Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
He’d fight. He’d help. He’d shove his fear down like he did on missions, long enough to drag people out, hold pressure on wounds or break something open with his bare hands.
Ruxs leaned in until their foreheads touched. “This is just another kind of danger for you to conquer. And I’m with you.”
Green held on tighter.
He shut his eyes for a long second. His breathing was still rough, his chest still tight, but Ruxs was close enough for it to no longer paralyze him.
When he opened his eyes again, Ruxs gave him that crooked grin, the one that always managed to sneak under his armor.
“Hey,” he whispered. “I promise to put your mask on first before I put on mine.”
Damn him, that got through. He didn’t laugh, not really, but it did make his mouth twitch.
“You fuckin’ bastard,” he huffed.
Ruxs took his hand and led him towards the jet bridge.
“Come on, handsome. Let’s go wreak havoc on the West Coast.”
Xander Vale
Stage 8 didn’t feel safe anymore.
It still looked like a movie set—lights blazing down from the rafters, cables taped in countless lines across the floor, and crews moving in all directions—but something underneath it all had changed. Whatever had protected it before had disappeared and nothing and no one could bring it back.
“Action!”
Xander didn’t move.
His lines and cues sat somewhere just out of grasp. He opened his mouth anyway and forced something out, but it landed wrong. Flat and hollow. The passion and excitement that should’ve been there felt fake even to him.
He couldn’t act because the real thing that’d happened three days before had taken root and was clawing its way around, consuming every part of him.
Geez, is that all it’s been?
Only three days since someone had made it past every layer of security on the lot with the determination to kill him.
If he hadn’t turned around to use the bathroom, it would’ve been him who’d been beaten almost to death, not his good friend, Devyn.
The thought hit him in his stomach like a physical blow.
The attacker hadn’t hesitated or slowed long enough to realize he had the wrong man.
If Devyn’s bodyguard—his boyfriend—hadn’t also been there, the attacker might’ve succeeded.
Both of them were strong and martial arts-trained, but it didn’t matter; they were still in the hospital.
And Xander—
He gritted his teeth, his stomach recoiling every time he thought about it.
He’d cowered on the damn floor, curled up beneath a counter like some gutless man-child.
He hadn’t shouted for help, ran, or even reached for his phone.
He’d just…froze.
Well, at least now he knew which reaction he’d succumb to when faced with a fight or flight situation.
He hadn’t been able to move until…
Xander squeezed his eyes shut, right there under the lights with cameras zoomed in on his face.
…until he heard him.
That voice. Low. Steady and sure.
Only then had he been able to crawl out of hiding.
His heart hadn’t slowed since he walked back onto Stage 8 three days later.
Every unfamiliar face made his stomach churn, and the lingering glances felt suspicious.
“Focus!”
The director roared across the set, angry and impatient.
Xander flinched. His throat tightened, his breathing now shallow and painful.
“Focus, Xander! Come on!”
He blinked hard, trying to drag himself back into the moment, into the version of himself who could do this job without thinking twice—
An explosion went off a split second later, exactly two hundred feet from where he was supposed to be running from.
The violent boom sent heat flaring outward in a controlled burst of fire that would’ve looked incredible on camera if he’d been in the right place.
Xander jumped so hard the beer bottle he’d been holding slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, causing glass and a fake sudsy liquid to make a mess on the wood paneling.
“Where’s your damn head at?” the director snapped, ripping his headset off. “Come on, Xander! We’re burning through time like it’s free!”
Xander’s heart hammered as he squeezed his temples with his middle fingers.
Wes and Law were already at the rig, arguing—like they always did—voices low and grated. Wes waved his hands as he hissed about timing marks and ignition cues.
The effect had been perfect, but now it was wasted because of him.
The director paced, cursing under his breath about budget surplus and how much time they’d already lost. The words blurred together, drowned out by the pounding in his ears and the lingering heat from the blast dampening his skin.
Xander shook his head hard, trying to clear it, before he crouched beside Amy from set maintenance, who was kneeling at his side and cleaning up the scattered glass.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, piling some of the bigger shards in his palm.
Amy glanced up. “You don’t have to—”
Elliot Seymore—his assistant—grabbed his wrist and pulled him up.
“That’s not your job.”
Elliott’s appearance was always impeccable no matter the day or time—dark hair gelled back without a strand out of place, crisp shirt, and tailored designer slacks. A look he considered his uniform.