Page 84 of How To Plot a Payback

About five nine. Mousy brown hair that curlicues up on his forehead. He’s wearing his round-rimmed glasses and, unlike most of the other writers, tends to dress up a bit for his role. Maybe even for life in general. He possesses a quiet sense of professionalism. A personal desire to put on nice shoes in the morning. Not because this is the dress code; no, writers are usually in worn-out T-shirts and comfortable trainers. The cast typically dresses up a little bit more, not at sweeping-gown level but at least a nice pair of athletic shorts. After all, even though we have an agreement to keep phones out of it during work, things have a way of leaking. Writers don’t face that kind of pressure, and usually their choice of clothing tends to coordinate with this feeling.

But not Finn’s.

He’s in a quiet blue oxford today, sleeves not yet rolled up to the elbows (that’s something he does several hours in, when he’s really getting into it). Navy slacks. Leather laptop bag over one shoulder. Consumed in conversation. And all the while looking very fine. Very fine indeed.

What is it about him exactly?

Kye comes through the door and stops behind him, spots me, and calls over his shoulder, one arm stretched over Finn’s body.

Well, it’s not his height.

“Lavie,” Kye says, pointing at the chair beside me. A young staff writer is just about to set down his coffee in that very spot.

I hate moments like these, but friendship trumps all.

“Hey,” I say, putting a hand on the back of the chair. Then, finding that rude, I drop it. “So sorry. Kye was just asking if he could sit here”—I pull a face—“and it really is helpful to sit together during the reading. Would it be okay if he takes this seat?”

Sonya makes a little pfft sound, flipping to another page.

The writer moves along, and I shower him with several thanks. When he’s gone, Sonya whispers ten times too loud, “You don’t need to beg the newbie to let Kye sit next to you.”

“First of all, yes, I do. He’s a human being, and all human beings deserve respect. Secondly, that attitude right there is why they wrote in that random pie-in-your-face scene last season, Sonya. D’you think it made sense for you to suddenly become obsessed with blueberry pies during a wedding and end up facedown in a trash can eating one? Respect the writer, and they’ll respect you.”

But she clearly doesn’t hear me, because her attention is trained on a particular spot in the script.

Sonya cackles.

“Is it good?” Kye says, his eyes alight as he sits down. “What page?”

But Sonya just keeps laughing.

Kye checks over her shoulder, then hunts for the page.

I flip too.

So far, nothing too out of the ordinary.

Lance is building the rooftop garden. Ashley becomes stranded on a ferry for twenty-four hours with eighteen strangers who fall with Lord of the Flies–level intensity into two camps, using a currency of gum. The usual ridiculousness.

And then . . .

No.

Kye clearly sees it as well, because his face breaks into a smile, smothered quickly by my glare.

“Oh hon,” Sonya says, slapping me on the shoulder with falsely sympathetic eyes, “if all that’s true, you’d better put a plug in whatever you’re doing to some poor soul in this room. Because given what I’m seeing, you must be trying to blackmail some writer for murder.”

Chapter 16

Finn

Friday, Final Dress Rehearsal, Stage 2

“Alright. That’s it, Finn. Tell me what’s going on here.”

I jump at Paula’s presence. I’ve been so focused on watching things unfold from my perch backstage among the shadows, I didn’t notice her come up beside me.

“Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”