The Redhead Series

by Alice Clayton

  “Cold?” I asked, closing my eyes to blink back the tears.

  “Yeah, you’re shaking,” he said, walking in front of me and rubbing my arms. I could tell him. I could tell him what I had just heard; he was my friend and he’d likely intercede on my behalf.

  Not sure this is the kind of thing one wants to draw attention to, is it?

  No, no it wasn’t.

  “Nerves I guess,” I muttered, opening my eyes just in time to see the wardrobe consultant walk up to me.

  “Grace? We’re making a last-minute change. David thought it might be sexier to have you in one of these, give the audience more to think about, right?” she asked, waving a bunch of black lace in front of me. Michael, clueless, smiled and blushed.

  “Sure, let’s give them something to think about,” I agreed, beginning a slow burn.

  That poor actor, I threw him all over that bed. Rolling around in my black lace and my curves, I made damn sure David saw just how sexy a teddy bear could be. Something that would have made Last-Year Grace shrink up and curl into a ball made This-Year Grace pissed off and ballsy. When they called wrap for the day, I crawled off the bed after giving my costar a high five, ignored the robe someone tried to give me, walked past David while meeting his eyes the entire time, and strolled the rest of the way to my trailer. Across the lot. In my teddy. And Adidas soccer sandals. To a chorus of catcalls and whistles from every single male crew member I passed.

  By the time I walked up the steps to my trailer, I was smiling big and laughing out loud. After I banged open the door, my eyes fell on the only thing that could have made me smile bigger. Jack.

  “What are you doing here?” I grinned, walking over toward where he was relaxing on the couch.

  “Christ, Grace, what are you wearing?”

  “Just shot my first sex scene,” I said proudly as he pulled me down onto his lap.

  “And you walked across the entire lot like that?” he asked, his eyes everywhere, hands quickly to follow.

  “Proving a point, but more to the point, what are you doing here? I didn’t think you were coming in till tomorrow?” I squealed as he pressed a kiss under my ear.

  “They didn’t need me anymore, so I caught an earlier flight and headed straight here. If I’d known there were garters involved, I would have been here sooner.” He grinned appreciatively, snapping one and making me bounce a bit.

  “And they just let you on set? Into my trailer?”

  “Thank god all the PAs read People.” He laughed, leaning back to look at me. I blushed, reminded again of my state of undress. I took the opportunity to look at him as well. Christ, he looked good. Deeply tanned and his eyes were emerald green but darkening by the second. He still had the short hair, made even more blond by the sun. Beautiful.

  I tried to think through all the implications of having him here, on set. Anyone could talk; anyone could sell this story to the tabloids.

  Jack Hamilton meets Grace Sheridan on set of new TV show for a quickie . . .

  He could see me overthinking it, knowing exactly what I was worrying about when I chewed my lip.

  “Hey, Crazy. It’s okay. We’re adults, for Christ’s sake, they all know exactly what we’re doing in here.” He chuckled, his laughs dying down as his lips searched out my skin. I sighed without thinking, my hands coming up to his hair and tucking in.

  “But what if someone talks? What if . . . Jesus that feels good.” I tried to focus my brain scrambling and coherent thought becoming more and more difficult. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust the cast and crew, and while we were deliberate with our behavior in public, we were much less so in a professional setting like this. Just because we didn’t comment publicly, and allowed Holly to tell the press we were just friends, didn’t mean that we were not every bit a couple when alone or with people we knew. And I felt like I knew everyone on this set. However, it still made me feel exposed a bit. Speaking of feeling exposed . . .

  “I just spent two weeks in the desert with a bunch of guys, and if I’m not inside you immediately, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do otherwise, you hear me?” he murmured into my ear, kissing and nipping at my shoulder, my collarbone, my jaw.

  “Mother-of-pearl that’s good,” I moaned as he lifted me up onto the table.

  “Please don’t talk like one of the Golden Girls right now; it might be the only thing that could stop me at this point,” he pleaded. Giggling, I wrapped my arms around him and gave in to what I was feeling, skin heating as his hands swept over me, taking in the black lace and sassiness. With a wicked grin he sent my panties sailing across the room, and I gasped as he dropped to his knees. Suddenly I was not so concerned with trailer rocking and the mocking that was sure to follow.

  “I think you said I owed you five, right?” he asked, nibbling on the inside of my knee, pushing my legs farther apart.

  “You can spread those out over time; they don’t have to all be at once—mmm.” I moaned as he pulled me into him. I had a brief insane image of the movie Jaws when the old guy goes sliding down the boat toward the awaiting shark teeth, but it was quickly thrown back out of my head at the sight of this gorgeous man kneeling between my legs.

  “Brilliant,” he whispered, and bent his head to me. Lips, tongue, fingers, everything and all of it, focused and pointed, swirling and twirling, he loved me as only he could. Hooking my thighs over his shoulders, he surrounded me with a constant steady pressure, knowing inherently when to slow and when to speed, when to press and when to push. When my knees were shaking and my cries were stupid and love drunk, he rose quickly and let me unbutton his jeans.

  “How do you want me, Crazy?”

  “I want you; that’s about all I can tell you at this point, dealer’s choice.” I groaned, still dizzy from the three trips around the world he had already taken me on. I slipped my hands inside his jeans and grasped him, wanting and warm. I raised an eyebrow at what else I found, or rather didn’t find. “Good call on the commando, George.”

  “I didn’t want to waste any time,” he insisted as I pulled him toward me with my legs, wrapping around and sliding against him.

  “So this was just a booty call?” I asked in between kisses, hard and demanding.

  “Hmm, lovely idea.” He pulled me off the table and spun me quickly. Placing my hands flat against the surface, he nudged my legs apart and pushed into me, hard. I hissed at the sensation, the good burn and the sweet tension.

  “Christ, that’s good, love,” he groaned in my ear, seating himself fully inside as I arched back to meet him. Grabbing an equal handful of backside and breast, he rocked into me again, inexplicably deeper than before. I loved when he took control like this.

  “You have no idea how sexy you look like this Grace, I thought about you all morning, thinking about that sweet . . . hot . . .” And that was it. I came again, hard and strong, rocking myself and very possibly the blessed trailer as I split apart, then floated back down. Back down where a very hot Brit was inside me and determined to make this last.

  “Fuck, Grace,” he groaned, pulling my hair back so he could kiss me. Our bodies were flush, his front pressed to my back, lined up and locked down as he slid in and out, never relenting. He chased his own release, shuddering and shaking as his fingers circled down, lower and lower until he was teasing out another orgasm from me. This one left me boneless and shivering, insides aching and legs shaking as his eyes shut tight, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

  “Garters . . . Christ, the garters are brilliant.”

  God damn we rocked that trailer.

  seven

  Later we lay tangled on the bed, surrounded by wrappers. Hard candy wrappers. He lay on his back, his head propped up on my hip as I curled around him. I was moaning around a Werther’s caramel in a way that sounded particularly decadent, a way Jack was noticing even though he said he was “bloody well spent.” But for now, I sucked caramel only.

  “Did you ever notice how if you breathe in while you’re
sucking on one of these, you can actually taste the burnt sugar? And feel the butter on your tongue?”

  “Gimme one.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. This is the first nongreen thing I’ve had in my mouth in weeks. Back off.” I growled, feeling his scruff scratch at my thigh. I trailed a hand down, and he leaned into it, letting me rub his head. “They buzzed you again, huh?”

  “Yep, keeping it pretty short. The other grunts too,” he explained, again with that London accent meeting Alabama in the cutest way. He moved his head a few times, trying to get settled.

  “Settle down there, squirmy.”

  “Grace, don’t take this the wrong way, but your hip . . .”

  I froze midsuck. “My hip?” I asked around my caramel.

  “It’s, well, it’s not as comfortable as it used to be.” He frowned, his hand now spanning my hip and gripping it tightly.

  “You see any potted plants around here? Mama’s been working out.” I grinned proudly, smacking at my candy.

  “Grace, come on.” He laughed, switching positions so he could push me back against the pillows and get some boob time. “Thank goodness you two haven’t changed,” he whispered to the girls.

  I swatted at his head. “You’re twisted, Hamilton.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t go overboard here, okay?”

  “I’m not going overboard. It’s called taking direction,” I insisted as he settled against me.

  He ran his hands over my tummy, flatter than it had ever been.

  “Love, you look amazing, but you always look amazing. I just don’t want you to get carried away with this.”

  He really didn’t get this.

  “Why did you have me cut your hair?” I asked, stilling his hand.

  “What?”

  “No, really, why did I cut your hair?”

  “Because the part called for it,” he admitted, his eyes growing serious.

  “Exactly. This is the same thing. So drop it, okay?” I huffed, sitting up and shrugging into my top.

  “Cutting your hair and losing a ridiculous amount of weight when you don’t need to are two very different things, Grace,” he insisted, trying to pull me back into bed.

  “You’re right. They’re two very different things because there are two very different standards, aren’t there?” I picked up the latest crop of magazines with him on the cover and threw them down onto the bed. As they scattered, shots of him peeked up at us. He looked drunk in most of them: leaving different clubs with the guys from his film, ball cap on, ripped T-shirt. He looked beautiful, of course, but the fact was, he was decidedly un–movie star in each shot.

  “See that! Dirty shirt, half drunk, looking like you haven’t slept in weeks, and what’s the headline? ‘Sexy Scientist Jack Hamilton Parties with Bad Boy Adam Kasen!’ Can you imagine what the headline would be if I were out with you looking like that? ‘Jack Hamilton and Homeless Older Woman Out on the Town.’ ‘Jack Hamilton and Insane Woman Go to Biker Bar.’ I’d never get away with it. So think about that next time you complain about my bony hips. Bony hips are in my contract.” I turned away from him, as I could feel the tears beginning to form, and focused on putting on my skirt.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  Head rush from the hard candy?

  I could hear him getting out of the bed and coming up behind me. I let him pull me back against him, mirroring our earlier position but in much different circumstances.

  “Sorry, Nuts Girl, you’re totally right. It’s wrong that it’s like this, but you’re totally right. You do what you need to do. I’m behind you one hundred percent,” he whispered, slipping his hands around my middle and squeezing tight. I sighed, leaning back into him, feeling him wrap around me.

  “I’m figuring this out as I go, Jack, ya know?” I whispered back.

  “I know.”

  I spun around in his arms. “It’s not like there’s a manual, how to handle life in Hollywood.” I sniffed back the few tears that had managed to make their way to the surface.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think Holly has at least half that manual written already. She sure has plenty to say about these pictures.” He nodded toward the magazines.

  “Oh, I have plenty to say too, pretty boy. Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the partying you’ve been doing.”

  He looked a little ashamed, and once again I was reminded how young he was.

  “It’s under control. Don’t worry,” he soothed.

  Not possible.

  As that week passed, it became evident that things were most certainly not under control. Jack stayed in town, but I was busy on set most of the week, as we raced to get as much shot as we could so the show could premiere in the summer instead of the fall. The scenes were stacking up, and while it was going by fast, I took time each day to sit and think about how far I’d come. I was really enjoying the work—the actual work that went into putting a show together like this. Working closely with the other actors, developing a shorthand with the cast and the crew, bringing this character to life, and watching as the others did as well.

  And as I worked, Jack played. Sure he spent his days on the set filming, but he spent his nights out on the town. And then his days sleeping it off. He was young, and this town laid itself out for him. Clubs were packed to capacity on the nights he was in attendance, and the photographers were out in full force. After his accident, he didn’t drive himself much, now employing Bryan on a much more full-time basis. Which worked out well for him: he could party even harder. Paparazzi swarmed him when he arrived and when he left, and industrious amateur photographers inside the clubs with camera phones sold shots to magazines of him sitting in VIP section after VIP section. And always with Adam right next to him.

  I had to give it to the guy, Adam was smart. After his star threatened to forever be tarnished by his past behavior, appearing with Jack so often around town had him back on the rise.

  Late one night, I was awoken from a sound sleep by the sound of glass breaking and loud male laughter. Startled, I sat up straight, tingles all along the back of my neck as my hand groped for my phone, ready to call the police. But before I could even get there, the bedroom door swung open and there he was, my Brit. And he was . . . laughing?

  “Grace, love, I’m so sorry. We broke your, oh man—” He doubled over with laughter.

  “What the hell?” I asked, drawing the sheet closer around me as I blinked back sleep. Now that I was awake, my emotions changed to something closer to anger.

  “Broke your buggery bowl. You know the one you keep our mail in? Adam tripped coming through the door and—Oh no, you’re mad!”

  He laughed again, sputtering as he crossed to the bed and sat down heavily next to me. The stink of whiskey was all around, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  “Adam? You brought Adam here?” I hissed, drawing the sheet around me even more tightly and looking around him to the hallway.

  “Sorry, love, yes. He was taking me home and needed a piss. I couldn’t very well let him out on the side of the road, could I?” He reached for me as I moved out of his grip.

  “Where’s Bryan?” I seethed.

  “Night off. Besides, I told you, Adam drove me home. Hmm . . . you’re mad, aren’t you?” He finally succeeded in taking my hand and pulling me toward him.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He wrapped himself around me and tried to snuggle me down onto the bed. He lay back against the pillows, sighing as I unscrambled myself out of his arms.

  “Jack, seriously, is he still here? Jack? Dammit.” I pushed at him as he settled into the pillows, his breaths getting deeper. “Wake up, Jack.” I nudged him again.

  He was passed out cold. Son of a bitch. I heard the tinkle of broken pottery in the other room. I slid into my robe and made my way out to see our guest.

  “Hey, Grace. Sorry about the mess. If you have a broom, I’ll clean that right up.”

&nb
sp; Adam Kasen stood in the entryway, broken bowl at his feet and shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

  “Thanks. I’ve got it,” I replied, walking past him into the kitchen. He followed me.

  “I’m really sorry about that. It was dark when we came in and—”

  “What are you doing?” I asked quietly as I grabbed the broom.

  “Trying to clean this up?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He looked at me shrewdly. “You don’t like me much, do you?” he asked after a beat, his head cocked to the side.

  “I don’t know you.”

  He grinned.

  Hit him with the broom!

  We stood across from each other, silent. The air was full.

  “I’ll see myself out,” he finally said, backing away toward the door.

  “Watch yourself,” I added, nodding to the pile of broken pottery on the floor.

  “I’ll buy you another,” he said, his hand on the door.

  “Yes, you will.”

  He grinned once more.

  Ram him with the end of the broom handle!

  After he left, I cleaned up his mess and got into bed with Jack, who was still passed out.

  Still think you should have whacked him upside the head with the broom . . .

  The next morning I had an early call, but not so early that I didn’t wake up our fair Mr. Hamilton. He moaned and groaned as I pulled his covers down.

  “Gracie, please, it’s too early. Covers, covers!” he griped, inching his way down the bed and trying to burrow back under.

  “I know. Sucks to be woken up so suddenly, doesn’t it?” I smiled, perching at the end of the bed with a cup of coffee. He sniffed the air.

  “That smells good. Bring me a cup?” he asked, still inching lower on the bed.

  “Man, you’re really asking for it, aren’t you?” I lifted an eyebrow and the duvet farther out of his reach. He opened one eye, then the other. Confusion flooded into his face.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’d like to ask you the same question.”