Indiscretions of a God

by Sunniva Dee

  “Sir?”

  “Has Troy seen the set yet?”

  He folds his arms as he answers. “No. He hasn’t been showing a whole lot of interest.”

  “Any antagonism?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I exhale my impatience. The producers are often in closer contact with my performers than the director, so I know he’s been talking with Troy.

  For a few moments, dread trickles through my system; I hate it when I doubt myself, thinking I could’ve neglected vital steps in the development of my projects. “Has he shown any sign of wanting to withdraw from the agreement?”

  “No, he’s just not that enthused.”

  “That’s still a problem.”

  “I know.” Ethan hands off a knife to one of the guys so they can fasten the cables below the podium.

  “Who does he like of the girls?”

  Tatiana’s behind me, not interrupting, but Ethan’s stare keeps flicking to her. He isn’t used to me being flanked by a woman, other than Belen, apparently, whom I spend more time putting in her place than anything else. It’s either that or Tatiana’s otherworldly beauty interfering with his response time.

  “Ethan?”

  “Sir. Yes, I honestly can’t tell. He’s fine with either, I guess?”

  I’m getting more worried by the second. “Have you had a convo about his expectations of the shoot?”

  “We have, and all I can say is he’s ready. He’s hanging in his room until it’s time.”

  I tighten my lips, grimacing out my disbelief. “So, you’re saying Troy has the choice between three of my top actresses, and he has no preference whatsoever as to which one he’s going to sleep with on-screen?”

  “That is what he’s saying,” Tatiana murmurs behind me. I send her a surprised look before I turn back to Ethan.

  “Who does Gianni see with him?”

  “Belen, sir.”

  “All right. Get her ready.”

  Ethan is as unreadable as I expect after an almost dress-down by his boss when he says, “Oh, she is.”

  “How ready?”

  “She’s one hundred percent dolled up. But since Troy’s in his room doing his thing, she’s… busy in makeup.”

  Shit. Okay. “She’s terrorizing Maureen.”

  Ethan lets out a dry chuckle. “Right, or Maureen’s babysitting her. Belen commits less damage in the chair than out and about.”

  I turn and catch the amusement in Tatiana’s eyes. It’s the moment I realize there’s nothing more beautiful than ice queens when they suppress their laughter.

  I’ve been pacing the second floor, waiting for Bo and Nadia’s session to be over. It’s been hours, and so far no rockers or rock-star wives have stomped off. That’s good, of course. Still, I prefer more detail when I’m paying for the festivities.

  Tatiana’s been with me the whole time, stoically absorbing my tension while I responded to Felix and Il Lince. Shit’s fucking going down out there, and here we are, tucked away in the mountains. I’ve been through wild times before, but these might be the worst so far.

  From the set, slight murmurs have sieved through the walls. I haven’t been able to decipher them. At one point, Gianni poked his head out to ask for speakers. He wanted to broadcast “Fuck You,” Bo’s homage to Nadia during his time as a walking heartbreak to his female fans. Apparently, he wrote it to let off steam while he fought to win over his wife. Poetic?

  Their door’s opening. Gianni turns off the spotlights, starting in the back, and I faintly register the sun as it sets through the window behind him. My guests haven’t eaten in a while. Italians know how to appease hungry stomachs, though, so I already have the ovens steaming.

  “Just in time. Good,” I say, slamming my hands together. “We’ve got from-scratch Neapolitan pizzas layered with tomatoes, garlic, buffalo mozzarella straight from Campania, freshly cut basil, and one hundred percent virgin olive oil from Sicily. For the meat lover, we’ve added prosciutto, smoked the authentic way with just the right amount of baked-in, crusted pepper.”

  Nadia has the dazed look of someone who’s just stepped off a rollercoaster. Shaky with endorphins, she’s glad it’s over and wishing it wasn’t.

  “Can you smell it?” I ask, bringing them gently back to Earth.

  Bo nods, exchanging a glance with Nadia, and she smiles. “It smells delicious.”

  In the kitchen, Tatiana’s eyes meet mine. A flash of joy goes off in them, and I know what she’s thinking even before she whispers it to me. “Enjoy this. Don’t do what you do, plot tomorrow’s success instead of enjoying tonight.”

  I chew on the disappointment over my missing piece, Aishe Xodyar. Then I reply, “Yes, ma’am.”

  My ice queen and I share the last piece of olive-crusted pizza. It’s still hot from the oven. On the other side, Nadia sinks into Bo’s embrace, their foreheads meeting in a twosome that seems even deeper than before. Moral-benders can do that to you.

  Gianni enters, looking for Troy. He’s not here. My knee jiggles, premonition setting off.

  “He’s in his room,” Belen mutters. “He just came and grabbed a slice, and that was it.” She scrunches her nose up and puckers her mouth in disgust. “I mean, does he even like women?”

  I ignore her, directing my request to Gianni. “Check if he’s ready to go.”

  “I’ll do it,” Belen says.

  “No, Gianni will do it. You need to get back in makeup. Maureen?”

  Maureen takes a last sip of soda and stands. “Come on, honey, I’ll fix your lipstick.” She brushes Belen’s hair to the side and considers her face while Belen glares me down. “A little powder, and you’ll be good to go.”

  “Ha, I’ll make that man roar,” Belen says.

  Troy’s set doesn’t channel a home. The bed and the knickknacks surrounding it suggest a sterile but high-class hotel room worthy of a star. At the moment, he’s sitting on the mattress, emotions withdrawn. His eyes are safari-green against the dark gold of his skin. With dreadlocks reaching far down over sculpted pecs, he’s a vision of the kind I want on film.

  Gianni has him bare-chested and in grey sweatpants low on his hips. He’s leaning back on the mattress, chin tipped up a little, oozing seduction without trying. Our cameras will be making some serious love to this man.

  “Let’s get it over with,” he mutters to Ethan when he passes.

  “Okay. You’re good with Belen then?” Ethan asks again, seeming more unsure of this take than of any I’ve seen.

  “As good as any” is his answer.

  “Great.” Gianni enters and shakes Troy’s hand. “Remember, you’re supposed to have fun. That’s what it’s all about.”

  There’s a car in the driveway. McRoy knows enough to be alarmed. I check my phone and find a text from Felix.

  One of your actresses is on the way up, Aishe Xodyar. She’s clean.

  I look up from my phone. Show it to Tatiana, then to Gianni, before I turn and face Troy on the bed. “We’ve got a few minutes’ delay, but I promise it’ll be worth it.”

  I walk outside and watch Aishe get out of the car. She’s different than the put-together, low-key woman I met at the coffeehouse. This is a woman ready for war.

  Hair extensions roam her head in black and deep reds, making it look as thick and long as it was in the pictures from her Clown Irruption days. From my position at the door, I register half a dozen red feathers dangling throughout, complete with two longer feathers from her earlobes.

  That face: she can’t be needing much help from Maureen. She’s shockingly gorgeous, a Gypsy through and through, with thick golden bangles lacing her arms. Passion and color lathered on with black kohl and green eyeshadow, her lips are a bee-stung scarlet and her cheeks rosy.

  She strides toward me, eyes piercing. Hips swaying slowly, she causes the long b
ell shape of her Gypsy skirt to wave invitingly. Here it is, the uniqueness, the fire Troy can’t forget. She’s flaunting it, with that pride that’s so tempting in a female.

  “He’s waiting for you,” I murmur, shaking her hand.

  “He knows I’m here?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her eyes flash dark. “Cool. Troy surprised me once. It’s my turn to surprise him.”

  “Sounds good to me. The contract is waiting upstairs.”

  In lieu of an answer, she presses past me. She slows down in the hallway, maybe realizing she doesn’t know the way. I open an arm, showing her toward the stairway.

  She ascends ahead of me. “Where is he?”

  “He’s right below you. The first-floor living room here serves as a studio.”

  Her pace slows on the top step while she waits for me to lead her. “Alone?”

  “He will be. You came in the nick of time. We hadn’t started filming yet.”

  I seat her by the fireplace and lay the contract out on the coffee table. Aishe accepts the pen without hesitation. She starts to read the document, but she’s distracted. Finally, she looks up and says, “You had someone ready for him, then?”

  On cue, Belen clacks out of her room in an all-black ensemble, robe open, and in high heels. She’s a hooker ready to become candy, as ready for a fight as Aishe, but in a very different way. Her shoes drag to a halt, and Aishe looks up. For one electric moment, I watch their gazes lock, realization hitting them both before Belen thunders down the stairs.

  “That was her, wasn’t it?” Aishe turns to me, rubbing the pen between her fingers.

  I nod. “Yes, that was Belen, and she will probably start shouting in a minute when the director tells her she’s being replaced.”

  Jealousy ignites and dies as fast as it appeared on Aishe’s face. “That might be for the best. She’s not Troy’s type.”

  “No?” This just became a game again. “What’s Troy’s type?”

  Hushed murmurs sieve up from the hallway as Gianni leads Belen to the front door.

  “He’s more of a…” Confusion crosses Aishe’s features. “I mean, I’m not sure, but I’ve definitely never seen him with someone like that.”

  “What? No fucking way. You’re kidding me, right? You’re not fucking replacing me with some—” I’m glad Belen’s next syllables are muffled by Gianni. Although now he’s really done it; he’s going to have a wildcat on his hands, because how dare he muffle the cover face of Lucid Entertainment?

  “You’re right,” I say, ignoring Belen’s racket. “His type is you.”

  Gianni has muscled Belen outdoors; the door slams shut while she shrieks at him. Snippets float up to us. “What the hell kind of bullshit …not even a professional…. And a fucking Mormon in that skirt.”

  “Wow,” Aishe breathes.

  “This way. Let’s get you to makeup first,” I say, accepting the signed contract.

  This is nice. I’m seated at the front right corner of Troy’s set with Tatiana on the floor in front of me. She’s leaning against my knees. I fold my arms, sending Troy a smile, and he does that small dip of his eyebrows that indicates uncertainty.

  I don’t blame him for being wary; Belen just exploded out there, and he probably heard bigger snippets of her tirade than we did. Then, I returned alone. He waited patiently for, what, ten minutes, and all the info he received was, “Sorry, tech problems. We’ll be right back.”

  Belen is pissed. Between Maureen and McRoy, they’ll be keeping her under control upstairs until she’s calmed down.

  Tatiana elbows me in the calf. I look up and find our Gypsy at the door. She looks like fire with one thing on her mind: to erase every other woman from Troy’s mind. I have no doubt she’ll make that happen.

  Lounging on one elbow across the bed, Troy was the human version of a lazy panther until Aishe walked into the room. Now, his whole body tenses and goes still.

  I flick a look at Gianni, who has no time for his boss. With subtle signals, he’s setting his whole crew in motion.

  “Aishe?” Troy breathes out.

  “Got it?” Gianni mouths to the sound guy, who nods.

  Troy sits up, biceps tautening as he pushes both palms against the edge of the mattress. Perfect.

  “Yeah. It’s me. Is this a bad idea?” Aishe’s expression doesn’t hold a question. She saunters forward in a slow rendition of I’ll-fuck-you-blind.

  Troy gets halfway off the mattress before she pushes him back down, skirts thick, scarlet, wide, and fanning out over two-thirds of the bed she climbs. She’s a high-strung cheetah meeting the panther that’s not lazy anymore.

  Lava simmers in his gaze. “No. It’s the best fucking idea,” he says, and God I hope it’s loud enough for our soundman to capture.

  “You’re not wearing a shirt,” she murmurs, letting her fingers trail his ridges. “You and your drummer’s muscles.”

  She bends toward his stomach, and it’s not tender or kind when she hungrily starts to kiss him. She gorges herself on him, upward, until she consumes a nipple.

  Mesmerized, Troy watches her, his breath speeding up. He’s entranced, and I know that look; he can’t miss a second of this, because it’s too good to be true.

  That skirt, the way she moves in it, she’s a Victorian noblewoman in her saddle. “It’ll be okay,” she purrs. “Aishe’s here to help you, baby.”

  Pain travels over his face at her words.

  Even for me, this connection feels too intimate. Their history is thick and unsettled, replete with a passion that could be love or hate. It’s like we shouldn’t be here.

  Troy knows she’s in control, and he’s allowing it from within his pain-filled bliss. He raises a hand, wanting to cradle her face, but she blocks it gently, leading his touch back to the sheets.

  He wrinkles his eyes shut, neck arching while she lowers herself again, scooting down so she can grab his sweatpants with both hands and free him. The man is big. Full-on Lucid big.

  “It’s just me, Troy,” she murmurs. “Just me.” Then, she ducks her head down over his cock and lets it slide to the back of her throat in one move.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter. Tatiana quietly gets to her feet and settles in beside me.

  “You were right. There’s definitely a past there,” she whispers. “Good or bad, I can’t tell though. Both?”

  “Whatever happened between them, she’s lighting it up like dynamite.”

  Tatiana takes my hand and squeezes it.

  “Hope I didn’t overstep, sugar.” Aishe rolls her fingers over the pole she just let go of with her mouth. “Mmm. You taste as good as I imagined.”

  “Stop, Aishe,” he murmurs. Why? I exchange a glance with Gianni before we focus back on the bed. Troy’s breathing is ragged, his erection so hard he must be dying for release. She’s still stroking him, stare drilled into his.

  “Yeah?” she coos. “Because you don’t want me?”

  He closes his eyes in agony. “You know what I mean.”

  Suddenly, he pulls himself up by the stomach, grabs her face, and draws her down over him. Troy’s kiss is greedy, taking so much more than her lips.

  “Cut the head games if you want me,” he whispers. “Come, baby. Come to me.” He lets go of her face. Rakes through her mane until he reaches her wide drawstring cleavage. Her breasts bob invitingly as he tugs the top down over a shoulder.

  She scoots upward, her skirts hiding his cock from view. Aishe’s chest is heaving with heat and emotion, and her eyes have gone black when she says, “Head games was all it was.”

  “Let’s— Talk.” He whispers it so low I can only read it on his mouth. He wants to say more, but she’s not interested.

  Gianni nods to Ethan, who steps forward with an unwrapped condom. He lays it on the bed, close enough for them to pick up, but they
don’t. They don’t?

  “Oh, but it was always ‘sorry,’ remember?’” she asks. Then, she lifts her body, shifts forward, and sinks back down. We all know what just happened in the cloak of that silky heap of fabric.

  Troy’s eyes fall shut around a moan. He juts upward, but she remains unmoving on top of him. Aishe pants quietly, working to control herself. Majestic in her saddle, she’s the empress and he, her humble servant.

  She presses her palms against Troy’s chest and rides him slowly, eyelids dipping with desire and vengeance. The mixture is so hot, my own dick’s begging to spring out of my pants.

  I should demand more skin. Have it done right. I’m paying a shitload of money for her to play her part, but at this point I’m not sure what’s “right.”

  All we see is clothing, movement, the top swell of a single breast. Not even a nipple escapes her bodice, and yet I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything hotter than the orgasm they share. There are no sexy spills, no sweat, no fucking nothing. Besides a room that’s breathless with love, hate, Aishe’s resentment, and Troy’s apology.

  God. Fucking. Damn.

  McRoy strides into the room. Even before he gets close, before he opens his mouth, I’m ready. I take him by the arm and step outside. By his expression alone, I know it’s over. “They’re here?”

  “Yeah, they’re at the gates.”

  “All right.” I slap his shoulder and return to the studio.

  “Guys. I hate to do this,” I say, making a dazed Aishe float her eyes to me in confusion. I know Gianni’d love more time for close-ups and reshoots, so I don’t even look at him when I continue. “The Summit management needs us to evacuate the lodge immediately. The sewage is in red-flag status.”

  I reach for my phone. McRoy is instantly there, dropping it in my hand. “I’m not supposed to share this, but according to a seismic reading they just received, it could erupt in as little as ten minutes.” I scan the room with my most sincere expression. At this point, I haven’t actually read my messages. They’re from Felix, that much I see, and there’s no way they’ll give me peace of mind.