Noah

I want to fly in immediately and sweep her into my arms. Nailgun, backed up by what looks like the entire studio's security force, bodily stops me from leaving the set.

“I'm sorry, man.” His face is stern. “You're not going anywhere. There's too much money invested in this fucking film.”

I know he's got a shit job. They put him on the front line because he's more than a longtime employee. He's a friend.

And I can't let him stand in my way. I push, but it's like trying to push aside a mountain. “I have to be there. Have to claim her. I can't imagine what's going through her head right now.”

“Right now, it's no big deal. A rumor about Lane Darnelle being a bigamist. Who the fuck cares. Everybody knows billionaires behave badly. And nobody knows the girl's name or at least they know better than to put it out in public if they do.”

“That's my baby. Not fucking Lane Darnelle's baby. Mine.”

The director is waving somebody onto the set. Lydia. Of course. Her expensive two-inch heels tap authoritatively across the floor. We all turn and look at her because that's what you do when Lydia Goldmann is in the room.

“Your desire to possess and to claim your wife is very admirable, if a bit primitive.” Her voice is  calm and soothing— deliberately pitched to slow me down before I do anything too crazy. Fuck that noise. I refuse to let myself be fucking soothed. Still, her eyes meet my eyes, and I feel obligated to listen to what she has to say, because she's done good work for me for a long time.

“Talk fast,” I say.

She nods a crisp nod. “We have a movie to publicize here, and the basis of that movie's publicity is your relationship with Barbie Strange. How far do you think Mr. and Mrs. Smith would have gone if Brad Pitt flew out to marry some fucking unknown right in the middle of all the rumors about him and Angelina Jolie?”

“What? The fuck you talking about?” Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Smith is a classic example, the one they study in school, about how to use tabloid rumors to sell your shit. Me, I don't give a flying fuck about all that.

Ancient history is ancient history. My history is now. And I belong at Madison's side, where there will be no more questions about who fathered her baby.

My baby. I want to growl it out to the whole fucking world.

Trouble is, I've got a wall of muscle around me. Not just Nailgun, but all four of my security guys. Also all four of Barbie Strange's guys. Not to mention the director's four guys. Even in an action flick, it's a little unbelievable that a guy who does his best work with an electric guitar is going to karate chop his way through twelve trained bodyguards.

Even though he isn't even involved in the making of this movie, Kendall is somehow waltzing in. How did he know he'd be needed here today?

“We can't let you fuck this up for everybody,” Kendall says.

Nailgun steps closer, and so do the other eleven guards around him.

So that's the game. Good guy, bad guy. Lydia, super-agent, the good guy holding out the promise of a glittering career if I cooperate. Nailgun, the bad guy holding out the promise of some serious bruises if I don't get my happy ass back to work. Kendall and the other guys are simply the backup band.

“I'm sorry, man. I am.” Nailgun looks sad, as if he's afraid for our friendship. “But this where we all draw the line. You can't be photographed with this girl right now. And, make no mistake, the paps are all over her happy ass, hoping to get a shot of her, Brecka, and Lane in the same picture.”

“And that's a done deal anyway,” Kendall says. “You can't protect her now, Noah. All you can do is finish this damn job as fast as you can as good as you can. Then everybody can wrap things up, and you can get home.”

He tosses a glossy printout on the floor in front of me, and I don't have to pick it up to see what it is— a screengrab of video that must have been taken by somebody with access to a helicopter. The picture isn't the crispest image to ever fly off the tabloid press, but it gets the job done.

Three people are seen from overhead as they vanish into Lane and Brecka's mountain castle. There are guard stations to prevent the paps from accessing the roads, but somehow somebody was inveigled into violating their private airspace.

They should have worn hats, big hats with heavy brims, even on their own property.

Brecka's in the middle, Lane on her right, Madison on her left, the three of them arm-in-arm together as they hurry inside.

The director, a little bored and impatient to get back to his filming, suddenly steps up. “Oh, this is interesting.”

“What is?” everybody says.

“Sounds like Time is going to be running a cover story on Lane Darnelle. The New Face of American Polygamy.” His eyebrows waggle. All directors care about is whether or not something gives them an idea for a cool scene.

“That's my fucking wife,” I say. “My. Fucking. Wife.”

Even Nailgun sees something in my face that makes him pull back.

“You know what?” I say. “Lydia, Barbie, the rest of you... You figure this out. You work around me for the rest of the day. Tomorrow too. I don't care what it costs. Take it out of my paycheck if you have to.”

Lydia shakes her head. “Honey, if you fuck up this movie, you're never working in show business again.”

“Ask me if I give a fuck. I'm out of here.”

That wall of muscle still isn't moving. Are they really going to make me hit Nailgun?

“Get the fuck out of my way,” I say.

And still nobody moves.

Yep. I've got to hit him. Fuck. I feel ridiculous, especially when he folds his arms over his chest and just waits for it. He's not going to hurt me. I'm still the boss. But he's not getting the fuck out of the way, and neither is anybody else.

And then comes the sound of a bored contralto. “The fight scene's more kickass anyway if it's just me.” Barbie looks at the director.

“Fuck, no,” he says. “You've been trying to steal that scene from the beginning. I'm telling you, Barbie, guys still need a hero in the fight scene. A male hero.”

“Oh, fuck you if you don't know what century you're living in. Do I have to kick you in the nuts to make you see sense? Do the fight scene with me, that's the next two days' filming, then Noah's back and nobody ever knows he was gone.”

Barbie and the director are toe to toe, and suddenly nobody knows where to look or what to think. She's A-list, and he's A-list, and they're both big-deal Hollywood.

They argue some more about it, but we can see who's winning. There's one name that puts the butts of the teen girls in the seats, and it isn't the director's name. Barbie's already got some chick taping her hands for the fight scene, so I start walking again, and this time the guys get out of my way.

Barbie just bought me two days to save my life. Two days, and then I have to be back on the set.

Do the fight scene with me, that's the next two days' filming, then Noah's back and nobody ever knows he was gone.

There's one slight catch, one I know better than to bring up at the moment.

People are sure the fuck going to know I'm gone.

Everybody's going to know that.

But I'll cross that fucking bridge when I come to it.

I'm going home to claim my bride. In public. Not in secret. And if Barbie's movie people and if my own people have any issues with it, well, fuck them because they're not worth my mental energy to give a flying fuck about what they think.

Madison is mine.

Not Lane Darnelle's.

And it's high time the whole world knew it.