“In time.”
“Oh, good. Time. Excellent unit of measure. And so specific.”
“You want me to get specific?”
“No, let’s be obtuse some more.” My voice dropped. “The eagle poops at midnight, pass it on.”
His green eyes glinting, he leant down to my height and said, “Specifically? That tight, black spandex looks so damn hot on you it should be illegal.”
I gasped, my mouth dry and watering all at the same time. Oxymoronic reactions were the only kind appropriate for him—heavy on the moronic.
What is a girl to do when her ex says something insanely sexy, and also completely true?
a) Throw him on the bed and make him prove it.
b) Throw him on the bed and make him prove it while reciting Byron to you.
c) Tell him that NASA made your outfit. And then pretend that you were the only two space people on Saturn, so you must get busy and repopulate the planet.
d) Run away.
I chose the path of least resistance—I ran away. Well, after I’d wormed my way around his hot, muscular body, and his warm, lusting gaze, and the giant, tawdry hands reaching for me and—oh, Lord. I eventually escaped.
In the next room, Shelley was still stuck to her phone like her palms were made of suckers. She and Sam deserved each other. I slammed open the door and proceeded down the steps.
Shelley bumped into my back at the bottom. She nearly lost a flip-flop. I nearly bit it in my fancy, spiky boots.
I righted myself with minimal disgruntlement and walked a few paces. She followed. “I have to get to set,” I said.
“Yeeeeaaaahhhh.”
I walked a few more paces. She followed. I rounded on her, my hands bunched in fists. “You don’t have to come with me. Nothing is going to happen right now except me working.”
She chewed for a moment while confusion rippled between her brows like wake from a particularly stupid jet ski. “But I’m your massacre.”
“Yes. Yes, you probably will be my massacre.” No recognition flickered across her blue eyes. I shoved my frustration and rage a bit further down into my intestines and kept walking. It hurt a little, truth be told—if I bottled up any more emotions I’d need an antacid drip. Or a massage.
No doubt the massage Shelley would give me would have dire consequences, and, now that I ‘employed’ a ‘masseuse’, I couldn’t receive an actual massage from an actual professional without it seeming weird. So not only was I massage-less, but I would stay that way! Oh, the indignity of it all when a semi-famous person couldn’t get her every whim catered to! This was the sort of gross injustice that led to a person saying, “Don’t you know who I am?”
I chuckled to myself as I hopped around the lighting technicians to avoid getting in their way. I’d never experienced a massage in my life until about six months ago, because of being poor. Anyone who tells you that money doesn’t lead to happiness is a rich asshole hoping you never find out how much they’re lying, you plebe.
* * * *
Around dawn, the production packed up and moved so the museum could resume normal business. I waved bye to cast and crew and dragged my tired bones out of the palatial building and towards my trailer. Both Sam and Shelley dogged my steps, as they’d done all freaking night long. Mine was the worst entourage since the TV show Entourage. Their eyes glinted from the dark while I worked, their hands bumped into mine at the catering table, and their desire to follow me into the bathroom really went too far, although Shelley had given me a panty liner. But I swore—the next time someone got between me and a bag of buttered popcorn, there would be hell to pay.
This time of morning was the best. My body sank with exhaustion from giving it my all the whole night, and the promise of dinner and sleep loomed bright.
Plus neither of the back-stabbing burrs followed me home.
Danny caught me up while I was on the way to gather my things. He stopped and grinned at me, and I cannot pretend that his regard, which had got more and more intense, left me unfazed. I couldn’t help returning the smile, even though it sent Sam into some sort of muscle spasm.
I pulled my co-star aside, away from my gang of thieves. Sam made an immediate move to follow, but a bunch of burly grips began carting equipment between our groups. Danny put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “You okay? You seem preoccupied.” He yanked his hand back. “You’re fantastic on set, of course! I didn’t mean that.”
“Thanks a lot, Danny.” I punched him on the shoulder—jokingly, gently. Not like I punch Sam, who deserved regular beatings. “I’m dealing with some…family drama.” I.e. crime family. “But I’m fine.”
“Come out for breakfast with me. I know a lovely place that serves mimosas. Since it’s our ‘five o’clock’.”
My soul burst forth and sang. Silently, though, or else that would no doubt alarm him. “Mimosas sounds wonderful. I’m in!” I’d given up drinking since we switched to night shoots, as slugging whisky alone in your apartment at eight in the morning makes one feel even ickier than coping with real life sober.
“Mimosas?” piped up Sam in the cheeriest voice I’d ever heard him use, except for maybe when promised a sexual act or watching sci-fi. He zipped between two moving lighting towers to join us. Shelley hadn’t seemed to notice the conversation and began to wander away, presumably to stare at her phone in privacy until the radiation made her eyeballs fall out—she never bothered with trailing me except on set. Sam continued, “Who doesn’t love orange juice?”
Danny’s face crinkled as he tried to concoct a polite way to disinvite Sam. “Oh, hello…”
The bark of laughter flew from me before I could help myself. My hand flew to my mouth too late. I recovered and said, “It’s Sam.”
“It’s Zack,” Sam snapped.
“Loser is what you were thinking of,” I told Danny, now peering from one of us to the other as if we were quite, quite mad. We were all mad here—me, Sam, Zack, Loser…
“Sorry, mate,” Danny said. “We, um…well…”
“Great! I’ll get my stuff!” Sam jogged off to my trailer lickety-split.
Kind, gentle Danny was no match for the devious wonder of Sam, Official Piece of Cockblocking Shit. Two is a party, three is a mess the likes of which could rival the Exxon Valdez disaster.
* * * *
The Princess Margaret was so English a restaurant it looked like the set of a sitcom called Tea and Crumpets, What What, Paul McCartney. Rough-hewn stone walls surrounded us, tamed only mildly by the dark wood panelling on their bottom half. The window shades had been thrown open and the bright light of morning awoke me, just as it was designed to. My poor body still fought the jetlag, and now the switch to night work left my spine a giant question mark.
We three grabbed a booth in the back. Through some sort of dark wizardry, Sam arranged it so that he sat between me and Danny in the curved seat. As he bumped my hip to scoot in next to me, he smiled, grim satisfaction in his tightly-set mouth. I remembered I’d told him that me and Danny were doing the hump-de-hump. I smirked at him with a challenge of my own. He thought he would separate me from my international movie star, whom I enjoyed for good reasons and not because it irritated him?
Oh, was he wrong.
So, so wrong.
We settled in, dispensing awkward, pleasant smiles all round. A middle-aged, cheery waitress took our orders of three full English breakfasts, with mimosas to start. I wasn’t sure those things went together, but when in the Princess Margaret…
And when you’re sitting at one point of an actual, physical love triangle…
Never in history had three people reached for champagne glasses with such speed. Danny bounced the ball and launched the first volley. “So, Zack—how long have you been Samantha’s assistant? Are you enjoying London?”
Sam settled back and spread out his arms. His fingers crept towards my shoulder, but I leaned sideways to search for something pretend in my purse. “I’ve worked closely with Saman
tha for a little over a year now. I like to stay on top of her.” He chuckled, and I snapped my head up. “You’ve got to ride these artist-types, or else they go off, half-cocked. Know what I mean?”
Danny played with his napkin, clearly having no idea what Sam meant.
“He’s been to London before,” I added to shut Sam the hell up. “I thought today went really well. We made up for some of the scenes we got behind on last night.”
My adorable co-star winked at me adorably. “It helped that no one tried to destroy the museum tonight.”
“I did so try! I may be clumsy, but I’m not a quitter.” I’d had a bit of an ‘oops’ encounter with a Plexiglas box containing Roman coins while suspended above it by a crane. There’s a steep learning curve to high-wire flying. Could happen to anyone.
Leaning forward on the table, Danny said, “They really ought to find a way to secure your zipper. If it continues sliding downward when you run, we’ll be making soft-core porn.”
I giggled and tossed my hair. I can do it, too, stupid Valerie! “It’s so gentlemanly of you to avert your eyes, the way you do sometimes.”
His chuckle curled around us, warm and soft, and caused Sam to utter a sound like that of a wounded moose. Sam tried to cover by draining his drink.
“Did you hear about that fifty-car pileup in Edinburgh?” Actual crickets chirped after Sam said this.
“I’m going to visit the ladies’ room,” I announced, as thoughts of peeing were preferable to giant car accidents. I scooched out of the booth and gave Danny a cheery, obvious shoulder squeeze on the way. The moose-gurgling noise haunted me all the way to the toilet.
Upon my return, I enacted my plan. I headed straight for Danny and sat on the few inches of booth on the end beside him. “Care for some company?” Quick as a horny bunny, he moved to let me in. Now the three of us jammed together in one-half of the booth, for Sam refused to move. Since we were so close, I put my arm around Danny’s shoulders and began recounting a funny thing our director had said today. Sam’s eyes glowed like molten darkness, and he inched away from us without breaking his hostile regard.
Victory!
A fresh round of mimosas arrived, thank goodness. Danny didn’t even seem to think that me being so cold to Sam was weird, for he stared at my ex as if he were leprous, or perhaps suffering from a disease of the brain. I’d never seen Sam so awkward—he could normally win a charm competition from two counties away with one dimple tied behind his back.
Sam took a deep breath, drained half of his fresh glass and said to Danny, “What’s next for you, Daniel? After What Could Go Wrong?”
Ah, an actual thing a human being might say! He was fighting dirty now.
“I’ll shoot a film adaptation of Midsummer Night’s Dream next year, but I think I might take some time off the latter half of this year. Reconnect with real life.” Danny glanced at me ever so briefly. “Remember what’s it like to see friends, relatives. Maybe even date a little.”
“That’s just crazy enough to work,” I said.
“I hope so.”
A whole mess of subtext rippled beneath those three words, and a wave of guilt washed over me. I had exactly no reason to feel guilty, but the raw, pained lines on Sam’s face and the tense cords of his neck made my innards recoil. A full minute of silence descended. Danny bit his lip and shot me a warm look, which I returned. It wasn’t his fault that Sam and I had enough history to fill a college textbook.
The food arrived, smelling wonderful and large enough to feed, well, a ploughman. Holy crap, these English could embarrass even an American breakfast—there was sausage, ham, hash browns, eggs, tomato, mushrooms, beans and something black and circular. “What is that?” I asked Danny.
“Black pudding. It’s good—try it.”
“What’s it made of?”
Sam cracked his first real smile of the day. “Don’t tell her until she tries it.”
I froze. “Now I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be.” He leaned in and locked onto my eyes. “You’ll like it. You like anything having to do with meat.” The way he imbued meaning into ‘meat’ made me straight-up blush. My entire face heated, and the fire spread south until I tingled in a way that no lady should at breakfast.
To conceal my overheated everything, I was forced to try the mystery meat. He’d practically dared me, anyhow. It tasted salty, crumbly—a richness on my tongue that lingered. “Mmmmmm,” I offered to all and sundry. This pleased both men greatly.
“It’s congealed blood,” Sam said.
I stopped a fresh bite halfway to my mouth. But then I thought…is blood any different from meat? The second bite tasted better than the first. I fancied I could detect the tang of blood. It made me feel…metal. Powerful. As if I were a queen who devoured my enemies’ hearts and washed them down with champagne. And then went home to her castle to find her two husbands awaiting her. One with a dimple, and the other with an honest smile that warmed the heart…
Perhaps I read too much into pudding.
I couldn’t help my laugh at Sam getting my goat, and he cocked one eyebrow at his win before he tucked into his own food. When I turned to Danny, I found him watching me hazily. I blushed anew.
Why couldn’t I just have both? I decided I needed to find myself a romance novel that ended with a duchess and her two stable boys living happily ever after. Perhaps I’d produce the movie based on the book…
My breakfast grew cold while I was woolgathering dirty thoughts. Not the first time that had happened.
We made small talk as we ate. A refreshing semi-ease broke through the tension covering us like a humid day. Sam visibly refused to smile at Danny, though, and his jealousy—oh, God, his jealousy—made me hot and foolish. My face bloomed even redder—I felt it roast inside and out. I experienced the same thing when I exercised, and my blood certainly pumped pit-a-pat right now. Even my lips tingled, just a little, with every bite I took.
Finally, I could take my own thoughts no more, and I blurted the first thing that came to mind, “So, Danny, what are you doing after breakfast?”
“Going to bed.”
His deep voice almost destroyed me. I managed not to drop my fork, but barely.
I was a wanton harlot who would burn in the fires of purgatory. Already the flames had begun—sweat actually trailed between my breasts.
“Anybody lucky going to join you?” asked a new voice.
I snapped my head up so fast I became dizzy. Valerie. Like an ointment-resistant cold sore, she was back. And wearing an old dress of Ethel Mertz’s.
“Hi, Mr Zhang. I’m Veronica, Samantha’s European publicist.”
Veronica. Well. I was so important my on-site staff had grown from zero to three in a week. If only my pay cheques tripled in this manner.
Valerie plopped down on the other side of Sam, giving his cock a squeeze as she sat. Oh, wait, maybe not his actual member, but so far up on his thigh it was difficult to tell the freaking difference.
The wraith began speaking. “Zack told me you guys were here, and, well, to be perfectly honest”—she paused and simpered to Danny—“I really wanted to meet you! I’m such a huge fan.”
Danny nodded to the compliment and proffered his most amiable smile. And that’s saying something. He’s such a sweet man, he’d invented three new types of graciousness.
Valerie clawed at Sam’s leg some more. “I also have some things to go over with Samantha, so I’m mixing business and pleasure.”
Pleasure because of how much she’d enjoy eating pudding made of my blood, no doubt.
This was bad. Very, very bad. We’d morphed into that most fearsome of geometric horrors—the love parallelogram.
Sam had gone rigid the moment she’d appeared in a puff of witch smoke. Why the hell had he told her we were here? Screw the both of them. I said, “I’m afraid I can’t today, Veronica. I’d asked Danny about his plans because I wanted to talk to him after breakfast about tomorrow’s scene.” My turn to lay
a gentle hand on Danny’s knee. Not his crotch, because I have some fucking dignity.
“That’s absolutely fine. My pleasure,” he immediately replied. He flicked his gaze to my hand, still on his leg. One corner of his mouth turned up.
Sam was now also staring at my hand, his jaw working and his poor teeth no doubt gnashing. Such are the stakes in the Game of Parallelograms.
My nemesis darkened, too, as if a cloud had passed over her own personal sun. “I’ll have to catch you this evening then, Samantha.”
I didn’t bother to reply. I knew I couldn’t put her off forever. My score surged ahead only temporarily.
“I guess I’ll have to settle for making Zack walk me back to my hotel.” Valerie faux-pouted and pushed her perky rack at Sam. “Pretty please?”
Sam didn’t smile so much as raise a grimace just enough to pass for one. “My pleasure.”
He’d said he wasn’t sleeping with her. But why did I care? I did care, dammit! Okay? I did care. I loved Sam, and I lusted Danny, and I hated Valerie, and who gave a flying fart about any of it because I was going to die as soon as this movie wrapped, anyway. Panic swelled in me, desperate and breathless, and it took everything I possessed to approximate calm for public view. I continued to secretly sweat.
I leaned in and aimed a toothy smile at Valerie’s obnoxious face. “Have fun, you two,” I drawled.
“Oh, we will,” Valerie snipped.
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Excellent.”
“Wonderful!”
I wanted to hunt her down in the jungle, skin her and wear her carcass as a warning to other enemies. But mostly I needed to avert my eyes, because if that harpy got one millimetre closer to Sam’s junk, I was going to set her ugly shoes on fire.
My hand burst into the air, and our waitress hurried right over with a portable credit card swiper. I paid for the meal and soon tugged playfully on Danny’s arm until we were out of the restaurant and in the brilliant sun. A moment or two passed before I saw past my rage to recognise the beautiful day.
Danny slid on a sexy pair of aviators. “Your place or mine?” he asked.
The Dimple Strikes Back Page 13
