Page 2 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

I chug the last gulps of water from the bottle Darla gave me, watching the new production assistant stride back across the beach, her wide hips swaying as she walks. Denim shorts hug her generous ass, and her blonde ponytail is a thick rope down her back.

Even after the long drink, my throat is still dry.

“Alright, places.” A crew member herds us into our starting positions, checking his clipboard to make sure we’re all clustered together in the right order. “You guys all set?”

He addresses everyone, but his eyes flick to me. I nod, lips pressed together.

I’m all set. I’ve done this literally thousands of times.

Everything we’ve done today, everything we still have left to do, is as familiar as my morning routine.

Getting brushed and dabbed by the make up girls; listening to the buzz and crackle of crew radios.

Feeling the sandy breeze whip against my shins, and smearing sun tan lotion on my face in the midday heat.

The choreographed sprints into the sea.

Carrying an extra onto the beach and laying them flat.

Pressing down on their chest; pretending to breathe into their mouth. Then rocking back on my heels when the extra miraculously splutters to life, shaking my head and peering out past the camera like it really was a close one this time.

Listen, I’m not being a dick. I know that a lot of good people love this show. I loved it too, for a long time, but I’m well past thirty now and still trotting out the same lines. Still going through the same plot arcs, over and over and over.

How did I get here?

Or more like: how did I stay here? And how do I move on?

When I broached the topic with my agent in the spring, she wheezed out a throaty laugh. Told me I’d be killing my own career, leaving this sure thing. Jesse Hendry, the star of Riptide.

I’m grateful, okay?

But can’t I be more? Can’t I at least try?

Someone barks a warning. The other actors go still, their shoulders settling, getting themselves in the zone. I used to do that too, used to have all these little tricks and routines to center me and help me focus.

Now I could do this job with earbuds in.

“Action!”

We tear off as a pack, sprinting across the hot sand, the steady thump, thump, thump of my steps rattling my shin bones.

Turquoise water sparkles on one side; loungers and crew stations dot the sand on the other.

I clench my jaw, frowning at the waves with fierce concentration, just the way Franklin likes it.

Steady breaths in, steady breaths out.

When I first landed this role, I lived in the gym—practically camped out there for six months, pounding away at a treadmill and pushing weights, desperate to get my cardio up to scratch. On my left, one of the other lifeguards is wheezing. He could use more cardio too.

“Help!” One of the extras wails, throwing her arms in the air, jumping around thigh-deep in the sea. She’s playing the kid’s mom. “Help, please! My baby!”

We shoot past her, foamy salt water flying up in our wake. I’m at the front now, taking point, diving into the water with an exaggerated arc.

Sometimes the other guys make me jostle for it. Try to sneakily get in my way and slow me down.

I don’t even care. At least it makes things interesting.

The ocean is cool, nice and soothing against my flushed cheeks, but nowhere near as cold as the takes we did earlier this morning. The sun’s been beating down on it all day, warming up the water.

A tendril of seaweed tangles around my forearm. I jerk it off, cutting through the waves with powerful strokes, and that seaweed might be enough to ruin the take, but I keep going anyway. Gotta see this through.

Salt stings my eyes and my heart races in my chest, and when I break the surface next to the ‘drowning’ boy, I make sure to toss my hair back just like Franklin likes. Like I’m a goddamn mermaid.

“I’ve got you.” His body is small and light in my arms, his head flopping back. My stomach lurches.

It’s always kind of eerie on the episodes when I save kids. Like if I screw up, they might actually get hurt.

Bullshit, obviously.

But my temples throb as I wade back to the sand and lay the kid out next to his wailing mother.

His chest is so narrow as I knot my fingers together and push down gently, rhythmically; as I grip his chin and bend down, pretending to breathe air into his lungs, my mouth actually pressing against my own thumbs.

It’s an old stage trick, kissing your own thumbs. This wouldn’t fly in a movie or with a close up shot, but for Riptide ? Yeah, it’ll do.

The other lifeguards yell at each other, breaking into a fight above me. This is the subplot of the episode: one of them kissed the other’s sister, and now they’re all riled up and scrapping over it. Meanwhile my character Hanson is down here, saving the day. Same old, same old.

“Oh god,” the mom sobs. “Oh please, oh god.”

My gut twists again.

Not real. Not real.

The kid really milks his survival gasp. He jackknifes up like a tiny zombie, coughing and spluttering, his teary eyes wide. His two little fists are clenched in the sand. “M-mom?”

I sit back on my heels. Push the wet hair off my forehead.

Above me, one angry lifeguard punches another. There’s a dull thump and a ragged growl, but no crunch of bone. No curse words.

Not real.

“Hey!” I yell, pushing to my feet. “Cut it out.” A cameraman circles us slowly as I jab a finger at the weeping extras still hugging each other at my feet, glaring around the other lifeguards. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”

They all mutter and shake their heads and look bitter. Nice try, Hanson, but this argument continues into the next episode.

And for a split second, I can see it: every single day stretching into the future, all exactly the same.

Thousands more lines delivered in the same tone; thousands more sprints into the sea.

The same recycled plots, over and over. More head tosses, more makeup, more making out with my own damn thumbs.

I can’t keep doing this. Not forever.

Maybe not even for the rest of the summer.

I’ve never been so relieved to hear Franklin yell, “Cut.” Then: “Alright, we’ll go again with camera two.”

* * *

“You must be exhausted.”

It takes a long moment for Darla’s words to drift through my funk, but once I hear her, I wheel around.

She’s clearing up the actors’ rest station, tossing used cups and water bottles into a big bag to recycle.

She’s been out on this beach in the blazing sun for hours, too, but she’s still as perky and sweet as first thing this morning.

“Uh.” My voice is gravelly from all the salt water and yelling. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Her smile is sympathetic. “I could fix you a coffee if you like? Or I could fetch you a soda—”

“I’m good.” That smile flickers, and I school my harsh tone. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, I just don’t want Darla waiting on me. She’s a production assistant, not my server. “I’m done with filming for today. Just waiting on Franklin’s notes.”

Franklin: the director. Her uncle, and the reason I didn’t beg for Darla’s number the first day that I met her.

Well, that and the fact that she’s ten years younger than me and not made bitter by life just yet.

“He’s grouchy,” she warns, leaning closer as she plucks cans and bottles from the table next to me. “Don’t let him get to you, though. Uncle Franklin is always grumpy after too long in the sun.”

I know that as well as any person alive, but I don’t point that out. I nod and smile, and try not to stare at the escaped tendrils of blonde hair blowing against Darla’s neck.

She’s wearing a black Riptide polo, the buttons undone. That slim triangle of bared chest is pure torture, the shadow of her cleavage enough to give me dry mouth all over again.

Fuck .

I squint out at the waves, glad to have changed into jeans and a white t-shirt while I got the chance. It would be bad enough to get hard on set, but in those swim shorts? Around all these other assholes? I’d rather die.

“This must be such a dream job.”

I slant a look at Darla, but it doesn’t seem like she’s being sarcastic. I guess she’s only been on set for a month—and it’s a whole different experience for the crew, anyway.

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” I mutter.

She blinks. Glances at me. Opens her mouth to ask god knows what, but then a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

“Jesse.” Franklin squeezes, giving me a quick shake. “Good stuff earlier. Shame about that fucking seaweed, but we got the shot.” He keeps talking, rattling off a bunch of notes for tomorrow, but for the first time in my life, I’m not listening.

I’m staring at his niece where she stands at his elbow. Soaking in every detail of her: the pink tinge to her cheekbones from a full day in the sun; the turquoise nail polish on her bare toes; the way the tip of her tongue keeps darting out, wetting her bottom lip as she listens to her uncle.

Darla has the most amazing hazel eyes. Big and round and beseeching.

Heat coils in my gut. Fuck.

Does she know she’s doing that with her tongue?

“Got it?” Franklin says, his loud voice finally breaking through the pounding in my ears, and I nod, still looking at Darla. She peers over at me and jolts.

“Got it.” Whatever it was, he’ll repeat it a dozen more times. Franklin likes to hammer his point home.

His niece glances over her shoulder as he leads her away, eyebrows pinched together. She looks worried about me.

There’s nothing to worry about.

I’m fine.