit. Those muscles aren’t real either; all the stars are juicing now.”
Scott raises his brows. “Who pissed inyourcoffee?”
“Nobody. Nothing. Whatever.” I cross my arms and sink back into the couch, seething.
Scott returns his attention to the show and promptly forgets I exist.
We met on a job—one of the few that Scott actually managed to keep for any length of time. I wish I’d known that then, but it’s not like I had any other way to make rent.
I’m a stunt worker; I live for the high. That surge of adrenaline when I step off a cliff, putting complete trust in my harness and my team. The cold beers after a sweaty, shitty day of being lit on fire repeatedly. Throwing myself through a sheet of glass, knowing that I’m making that sly assassin, rogue detective, or secret agent truly come to life.
There’s nothing like it.
The industry is shrinking. Or, more like being crushed. Directors want tofix it in post, opting for crappy CGI over real stunts.
And then there are the actors who want to do their own stunts. Actors like Christine Evansworth. They already have all the money, fame, and glory, but no, that’s not enough. They have to take work away from the actual stunt professionals.
The final result looks crappier too. Stunt work is so much more than muscle. I started gymnastics before I could walk and have been studying martial arts since the first time someone picked on me for being short. Stunt professionals learn how to sell the action, how to make it look good, how to do it over-and-over for that perfect shot. We put our limbs and lives on the line, and what’s the thanks we get?
Christine’s voice chimes from the TV, “That’s right, I do all my own stunts.” She lifts her arm and flexes.
Tommy’s brows raise appreciatively, and as she glances out at the audience, scattered whistles rise over the applause.
