Mark Reed

“You got a death wish sweetheart?” Mark glared at the hairstylist through the mirror. The poor guy all but froze, hairspray trembling in his hand.

“Didn’t think so,” Mark muttered, dismissing the kid with a flick of his gaze.

Nobody had ever accused Mark Reed of being a diva. At least not to his face. He didn’t throw tantrums or complain about the colors of his M&Ms – he just did whatever the hell he wanted. Like gravity bowed to him, because right now it fucking did. Last three movies opened at number one, he had a fight scene go viral before the premiere even hit, and he had been linked to every pretty young thing in the business. And now Deathfall was set to be his biggest project yet -- a few million dollars to do what he did best.

He was the guy.

For now.

“Fifteen minutes people!” The PA's voice filtered through the open trailer door, the human embodiment of a tornado siren. And they would storm if the talent lingered in his trailer a moment longer.

Mark stood. His knees popped– loud enough he was sure it meant something. He winced but didn’t let it show. Pain got tucked away. Somewhere deep enough that the cameras couldn’t find it.