Page 10 of Nothing Special X: The Last Stand

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.

“Come on. Sit.”

Xander let himself be steered into a chair in front of a row of lighted mirrors.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, glancing toward Wes and Law.

They were still fixing, salvaging…fussing.

Guilt pressed heavily against his ribs.

“Forget them. All that cursing and arguing is just foreplay that’ll lead to sex far more explosive than that pyro,” Elliot droned, handing him an energy drink. “Here drink—”

The can was snatched away before he could take a sip.

“That’s your third one,” Jesse bit out. “And it’s after seven. You’ll be up all night.”

Jessica Ross—who everyone called Jesse— towered over him, commanding at an impressive five-foot-eleven in her lavender silk blouse beneath a pristine pinstriped blazer and matching pencil skirt. Her sleek blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and braided down her back.

She was a woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to make others do what she said.

“Get him a water,” she ordered Elliot. “Or Gatorade.”

Xander stared at his reflection.

He was a mess. His skin was splotchy, damp with sweat, and his eyes were too wide—over-alert—and bloodshot. Like someone who hadn’t slept in three days.

“Are you okay?” Jesse asked in a softer tone.

He nodded.

Her expression was obvious. She didn’t believe him.