It takes you a moment to come back to yourself, and when you do, you realize you’re already back to your trailer. You smile at Colm. “Can you come in?”
“Anna, I can’t tell you how much I would like to,” Colm says with a frown, “but I cannot. I have to e-mail two hundred words to my editor tonight. But I so wanted to see you.”
You can’t conceal the disappointment you feel as your eyes drop to the ground.
Colm places a finger beneath your chin and brings your eyes up to meet his. You think he will kiss you again, but instead he takes his index finger and touches it to the tip of your nose. “Anna,” he says, “you are truly delightful.” He places a single kiss on your forehead and turns to leave.
Your eyes follow him as he walks away, and as he does, you catch a glimpse of someone walking between trailers farther out on the lot. You can’t tell in the dim light, but the cocky stride looks suspiciously like Jackson’s. What is he up to now? you wonder. You don’t wait to find out. You firmly close and lock your trailer door then head into a quick shower followed by a peaceful, dream-filled sleep.
The next day on the set is not your best. Buffy doesn’t say more than “look up,” and “close your eyes,” as she perfects your hair and makeup. You think she’s a little rougher with the brushes than she needs to be, but it could be just your imagination.
Every time the director yells, “Cut!” you glance around to see whether Colm is anywhere in sight. Your disappointment mounts as the hours pass and he fails to make an appearance. Maybe he’ll surprise you with a visit to your trailer later you tell yourself as the day ends.
On your way back to the trailer, one of the crew members jogs up to you and hands you a magazine, “Jeffries wanted me to bring this to you,” he says. “Told me to tell you good job keeping the rumor mill humming.” You glance down at the cover, which features a Tropical Tango publicity close-up and the headline, WE EXCLUSIVE: HAS ANNA FOUND LOVE ON SET? WE WEEKLY GETS UP-CLOSE AND PERSONAL WITH THE SULTRY STAR!
You try to distract yourself from thoughts of Colm by leafing through the magazine. As usual, the article contains vague information, quotes from “sources on set,” linking you to Jackson (which annoys you slightly) and to “a hot new mystery man” (which is closer to the truth). There’s not a solid fact in the story and you dismiss it quickly and pick up the script you were planning to spend the evening reading. The night grows later and later, and before you know it, you’re sound asleep. It’s past midnight when you awaken. You rise groggily, try to put thoughts of Colm’s continued absence out of your mind, lock the trailer door, and tuck in for the night.
The next day brings more of the same. When the sun begins to set and shooting wraps, you still haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Scottish. This time you decide to go look for him.
You’re starting to feel frustrated. Was it your imagination, or did he genuinely seem interested in you the other night? Is he playing some kind of game? At this point, you really don’t know, but you’re determined to find out.
You wrap yourself in a thick white robe and slide on a pair of flip-flops, then head out the door still in full hair and makeup. You make two laps around the back lot and cannot find Colm anywhere. Over at craft services, stuffing slices of yellow cheese into his mouth, stands the scrawny photographer who arrived with Colm.
“Hey,” you say as you approach him, “have you seen Colm?”
“Over dere,” he responds through a mouthful of cheese, and cocks his head toward the trailer behind you.
“Thanks,” you tell him. As you walk around the backside of the trailer, you glimpse a figure hunched on a low folding chair sitting in the long shadow cast by the huge vehicle.
“Colm?” you ask.
He glances up coolly.
“What are you doing over here?”
He lifts a clipboard filled with notes. “Thought it would be obvious. Working.”
“Why are you back here? Are you hiding?”
Colm roughly throws the clipboard onto his lap. “Just helping myself to some shade. Not ones for the glaring sun, we Scots.”
You laugh and walk closer to him. “You should have told me. You could have used my trailer. Lord knows it sits empty all day.”
Once again Colm seems to appraise you with an odd detachment. “Quite all right. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
You can’t believe what you’re hearing. What happened to the man who was so warm and intimate just the other day?
“Colm,” you ask him, “what is going on? You’re acting really strange. Did I do something to upset you?”
He draws in a long breath and blows it out just as slowly. “Anna, I appreciate your concern but I’m a grown lad. Really. And I shouldn’t have put you or myself in this position.” He pauses as if to say something else then decides against it. “I expect I made more of our evening together than I should’ve. What was I to expect? Here you are on a movie set with a handsome American actor. These things happen.”
You cross our arms defensively and take a step back, feeling sheer puzzlement. “What things happen, exactly?”
“Anna, there’s no reason for a charade. It’s quite understandable. It’s to be expected you’d want to charm the media. And that you’d fall for your costar. A little clichéd, maybe, but who am I to judge?”
Every word Colm says cuts like a shard of jagged glass. You shake your head to clear your thoughts. “Colm, there’s nothing—I don’t know what you heard . . .” But you have a sneaking suspicion you do know what he’s heard and where he’s heard it. You can scarcely believe it, yet you wouldn’t put it past that manipulative jerk.
“Colm, I swear to you, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, going on between me and anyone else on this set.”
You see a look of uncertainty flicker over Colm’s face for a moment then the cold resolve sets in again. “Anna,” he says with resignation, “you do not owe me a thing.” He drops his eyes back to his clipboard.
What on earth would Jackson have told him that is causing Colm to pull back so suddenly and completely? You have no idea, but you intend to find out.
With a frustrated frown you tell Colm, “I’ll be back,” and you march off across the set.
You bang hard enough on Jackson’s door to make your fist throb. After the first set of knocks he doesn’t answer, so you knock again, even harder this time, rage flowing through your veins. You almost hit him in the face when he finally flings open the door.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Anna.” Jackson’s slow smile and smug amusement makes you even angrier.
You shove through the door and slam it behind you as Jackson leans casually against the doorframe. For the first time you notice his hair is wet and tousled and he’s wearing nothing more than a thin, white bath towel wrapped low around his hips.
He gives you a slow once-over and clicks his tongue approvingly. “Well, don’t we make a pair?” he drawls with a slow smile. “You in your robe and I in my towel.”
You, however, are not in the mood. “Don’t be a jackass!”
He raises an eyebrow. “No,” he corrects, “it’s Jackson, I think you must have misunderstood.”
“Don’t try to be cute. You know what you did. Why would you do that? Are you really so insecure that you have to fabricate a relationship between us?”
“Ahhh,” he says slowly, “so you talked to Scotty.”
So he knows, you think, and he even acknowledges it. “Why? Can you just answer that?”
“You know,” he says, “Anna, I’m not exactly making anything up.” He takes a bold step toward you. “Just predicting the future.”
Moving even closer, he grabs the belt of your robe, pulling you toward him. “You can’t deny there’s something between us.”
You pretend fascination and lean in to him, taking a breath and summoning your acting skills. “You know, Jackson, you’re right, there is something between us. It’s too big to deny. Huge, really.” Then, with a dramatic shove
you push your way free. “It’s your ego! There’s no way I could ever get past it!”
You turn to march out the door, and as you open it, you hear Jackson from behind you. “Hey, Anna, one more thing.”
“What?” you ask, not bothering to turn around. For a long moment, he says nothing, so you ask again, more annoyed than ever, “What?”
You turn to see him sauntering toward the back of the trailer, and as he does, he casually drops his towel, leaving his bare buttocks exposed. You feel yourself blushing as you can’t help but stare. His rear end is tight, perfectly chiseled, and strong, twitching as he walks away. You know the image will be burned into your brain for nights to come, “Ugh!” you yell out as you hurl yourself down the stairs, not bothering to close the door behind you.
Before you take a step further, time seems to slow and you feel an odd sense of helplessness. You have the presence of mind to think this must be like what it’s like to watch a car accident occur, vertiginous and disorienting but oddly focused and precise at the same time.
Buffy rounds the corner of the trailer and takes in the scene at a glance—you in your bathrobe, Jackson’s retreating, bare backside, your face still flushed from the heated exchange.
She stops in her tracks, and the look of pure disgust on her face is one you’ll never forget.
Before turning on her heels she mutters, “You two deserve each other.”
You feel like you’ve been sucker-punched and can’t even get a word out as you watch your friend walk away. Could this day get any worse? you wonder.
As it turns out, it can. Walking back to your trailer, you hear a commotion on the back lot behind you. Before you can process what is happening, several crew members run in the direction from which you just came. You wander slowly in their wake, in a dazed state of shock, dreading what you are about to see.
You shove into the shouting and cheering crowd and you cannot believe your eyes.
Colm and Jackson are going at it like a couple of teenage boys, fists flying. You can see Jackson’s landed at least one good shot. There’s a slash of red under one of Colm’s eyes, but he’s seething like a tiger about to take down his prey.
Jackson swings and misses, Colm ducking to just barely avoid a right hook, and then he smoothly rounds on Jackson, delivering a solid upper cut to the gut, coupled with a right cross landing squarely on Jackson’s nose. There’s a sickening crunch as Jackson drops like a rock, one arm wrapped around his midsection as the other hand flies to his streaming nose. You feel the bile rise in your throat as blood begins to seep through his fingers.
Jackson manages to rise to a seated position while security pushes roughly through the crowd to pull Colm away. Jackson’s hands still cover his bloodied face and as Colm is led away you can hear Jackson screaming, “He broke my nose! He broke my nose!”
As you hurry to catch up with Colm, you notice a few people glancing inquiringly in your direction. At this point you really don’t care what people think. You just want to be sure Colm is okay.
The door to the security trailer slams shut a second before you get there. You climb the stairs and knock timidly. A burly guard opens the door a crack and you glimpse Colm sitting on a stool with his hands wire-tied behind his back. He looks utterly miserable.
“Colm,” you begin, pushing open the door, “are you all right? What happened?”
The big security guards steps rudely between the two of you, “I’m sorry ma’am. This is a private matter. We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
You manage to plead, “Colm, come see me later, please?” before the door is shut firmly in your face.
You return to your trailer and try to distract yourself by reading through more of the script as you wait for word from Colm. Unable to concentrate, your mind keeps wandering back to the fight and the moments before it, to the bloody cut below Colm’s eye, to the surge of blood from Jackson’s nose, to the look of disgust on Buffy’s face.
You shut the script in frustration. You haven’t processed a single word. Finally, as you are about to give up and resign yourself to what you’re sure will be a sleepless night, there’s a knock at the door.
An exhausted and banged-up version of the handsome man you’ve been thinking about all afternoon stands on the little stairway. He doesn’t quite make eye contact. You usher him quickly inside and fill a Ziploc with ice for his swollen eye, now turning an alarming shade of purple.
The musky smell of sweat emanates from Colm and you feel a sudden wash of attraction, despite the circumstances. “Tilt your head back,” you instruct, placing a finger gently under his chin and the ice gingerly on his eye.
He clenches his teeth just slightly, and you can tell he’s trying hard to hide the pain he is feeling.
You let a few moments pass, then ask, “So, what exactly happened out there?”
Colm squints at you with his one open eye and grins. “I kicked his arse is what happened.”
You try to hide your amusement. “You know what I mean.”
He sighs and leans his head back even farther. “Only so much of that cocky bastard can be tolerated. Someone had to take him down a wee notch.”
“Well, you certainly turned out to be the man to do it.”
“Hmph,” he agrees in a satisfied way.
“And what happened with security?”
“Well, that’s the tougher part. Mr. Movie Star may or may not press charges. I may or may not have broken his perfect nose. Chibbed him good, I did.”
“Mmmm . . . I think his pride is probably hurt worse than his nose.”
He clears his throat then sighs. “And I’ve been ordered to leave the set.”
This news hits you like a sledgehammer. You can’t stand the thought of seeing him go, especially with so much uncertainly lingering between you.
“Colm?”
“Hmm?”
“You do realize that there is nothing between me and Jackson, don’t you?”
“You know, Anna, I do believe you,” he pauses for a moment. “I believed you when you told me, I just—and then, when you told me he was lying, and I could see the determination in your face, it just made me so angry. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so angry in my life, if I’m honest.”
He stops for a moment, and you give him time to continue. He winces as you lift the bag of ice from his eye to take a look. It doesn’t look much better.
“You know,” he continues, “ever since I’ve been in the States it’s amazed me that there are people able to get away with almost anything. It’s been under my skin and I just blew up. Even you celebrities are just people. No offense.”
“None taken,” you reply with a laugh.
Once again you’re struck by how instantly comfortable Colm makes you feel. You don’t need to be anything other than yourself around him, and he doesn’t consider you anything other than a regular person. It’s a feeling that’s new to you.
Although you’re not one to verbalize your true emotions, so used to hiding behind the mask of whatever character you portray, you know you risk losing this man and this feeling if you don’t say something to him now.
For a moment you are paralyzed, trying to find the right words to say, yet you’re totally overwhelmed by the deep physical attraction you feel. You just hope Colm feels the same.
You slip your hand behind his neck and begin rubbing gently. Colm sighs with pleasure.
“You’re still all tensed up,” you tell him.
“Mmmhmm,” he replies.
“Here,” you say, “let me work some of those knots out.”
You set the bag of ice on the table, take his hand firmly, and lead him back to your room. The lights are off and the ambient glow from the tiny windows submerges you into a murky dimness. Feeling your way, you guide him to your bed. You kneel beside him and begin a slow and gentle back rub.
Slipping your fingers into the thick hair at the base of his neck, you work your way down to his broad shoulders, kneading away th
e tension. Colm lies totally still, only moaning appreciatively every so often.
As your fingers work their magic, you feel your courage resurface.
“So . . .” you begin. “I was thinking . . .”
“Were ye now?” Colm teases, his voice muffled by the pillow.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to continue. “I was thinking that it’s a shame you have to leave, just when we were getting to know each other.”
Colm replies, “Mmph,” which could mean anything, leaving you unsure of what to say next.
You continue on, “Anyway, this is going to sound stupid, but I have to say it.”
He waits for you to go on as your fingers continue to work.
“Okay, here it is. Colm, I really like you.”
“Mmmmhmmm?”
“And, I really don’t want you to go.”
“Doesn’t appear you or I have much say in that, given the recent developments.”
You wait for Colm to say something more as you continue the rhythm of your massaging fingers. He feels heavy and totally sedate beneath your hands.
“So, that’s what I wanted to say,” you finish. You’re glad Colm can’t see the blush you know is turning your face a bright red. Have you said too much? Colm remains totally silent.
You pause in mid-massage, desperate to find a way to be sure this man knows how you feel. You certainly do not feel one iota closer to knowing how he feels about you—and the silence isn’t helping.
You work up your courage again and continue to massage, your hands pressing hard as they move down his spine.
“Where will you go? I mean, are they going to deport you?”
Colm snorts a short laugh, “I’ve no idea, Anna. Likely depends on how far your friend—er, Jackson—takes it. Just hope his nose looks better in the morning.”
“So,” you press on, “you’ll go back to LA, and then wait to find out what happens?”
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