Maybe he’d try guilt. Never mind, you’ve been through enough. You just stay home with your cats while the rest of us die. He had to try something because without Arra, it was up to him, and unless it turned out that a 6,000 watt carbon arc lamp was all it took, the world was fucking doomed.

As he retraced last night’s steps to the back door, he glanced over at Lee’s bike. Given the amount of vodka they’d poured into him, he’d probably taken a cab home. Lee had told CB he didn’t remember anything and that was good. Tony knew his memory of what had happened in the dressing room was going to make it hard enough to face Lee—the last thing he needed added in was Lee’s reaction. In his experience, a straight guy with a morning-after memory of copping a feel off a gay guy was more likely to blame the gay guy and get freaked and angry than think, Oops, my hand must’ve slipped. It was just human nature and Tony was usually fine with that, but it wasn’t something he wanted to find out about Lee.

For the first time since he’d started working on Darkest Night, he wasn’t looking forward to seeing the actor on set.

The problem was, the whole dark wizard, gate, shadow, invasion thing was just a little too big to really get a hold of.

The thing with Lee; that he had a hold of just fine.

Oh, that’s just fucking great. Like I don’t have enough going on without mental innuendo.

As usual, most of the early crew stood gathered around the craft services truck nursing coffees and muffins. Carpenters talking with electricians, talking with drivers, talking with the props guy, talking with camera operators; the craft services truck was the studio’s Switzerland. Neutral ground. By unspoken agreement, arguments were left on the soundstage and a certain level of good manners was carefully maintained—people who regularly worked a seventeen-hour day were willing to do what it took to help facilitate the smooth delivery of carbs and caffeine.

Tony grabbed a coffee and headed inside to pick up his sides. He’d gone chasing off after Lee in such a hurry yesterday afternoon that he hadn’t . . .

“Mr. Foster. A word.”

Wondering what he’d done, Tony crossed over to where Peter was standing with Sorge and the gaffer by the light board. As he closed the distance, he told himself that the positioning had to be coincidence. Unless he’d dusted for fingerprints, there was no way the director could tell he’d been at the board the night before.

Eyebrows raised high enough that they seemed to be following his receding hairline back up over his skull, Peter held out a set of sides. “I believe these are yours.”