CHAPTER ONE
The boy cowered, shrinking back as I crouched down and reached out a hand towards his face.
"It's ok," I said quietly, stilling my hand, waiting.
Huge, brown eyes looked up at me hesitantly through long, dark lashes.
"It's ok, Samuel." I smiled reassuringly. "I'm not going to hurt you."
I reached out again and his eyes widened in fear, but he let me touch his chin and gently turn his head to the side. I froze for a moment, staring at the swollen bruise that ran along the left side of his face, and then gripped him by the shoulders, harder than I intended, allowing the anger I was feeling to show in my face.
"Who did this to you, Samuel?" I hissed. "Who did this?"
"Cut!!!!"
The voice sliced across the silent set like a pistol shot, and I could feel the small shoulders under my hands jump in reaction.
I sighed and dropped my hands to my thighs as noise and chatter erupted on the set around me. The camera looming to my right moved back and I pushed myself to my feet.
"Crap."
The boy giggled and wiped at his runny nose, leaving a shiny trail of mucus across his upper lip.
Lovely.
"Becca?" I called over to one of the hovering assistants. "Can we get a kleenex or something over here?"
I was all for realism in television, but there was no way I was going to hug this kid with all that snot on him, regardless of what the script called for.
While Becca, a tiny red-head in a tight, lime-green top, hurried over and began fussing over the boy, I turned towards the sound of approaching footsteps, schooling my face into polite deference that I did not feel.
"What's wrong, Adam? I thought that was going well."
I didn't, really - I had been too aggressive, stemming from not enough sleep, a very long week and a vicious headache - but I sure as hell wasn't going to admit that to this asshole.
Adam Kreizeck was short, obnoxious and sweaty; I had disliked him on sight, and it had become quite obvious over the last week of shooting that the feeling was definitely mutual.
"That's why I'm the director, Miss Harris, and you are not."
You're the director because you're married to the producer's niece, jackass.
I forced a non-committal smile, and kept my thoughts to myself.
I hated guest directors.
They threw off everyone's game, screwed around with the normal pace of shooting, and were generally a pain in the ass. Kreizeck's stint as director had resulted in 16-hour days, multiple scenes having to be re-shot, and the killer headache that I'd had for what seemed like the last 72 hours.
"Let's try this again," sweaty-man continued, "with a little more compassion and a little less Rambo. You're trying to help the boy, Miss Harris, not assault him."
The fact that he was correct in this particular case annoyed me even more than his arrogant smile. I nodded curtly, resisting the urge to slap him.
He snapped his fingers impatiently, bringing production assistants scurrying to his side. "And someone please tell Miss Stokley we'll be ready for her soon."
"Miss Stokley," a rich, very feminine voice drawled, "is already here."
The effect of the voice on Kreizeck was instantaneous. He spun towards the sound with more athleticism than I'd given him credit for and practically sprinted to the front of the set where Elizabeth Ann Stokley was regally settling herself into her chair.
"Miss Stokley!"
"Hello Adam," she murmured. "Sorry if I'm a little late. I got held up in wardrobe."
I looked at her outfit - the same one she had worn for walkthrus 3 hours before - and thought her tardiness was more likely due to a certain muscle-bound intern named Chad, Liz's flavor of the week, than any type of wardrobe problem. Not that it would have mattered what her excuse was. Hell, she could have told him she was blowing the head of the network in the men's room, and I doubt he would have batted an eye or changed his panting eagerness one bit.
"Oh, not a problem, not a problem. Wonderful. You look great, just great."
I rolled my eyes, torn between annoyance and amusement as Liz worked her magic and Kreizeck was reduced to a pool of drooling, fawning jello.
And who could blame him?
Elizabeth Ann Stokley was certainly easy on the eye. Blond hair, blue eyes, a dazzling smile, a body that curved in all the right places and a southern belle charm that could wrap even the biggest of assholes, male or female, around her perfect little finger.
An attractive package, no doubt.
She was also a temperamental, moody perfectionist, one hell of an actor, and since the very first day I started work on the set of 9th Precinct, a good friend.