Dean McLean pulled his BMW in front of the “No Parking” sign at the entrance to the film set, got out while it was still running, and tossed the keys to the PA who had been alerted to his arrival and was waiting for him.

“Be careful, it’s new,” he told the white-faced boy with a grin. When he’d replaced his old Toyota last week, Isabella had begged him to go for the Ferrari, but he couldn’t do it. Even the BMW felt over the top.

The kid nodded.

“Thanks, buddy,” he’d seen this young guy before. He would have loved to have called him by name and given him a thrill, but when he fished around in his exhausted brain, he came up with nothing. “When you bring it back for me this afternoon, bring the keys to my trailer. We can have a beer and a chat. You guys work too hard around here.”

The kid took a step back in surprise and flushed a deep magenta. “Yes sir, thank you, sir!”

Dean chuckled. “As if this business isn’t making me feel old enough already! Enough with the “sir” crap, okay? It’s Dean. And I’ll see you later.”

The kid didn’t answer. Just nodded his head frantically as he rushed to jump into the driver’s seat. He’d be driving around the lots for the next hour looking for a parking spot. The least Dean could do was offer him a beer.

He headed on to the lot and toward his trailer. The crowd waiting outside his trailer door made him sigh. He was bone weary and just wanted to get inside. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a crowd, at least not as big as the crowds used to be, but he had asked Adam to quit inviting extras to the trailer. His manager, Adam, said that personal interaction was essential to build loyalty amongst his fan base, and he agreed. It was hard not to agree with Adam. He just wished he wouldn’t throw his fan base at him when he was working. Playing one character all day on set was hard enough, but when Adam brought over the fans, he had to play two. His fans were lovely ladies, but they weren’t interested in meeting the real Dean. They were eager to meet Dean McLean, star of Rolling Thunder One, Two and Three, and now, God help him, Rolling Thunder Four.

Well, exhausted or not, Dean McLean would have to make an appearance.

“Well, hello, lovely ladies!” he called out, quickly adopting a relaxed, hip rolling stroll. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dean was conscious of his effect on women. The day he turned fourteen his foster mother decided he was too dangerous to have around her two teenage daughters and kicked him out. That had been just one in a long line of foster families. It took him a long time to realize that his black, floppy hair and gasp-worthy, blue eyes were an asset and not a curse.

As he closed in on the group of fans, Dean felt a nudge of disappointment under his ribs. It looked as though the demographic polling was correct. His fan base was aging. Not that Dean had any interest in a crowd of nubile twenty-somethings, but the studio did. The Rolling Thunder movies had made him rich and famous, and a lot of other people rich as well. There was a vested interest in keeping the films relevant - and it was a fact that the action movie demographic skewed younger. Lately, he had heard some barely disguised rumblings from the money guys that maybe, at thirty-eight, Dean was too old to continue the part. Maybe the films needed a little refreshing of the main character? As far as Dean was concerned he could play Jack Bane of Rolling Thunder for the rest of his life. He didn’t do any of the stunts or physical shots anyway, what did age matter?

“Dean McLean!” squealed a woman clad in a silver, sequined ball gown with piles of makeup plastered on under a blonde wig. They were shooting a casino scene tonight, so these ladies were dressed to the nines. “I am so honored to be working with you, Dean. You are an inspiration, and I love your work.” As per usual, the coiffed blonde shoved a business card into his hand. It was a tiny headshot with her name in bold letters across the top. She was a brunette in real life and not a fan after all, but a “Desperado.” Adam had invented the label “desperado” early in Dean’s career when it had still been safe to go out to a regular bar and have a regular beer. Folks had rarely recognized him, but when they had it had always been a waiter or a bartender with a pile of headshots and resumes tucked nearby, ready to shove at anyone with a whiff of “useful connections.” In those early days of fame, Dean had been flattered and had doled out advice and encouragement to the “desperados” under Adam’s amused gaze. Now he knew better. No one in Hollywood gave a crap about him. Except maybe Adam, and perhaps Isabella, most of the time. He especially hated it when they referenced how inspiring his “work” was. He wasn’t an actor and had never claimed to be. He was an action hero with little talent other than looking pretty darn incredible on the big screen. It didn’t bother him to admit that. He enjoyed his work for the most part. It gave him enough money to have a comfortable life and a comfortable home, which is all he’d ever wanted.

Dean eased himself away from the ladies, smiling and doling out hugs, and made his way into his trailer. Isabella was inside.

“Hey, Baby!! Have you been to the set yet? It looks amazing! I can’t believe I have lines today!! Can we run them?”

Isabella. The perfect image of what you expect a movie star girlfriend to look like. At six feet tall she was only shorter than he was by a few inches. She had long, red curls that were always bouncing around her shoulders, as if they were at a party of their own and green eyes thanks to an expensive contact lens prescription, as well as creamy, freckled skin.

“Run your lines?” he said, wandering over to his couch and flopping down. Why was he so exhausted? “You don’t think we should be running mine?”

Isabella sat on the couch and flipped her long legs into his lap. She leaned forward to sweep his hair from his eyes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I know you were running your lines all last night. I heard you in the bathroom, and I was sad that you left me all alone in your big bed.” She waved the papers in her hand in front of his face. “Besides, isn’t this my day? My first day on a feature? You get to do this every day, so it’s all old hat for you. Don’t ruin my excitement, baby!”

Maybe she was right. This was a big day for her. He and Adam had worked hard to get her this small role, and he wanted her to enjoy it. True, she never wanted to run lines with him when he needed it. But maybe he just had selfish timing. “Your wish is my command, Princess. Show me what you want me to read.”

Isabella squealed and jumped up from the couch, dropping the script in his lap. She stood in front of him and fluffed her already fluffy hair. “Okay, you read yourself and some guy named Casey. I think he’s a cop or something. Go!”

Just as Dean took a breath to say his own line, one that was drilled into his head from his practice last night, the door slammed open, and Adam came storming through. Isabella gave him the look of death. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if his girlfriend and best friend even liked each other.

“We are about to run lines, Adam. You know, for my part?” She put her tiny hands on her hips and threw her head back dramatically. “I think Dean needs a rest before he starts.”

“No time for a rest, Princess” Adam drew out Dean’s nickname for Isabella, making it sound incredibly juvenile. “Dean’s expected on set right now, but he needs to sign these first.”

Dean needed to do something about his lack of energy, so he got up and started to do a few jumping jacks, stopping only to sign the sheaf of papers Adam thrust in front of him.

“Deeeeeeeeean.” Isabella walked over to the couch and picked up the script from where he had dropped it.

“Sorry, honey. But why don’t you come out and watch this scene? You can use my seat.” She pouted. “It’s right next to the director.” She rewarded him with a smile.

___

Dean swigged from a bottle of water and waited for the lighting guy to finish. Ed Hardy, the director, was standing close and speaking quietly into his left ear. This was a critical scene. In Rolling Thunder Three, Jack Bane, Dean’s alter ego, had finally met the woman of his dreams. In this scene, he was rescuing her from the clutches of the evil “Third Eye Syndicate.” Ed had requested steamy intensity, truthful emotion, and signs of smothered fear.

“Remember Jack; these are the guys that killed your parents. You, who are not afraid of anything, have never been able to get past your fear of the “Third Eye Syndicate.” We need to feel that fear, but you need to make sure it’s not obvious to the syndicate. They would sense your weakness and take you down.”

Dean nodded along to Ed’s direction. Half the time he didn’t understand what the directors were saying. But they always seemed pleased with the result. He high-fived the sweaty stand-in that had been waiting patiently under those burning lights and took his place. The “Third Eye Syndicate” guys swarmed around him, and he steeled himself to be angry, intense and fearful without showing fear.

“Action!” Ed called.

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw the light on the camera in front of him flash red. He’d seen that red flash a million times before and it always gave him a jolt of adrenaline. This time something different happened. He got the jolt of adrenaline all right, but instead of giving him the energy to nail the scene, it gave him a huge jolt of fear. That tiny red light dragged his attention from the scary “Third Eye Syndicate” until he was staring directly into the gaping black hole of the wide lens. He felt his heart stammer as the camera sucked him towards it, toward the infinite emptiness behind the glass.

Dean shook his head to clear the strange vision and opened his mouth to say his first line. Nothing came out. He heard a strangled choking noise (was that him?) and a massive hand came down, reached into his chest and started crushing his lungs; he couldn’t breathe. Panic surged through him. What was happening? He gripped a handful of his shirt, pushing his fist into the blasting pain, and stumbled. He wanted to ask for water, but when he turned toward Ed, the world wavered as though he were swimming underwater in his pool. Where was Ed? The last thing he saw was a frowning, irritated Adam. Then he was gone.