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Summary
“Roy.” Jamie gives him a tiny, disdainful nod, then turns to one of the producers and says, much too loudly, “D'you think he can keep up this time?”
Roy’s fingers itch with the urge to put the prick in his place. “I’ll fucking show you if you want, you noxious little shithead,” he starts, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and ready to swing a fist if necessary.
“Boys! Boys, please.” The producer darts between them, her hands held up to ward them both off. “You’re going to need to cool it if we’re going to make this movie a success.”
Roy lowers his fists but doesn’t let his glare drop. Jamie shots him a filthy look and pushes his stupid fucking hair out of his face.
“Let’s save the tension for the fucking, yeah?” the producer says, forcibly upbeat.
That's what you get when you're a once great but now aging porn actor and your costar is Jamie fucking Tartt, god's gift to wankers everywhere.
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