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Being a stunt driver had its pros and cons.
Pros being you got to ride cool-ass cars, trucks, motorcycles, and motorized couches, you had an overall aura of daring and bravery, and you got to make friends with a lot of really nice people.
Cons being you could lose a limb or your life while doing the stunts, and could be pressured into doing things you didn’t want to do, but that was part of the job, and besides, it rarely ever happened.
Today’s schedule for had you involved with the filmBright Days dir. by Charles Levine.
He sounded like quite the gentleman, but dear god, his sexist ideals and extra tight schedules were hard to work with.
You were supposed to do a scene where the lead crashed into the goon’s car because of a slippery road in the middle of the night during her escape mission.
The goon was Colt Seavers, a skilled co-stuntie, and someone you’d had a crush on for over 2 years.
It was super confusing, and so was he, because you could never tell if he was just being friendly or aiming a bit higher.
“We really need to go now,” Colt said to you, taking your half-eaten spinach corn sandwich from your hand and keeping it on its paper plate, before nudging you. “Levine’s heading for us.”
You made a sound like a deflating balloon, with Colt appropriately responding by encouragingly rubbing your back. You couldn’t help but ease into his touch, something you were certainly embarrassed by, cheeks heating up.
“You’re gonna be great, alright?” he said, and his tone made you blush and smile, which was not an appropriate reaction at all.
“And I promise not to crush you.”
“Shut up,” you quipped at the grinning man, slapping his shoulder.
When Levine came and stood by the break table, he looked quite unhappy.
“We’re on a schedule, stunties. Get moving.”
You glanced at Colt, giving him a ‘who gave him permission to say stuntie?’ look to which Colt just responded with an exasperated nod, making you sigh.
“Coming,” you muttered, before heading to the set with Colt. He had an arm around your shoulder, a fact you actively tried to ignore.
Five minutes later, you were in the stunt car, strapped down, helmet clipped on, mouthguard on, neck restraints snug, gloved hands tight on the steering wheel.
The helmet was unusually loose, but with the way Levine was rushing the shot, you knew nothing would be done about it. Colt was on the other end of the road, speaking to you through the walkie talkie.
“Good luck,” his voice said, and you smiled to yourself.
“You too.”
“Alright, no wasting time, c’mon, I want to see action!” Levine yelled into the talkie and to everyone else.
The cameramen and crew moved away, the stunt coordinator got in his buggy, and you double checked everything before taking a deep breath.
This was going to be great. You were going to be great. You were a stunt driver! You’d done this millions of times.
No, the helmet wasn’t an issue. It was probably fine.
“…And action, action! ”
You slammed the accelerator and the car zoomed forward, racing through the road.
Colt’s car was heading towards you, on the other lane — In another 5 seconds, you were supposed to skid and crash into him, successfully taking the brunt.
Alright.
You swerved the car, hard, and it turned 180 degrees, when your helmet fell off your head.
What the f-
“NOW!”
Instinct took over and you sped backwards, crashing into the other car with a boom , the bonnet almost floating for a split second. The vehicle shook thunderously. Your ears began to ring.
Glass shattered and all you could do was brace your head with your arms, helplessly watching the helmet roll around the groaning car, eyes tightly shut to protect them from the splintering metal and nails and screws and shards.
You sat there in the same position for what felt like ages, until the walkie talkie came to life with the coordinator's voice.
“Are you both alright?”
You heaved deep breaths, a tad shocked to realize that your face was bleeding into your sleeves. You shakily pulled your sleeves away and were a bit taken aback at all the blood staining it.
Your shaky hand grabbed the walkie talkie and you gasped an” alright” into it.
After a few moments, you put the helmet on and stepped out of the car— two stuntmen helped you to your unsteady feet, and behind them was…
“Colt.”
He rushed past them, tripping on the pebbles, before scooping you up in his arms, almost lifting you off the ground.
“You okay?” he asked. You could only nod, which was already hard with the flimsy helmet, never mind with the cuts on your face.
“You?” you returned the question.
“I’m good,” he said, grinning through his visor.
The right thing to do now was to tell someone about the accident and see the set’s medic, but last time a stuntie got hurt, Levine got extremely upset about the wasted time and resources and lectured the crew for a solid twenty minutes. Ironic.
So you decided to stay silent instead.
Colt seemed to notice your silence and stumbling steps.
“Are you alright?” he asked again, tone laced with concern this time, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. He tried to take the helmet off your head but you pushed his hand away, shaking your head.
“I’m fine, I’m just-“
Colt took off your helmet before you could react, but you smacked his head , taking advantage of his shock and quickly sliding it back on.
Colt had a ghastly expression on his face at the momentary sight of your cuts, some deep, some faint, and it made you feel warm that he cared, yet upset, that you had upset him .
“You need to get that taken care of,” he whispered. “Now.”
“Levine wouldn’t like that,” you said, but he ignored you and grabbed you by the arm, taking you to one of the tents, hurriedly sitting you down and taking a first aid kit under the table.
“Take it off,” he instructed seriously, and you almost giggled. Colt caught on and gave you a serious glare that made you shut up, stifling your laughs.
You did as he said, and when his eyes landed on you once more, he seemed to be genuinely shaken.
“I’m fine,” you said, trying to make him relax, but his expression didn’t falter.
“What happened?”
“The helmet clasp was loose - came off when I did the 180 swerve.”
“Motherfucker,” he grumbled to himself, and you knew he was talking about Levine. You nodded in agreement.
“Indeed.”
Colt knelt on the sandy floor and took your face in his hands, his hold gentle and cautious. He turned your head to see how bad the injuries were, eyebrows arched and eyes perturbed.
“This might sting a little,” he said softly.
“I’ll manage,” giving him a smile.
Colt let his gaze linger on you for a second, before reaching for the first aid and taking out bandages, tincture— everything he needed to tend to you.
There was a cut on your forehead, under your eye (Colt looked visibly distressed by this), a deeper one on your left cheekbone, a slit on your lower lip, and a few shallow scratches everywhere else.
He soaked a cotton pad in tincture and brought it to your face, first gently dabbing at the cut on your forehead. The stench of alcohol was strong, but to you, it was mellow in comparison to Colt’s cologne.
His deep concern gave you time to observe every bit of his beautiful face in much detail, and it brought you great joy.
He had a pretty nose, you observed, and pretty, pretty, deep, warm blue eyes that looked even prettier when he was worried. That word seemed to be the only one capable of perfectly describing him.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No. Not at all.”
You didn’t even feel the stinging of the disinfectant, too busy appreciating him, too giddy with the feeling of his calloused fingers on your skin. You couldn’t tell if he knew.
Your attention drifted lower to his mouth, his lips barely parted in focus, not too far from your own.
So pretty.
The cotton pad came down, and Colt started to clean your split lip. His fingertips brushed over it as he did, causing goosebumps to rise on your arm.
Whether it was on purpose, you weren’t sure. There were so many things you could never clearly interpret when it came to this man.
“My eyes are up here, hey.”
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked up, gaze connecting to Colt’s. He had the smallest, teasing smile.
“I’m aware of that,” you replied, blushing a little.
“Hey?”
“Yeah?
“If I kissed you right now, would you taste like disinfectant?”
At that precise moment, it dawned on you that this man knew what he was doing after all, and you only flushed harder, blinking rapidly, heart speeding up.
“Probably,” you managed to say. You could barely speak.
Colt picked up very quickly on how flustered you were, and it seemed to give him so much joy, much to your annoyance.
He was definitely much less worried, now that you’d been tended to. That was good, but at the cost of your dignity? Not at all.
But then, he whispered, “I wanna find out,” with so many emotions packed in those four words, and you gave in entirely.
“Please do.”
He looked like a deer caught in the headlights for a second, as if he didn’t expect you to agree, but you pleaded again, and that was all he needed to bring your face close and press his lips to yours.
He kissed you like he hadn’t consumed anything for weeks. He kissed desperately, lovingly, his fingers stroking your skin and scalp, pulling you in closer so he could taste you better.
You were lost in the feeling, and you were willing to get lost in it for the rest of your life. You let your hands rest on his neck, thumbs grazing over his skin. He seemed to love it with the way he sharply inhaled.
You had to pull away to catch your breath, and when you saw Colt’s dreamy, amused gaze, you questioned, “What?”
“You do taste like disinfectant.”
You laughed, sincerely, and he did too.
“Idiot,” you mumbled, giggling. “Of course I do.”
“But it, like— it tastes pretty alright, you know?”
And you started laughing even harder.