Chapter 8: Hold the Frame

The last night scene of the shoot was on a rooftop in downtown Los Angeles.

It was two in the morning, and the wind kept trying to take the lights.

I stood at the monitor behind Beck's shoulder.

He was on the camera himself, which he did for anything that mattered.

He had his eye to the viewfinder and his bandaged hand on the rail.

On the roof, my lead sat on a ledge across from the actor playing her brother.

"Again," I said. "Smaller. She's not angry, she's done."

"Rolling," Beck said.

They did it again, and it was right.

I knew it in my stomach before I let myself know it anywhere else.

"Cut," I said. "That's the one."

The crew let out a low cheer, and somebody started breaking down a light.

Beck straightened up from the eyepiece and stretched his back.

There was a smear of grease on his cheekbone, a black line from the camera cart.

"You've got something," I said.

"Where?"

"Here."

I reached up and wiped it away with my thumb.

I should have used a tissue.

His skin was warm, and rough with a day's beard, and he went completely still.

I was close enough to see that his eyes were gray all the way to the edge, and that he wasn't breathing.

My thumb stayed where it was.

For a moment neither of us moved, and the wind pushed at the back of my coat.

Then he leaned in an inch.

I leaned in too.

"Hold the frame, Lenox," Beck said.

I blinked.

"What?"

"I'm the cinematographer," he said, perfectly serious. "It's in the job description. I hold the frame."

I laughed in his face before I could stop myself.

He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth moved.

His hand shut on the camera rail and stayed shut for the whole next setup.

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