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—Hey no, all done, I'm not saying anything.

He took a step, twirled the knife.

—I fucking thought not, asshole.

—Did it hurt?

He stopped walking, the knife stopped twirling.

—What?

I spoke very slowly.

—When. You. Thought. Did it hurt? Like because you're not good at it, I mean.

He slammed his forearm across my throat, pinning me to the door, the point of the knife poking my cheek.

—Asshole! I said shut the fuck up! I said it was a wrap!

I thought about bringing up the carrier and shoving it into his gut, but the last time I'd fought anyone other than Chev was in junior high. And that was scrawny Dillard Hayes who'd made some lame joke about Chev not having a mom and I'd gone whacko about it. And I got the shit kicked out of me. And Dillard didn't have a knife.

So I tried diplomacy instead.

—No, you didn't actually tell me to shut the fuck up. And you certainly didn't say anything as lame as—GAH!

No, he didn't say GAH! I said GAH! Or, rather, I kind of barked GAH when he drove his knee into what was meant to be my balls, but was actually the carrier, which then hit my balls.

—GAH! GAH!

He did it twice more. If that didn't communicate.

The bathroom door swung open and Soledad came out toweling her hands dry.

—Jaime!

This seemingly directed at the fauxhawk dude about to put his knee on the money for the fourth time.

He let go of me and turned.

—What! What!

I dropped to the floor and tried to figure out how breathing worked.

Soledad came and kneeled next to me.

—What the hell, Jaime?

Jaime waved his knife.

—He was being an asshole, just like you said he would be!

She put a hand on the side of my face.

—I said he might act like an asshole and you needed to be chill.

He pointed the knife at me.

—Why do I have to be chill when he's being the asshole?

She shook her head, looked at me, her face all but hid in the long curls of hair falling around it.

—You OK?

I squirted more tears and kept my hands jammed in my crotch by way of an answer.

Jaime came and leaned over her and looked down at me.

—Besides, he deserved it for being an asshole at your house today.

She looked up at him.

—He wasn't. Fuck, Jaime, he was trying to make me laugh.

He raised his hands over his head.

—See! That's sick, man. Your dad offs himself, blows his fucking brains all over, and this asshole tries to make it funny? That's sick shit.

She stared at him, shook her head.

He raised his shoulders.

—What? What did I say? He's the one made jokes about your dad eating a bullet. Why'm I getting bitch looks?

She looked at the floor.

—Just shut up. Shut up and have a drink.

—What'd I do?

She put fingertips to her forehead.

—Please, Jaime. Just. Chill and have a drink. Please.

He reversed the gesture with his wrist and thumb, folding the knife and tucking it back in its sheath.

—Fine. Whatever. Just want people to remember, this whole production, it's my deal. We got a schedule to keep to here and I don't like falling behind.

He walked to the room's lone chair, almonds popping under the heels of his chrome-studded ankle boots, took a seat, and picked up a white plastic shopping bag from the floor.

—So you just get the asshole up to speed and on set. I want to roll this thing and wrap.

He reached in the bag and pulled out an airline bottle of Malibu rum.

—Incidentals keep popping up and throwing my budget to shit.

I pointed at him.

—Let me guess, you're an actor, but what you really want to do is direct?

He drained the bottle and threw it across the room and it bounced off my forehead.

—Fuck you, asshole, I'm a fucking producer.

Soledad closed her eyes, shook her head, opened her eyes, and looked at me.

—Web, meet my brother Jaime.

—It's not as bad as it looks.

I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, the plastic bag of ice she got from the machine by the motel office resting between my thighs.

—See, the funny thing about that statement is the fact that it looks so very very bad, that there is ample room for it to be not as bad as it looks