Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  Rocking back on my heels, I grin up at her. “I have, and it’s my favorite.”

  She blushes, which is adorable, though I would probably appreciate more if I couldn’t see the pinkness of her tempting me through the gauziness of her panties.

  “The only rule is that you let me know if you like something.”

  She frowns, but before she can say anything, I lean forward and press my tongue against her.

  She jolts and then her hand sinks into my hair, pulling my face closer.

  “Yeah, just like that,” I murmur against her.

  Pushing the material out of my way, I explore the soft folds of her with my thumbs and my tongue and lips. Setting a regular rhythm of my tongue against her clit makes her moan and squirm against me. She throws her leg over my shoulder and uses the leverage to pull me closer.

  That’s it, Callie. Come on, baby.

  When I slide my fingers inside her at the same time, she quivers.

  “Eric,” she says in a faint voice. “I’m … I can feel…”

  I pause. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay.” I brace my free hand on her knee, the one not over my shoulder, to help keep her upright and press my mouth to her again.

  She’s so damn close; I can feel the first clutches of …

  The rattle of the doorknob behind me is the only warning we get. Somehow, in all of this, I managed to forget we are in a closet, in the middle of a crowded party, and there’s no lock on the door. Fortunately, it’s enough time for me to yank the front of Calista’s dress down to cover her. She’s breathing hard, a dazed look on her face. I’m not sure she even heard anything.

  I’m still half-crouched and turning to stand when the door flies open.

  “Shit,” Calista says frantically, and I hear the sounds of fabric rustling.

  “Oh, hey, sorry, bro.” A guy with bleached, teen-idol hair that’s trying just a little too hard stands in the doorway, a girl wrapped around him, and I raise myself to my full height to block his view of Calista.

  He pauses, staring, and I take a threatening step toward him, thinking he’s staring at Calista scrambling to put herself back together.

  But instead, his gaze tracks me, and his forehead wrinkles in a momentary frown.

  “Hey, I know you,” he says, pointing at me, a clear liquor bottle in his hand.

  “I don’t think so,” I grit. “Get out.”

  He ignores me. “No, no, I do.” He nods at me. “You’re Eric Stone, right? Your dad’s some big-time producer or whatever.” His mouth twists into a tight smile. “I’m Kyle. We used to go up against each other at auditions. But you know how that shit worked out,” he says with a laugh that sounds forced and more than a little bitter.

  All the warmth from the past twenty minutes with Calista drains away, leaving me feeling cold and empty. Brittle.

  “Uh-huh.” I could give him my standard answer, that I don’t get jobs because of my dad. That if I do I never want it to be that way. But what’s the point? No one ever believes me. Just one more talentless rich brat getting by on Daddy’s connections. There are hundreds of us.

  Behind me, Calista grabs for and squeezes my hand. I can feel the sympathy in the gesture, and it’s hard not to pull away from her instinctively.

  Kyle, whoever the hell he is, takes a long swallow out of the bottle in his hand. “What are you doing here, man?”

  “This is my house,” I say. What does this guy want?

  “No shit?” he says, sounding surprised. “I didn’t know that.” He cocks his head contemplatively. “Then you should probably know that someone set the pool on fire.”

  “Fuck.” I shove past him into the hallway, pulling Calista with me. Sure enough, out here, there’s a distinct smell of something … singed, though the smoke detectors aren’t going off yet. How the hell do you set a pool full of water on fire?

  The closet door closes with a giggle from Kyle’s companion.

  Making a mess is one thing; I can hire a cleaning service like usual. But if something’s burning, I’m screwed. “I need to go handle this,” I say to Calista, but I can’t quite meet her eyes. Out here, with the thump of the music unmuted, and party-goers pushing past us on either side, it just feels more … real. Like what happened in the closet took place in another universe or between two other people.

  “I’m sorry.” But I’m not sure what, exactly, I’m apologizing for.

  “Eric.” She turns toward me, leaning forward until I finally look at her. Warmth and affection radiates from her expression. “It’s fine, really,” she says softly. “It’s not a big deal.” She touches my cheek, running her thumb along my jaw. “You have host responsibilities. One of which is probably dealing with any and all fire issues.”

  I snort, but there’s an uneasy pressure growing in my chest. This is wrong. You are wrong.

  She presses her mouth against my cheek, and my hand involuntarily squeezes hers tighter. I want to keep her. Keep her safe. Keep her happy.

  Keep her away from me.

  “Meet you upstairs in fifteen?” she asks in a whisper.

  Oh, God. My nod feels more like a convulsive jerk of my head than an actual response.

  But she smiles at me and turns away, letting go of my hand to head toward the stairs and my bedroom.

  “Wait,” I say gruffly.

  She pauses, and I zip up her dress, resisting the urge to kiss the top bump of her spine. Also resisting the urge to say, “Let it burn,” and follow her to my bed.

  Calista in my bed. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. But my mouth is dry with terror at the thought of it actually happening.

  When I’m finished with the zipper, Callie turns to shake her head at me, amusement flickering in her expression. “Waste of effort,” she says, shocking the hell out of me with a wink. Then she moves past me.

  I watched her go until she was out of sight at the curve in the stairs, wasting precious pool-saving seconds, because I couldn’t seem to make myself leave.

  It was like I knew even then that I was going to destroy everything. Maybe I did.

  * * *

  Dropping my glasses on the pages in front of me, I rub my eyes with the back of my fists, pressing a little harder than is probably wise, as if the action will somehow obliterate the rest of that evening from my memories.

  As it turned out, the pool wasn’t on fire. Just a deck chair or two, which were already sinking to the bottom. And once I kicked out the firebug asshole (he wasn’t hard to pick out—he was still flicking his lighter on and off while he watched it all burn; Jesus, these former Nickelodeon kids are messed up), I was free to go back upstairs.

  Except it couldn’t be that easy. Not with me.

  Of course, it wasn’t like I was all that clearheaded that night. Or that I, even on sober days, had a great grasp of why I wanted to push so hard against someone who genuinely cared about me.

  I didn’t want to think about it. I hated myself back then, and that made Callie’s feelings for me all the more confusing. I didn’t deserve her because she was clearly wrong about me. Wasn’t she?

  I just wanted to obliterate the situation so I wouldn’t have to feel so unsure about who I was.

  And I succeeded beyond all expectations.

  You’re good enough. The fact that Calista is still willing to say that to me now, after all of these years, after everything I’ve done, is unreal. She believed in me then and believes in me now. What have I done to deserve that? A fuck lot of nothing.

  And yet … I want her to be right. I want to believe that her belief in me is justified.

  My phone lights up, casting a harsh glow, and a text message arrives with a buzz.

  Katie: Where are you????

  She must have just gotten home from her shift at the emergency vet clinic.

  With a sigh, I pick up my phone.

  Sorry. Lots of work to do. We’re shooting over at my place tomorrow, so I’m here.

  My phone rings a half
second after the text goes through. Katie. Shit.

  I answer it. “Hey.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asks, sounding worried.

  “Yeah, just kind of a crazy day. Tons of prep work for tomorrow. Didn’t want to take over your kitchen and then ignore you like an asshole.” Why does all of this sound like a lie? It’s true. Just not all the details. I don’t want to tell her that Vincent quit.

  “How was work?” I ask.

  She’s quiet for a long moment.

  “Katie?”

  “Why did you pick up Bitsy?” she asks.

  “I thought she might drive you crazy, looking for me,” I say. Right now, she’s curled up in my lap, snoring.

  “You’re very considerate of my peace of mind,” Katie says with ice in her tone. I’ve never heard this from her before, except that one time, early in our relationship, when she was angry with me for staying out all night at a Kurosawa retrospective and then missing our lunch date because I accidentally overslept. She didn’t understand why I went. You’ve seen all the movies before!

  It was easier then just to give in, but not this time.

  I grit my teeth and then make myself take a deep breath. None of this is Katie’s fault. “Look, it was a long day, and—”

  “And you can’t talk to me about it? I come home to an empty house. You’re not here, the dog is gone, and you’ve taken some of your stuff—”

  “I just wanted to spend the night at my place, so I’d have more time to prepare.”

  “Why do you suddenly need more—”

  I make a frustrated noise. “Because the director quit today, okay?”

  “Oh,” she says, and relief is clear in that single syllable. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “What did you think was going on?” I ask, but I’m pretty sure I already know.

  “Nothing,” she says, but the real answer is loud and clear in the ensuing silence.

  Calista.

  “I just didn’t understand,” Katie says with a laugh that sounds a little forced. “So, did you find someone else to fill in?”

  “No, I’m just going to do it.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the thump of dread in my chest along with my heartbeat, and I realize that I was avoiding more than just telling her that Vincent had quit.

  “You’re what?” she asks.

  “I’m filling in as director,” I say slowly, as if I’m testing each word against my tongue. But instead of the expected panic, I feel only a calm certainty that it’s right, tempered with a little nervousness.

  “I don’t understand,” Katie says, and I can hear the frown in her voice. “I thought you were acting in this just to capitalize on the Starlight connection.”

  “I was. I am.”

  “Then why are you directing now, too? This was just supposed to be a starter project. A test.”

  “We can’t find anyone to fill in who knows the material as well as I do, and we’re on a tight schedule. You know, speaking as the executive producer,” I add, trying to rein in my natural sarcasm and not quite succeeding.

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” she says.

  I roll my eyes. “Katie,” I begin.

  “I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’re taking on so much.”

  “And you think I can’t handle it,” I say.

  She sighs. “Eric, I don’t ever want to keep you from trying something new. But I think we need to be reasonable about what one person can accomplish and where your strengths lie.”

  I grimace. “You’re afraid I’m going to lose it. Head straight for rock-bottom again.”

  “Well,” she hesitates. And she doesn’t need to say any more.

  She’s right. I have a history of spiraling in response to bad shit happening. Bad shit that I usually had a hand in causing. But the idea of being judged against my past mistakes when I’m trying so hard to make different, better choices makes a hard edge of resentment rise up in me. Is it so wrong that I want to be seen as someone who can change? That I can maybe have a shot at not dragging that history of bad decisions around with me everywhere for the next sixty years or so, like a trunkful of concrete chained around my ankle?

  “Well, fuck it, maybe you’re right,” I say. “We should just cancel the whole damn thing right now.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” she says with an exasperated noise.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  Katie’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m sure your dad could—”

  I go rigid. “No.”

  “Eric—”

  “What is your fixation with my dad?” I ask. “He’s not a good guy, and he sure as hell wasn’t a great father. Why do you think he’s going to be my savior?”

  “I don’t think that. But you’re doing it again, making choices based on what you think he thinks of you or how he’ll judge you. If it were anyone else in your situation, it would be insane to think about them ignoring the resources you have right at hand. You want to be successful, but only on your terms.”

  “Hell yes,” I say.

  She sighs. “Don’t you think that’s giving your dad too much power? Again?”

  The faint condescending note in her voice—poor, dumb Eric just doesn’t get it—pushes me over the edge. She’s not my therapist. She’s supposed to be my girlfriend, my fiancée. “So I should let you do it instead?”

  She sucks in a sharp breath.

  I rub my hand over my face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just … tired.” But it’s more than that, too. It’s finally clear to me that she really doesn’t understand. And she’s not going to. No matter how many times I’ve tried to explain my messed-up family, she doesn’t get it. It’s just an experience completely missing from her life; she doesn’t know how to relate. Maybe there are just some things that you can’t understand unless you’ve lived through them.

  And maybe I don’t want someone like that to have so much say in my choices. Shit, that’s probably not good.

  “I’m not going to let you use this as an excuse to push me away,” she says, her voice cracking with tears or exhaustion or both, and guilt pulls hard at my gut.

  Never let it be said that the woman doesn’t know me. But I’m beginning to think she may not understand me, and that might be the bigger issue.

  15

  CALISTA

  “Remember, you need to keep your chin tilted up. Otherwise, this angle is going to do nothing for your cheekbones and make your face look fat,” Lori says, her fingers under my jaw. The empty condo in Eric’s building where we’re filming today is huge. But the condo’s bedroom, which is crowded with people and equipment, is hot, and it’s only getting hotter as the lighting changes are made. And my mother is right on top of me, making adjustments. I can feel stress-sweat trickling down my spine.

  “Mom,” I say through gritted teeth. After last night, I expected her to avoid me, claiming more stress or another migraine. But instead, she’s doubled down on her suggestions, interference and general pushiness.

  “It would help if they weren’t using all white sheets,” she says with a frown, fussing with the covers over me, straightening them. “It’s only going to make you look larger.”

  You’d think a few hours of filming in a bed—not a love scene, but Evie slowly recovering and coming to the realization that her powers are gone—would be somewhat relaxing. But not with my mother here.

  “Don’t forget to cry,” Lori says to me, fluffing out my hair around the bandage on my left temple, much to the exasperation of Josie, who just fixed it. “It shows your range.”

  I could argue with her, make the point that Evie’s not sad, more relieved at this point, so crying would be an emotional miscue, but at this point, I just want her to back off.

  “Are we ready?” Eric calls—rather pointedly, it seems, in the direction of my mother, who is the only person not where she’s supposed to be.

  “Yes,” I
say, maybe a little too loudly. “Why don’t you go wait by the monitors, Mom?”

  But Lori lingers for a moment, her gaze scanning my face.

  I brace myself, waiting for the commentary about my chins or wrinkles or shininess.

  “You’re such a beautiful girl,” she says softly, her eyes growing bright with tears. “You know that? I’m so proud of you. If I’d had your talent…” She shakes her head.

  My mouth falls open.

  Before I can respond, she steps away.

  What was that? I sag back on the pillows as Eric approaches.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Eric. “I don’t know what she was—”

  He shakes his head, dismissing my words with a quick wave of his hand as he gets into position on the windowsill. Cory is sneaking in to see Evie. “Forget about it. It’s Lori.” But for some reason, those words sting a little today, like a slap against sunburned skin.

  Yes, she’s terrible sometimes—maybe even most of the time. But she’s my mother.

  And yet I don’t know if I can trust her.

  “Eric,” I say in a quiet voice, after checking to make sure the boom isn’t directly overhead yet. “I need to talk to you.” My stomach aches. My mother will never forgive me for this when she finds out. And Eric … I trust him with this, but he’ll be frustrated. And angry. On my behalf, yes, but also with me for not doing something sooner. For hesitating even a split second to turn on Lori. He doesn’t understand the pull of that family loyalty, misguided or not. Nor does he understand that it’s my mistake to make.

  He slides down off the window ledge and steps over toward “my” bed. “What’s up?”

  I open my mouth to spill just the necessary details—separate account, money to be deposited there, away from my mother—in what might be my only chance today.

  But he looks so tired, dark circles under his eyes and his skin almost pale with weariness.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard yesterday. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Didn’t sleep well,” he says shortly, staring at a point over my head. “Personal stuff,” he adds a moment later.

  It shouldn’t bother me. Once he might have told me all about it, usually with that sardonic smile as cover, his favorite method for trying to pretend that whatever it was wasn’t really bothering him. But we haven’t been in each other’s lives like that in years.