Page 40 of Fever Dream
And maybe she’s the first to see past it.
I shake off the invasive thought before shooting the producer a thumbs-up and a grin. As cameras trail behind me and filter into position, I approach one of the women. I think her name is Ashley and based on the way she’s maneuvering the plastic pitchfork in the wood shavings, I would say she’s never mucked a stall in her life. Possibly never even shoveled a sidewalk now that I’m taking a closer look at how she holds the long wooden handle.
I step into the stall and prop a shoulder against the frame of the sliding door. “Want a few pointers?”
She straightens and hits me with a bright smile as she pushes a few strands of mousy blond hair behind her ear. “That would be amazing.”
I smile back as I step into the box stall, its rubber mats covered in dry wood shavings. My boots thump on the ground as I approach her. “May I?” I ask, gripping the handle above her hand as I step in behind her.
“Please,” she murmurs, tilting her head to the side and catching my gaze over her shoulder. It reminds me of Julia looking back at me in my quiet kitchen. I could hardly meet her dark eyes as I’d rolled that fabric up over the smooth expanse of her golden skin. My chest felt like it was vibrating as my heart crashed against my ribs.
I don’t feel that way when I meet Ashley’s blue eyes. The color is all wrong, and part of me wants to shrivel up and die knowing that so many people will be watching us interact.
No, this is nothing like with Julia.
But the cameras are rolling and I need that paycheck, so I toss out a flirtatious grin and bear it as I reach around her narrow shoulders. “Like this. Here. And here,” I murmur, close to her neck, noting her perfume. It’s so strong that it overpowers any hope of that fresh laundry soap smell that has been haunting me since yesterday with Julia.
I place her hands in the correct position on the handle, keeping a respectful distance between my front and her back.
“Ohhh. That feels a lot better.” She giggles and shimmies her shoulders to test the grip, which is enough to draw the eyes of all the other women working in the neighboring stalls.
And where interactions like this are usually my bread and butter, this is uncomfortably phony.
“Just like this.” I forge past my uneasiness, deciding that following through on this scene is worth it. “You scoop.” The tines slide under the manure along with a bunch of shavings. “Lift the rake, then a little shake.”
I move my arms to demonstrate as we shake the rake in tandem. Her back presses against my chest as all the shavings fall through the tines of the fork, and I try to ignore the contact. “And then a little flip,” I instruct. We lift the fork, and I snap my wrists as we flip the scoop.
And just like that, the pieces of manure find their way into the wheelbarrow. “See?”
Ashley squeals as though I’ve cured cancer rather than moved shit from one pile to another.
“Easy. You’re a natural.”
I step back and out of the stall, dusting my hands off, thinking my work here is done. But when I do, several of the other women pipe up, asking for the same help. I scrub a hand over my stubble. Because this is fucking insane.
But it’s better than standing around in a suit, drinking champagne, and making small talk. So I turn to the nearest woman, Jada.
“Want me to show you?”
She quirks one perfectly shaped black brow and glances over at Ashley, amusement dancing in her eyes before she looks back my way. “Listen, I genuinely respect that this is what you do here. I’m enjoying learning about your family legacy. But I’m also not about to pretend I’ll be spending my days shoveling shit if you choose me. No point in starting this thing off with a lie. Better we just clear that up right here and now.”
The corner of my mouth tips up as I regard the woman. Head held proud, she watches me back. Almost daring me to challenge her.
But I don’t.
“I respect that, Jada. Appreciate you being so honest with me.”
She nods, looking pleased. And I nod back, impressed with her directness.
Trying to ignore the way the camera moved closer during that last interaction, I turn searching for the next woman who—unfortunately for me—happens to be Handsy Evelyn.
With a grimace that I hope isn’t too obvious, I hold out a hand in offering. “Evelyn?”
“Of course,” she replies with a saucy wink, as if me offering to help her scoop shit is akin to getting down on one knee.
The energy on set shifts, and the other women look—no,glare—more closely. I can’t help but notice the odd shake of the head as though I’ve let them down by selecting her.
Whatever animosity is building in the bunkhouse is abundantly clear, but I skirt the tension by pretending not to notice. I assume the position with her and go through the same steps. Scoop, shake, flip.
