“Sometimes people get in a bind and don’t have a choice,” Ford said.
Tanner looked at Ford with interest. “Do you know why she left her hometown?”
“I know some of it.” He didn’t elaborate. “If this really is about Sierra, you need to deal with it. She’ll be here next week.”
“Deal with it how? Give her a crash course in acting?”
“Or apologize,” Tanner said.
“I did.” The studio had made me—a fact that I was still bitter about. When I was new, no one held my hand and dried my tears when I fucked up.
“I meant apologize and mean it.”
It bothered me that my own twin didn’t get it. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have yelled—though plenty of directors and more seasoned costars have yelled at me over the years. But I won’t apologize for thinking that members of the cast and crew should know how to do their fucking jobs.”
Ford sighed, his hands on the barbell above my head. Sick of looking at him upside down, I got to my feet and downed a bottle of water, not looking at him while he spoke. “Sierra’s new. She must have potential or they wouldn’t have hired her. Could you just take it easy on her?”
“You don’t learn how to act on a movie like this. You learn on television or a low-budget indie film or hell, even a high school drama club. But not while you’re actually making the damn movie.”
“Just take it easy on her, Aiden.” Tanner echoed Ford’s words.
Jesus, they were acting like I was some kind of monster. As far as I was concerned, Sierra Sloane could do anything she wanted. Act, not act, quit, fly to the moon, whatever—anything except fuck up my movie. But Ford and Tanner wouldn’t see it that way. I sighed. They were good guys even if they were annoying the hell out of me right now. “All right, I’ll try to take it easy on her.”
“Good,” Ford said, tossing me another water bottle from the minifridge. “Maybe you could practice by taking it easy on Ronnie.”
I suppressed a sneer at that. Unlike Sierra, Ronnie wasn’t a delicate, helpless innocent. She could stand up for herself—as she’d done upstairs. Still… it wouldn’t hurt to consider that maybe Ford and Tanner had a point. Maybe I was taking out some of my frustration with my costar on Ronnie.
Maybe.
10
Ronnie
“Ford?” I walked into the training area cautiously on Friday morning. We’d run together yesterday, too, but I’d been a little hungover. Between that and the higher altitude, it wasn’t my best athletic performance.
Perhaps because of my hangover, Ford had gone easy on me and not pulled any pranks like he did on Wednesday. Today, however, I was feeling fine and determined not to react, even if I saw someone douse him in gasoline and set him on fire. Stunt men could be tricky.
I grinned when I spotted him before he saw me. He was in what looked like a boxing ring, but it was on the floor with a huge square mat under it. He was sparring with a guy in his late twenties. At first, I assumed it was stage fighting, but when I got closer, I saw that both men were wearing boxing gloves and actually hitting each other. Neither man was wearing any padding, but when the other guy grinned, I saw he had some kind of protective device over his teeth. Ford must have, too.
I sat down on a nearby mat, crossing my legs under me as I watched them. They were both good, moving fluidly and using strategy as they danced around each other—but it was clear that Ford was better. It was also clear that he was holding back.
At one point, Ford stopped the other man and corrected him on his technique on a particular kind of jab. He seemed like the kind of person who would be a patient teacher. At least when he wasn’t wasting his time pranking people.
They stopped after about ten minutes and took off their gloves and mouthguards. Ford spoke with the other man for another minute or two and then clapped him on his back. The man headed off to the free weight area while Ford came over to me.
He sat down and then immediately lay on his back, his knees bent. He was breathing a little hard, but not much. I wanted to be in as good of shape as him—but first, I had to get used to the elevation.
“Who won?” I teased.
Ford put his forearm over his eyes, shielding them from the overhead lights. His stomach was flat under the white undershirt he wore. He had navy sweatpants on and high-top tennis shoes. “If he can get his fight scene right this afternoon, then he did. That was Roger.”
“Good for Roger. And good for you. You’re a good teacher.”