Keaton got that stupid grin on his face, the one that lit him up every time anyone mentioned his son. “He’s growing so fast, he looks like a mini sumo wrestler.”
“Okay. You’re good.” She stabbed his chest with a rigid finger and drilled him with a serious “But stay away from the edge.”
“Take your places,” the director called before syncing with the cameramen filming from every angle.
Zahara jogged a hundred yards away to the spot where the last scene had ended, then turned to face the ocean and the cliff edge again. From the sidelines, a crew member tossed her a blood packet, and she tucked it between her cheek and her teeth.
Production assistants and support staff gathered and quieted. Closer to the edge, Chase stood off to the side with Keaton. But now Chase was the one bouncing on his toes, purging pent-up nerves.
Zahara met his gaze again, and a hint of a smile narrowed his eyes. He gave her an I’m-ready, no-worries, we’ve-got-this nod, and she breathed a little easier.
She’d never communicated with a man this way. Never felt this close to a man in her life either. It often seemed like they were physically linked. As if cables like the ones hooked to their harnesses now also connected them, heart to heart.
She found the director. “Ready.”
Zahara shook out her arms and visualized every step of the stunt in her head. Adrenaline kicked through her system, creating a buzz in her gut. She and Chase had practiced the sequence several times, but those trials had all taken place inside buildings with pads to soften the blows. Zahara knew she could take the rough stuff, but she wasn’t one hundred percent sure how Chase would handle the cliff when it came time to fly over the side.
There was only one way to find out.
She ground her soles into the scratchy dirt and cleared her mind of everything but her next move. The filming staff blurred in her peripheral vision. The chatter dimmed until she heard nothing but the wind whipping at the strands of her wig.
One deep breath in. One deep breath out. Focus.
A crewmember stepped in front of the cameras with a clapboard and called the scene.
“Ready,” the director bellowed, “…and…action.”
Zahara pushed i
nto a sprint and slipped into character—a terrified woman chased by her lover-turned-abuser. She stumbled a little, cut frightened glances over her shoulder.
Nearing the edge, she skidded on the hard-packed dirt, came to an awkward stop, and looked down at the ocean below.
Chase came up behind her, his menacing voice as rough as the ground beneath their feet. “I’ll never let you go.”
Zahara swung toward him just as Chase stepped closer. She threw a punch, and Chase caught her fist in his without ever taking his eyes off hers. His expression was fierce, etched with anger. He stepped back and threw a punch of his own.
She snapped her head right, spun, and dropped to her hands and knees. She bit into the blood packet, and sickly sweet Karo syrup coated her tongue. Struggling to her feet, she spit fake blood and ran at Chase again. He jammed his foot against her stomach and kicked her backward.
Zahara reeled and fell on her ass. She immediately popped to her feet and pushed into the final sprint. Chase set his stance, giving her the perfect platform to plant one boot on his thigh for the leverage she needed. She launched herself, flailing fists beating his head, neck, shoulders.
Chase held her by the waist and stumbled backward. When he took them to the ground, he braced her for the hit and smoothly rolled her beneath him. Zahara wedged her foot between their bodies and kicked him back.
It was all so damn effortless. Their moves, their timing. They were perfectly in sync. As if Chase read her mind and her body. Even stunts she performed with guys who did this for a living weren’t always this smooth. She and Chase had clicked from the start—in so many ways.
Now, with her back toward the cliff, they headed into the final sequence. Chase came at her again. They grappled, shoving and hitting, shifting precariously close to the ledge.
“On three,” Zahara said at his ear. “One, two, three.”
Chase gave her a shove with the just enough oomph to put her heels on the edge of the cliff. Then, without so much as a millisecond of pause, he hit her with the full force of his muscular body.
They didn’t just fall off the cliff, they sailed.
The instant their feet left the ground, Zahara knew they’d nailed it. This stunt would sear the screen.
The next few seconds slowed to quarter time. The air whistled past her ears. Chase wrapped his big body around her, cradling her head against his shoulder as they dropped. Zahara’s breath whooshed from her lungs, her head went light, and her stomach pitched with fear. The inevitable fear that came with every stunt. Fear the cables would snap. Fear the braking system would choke.
Usually, those fears ebbed a millisecond after she’d left the ground. But this time, she wasn’t alone. This time, the risk included someone other than a fellow Renegade. Someone she cared about.