The Last Blues We're Ever Gonna Have

Chapter 1

"They aren't surrendering!" James growled pointedly, gritting his teeth and tossing his dark hair out of his face as the latest round of gunfire and bullets ricocheted off the wall of the small office he and the rest of the team were taking cover behind. More glass rained down as the last of the window was destroyed. James leaned forward to peak around Scarlet to glare at Clint as he pressed against the wall on the other side of the doorway. Penelope huddled next to him, green eyes wide. He couldn't blame her for being scared. He'd warned Clint that taking on an Analyst-a freaking CIA desk jockey-as their team member was a bad idea. There was a reason she didn't do field work.
"Yes, I noticed that, James," Clint shot back, more than slightly annoyed with James's patronizing tone. He shook his head, glass flinging out of his dark blonde hair, before ejecting the magazine from his gun and sighing with dismay at the four measly bullets left. "How many bullets you got left?"
"Not enough," James muttered, jumping when a bullet smashed through the wall, inches from his head. That was too close for comfort. "This wasn't part of the plan."
"None of this was part of the plan!" Clint snapped, finally losing his patience. This was supposed to be a simple infiltration and extraction of data from the basement data server of a small investment business rumored to be laundering money for the Russian Mafia. But they'd gotten bad intel on how heavily guarded the building was. And now, here they were, bogged down in a pissing match between their woefully under-armed four person team and twelve guards that kept yelling at each other in Russian. This was no longer a data extraction, but an escape attempt.
"Listen, man, I'm gonna need you to calm down. You're at a fifteen and I need you at, like, a seven."
"Oh go to hell, James," Clint groaned. He slide the magazine back into his gun and tried to wrack his brain about their next step.
"This witty banter is really not helping anything, guys!" Scarlet interjected blandly as she pressed a new clip into her glock.
"Um, so...," came a tremulous voice, and Clint turned his attention to the petite woman next to him. She was pressed against the wall, nervous green eyes looking up at Clint.
"What!" He snapped impatiently. Penelope blanched at his reaction but continued.
"I, um...I brought a Flashbang with me. In my bag, I mean...do you think we should use it?" Clint and James stared at her for a moment before yelling a resounding "Yes!" at the same time. She slung her back pack off her shoulder, ripping the zipper down and shoved her hand inside, reaching in for stun grenade. She pulled it out and held it out to Clint.
"Nice job! I take back what I said about desk-jockeys earlier," James laughed. Penelope rolled her eyes, but smiled, pleased with herself. Grabbing the Flashbang had been an after thought, but now she was immensely relieved that she'd thought of it. She flung her long, blonde braid over her shoulder to get it out of her way.
"Okay..." Clint began, ducking when another round of bullets peppered the air. "I'm gonna throw it. And then we're gonna advance. Shoot anything that moves!"
    Everyone braced themselves, pressing against the the wall as close as they could and keeping their eyes closed. Clint pulled the pin and tossed the grenade through the door. The boom was disorienting, but the flash of light was worse, temporarily blinding everyone in the outer room. The barrage of gunfire ceased immediately, accompanied by panicked shouting.
"Let's go!" Scarlet growled and, as one, the team sprang into action, moving out of the office and into the open room. Clint fired off three rounds, taking down two security guards, and James and Scarlet followed suit, picking off any guards they saw. Penelope rounded a desk, gun out, but was unprepared for the waste paper basket that was hurled in her face. She yelped, stepping back and bringing her hands up to protect her face. She grunted when she felt a kick to her stomach, bending forward only to meet an elbow to her face. She swung her arm out to level a blow to her attacker's face with the butt of her gun-
    "Goddammit, Vaughn, CUT!" Beck bellowed before whirling on Luxe, his chin length dark brown hair swinging around his angry face and piercing cobalt eyes freezing her where she stood, pointing an accusatory finger at her. He advanced on her and she automatically backed up a step from his towering form, drawing in a sharp breath. Beck Barnes, who played James Stanley on Clandestine, was an absolute mountain next to Luxe's petite form and had a booming baritone that seemed fill the entire soundstage with enough power to make even the assistants offstage jump nervously. "Your goddamn lip is split open!" She stared up at him in shock, her brain taking a few seconds to process his words, before raising her fingers to her stinging bottom lip. When she pulled her fingers away there was indeed blood on them.
    "Shit," she exclaimed softly. How the hell had he noticed before even she had? "I didn't even realize..."
    "You need to fucking think! You knew Jet actually hit you with that last hit! Jesus Christ, be more aware! This is how you got hurt last season!" Luxe looked up at him, her eyes wide at Beck's berating tone. He sneered at her and Luxe felt her temper flare.
    "It's fine, Beck. It doesn't even hurt. I just...I wanted to get through the scene," she defended hotly.
    "For fuck's sake, you're a lawsuit waiting to fucking happen!" Beck raked his fingers through his hair.
    "Beck, we get the fucking point," Jem called from where he stood on set. Luxe swiveled her head towards the sound of his voice to see him standing across the set, his prop gun down at his side, running fingers of his free hand through the back of his short, dark blonde hair, scratching the back of his head. He looked bored. His grey eyes didn't even bother meeting her gaze. Wendy stood a few feet to his left, watching unabashedly as Beck chastised Luxe.
    Beck yelling and slinging curses during filming was not unusual, he was well known for being hot headed and didn't believe in hiding how he felt about people and situations. And this certainly wasn't the first time Luxe Harris had been on the receiving end of his ire. A year and a half working on this series, working with these actors, and she still felt like a goddamn first time walk-on. Ugh, I'm such a fuck up, she groaned inwardly, looking back down at the blood smeared on the pads of her fingers.
    "Go get cleaned the fuck up," Beck growled stomping off in the direction Jem stood. Luxe looked over to where Vaughn stood.
    "Sorry, Vaughn," she apologized to the director. "I didn't realize-" she cut her self off when he raised his hands.
    "Don't apologize," he told her, grinning kindly at her, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. The crinkles, along with the salt and pepper at his temples, made him look distinguished. Luxe often speculated that Vaughn had been devastatingly handsome when he'd been a younger man. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses before continuing. "The scene was solid, it looked good. I don't even think Mark noticed the hit," he told her nodding to his partner and, most importantly, the Showrunner-who was in a deep conversation with the cameraman. "But Beck is right, you are somewhat lacking in self preservation. I won't call cut unless you fuck up a line or miss your mark. You have to let us know if you're hurt." Luxe's shoulders sagged. "Don't worry so much, kid," Vaughn said softly, clapping her on the back as she trudged towards the dressing room to inspect her lip more closely.
***
    "They hate me," Luxe sighed softly, trying not to move her lips as Gigi dabbed Vaseline at the left corner of her bottom lip where it was split.
    "They don't," Gigi assured her softly, concentrating on not messing up Luxe's makeup. "I'm sure Beck was just looking out for you. I can't believe you were just going to carry on with the scene like that. Jet must've nailed you pretty good to bust your lip like this. Hopefully it doesn't bruise." She leaned back, looking at Luxe's lip with a critical eye. "It'd be a shame if you let this pretty mouth get permanently damaged." Luxe snorted, rolling her eyes at Gigi.
     "I'm sure my mouth thanks you for your concern," She chuckled, trying not to smile too much so her lip wouldn't start bleeding again. Gigi reached a hand out, tucking a few errant strands of blonde hair back behind Luxe's ear.
    "I'm concerned for more than just your mouth, Luxe," Gigi told her, leveling her warm brown eyes at her. "You could have been seriously hurt last year. You should have told Vaughn up front that having someone, who's got a hundred pounds on you, fall on top of you was a bad idea. No matter how dramatic the scene was. You broke three ribs and dislocated your shoulder. What if you'd punctured a lung?" Luxe let her gaze focus on Gigi's auburn curls as she thought back to the incident in question.
    They'd been filming on location in Jordan for the last three episodes of the fourth season of Clandestine. It had been a miserable month, with the oppressive heat, sand that was absolutely pervasive, and grueling 12 to 16 hours of filming scenes and staging and re-staging and re-staging and re-staging fight sequences. Mark had been absolutely beastly about getting everything just right. And the last scene featured the petite, five foot three inches, 120 lbs Luxe wrestling with a man-who was easily ten inches taller and much broader and much heavier than she-over a gun.
    The sequence ended with the man-a very nice guy named Blake with white blonde hair and honey brown eyes, who brought a harmonica to set every day and liked to play it to entertain the cast and crew during break time- and Luxe falling backwards, both hands on the gun which goes off the second Blake lands on top of her. Luxe and Blake had run through the sequence several times that day with the fight-coordinator, who had talked them through each movement. And they'd done several takes from different angles. But the last take they'd done, Luxe had made one small misstep which had changed the position she had been in when Blake thudded on top of her, smashing her hard into the ground.
    She had immediately felt breath taking pain in her ribs, and heard a sickening pop in her shoulder. But she hadn't called cut because that was the last shot-the very last shot-of the season and she needed to wait for Jem and Beck to run up to where she and Blake lay. They needed to pull Blake-who's character was dead-off of her, say the last three lines and then haul her up to her feet. So, she'd shuttered the pain away, bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out in pain, and move as best she could until the scene was done and Vaughn called "Cut". No one had even known she'd been injured until she'd called for Gigi to come to her and help her get her costume loosened, unable to force herself to move any further.
    Luxe shook her head, recalling the next miserable month and a half of recovery. She'd never been more grateful for the end of filming. Her shoulder, once popped back into place, healed fairly quickly. But her ribs...they had taken much longer. She'd never been so happy to have a break from work, since filming for the season was done. Even without a doctor telling her, she knew that there would have been no way even she, a self confessed work-a-holic, could have powered through more 12 hour days.
    "I can deal with the pain," Luxe said softly. "I just hate to deal with the failure." Gigi sighed heavily before standing up and inspecting her long braid of ash blonde hair, tucking any loose strands that she saw. It wasn't the first time Luxe had said that. That phrase was somewhat of a mantra that she had uttered for as long as they had known each other.
    "Eight years, and you still haven't come up with a better excuse," Gigi shook her head. "We're not in college anymore, Luxe, and we aren't talking about getting passed over during auditions for commercials." Luxe smiled.
    "Nope. But it still stands."
    "You're ridiculous," Gigi told her, shaking her head and smiling. "If I didn't love you so much, I'd smack you."
    "Just don't hit my face, it's my money maker," Luxe joked.
    "Your face has taken enough abuse for one day, thanks."
    "Luxe, they're ready for you," came the quiet voice of one of Vaughn's assistants at the door to the dressing room. Luxe turned and smiled, letting the girl know that she'd heard her.
    "Gotta go. Thanks for fixing me up, Gigi," Luxe sighed, standing up from her chair.
    "That's what I'm here for," Gigi replied. "You break, I fix you." Luxe smiled warmly at her, before turning and heading back to the sound stage, letting Gigi's words warm her.
    Gigi has been the one bright spot in Luxe's early life. She wished she'd met her before college, certain that her presence would have softened her tumultuous childhood. I have her now, Luxe reminded herself, shoving dark memories back down below her conscious thoughts. Best friend, Personal Assistant, a damn good makeup artist, Luxe couldn't ask for a better companion in the new life she had left her old life for.
    Luxe had met her in her second week of her first year of community college. Two weeks into the class, and in walked Gigi, like some sort of glamorous model. She had sat down in the only seat available, right next to Luxe, and she immediately felt grubby and homely in her thrift store jeans, worn out chuck taylors, and faded graphic tee. Gigi was...Luxe smiled when she thought back to that day...she was polished and posh, with her coach backpack, perfectly styled hair, crisp white pumas and designer jeans. Her nails were French-tipped, obviously professionally done, and she had smelled like expensive perfume. There was absolutely no reason for someone like Gigi to turn in her seat and smile warmly at Luxe, and yet...she did, reaching out her hand and introducing herself.
    "Hi, I'm Giselle Danvers. Call me Gigi," she said, smiling warmly. " I'm supposed to be studying Law so that I can go work for my dad at the firm he owns, but I decided that I'd prefer to piss him off by going to community college and learn how to be an actress." Luxe had nearly choked on her own tongue at the introduction. Instead of reaching out her own hand and shaking Gigi's outstretched appendage in greeting, she'd stared, slack-jawed and gobsmacked.
    "I-I'm Luc...I'm Luxe," she'd stammered. Gigi had giggled at her and Luxe had felt like an absolute moron. But despite an underwhelming self introduction, Gigi had seen something in her, insisting on sitting next to her the next day. And the next. Asking to hang out between classes, partnering with her on scenes and projects, and-in their sophomore year-inviting Luxe to move in with her in her apartment rather than continue staying in her cramped dorm room with her cranky roommate.
     Luxe found that Gigi was someone she could confide in, something that she'd never had before. Gigi rarely talked about herself or her family, but Luxe had gleaned over the years that she despised her mother-who barely had time for anyone except her personal trainer, Mike-and felt like her father was a stranger who merely used his family as an image boost to seem like more of a success to his business partners and the clients they defended.
      They'd spent three years at college, dreaming about making a career for themselves on the silver screen, working shit jobs, pulling overtime shifts, and scraping together enough savings to move to LA. And, a week after Luxe turned 21, they drove out Los Angeles in a rented U-haul.
    And the rest is history, Luxe thought warmly as she walked back out on set, smiling to herself-and wincing when her lip reminded her of its presence.
"Alright, let's take it back to just after the grenade goes off!" Vaughn called out. "Jet, make sure you have better control on those punches! Let's go! Everyone at your marks!" Luxe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave her body, and moved to her first position of the scene.