Muscle for Hire(3)

Aslin didn’t reply. Instead, as always, he took in every detail of his surroundings, noting places where attacks could be made, objects that could be used as weapons, easy exit routes if needed. Dead Even was being filmed in part at the old Hyde Park Barracks near Sydney’s CBD. According to Chris, the convict prison—normally a favourite destination for tourists—was now “the secret base for a clandestine, international defense-force network”, code name Last Line. The actor had filled Aslin in on the drive, outlining the basic plot, providing details of his character—a “brooding, foreboding commando who comes into conflict with his superior’s unjust, dubious orders”—and generally chatting away as if he and Aslin were long-lost mates. There was a boyish charm to Chris that Aslin found hard to resist. The young American reminded him a lot of Nick’s teenage son. Young, eager and easy to laugh.

He could see why women threw themselves at him.

What he couldn’t see was Chris in the role of a commando. Which was what Aslin had to make him.

It was going to be a challenge.

A small smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. He suppressed a chuckle. It was also going to be fun.

It seemed Nick Blackthorne’s arse was going to be saved from a boot after all.

Two hours later, Aslin once again considered the rock star’s butt overdue for a kick. Movie folk had an infuriating view of what a soldier of war was. They also had no clue—in Aslin’s opinion—what looked believable and what didn’t. He’d spent the last one-hundred-and-twenty minutes not just correcting one cliché after another from being captured on film, but trying to convince the director, Nigel McQueen, that a SAS British Commando, even a retired one, really did know how to hold a Desert Eagle handgun. And how to throw a punch.

The bloke was a nice enough fellow, but he had a warped and wrong sense of what actually happened during close combat.

“Don’t worry, Aslin.” Chris slapped his back as they walked off set, obviously unaware Aslin had broken arms and smashed jaws for lesser contact. “You’ll get used to Nigel. He’s stubborn, I know, but he’s got a vision and he’s true to it. It’s why he’s won so many awards.” The actor laughed. “Having said that, I think what you did to the Second Unit stunt director illustrated his vision may be a bit off this time.”

Aslin raised a contemplative eyebrow. In his opinion, the Second Unit stunt director was an idiot. What kind of so-called expert insisted it was impossible to down an opponent with a harai tsurikomi ashi without signposting it? After a good ten minutes arguing with the man that it could be done, Aslin had decided it was easier to just show him, putting the arrogant man on his back with the judo move mid-argument.

The stunt director had stormed off the set after that. Well, limped off the set. After Aslin had let him up off the ground.

Beside him, Chris chuckled again. “What are the chances your boss knew you were going to stir up trouble when he suggested you come on board the film?”

Aslin’s lips twitched. “I suspect the odds are high.”

A shout from behind turned both men around, Aslin stepping slightly forward and in front of Chris without thought.

“Chris.” Nigel hurried toward them, his shaggy black hair flapping in the warm summer breeze. “You can’t take off now. We need to check the dailies.”

Chris slapped his forehead. “Ah fuck, that’s right.” He looked up at Aslin, an apologetic grimace pulling at his lips. “This’ll take a while. Sorry. Can you come to my trailer in an hour or so? I want to get your take on my character’s motivation.”

Aslin gave him a brief nod. “Of course.”

“I like what you gave us today, Mr. Rhodes.” Nigel stuck out his hand, whiter-than-white teeth flashing from behind a wide smile as he shook Aslin’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m not sure Ricco’s ever coming back on set, but I like what you gave us. I look forward to seeing what you deliver tomorrow.”

And with that, the film director and the actor walked away, leaving Aslin alone.

He watched them go, unable to suppress a snort as the personal assistants for both men came scurrying from the wings, water bottles in hand, mobile phones offered, fruit baskets hanging from bent elbows.

And you thought the demands of a rock star indulgent.

At the thought of his boss, Aslin pulled his phone from his hip pocket and dialed Nick’s number.

“You missing me already, Uncle As?”

Aslin didn’t bother answering the chuckled jest. “Am I being interviewed for a job by Chris Huntley, Nick? Are you trying to get rid of me?”