Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(3)
“When we began looking for our Aeneas, we knew we had to find an athletic actor. Someone who could portray a leader of men and a lover of women. And above all else . . .” Ron lifted a hand and pinched Marcus’s cheek, lingeringly enough that he might have felt the flush of sudden rage. “A pretty face. We couldn’t have found prettier, not if we’d searched for another decade.”
The crew laughed.
Marcus’s stomach churned.
Another pinch, and he forced himself to grin smugly. To toss his hair and shed his armor so he could show the unseen audience the flex of his biceps, even as he moved out of Ron’s reach. Then the showrunner and the crew were urging Marcus to say something, to make a speech in honor of all his years on the series.
Impromptu speaking. Would this fucking day never fucking end?
The role, though, surrounded him like an embrace. Familiar. Comforting, if increasingly claustrophobic. In its confines, he knew what to do. What to say. Who to be.
“Five years ago . . .” He turned to Ron. “Wait. How many years have we been filming now?”
Their boss chuckled indulgently. “Seven.”
“Seven years ago, then.” Marcus gave an unembarrassed shrug, beaming toward the camera. “Seven years ago, we started filming, and I had no idea what was in store for all of us. I’m very grateful for this role, and for our audience. Since you needed”—he made himself say it—“a pretty face, I’m glad mine was the prettiest you saw. Not surprised, but glad.”
He arched an eyebrow, settling his fists on his hips in a heroic pose, and waited for more laughter. This time, directed and deliberately elicited by him.
That bit of control settled his stomach, if only a little.
“I’m also glad you found so many other pretty faces to act alongside.” He winked at Carah. “Not as pretty as mine, of course, but pretty enough.”
More smiles from the crew and an eye roll from Carah.
He could leave now. He knew it. This was all anyone outside his closest colleagues and crew members expected of him.
Still, he had to say one last thing, because this was his last day. This was the end of seven damn years of his life, years of endless hard work and challenges and accomplishments and the joy that came from doing that work, meeting those challenges, and finally, finally allowing himself to count those accomplishments as worthwhile and his.
He could now ride a horse like he’d been doing it his whole life.
The sword master said he was the best in the cast with a weapon in hand and had the fastest feet of any actor she’d ever met.
At long last, he’d learned to pronounce Latin with an ease his parents had both acknowledged and deemed a bitter irony.
Over his time on Gods of the Gates, he’d been nominated for five major acting awards. He’d never won, of course, but he had to believe—he did believe—that the nominations didn’t simply reward a pretty face, but also acknowledged skill. Emotional depth. The public might believe him an acting savant, able to ape intelligence despite having none of his own, but he knew the work he’d put into his craft and his career.
None of that would have been possible without the crew.
He angled away from the cameras to look at some of those people, and to obscure the change in his expression. “Finally, I want to thank everyone behind the scenes of our show. There are nearly a thousand of you, and I—I can’t—” The sincere words tangled his tongue, and he paused for a moment. “I can’t imagine how any series could have found a more dedicated, knowledgeable group. So to all the producers, stunt performers, location managers, dialect coaches, production designers, costume designers, hair and makeup artists, VFX and SFX people, and so many others: Thank you. I, um, owe you more than I can express.”
There. It was done. He’d managed to say it without stumbling too much.
Later, he’d grieve and consider his next steps. Now, he simply needed to wash and rest.
After a final round of embarrassing applause and a few claps on the back and hugs and handshakes, he made his escape. To his trailer for a quick wash at the sink, and then to his generic Spanish hotel room, where a very, very long and well-deserved shower awaited him.
At least he thought he’d made his escape, until Vika Andrich caught up with him just outside the hotel lobby entrance.
“Marcus! Do you have a minute?” Her voice somehow remained steady, even though she was jogging over from the parking lot in sensible heels. “I had a few questions about the big sequence you’re filming now.”
He wasn’t entirely surprised to spot her. Once or twice a year, she’d show up wherever they were shooting and get whatever on-site impressions and interviews she could, and those articles were always especially popular on her blog. Of course she’d want to cover the end of the series’s filming in person.
Unlike some other reporters, she’d respect his privacy if he asked for space. He even liked her. That wasn’t the problem.
The other qualities that made her his favorite entertainment-blogger-slash-paparazzo also made her his least favorite: She was friendly. Funny. Easy to relax around. Too easy.
She was also smart. Smart enough to have spied something . . . off . . . about him.
Offering her a wide smile, he stopped inches short of freedom. “Vika, you know I can’t tell you anything about what’s happening this season. But if you think your readers want to see me covered in mud”—he winked—“and we both know they do, then feel free to take a picture or two.”