Read Online Wild Honey by Suzanne Forster - Free Book Online Page B

as though a loud voice might set some unknowable and irreversible chain reaction of events in motion. Marc called for rehearsal after rehearsal, forcing Sasha and Carlos to play the scene repeatedly, sometimes from the beginning, occasionally from a problem area, but always with the unspoken demand that they give more of themselves.
    Sasha’s responses remained unnatural and self-conscious, but Marc was relentless. He believed now that she had it in her to do the scene right. The capability was there. It was locked up as tight as a teenager’s diary, but it was there , the emotion, the conflicted passion—everything she needed.
    They worked straight through lunch, and by midafternoon, with the production crew ready to mutiny, Marc called a break. Sasha collapsed on the bed of the set as the cast and crew departed. Trembling from the strain of the morning, limp with emotional fatigue, she closed her eyes. She was too drained and upset to think about eating.
    Hearing someone approach, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She knew it was Marc, and she’d been waiting for this moment. Pent-up frustration escaped her like steam from a simmering tea kettle. “We’re running this scene into the ground,” she said, staring at his shadowy form by the foot of the bed. “Why? It was better twenty times ago. I’m exhausted.”
    “That’s why.” He came into the light, pointed to the reddening stains on her face. “I wanted this from you, what you’re feeling now— emotion , the real thing. The question you should ask yourself is why I had to exhaust you to get to it.”
    He leaned against the brass bed frame and folded his arms, revealing some of his own weariness. “A little advice? When you get to the end of your rope, Sasha, don’t tie a knot and hang on. Let go. Do you understand? Let go, take the fall.” His voice softened. “I’m trying to get you prepared for the camera. When the camera is ready, you have to be ready.”
    “I’ll be ready for a convalescent home! I can’t believe you put all your actors through this.”
    “Not all of them. Just you.”
    “Just me?” She looked him up and down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means—” He broke off, shook his head as though he weren’t sure the explanation was worth the effort.
    “You’re not going to tell me?” she asked, furious.
    He swung around. “It means,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward him, “that you are willful, self-centered, and rebellious to the point of idiocy. It means that I’ve lost another half day’s shooting because of you. And it also means that you’re devoid of talent, McCleod. That’s right,” he reiterated as she gazed up at him in shock, “as actresses go, you stink.”
    He released her abruptly and turned to leave, adding over his shoulder, “We start rehearsing again in forty-five minutes. Be here.”
    Sasha watched him stride toward the side exit, her heart thundering in her chest. If he’d meant to infuriate her, he’d sure as hell succeeded. As he reached the door, she sprang off the bed. “You don’t have to waste any more rehearsal time on me, Renaud. I’ll get the scene right, dammit!”
    He turned and glared at her. “We’ll see, McCleod. Personally I don’t believe you’ve got it in you.”
    Sasha felt tears of sheer exhaustion burning her eyes. “I can do it!” she vowed, her chin trembling violently. “I’ll prove it to you. Here”—she grabbed the script up off the bed, flung it back down—“I’ll do it now!”
    Skepticism hung over him like a storm cloud. “You’ll do it now?” he questioned, walking toward her. “Are you telling me that you’re ready to strip off the layers of pride, the self-consciousness, that you’re not terrified of what’s underneath?”
    “What are you? A radio psychologist?” she asked, her voice hoarse with fatigue. “I said I can do the scene.”
    He considered the idea, his eyes assessing her shaking hands,