I might be a bit of a masochist. Most stunt people are.
The funny thing about omegas having a reputation for being fragile is that the opposite is true. Our natural flexibility makesus springier than most, better able to take a beating without permanent injury.
Before the eighteenth take, Bella calls for a slightly longer break and brings me a bottle of water. I take a few light sips; the last thing I want is anything else for the corset to squeeze.
“How many more takes do you have in you?” she asks quietly.
“As many as you need.”
“What Ineedis for you to not have bruised ribs when you go up on the big rig. I’ve seen the shots Lana has; there are plenty of angles to splice together something that’ll look great. She’s just being picky.”
I take a shallow breath through my chest—the best I can manage with the harness—and actually check in with my body instead of letting the adrenaline smooth over everything.
The number of takes I have left in me is negative five. It’s already going to hurt to breathe all tomorrow. Bella’s right, a distraction like that would be dangerous on the big rig.
“I’ve got one more,” I say.
Bella gives a firm nod. “You’ve got it.”
As she goes over to chat with Lana—and lay down the law, I presume—I head back to my mark.
I need to find Melinoë again. From take fourteen on, I’ve just been going through the motions. That works for good-enough shots. But Lana isn’t the only perfectionist here. If I’ve got one take left, I’ll give it everything.
I close my eyes and let Haley’s sauntering gait play through my mind. I’m shadow. Madness. Hate.
Bella’s voice calls, asks if I’m ready.
I keep my eyes closed and give her a thumbs-up.
Fuck, I want to nail this. I want to get the whole audience rooting for Melinoë.
I want to show Christine how it’s really done.
“Action!”
My eyes flash open. The movements are deep in my muscle memory, so I let all conscious thought fade away. I look up and find my mark, centering my will on the top of the low cliff, believing with every fiber that the wires are an extension of myself, part of my own inner power.
And I leap.
The pain, the stress, the anger—it all goes quiet. There’s only the ecstasy of movement.
Time slows. As if there’s nothing but my own body to get me over the edge, I throw my arms high, gaining momentum to ease my weight off the wires for a split second, just enough to really sell the landing.
“Cut! That’s a wrap. Well done, everyone!”
The stunt team member at the top of the cliff, a gangly youth in coveralls that readElectra 2 Stunt Team, hurries up to me.
“Ready to head back down?” he asks.
My breath sends a sharp pain through my ribs. “I’d rather walk, if it’s all the same.”
He nods empathetically. “Yeah, no problem.”
As he radios down to the rest of the stunt team, he waves over another assistant to help unclip me from the wire. As soon as I’m off, I reach through the purpose-made gap in my bodysuit to loosen the corset and finally take a deep breath.
God, I need some water and a few minutes horizontal.
I head a short ways up the cliff and find an area where the rock has crumbled enough that I can easily clamber down. It’d be a brutally steep climb for someone with less experience, but there’s a reason I frequent a climbing gym.
