Page 32 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Hopper

“ C ut!”

I lower my aching arms, releasing the axe, which thuds onto the dirt.

“That was perfect,” the director calls. “Now let’s do it again with?—”

“No,” I bark out. “Break.” The whole set seems to let out a collective breath. We’ve been at it for hours. Nine hours, to be precise, with barely a break. I’m soaked through, not from a decent rain, but this persistent, undefined misty drizzle that seems to crawl up under my clothes.

“Hopper, we’re nearly there,” Toni says, clearly irritated that I’ve stepped in.

“And they’re all going to fucking snap if you don’t give them a break.”

“I think he’s right,” the new AD says.

“Half an hour,” I say, then walk off set. I don’t normally pull rank like this, but I’m tired, I’m pissed off, and for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I feel my age. Or older. I thud into my trailer and slam the door behind me.

Cindi’s been here—the place is clean and there’s some trail mix on the coffee table.

I know in the fridge I’ll find some meal replacement drinks and Aziz-approved turkey jerky or some such shit.

I should eat, but I don’t fucking want to.

I’m in a foul as hell mood and it’s not about this shit day of filming.

It’s about Chris.

Like it has been this whole week.

I flop down in the easy chair in the corner of the room and tip my head back. I don’t bother checking my phone, because there’s never anything there from her. If there is, it’s the most perfunctory, businesslike shit.

And it’s one thousand percent my fault.

I want so fucking badly to tell her everything.

To show up at the little house I’ve driven by every night like a fucking creep and knock on the door.

Drop to my knees and tell her everything.

How my father will destroy everything I’ve worked for.

How it’s not my career I care about, not in the fucking least, but all the people who will suffer if he takes it all away. My team. The foundation. The kids.

Worst of all, her.

I’d give it all up—I’d even inflict suffering on all those people who’ll fall without my support—if it meant she’d be okay. I know that’s not right, but I’d destroy everything for her.

Jesus, I think that’s a line from the Duke. Even in my depression, I’m a fucking hack.

Which reminds me—I need to get on Adrian about next steps for the Duke sequel. Even if she hates my fucking guts, I’m still doing that movie. I reach over to the side table where I left my phone to charge and idly swipe it open.

And then my heart fucking stops. Because there are texts from Chris. Not one, but several. I swipe them open, my lungs tight as fucking concrete I’m holding my breath so hard.

CHRIS: I know you’re on set and won’t see this but sounds like things are finally happening with Tru. Just so you’re in the loop.

CHRIS: She’s heading to the hospital if you want to text her and wish her good luck when you see this.

CHRIS: There’s an issue. Call me. ASAP.

CHRIS: 911

That was only ten minutes ago.

I swipe on Chris’s name with a trembling hand.

She picks up on the first ring, not bothering with hellos. “She’s in surgery.” Her voice is strained, but not hard like it has been.

But I’m too freaked out to be grateful for it.

“Surgery?” I choke out, standing up. “What’s going on?”

“There was some kind of complication. I’m not sure what. Kevin’s not being very clear; he’s emotional, understandably. She’s had to go in for a c-section, but something went wrong and they had to put her under.”

“Fuck, no,” I say, emotion clogging my throat. I’m already slipping on my boots. “I’m on my way. I can…ask Cindi to book the plane?—”

“Already done. They’re on standby.”

My heart fucking swells. Even hating me, she’s helped me.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

“You’re a half hour drive.”

“Fifteen, then.”

“You’re no use to anyone dead, Hopper.”

She’s right, of course. “Fine. Tell them a reasonable time. And I know this is Cindi’s job, but do you think you could throw some clothes together for me? Whatever you want.”

“That’s an awful lot of freedom you’re giving me, all things considered.”

To my shock, I smile at the break in tension. “Not my clown suit.”

“Cindi’s had a go bag ready for you since I started working here.”

I’m blessed, of course. Fucking blessed without deserving it.

Normally Cindi’s here on set with me, but I told her to go home hours ago. She usually heads to her aerobics class at this time, I think, so she probably hasn’t seen the texts.

I yell at the first person I see. “Tell Toni I have a personal emergency.”

It’s some kind of bewildered wrangler whose eyes go wide. “Um, sir, I don’t know how?—”

Thankfully the director herself pops her head out of her trailer as I cut across set toward my bike. “Hopper! You can’t just leave. We have to finish this take!”

“Wrap it for tonight. And tomorrow. Put it on my tab.”

“That’s going to be a big fucking tab!”

She’s not wrong. I’m telling her I’m covering everyone’s pay and the gap in filming, but I don’t care in the least.

“Sounds good to me!” I say.

Toni’s response is drowned out by the roar of my Ducati as I bring it to life.