Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (10 page)

“Damian!” Danna scolds. “The man’s in the
hospital. I don’t really care what you think he is or isn’t going to do. The
decent thing is to go in there and pay him a visit.”

“I’ll try,” I say, turning to Penelope.
“I’m slammed with work, though.”

“Yeah, you just got off a vacation,” Danna
scoffs.

“Yeah,” I say, frustrated, “I just got
off
a vacation. I have to head by the
studio in about an hour, so it might have to wait until tomorrow.”

“You’ll go?” Penelope asks.

I sigh.

Penelope was always a bit more quiet than
her husband, but what she lacked in communication skills, she more than made up
for by being one of the sweetest women on the planet.

When Jamie and I told her parents that she
was pregnant, Penelope jumped out of her seat cheering. She was so involved
with everything. To tell you the truth, I was actually kind of starting to get
sick of her: She was around to provide Jamie with guidance so often.

After Jamie died, Ed declared that neither
him
nor anyone else in his family would ever speak to
me again for what I did. That night, though, I got a late phone call from
Penelope, letting me know that as long as she had breath in her body, we were
family.

There are a lot of things that I would do
for Penelope, almost anything, but going in there to take Ed’s abuse and blame
over the death of his daughter who I happened to love more than anything isn’t
really my idea of a way to spend an afternoon.

Still, it’s for Penelope.

“Yeah,” I tell her, “I’ll go in tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she says and
comes over, giving me a long hug. “You’re not going to regret this,” she says.
“I promise. Visiting hours are between ten and six. If you let me know when
you’re coming by, I can meet you out front and we can go up to the room
together.”

“That should work,” I tell her.

“I should be getting back,” Penelope says.
“Danna, I hope you know that you’re more than welcome, yourself.”

That’s not going to happen. While Danna
was quick enough to tell me that I needed to go and look for some kind of
détente, there’s no way she’d ever go into that hospital room herself.

She tends to take grudges even more
seriously than I do.

“Thanks for the offer,” Danna says, “but
I’ve been having a bit of trouble getting around recently, and I wouldn’t want
to slow everyone down.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that you’re not
doing well,” Penelope says, “but if you can, I still think it would be great if
you could both make it before…before…”

I was really hoping we could get through
this without seeing Penelope cry.

Since Jamie’s death, every time I’ve seen
Penelope cry, it just takes me back to that hospital room.

So now Penelope’s crying and I’m doing my
best to comfort her without crying, myself.

“She loved you, you know,” Penelope says.
“You were the world to her.”

“I loved her, too,” I tell Penelope.

“So did
I
,” Danna
says.

Penelope wipes her eyes and releases me
from her embrace, shifting her attention to Danna. “Yes she did,” Penelope
says. “She loved you both very much, and I’m so glad she had the two of you to
brighten her life while she was here.”

I do miss Jamie. I probably always will.

I offer to give Penelope a ride back to
the hospital, but she declines. “Thank you for the offer,” she says, “but I’ve
got to go back to the house to pick up some stuff for Ed and then the kids are
coming in, so I should probably just go.”

“All right,” I tell her.

We say our goodbyes and I promise again to
go by the hospital tomorrow, though I’m looking for some way, any way to get
out of it.

Penelope leaves and not long after that,
it’s time for me to head back to the set.

On my way out the door, my phone starts to
ring.

“This is Damian,” I answer.

The line is quiet. I check the call, but
it’s active.

“Hello?” I try again.

“Oh my god, it’s really you, isn’t it?” a
woman’s voice asks.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“I can’t believe I actually got through,”
the woman says. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

It’s Rita: It’s got to be.

“How did you get this number?” I ask.

“I was thinking,” the woman I suspect to
be Rita says, “you and I should plan a getaway together.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are or what
it is that you want, but I need you to leave me and my family alone,” I tell
her.

“I’ve always wanted to see the Galapagos Islands,”
the woman says. “When do you think we should go?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I tell
her.

“I know I can come on a little strong,”
the woman says, “but that’s just because I’ve never felt this way about anyone
before.”

“If you’ve never felt this way about
anyone, how do you know that you come on a little strong?” I ask her. While
she’s thinking up a reply to the question, I continue, “I think that I’m far
from your first obsession, and I’m sure I won’t be the last. What you need to
realize is that what you’re feeling for me—it isn’t real. You’ve got to leave
me alone.”

“I expected this sort of thing from your
sister,” the woman on the phone spits, “but I never thought that I’d have to
convince
you
that dreams are worth
chasing.”

“This isn’t a dream,” I tell her. “You’re
the architect of a nightmare.”

“The architect of a nightmare…” she says.
“I just love the way you talk!”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“You’ll recognize me by the black dress
and the silver choker,” she says.

“Where?” I ask. It seems like one of those
things that would be good to know.

The line’s already dead.

I grit my teeth and open my car door.
Before getting in, I take a look around. I’ve got anything but a clear view,
but there doesn’t seem to be anyone outside the perimeter of the property.

Finally, I get in my car and just go.

I don’t know how it is that people like
Rita get to be so far gone without anyone noticing, but they do. A lot of
times, people try to minimize the things their family and friends do—not that I
can imagine Rita’s got a lot of friends.

I’m sure if anyone who knows Rita knows of
her obsession for me, they just think it’s an innocuous celebrity crush. I’m
sure they’d be the first to declare their surprise if they found out what she
was actually doing.

Oh well, Trey’s waiting for me in the
parking lot, so I should be safe enough for now. As for Danna, she knows how to
get into the panic room if she needs to—not that Rita would ever make it
through the front door with those guards we hired.

I’m lost somewhere in my thoughts when
Dutch walks up to me.

“How was the trip?” he asks.

“It was okay,” I tell him. “Are we about
ready to shoot?”

“Get to makeup and wardrobe,” he says.
“We’re behind schedule.”

“Oh, hey,” I tell him, “talk to me later
when you’ve got a minute. I’ve got an idea for the film.”

“Great,” Dutch says, smiling with only
half his mouth. “I’ll see you on set.”

Dutch will usually listen to an idea, but
unless it’s something that came directly out of his head or directly off of the
pages of the script, he’s not likely to change any of his plans.

So, I get to makeup and I get to wardrobe
and I take a few minutes to make sure I’m solid on my lines. When I feel
comfortable enough there, I find Emma.

“Hey,” she says. “Today’s the big day,
huh?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well,” she says, “it’s not every day you
get to kiss on film with a Hollywood starlet.”

She must be in a good mood.

“Yeah,” I answer, “not
every
day. So, I had some last minute
thoughts about how we should play the kiss—”

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re going to do
that,” she says.

“Do what?” I ask. “If you think you’re
going to be able to make it through this script without the two of us filming,
you’re out of your mind.”

“Not that,” she says. “I’m just saying
that I think I can get through this scene without the guidance of Damian
Jones.”

I smile.

“All right,” I tell her, “if you really
think you can do this thing solo. I will remind you, though, that I have won
all kinds of awards and people usually listen when I give them acting advice.”

“That’s got to be hard on them,” she says,
“listening to all that drivel and still having to act afterward.”

“Oh, ha
ha
,” I
mock.

“Jones, Roxy, they’re ready for you,” one
of the stage hands calls.

“You ready for this?” I ask. “We didn’t
really prepare the way we were going to, so—”

I’m interrupted by Emma’s mouth falling on
my own. Her arms wrap around me and she’s breathing heavy as her lips move over
mine.

The kiss lasts about ten seconds, but
every one of those moments is an entirely new feeling, a new rush of blood and
endorphins, a new opportunity for me to completely forget everything else in
existence.

She pulls away, says, “Yep, I think I’m
good,” and makes her way to the set.

Holy shit.

I normally wouldn’t even think this way,
but I might have to throw the scene a few times just so I can feel that again.
What
was
that?

Chapter Nine

Ethanol and the Demands of the Theater

Emma

I think when I got to the set my first day
there were a lot of people who were asking themselves and each other if I could
really hack it in a major motion picture, but in the three weeks after Damian
and I got that first onscreen kiss under our belts, people’s perspectives on me
seem to have changed.

Now it seems like all the people who would
only ever roll eyes when I walked past are coming up to me for an autograph for
their nephew or their cousin or for eBay—I appreciated Claude’s honesty on that
one, but he did not receive an autographed headshot.

Things are pretty good.

Actually, things are going great right
until my phone starts ringing and I see Ben’s number on the caller ID.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“You don’t have to greet me like that
every
time you pick up the phone,” he
says. “I was just calling to let you know that something’s come up and I’m
going to need you to double the amount of money per payment.”

“Nope,” I tell him. “You and I had a deal.
I was worried that you might try to do something like this, and I even told you
that I wouldn’t let it happen.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ben says. “So I’m going
to need $10,000 by midnight tonight, not $5,000.”

“Did you find more pictures or something?”
I ask. “Because you’re trying to hold my feet closer to the fire, only you
don’t have any more fuel for it.”

“I never said that you’d still have to
make as many payments,” Ben says, “I’m not asking for more money. I just wanted
to inform you that it’s $10,000 now. Send me a message after you’ve deposited
the money and, assuming that everything goes through all right, I’ll put in my
password so you can have another month without anyone knowing what kind of a
slut you are.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. “I didn’t even want to
take those pictures, and even if I did, that wouldn’t make me a slut. We were
dating. It’s not like I was letting anyone who had a camera take a picture of
me that day, only you after you whined and badgered me like a little girl who’s
still trying to convince her parents to get her a pony.”

That actually felt kind of good.

“Say whatever you want,” Ben says, “but if
$10,000 isn’t in my account before midnight, you can start thinking about how
many people are going to be beating off to naked pics of you in the water.”

The way he says it makes me gag a little.

With any kind of notoriety, you always run
the risk of someone taking a picture of you or a video and jerking off to it.
That doesn’t really bother me so much, mostly because I don’t have to hear
about it. Having Ben presence that, though, has put an uneasy feeling in my
gut.

“Fine,” I tell him, “but we’re not going
to do this again. I’ll give you twice the money in half the amount of time, but
if you try something like this again, it’s not going to work out so well for
you.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” he says. “So, I
should expect my money today?”

“You’ll get your fucking money,” I tell
him. “Just stop calling me.”

He hangs up and I want to strangle
someone. Right now, I don’t even think it matters who.

This isn’t what I needed tonight.

The thing about doing an onscreen sex
scene, even one that doesn’t show any of the naughty bits, is that people have
gotten so used to seeing sex being simulated in movies or in commercials, if
you want a no nudity or partial nudity only sex scene to make any sort of
impression, it needs to look good.

There’s intimacy and there’s muscle
memory. A kiss can be affected a lot more visually by intimacy than sex can.
That’s not to say that intimacy doesn’t change the nature of a sexual
encounter, it’s just not as visible on film.

We wrapped for the day a few hours early,
so Damian and I had talked about getting together tonight and doing a non-dress
rehearsal of tomorrow’s scene.

Now, though, I’m pissed off. I really need
to start looking at the caller ID before I pick up a call, but to tell you the
truth, even seeing that name on my phone probably would have put me somewhere
about here.

How the hell am I supposed to focus when
I’m this irritated?

The good news is, there’s an easy way to
relax and it just so happens to relieve nervousness as well. It’s called
alcohol, and I’ve got plenty of it at home.

Now, I’m not a big drinker, but every once
in a while, something comes up where I need a drink and I need about twenty of
its friends to follow it.

Just thinking about that chemical relief
has me breathing a little easier.

I just hope nobody gets in my way, because
with the mood I’m in, I don’t know that I’d be that quick to swerve.

I get home and into my house, and I don’t
even bother to close the door. I’m on a mission.

Now, I’m thinking that three shots is
probably the magic number. One or two may not be enough and four or five might
be more than enough. I’m not looking to get plastered; I just need to chill the
fuck out so I can be present for the awkward night that lies ahead.

Still, this blueberry vodka tastes pretty
good.

I have a second shot and it tastes even
better than the first.

It’s not very often that I’ll have two
shots right on top of each other, but there’s not a lot of time before Damian
will be here, and I really don’t want to be slamming them back when he gets
here.

I take shot three and realize that because
the vodka I’m drinking is flavored, it’s got a lower alcohol content.

I suppose I could justify having just one
more shot. Sure, the difference in alcohol content is only like five percent,
but that adds up over three shots.

By the time I’m pouring my fifth shot,
I’ve dropped the charade and I’m just glad to be getting some relief from the
insanity my life has been ever since
Flashing
Lights
started filming.

After shot number three, I look at the
clock.

It’s so funny. There are thousands of
women out there who would completely lose their shit if they had a night of dry
humping with Damian Jones ahead of them. Me, well I just made sure to wear an
extra pair of panties to avoid chafing.

This really is a strange line of work when
you think about it.

Not only are we people who make a living
pretending to be other people, the things we have to know and learn, the ways
in which we have to go out of the box in order to get the best possible
performance for a scene… We spend so much of our lives learning how to act and
react to people and situations, but when that camera’s off, the only people
that seem to know who we are want something from us and the only situations we
get into are either work related or related to escaping the side effects of
this career path.

That said, the pay’s phenomenal and the
perks are incredible.

I’m sitting on my couch now and I’ve
stopped counting shots.

This is supposed to be my time. This is
supposed to be the point in my life I look back at fondly, years from now, and
delight in how magical it was to make my first major picture.

Everything’s not so bad, I guess. I mean,
I’m financially secure, I’m doing something that I love and I’ve even made
friends with a famous actor. At the end of the day, it’s not a bad line of
work.

I hadn’t counted on the blackmail.

I take another shot.

You know, Damian’s pretty attractive.

I’m halfway through an infomercial with a
product that claims to remove the need for sharpening your knives permanently,
when a voice speaks just behind me. “You know they just replace the knife if it
ever actually
does
go dull.

I whip around to find Damian standing in
my living room right behind my couch.

“The door was open,” he says. “I thought
you’d see me when I came to the doorway, but you looked like you were pretty
engrossed in whatever it was that you’re watching.”

“I’m not watching it,” I tell him and turn
off the TV.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

If anything, I’m a little too ready.

It could be the fact that we’ve been
growing closer over these past weeks, or perhaps it’s that he’s a famous Hollywood
actor I’ve had a crush on for years; it’s even possible that just having a
handsome man standing in my home is enough to do it, regardless. But Damian
Jones, actor extraordinaire and Hollywood’s eighth sexiest man, is looking
pretty damn good tonight.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m good.”

“Great,” he says. “Now, what I’ve done in
the past is to start with some kissing and kind of just take it from there.
Obviously we’re not going to do anything, but if we’re going to get this down,
there’s going to have to be some touching.”

“Okay,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”

“Would you like to get something to
drink?” he asks. “We don’t have to go right into it.”

I nod, take another shot, and set the
bottle back on the end table. By “set the bottle back on the end table,” what I
mean to say is that I drop the bottle and rush over to Damian, quite literally
throwing myself at him.

His arms enfold me and we kiss. My hands
are already in his hair, and I’m ready for more.

His taste is sweet, fresh. He must have
brushed or popped a mint before he came.

How thoughtful.

Me, on the other hand, I probably taste
like stale blueberry vodka, but that doesn’t seem to slow our pace as Damian’s
hands move over my body.

My fingers come out of his hair and work
their way down his back and just under the back of his shirt.

His eyes come open a little, but they
close just as quickly when I work my hands under his shirt and around to his
strong, firm chest.

“No nudity?” I ask.

“Well, it’s really a judgment call, but
it’s not absolutely necessary for—”

I pull open the front of Damian’s shirt,
sending buttons soaring in various directions.

“I’ve had kind of a shitty day,” I tell
him. “I think I could live with a little skin on skin.”

My lips are back over his and I’m tearing
the rest of the fabric from Damian’s shoulders.

He pulls back a moment, asking,
“
Are you all right? You seem kind of…ravenous.”

“Just practicing for my role,” I tell him
as I guide his hands to the bottom of my shirt and encourage him to lift. “I
hear it’s a big one.”

Damian laughs and kisses me, his hands
lifting the shirt from my body and then moving around back to unhook my bra.

“You sure you’re good with this?” he asks.

“Oh, just shut up for once in your life,
will you?” I ask.

He shrugs and pulls my bra open. I grab
one of the straps and quickly remove it from my arm, flicking my other wrist to
get the bra the rest of the way off of me.

“Should I be calling you Sophie?” he asks.

“I think we can save that for the
cameras,” I tell him and start working on his belt.

“Whoa,” he says. “I thought you wanted a
dry run.”

I laugh a little. “That’s a good one,” I
tell him. “You’re very clever with words, you know.”

“I’m not sure where the line is right
now,” he says.

I stop what I’m doing and look up at him.

“Where do you want it to be?” I ask.

While he’s trying to muddle through his
response, I’m back at the side of the night table, taking another shot of
vodka.

“You want some?” I ask. “I haven’t had any
in a really long time,” I tell him. “I’d kind of forgotten how fun it can be.”

“I don’t think we should be doing this
while you’re drunk,” he says.

“I’m not drunk,” I tell him. “I’ve got a
solid buzz, but I’m still making my own decisions here.”

He starts again, “Still, I don’t know if
we should—”

“Where do you want the line to be?” I ask
him again. “There’s no wrong answer here tonight. Just tell me what you want
and that’s how far we’ll go.”

I hold the bottle out to him and he looks
at it. Right now, I’m the devil and he’s Faust, only I don’t want his soul
tonight. Right now, I just want his body.

We can always go from there.

Damian looks up at me and then back down
at the bottle which he grabs from me and he takes a long pull.

“I fucking hate vodka,” he says.

“Even blueberry?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, takes another shot and,
with the bottle dangling from one of his hands, he leans down and kisses me.

Until his touch returned to my body, I had
actually forgotten that I’m topless. The contrast between the heat from his
skin and the coolness of the room is quick enough to remind me, though, and I
press the naked skin of my upper body against the naked skin of his.