The temperature had to be at least high nineties outside in Houston. Ashley started to type her reply, when the tall man in front of the speakers said, “I’m Russ Simmons, your director.”

Ashley hit the off button on her phone. The farewell music chimed out, and she slapped a hand over the speaker, trying to look innocent.

“Welcome to your first and hopefully last crew and cast meeting until the wrap party.” The large group on the bleachers, who had quieted when he spoke, gave a mild cheer.

Suck-ups.

“Most of you worked with me before, and know how I work,” the director said. “I concentrate on film, and leave the day-to-day running of things to our assistant director. I’ll now turn this meeting over to him.”

A few people clapped. The goatee-wearing AD stepped forward and raised his hairy, pointy chin. “Please call me AD. We’re not working together for the next five years. We’re shooting for fifty days. In that time, while on set, you will be called by your title.”

The AD stroked his goatee. “I have a backup for each one of you. If you cannot meet your commitments, we will replace you. After shooting starts, the cost is prohibitive to replace the actors, obviously, because they’re on film. Putting it plainly, the cast is more important than the crew.” There were a few protest murmurs from the crowd. Crunch.Garrett opened a pack of cookies and shoved one in his mouth.

The AD held up his tablet and motioned toward the stars. “If a cast member needs to eat, feed him. If he needs an errand done, run it. If her hem is torn and the fabric distracts her, sew it. Fix the problem or find an assistant. Issues you can’t handle come to me.”

His speech made sense, but somehow seemed wrong. Especially the part where all the crap would get dumped on the assistants. Welcome to my world for the next fifty days.Ashley pressed her palms into the cold metal ridges of the bench seat and rolled her head, reminding herself she needed this job to help her college applications stand out.

The broad shoulder of the guy next to her bumped hers and he whispered, “If you didn’t get that, I’ll explain. We don’t matter.”

She stifled a laugh.

He ran a hand over his blond buzz cut. “I’m Boomer.”

“Hi, I’m Ashley.”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m Boomer because I’m the boom operator.”

“What’s that?”

“The boom pole is a long pole that holds the microphone near the actors. I also hide other microphones around the set. And they think I can be replaced. What’s a movie without sound?”

“True,” Ashley said.

“Besides, look at my biceps. I’m standing in front of the directors all day showing off these bad boys. I’ll make the transition from crew to cast in no time.”

“Oh, you’re an actor?”

Boomer gave her a pitying look. “You’re in LA, babe, everyone’s an actor.”

The guy on her other side, a small, effeminate man with a tall tuft of brown hair, gave her a very attentive look. His flowery cologne followed his turn. “Yeah. So, who do you know? How’d you get chosen to be on set? You’re quite pretty. Are you an actress?”

A little blinded by his shiny shirt and unsure which question to answer first, Ashley said, “Um, no, a student, an assistant.”

“Oh.” The shiny shirt guy’s face twitched.

“What do you—” Ashley began.

He turned his shiny back to her and gave the person on his other side a deeply interested look.

Realizing her unimportance, Ashley turned with raised eyebrows back to Boomer. He was staring at his own biceps.

She rubbed her hands on her jean-covered thighs and rolled her shoulders. Get ready for a long LA summer.

Boomer spoke without looking away from his biceps. “He’s Cutter.”

“Cutter?”

Boomer flexed his biceps toward the shiny shirt. “You know. The costume tailor guy. As if he has a shot of getting on camera before me. Did you see my guns?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The bleachers swayed, going from a solid framework one moment to metal in motion the next.

“Earthquake!” someone shouted.

Chapter 3

Boomer jumped from the bleachers to the ground. Cutter scrambled down the bench like a monkey, sat, and edged off the bleachers. Petra held her hands in the air and two men lifted her down like a water ballerina. Other crew members did their own version of escape. The sound of collapsing metal coupled with feminine and masculine screams as her new co-workers exercised their flair for the dramatic.

Ashley took in the action from her spot on the swaying bench. Heart racing, but unable to move, she clung to the metal seat with rigid fingers. With a slow, but unrelenting move, the metal folded in on itself. Gravity forced Ashley to release her grip and slide down the bench. She landed on the concrete, cradled in the metal V of her former seat. The hard floor and awkward angle didn’t hurt as much as Caz’s weight. He’d fallen against her legs, trapping her in place, six-feet-something of heavy.

“Hiya,” Caz said. “Ashley, right?”

Ashley shoved at his shoulders. “Earthquake!”

Caz shifted his weight and pushed to his feet. “I don’t think so. Only the bleachers moved.” He offered her a hand up.

She gripped his large hand and stood on shaking legs. “Not an earthquake?”

“No earthquake.”

Olive, two stagehands dressed in black, and Cutter rushed over. Olive got there first. “Mr. Thaymore, are you okay? Please, please speak to us.”

The foursome grabbed his arms and pulled him clear of the wreckage. Hands dusted him off and straightened his collar.

“Fine, fine.” Caz brushed away the help.

Olive announced loudly, “Caspian is fine.”

Cutter said, “His clothes are okay, and he’s not wearing one of the costumes, so we’re good.”

Petra stood in a corner, re-enacting the event while someone used his cell phone to film her.

Ashley took a deep breath, trying to calm her thudding heart. Ignoring his helpers, Caz put a hand on one of the folded seats and offered the other to her.

***

Boomer said, “At least the wreck ended the meeting early. I was getting bored.”

Ashley stood behind him in line waiting for her turn at the infirmary. Hurt or not, everyone had to get checked out. The medics triaged important actors and staff to the front of the line. The line wound so far down the hall she couldn’t see any of the actors up ahead.

Ashley put her back to the wall and slid down, folding her arms around her knees. “Do they know what happened?”

“Nope.” Boomer fingered a slight tear on the edge of his sleeve. Grasping the loose fabric, he tore the sleeve short, exposing more of his bicep.

Olive reached their end of the line and handed Ashley two pieces of paper.

“Do you know what happened?”

“Of course. Those bleachers were designed to hold a few tourists, not a full film crew.”

“So a weak structure? Not an earthquake?”

Olive flicked her finger against the sheets in Ashley’s hand, and the paper made a crisp clicking sound. “That’s your call sheets. It’ll tell you where you need to be and when you need to be there.”

Ashley winced. “Six a.m.?”

Olive’s tone challenged as she said, “I’ll be here at five.” Her small frame moved down the line, handing out the rest of the forms. She didn’t have far to walk.

Ashley flipped her second form over. Release and Waiver of Liability.Three hours, one bandaged arm, one tetanus shot, and she was free to leave.

***

When her alarm rang the next morning at an ungodly hour, Ashley crawled out of her blue sheets and took a quick shower to start her day. The pulsing hot water helped work out the soreness in her muscles, but the heat didn’t do anything for the new bruises splotched across her skin. Thanks, metal bleachers. She threw a jacket over her T-shirt so Dad wouldn’t worry over the bruises.