Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Lex says reassuringly. “He’s a bit prickly, but he’s also a professional. He’ll do what he needs to do.”
We hang back for a bit while Timmy lays out a few more details and packs up his boards. Tom slips out with quick handshakes and once we’re alone, Nash turns to Lex. “What’s Barnes’s deal?”
I’m glad he asked because I am dying of curiosity, but as the rookie, I’m not about to poke.
Lex looks toward the door Ronan just exited through, brows drawn. “He’s complicated.”
“I don’t remember him being so…,” Nash says, searching for the right word.
“Assholish?” Lex says with a sigh. “You’re probably picking up on the fact that we don’t get along.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Let’s say he crossed a line with me. We haven’t talked much since.”
I glance toward the hallway, immediately assuming Ronan’s the villain in whatever happened. I mean… he is the one who acts like a total prick, but Lex seems like a decent guy.
He turns to me with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry you’re paired with him. That’s—rough luck.”
I force a smile. “It’s fine. I’ve handled worse.”
But inside, my stomach coils a little tighter. Because I’ve raced against assholes and egos, but Ronan Barnes feels different. Like I’m on a collision course, strapped into the passenger seat with no way out of the burning wreck that’s coming.
CHAPTER 7
Ronan
They’re filming this like it’s a documentary. Handheld cameras. Natural lighting. Minimal crew interference.
But make no mistake. This is scripted as hell.
It’s late afternoon and the grocery store has been closed to the public for a few hours so Drivex can get what they need. Bright white lights buzz overhead. Shopping carts are strategically placed. There’s a boom mic hanging just out of frame and extra actors mill about.
Lex and Nash are off filming their scene with a separate crew across town. This morning, all four of us met to rehearse lines and then a hair and makeup crew ran us through the ringer. I have enough product in my hair to withstand a monsoon.
Now they’re ready to shoot Francesca and me, and I’d rather be crashing into the wall at 130R.
She’s pacing outside the entrance with a water bottle in her hand and a tightly wound energy that makes me twitchy. The makeup girl keeps patting stuff on Francesca’s face, not that she needs any help. She looks perfect in a pair of faded jeans with frayed edges, white trainers and a simple white sweater. Her hair is in a high ponytail with wisps of golden blond loosely framed around her face. She looks nothing like a formula race car driver and every bit a sorority girl who just stepped off the Cambridge campus.
Timmy practically vibrates as he adjusts something on his laptop monitor, his voice high and cheerful. “Okay, darlings! Remember… you’re not here together. You’re both running errands. Totally natural. Totally casual. Then—bam! Trolley standoff and it’s war.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. The lines we had to learn are easy and we’ve already done two practice runs after which Timmy deemed us passable actors. But in reality, most of this commercial is going to be action hijinks as we race around the grocery store.
Francesca glances over at me, her expression unreadable. A larger chunk of hair keeps slipping from her ponytail, and for a second, I’m caught watching the way she tucks it behind her ear.
She arches a brow my way. “What?” she demands, not with hostility but maybe a bit of challenge.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ face,” she says, her expression curious.
I don’t reply and Timmy saves me by clapping his hands. “All right… let’s get going. Francesca, you’ll enter from the left. Ronan, from the right. Just do it like we practiced.”
We’re brought two shopping carts, pre-filled with items we’ve supposedly selected. Francesca shifts into position, ready to step into her role as a friendly competitor. But there’s nothing friendly about rivalry on the track. This is all a fucking farce, a complete waste of my time.
I grip the cart handle, the metal cold under my fingers. The cameras roll and Timmy yells, “Action.”
Francesca comes around the end of one aisle as I come around the other way and to my surprise, Francesca runs her cart into mine… which was not in the script. I can tell by the look on her face that she meant to do it. Timmy doesn’t scream cut, so we’re still rolling.
She “notices” me first, and as planned, her expression tightens in a perfect beat of disdain. It looks completely believable and I’m sure she’s pulling on real feelings. She looks down the aisle, then to the teenage stock boy stacking energy drinks on a bottom shelf.
“Excuse me,” she says brightly. “Where’s the Drivex Zero Citrus?”
The kid looks up, feigning awed recognition. “Oh, wow—you’re Francesca Accardi.” And then he double takes, seeing me standing there. “And holy cow, you’re Ronan Barnes.”