by T. Torrest
Right?
Damn, it was good to see him. I grabbed our tickets and looped a hand through his offered arm as I teased, “You little narcissist. Coming to see your own movie?”
He plucked the tickets from my hand, offered them to the taker, and pulled his baseball cap down lower to better shield his already-hidden face. He waited until we were in the relative safety of an empty lobby before answering. “Actually, what I was really doing was spying at the line, but then I saw you. I didn’t know if anyone was going to bother coming to this thing. I was nervous.”
It was so cute to see the Great and Powerful Trip Wiley get rattled with a dose of the nerves.
“Well? Did anyone decide to show?”
He led me across the lobby as he answered, “Well, there was a decent line, but who knows? Maybe everyone came to see Big Momma’s House.”
I giggled as Trip slipped me a couple twenties and asked if I wouldn’t mind getting the popcorn. He was trying to keep a low profile. It would probably have been mortifying for him to get busted sneaking in to watch his own movie.
I made my way to the counter and ordered two pails of Coke, a thing of Goobers, a bag of Swedish fish, and a barrel of popcorn with extra butter. While the snacktender was getting our stuff, I hazarded a look at my “date” for the evening. He’d found a corner to retreat to, holding up the wall with his leaning form, arms crossed over his chest as he scanned the lobby. He looked so adorable standing there, trying to seem like an ordinary person. The fact of the matter was, even without the fame, there was nothing ‘ordinary’ about that man.
Aww. My Trip.
Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? He was certainly not my anything, especially not enough to require a heart-melting aww, and I shouldn’t have even been entertaining the thought in the first place. He caught me looking and gave a smile along with a quick salute, and I made a point to not take note of the strong, skilled hands that had just waved in my direction. Or his incredible, full lips that were smiling at me. Or his talented tongue. Or his gorgeous blue eyes, his chiseled jaw, his sculpted chest, or his great, big, beautiful-
Layla Warren! Eyes up front, please.
I dragged my gaze away from his miraculous package and mentally slapped my cheeks out of the reverie as Trip came over to help haul our treats off the counter. He stuck the candy into his back jeans pocket and I swear, that’s the only reason my eyes were drawn to his ass as he led the way to Theater One. Really.
Okay, whatever. I was checking out his ass.
He pulled the heavy steel door open as quietly as possible, sending a quick surge of light into the theater, which was, as I could best make out, about half-filled to capacity.
The movie had already started, so we ducked into the empty back row, grabbing a couple seats near the middle.
He situated the bucket of popcorn on my lap as I slipped the sodas into our cupholders. I watched as he grabbed his and sucked down about half his Coke, those perfectly formed lips wrapped around his straw. I was instantly reminded of another movie outing with Trip, a million years before as we caught a showing of Romeo and Juliet at the theater back in Norman. That was when we were just friends, before we’d ever even started dating. Before I had firsthand knowledge of what those perfect lips felt like on mine. But now I knew better. Now I knew—
“Here, hold this.”
Trip was handing me the lid to his drink, the wet straw dripping onto my wrist.
“Gah! You’re getting me all wet.”
He stopped, raised a brow, and said, “Really? Hmm. Good to know.”
It was all I could do not to slug him.
He pulled a flask out from his jacket pocket, uncapped it and started refilling his soda cup.
I whispered, “Trip! What the hell?” and laughed, watching as he reclaimed his lid and gave his cup an icy swirl. He just gave a wink and sucked on his straw. “Jack and Coke, babe. Want some?”
With a scrunch of my face, I declined. I was never a fan of whiskey.
“Who carries around a flask?” I asked, stifling my giggles as we refocused our attentions on the screen.
He grabbed a handful of popcorn, and I tried not to play Electricity with his hand; his touch passing through the kernels, through the bucket, through my dress and into my—
“See that guy?” Trip’s whispered question knocked me out of my wandering thoughts. His handful of popcorn gestured to the screen. “That guy is a dick. The asshole couldn’t block for shit,” he scathed, staring at the screen. “You know how many takes we had to do here? Aww, dammit. They used this one?”
Aaand here we go again. I’d forgotten that Trip didn’t watch movies. He analyzed them. Incessantly. There wasn’t a video that went unscrutinized, a film that didn’t meet with his critique. Normally, I just watched a movie, and then decided whether I liked it or not. I noticed things like plot and acting and maybe the cinematography. But Trip? He had categories for appraisal. Like lighting. And sound quality. And all that other technical garbage you see honored for five seconds during the Oscars. Add in the element of him actually being a part of the production and oh Jesus, his commentary was tenfold. And I was the one with OCD?
A few minutes later, I looked over and saw him with his hand across his face, peeking through his fingers as if we were watching a horror flick. He asked, “Hey. Is Sixteen Candles still your favorite movie?”
Good memory. “Yeah, one of them. Why?”
“That girl was in it.”
I didn’t recognize who he was talking about, but then again, the movie was over fifteen years old. God. Where does the time go?
I knew he was simply trying to distract me from his film with the persistent chatter, and I watched as he fidgeted around in his seat, mumbling to himself. “Hey Trip?” I asked softly. “The movie looks good to me. Can’t we just watch it for a little while?”
He lowered his hand in order to aim a sham dirty look my way. “Yeah, fine. I’ll shut up.”
He reached back into the popcorn bucket, digging around before coming up with another huge handful of my soul.
If I’m going to be honest here, I should admit that I was still pissed at Devin for ditching me the whole week and missing the engagement party. I’d spoken to him a few times, long enough to learn that his “important conference” had turned into more of a golf week with the other movers and shakers in the media world. Understandably, I knew that the biggest deals took place on the greens, yada, yada, yada, but I had the sneaking suspicion that my fiancé knew full well that he’d been signing up for more “meetings” at Pebble Beach than actual boardrooms. And I childishly used that anger about being so unjustifiably snubbed to let myself enjoy my tingling pink parts.
Trip dove into the popcorn again and I wiped the drool from my lip as I tried to concentrate on the movie. He managed to shut up long enough that I actually got really into it. It was a mystery/thriller with a fair share of action, but it also had this whole social-commentary thing going on. It was good. He was good. It reminded me of the first time I’d ever seen him act, onstage in the auditorium of our high school, during a stage production of Guys and Dolls. Holy crap. I couldn’t believe how good I thought he was then. And he was, don’t get me wrong, Trip was really great in that play. I’m sure it was hard for anyone back in Norman to forget sitting in the dark of our school’s auditorium, watching him onstage during our senior year spring musical, least of all me.
But Trip in Swayed? My God. He was amazing.
I was fixated on the screen. So much so that I almost—almost—forgot I was actually sitting next to him. It was impossible to ignore the gorgeous hunk of man-meat to my left. It was incredible to watch his performance, seeing yet again how talented the guy truly was. He had mesmerized me back then, and I guessed this time wasn’t any different. Except, back then, I was able to admire his acting from afar. This night, he was sitting right next to me.
Sitting right next to me… The heat from his body warming mine, our arms jockeyi
ng for position on the shared armrest. God, he was just so disgustingly beautiful. Try as I might, I couldn’t ignore that undisputed fact.
I found myself replaying our kiss from the other afternoon; the way his hands felt around my back or sliding through my hair, the way his mouth had felt on mine. I tried to turn it off. I really did. But my body parts had begun to revolt, my memory spinning out of control.
My thoughts went in and out of this state, from trying to fully immerse myself in the movie and wanting to fully immerse my hands down Trip’s pants. And just when I’d think I had myself pulled together, he’d go and grab some more popcorn.
I felt him lean against my arm, his soft breath at my ear—the contact causing a freaking actual physical flip in my belly—when he whispered, “God, this is torture.”
Yes. Yes it most certainly was.
I turned my head to look at him, there in the dark, in our private little row of the theater, expecting to see him gazing longingly into my face, dying to kiss me like we were a couple of teenagers who only sat in the back of a theater in order to make out.
Instead, his eyes were focused solely on the screen as he added, “I hate watching my own movies.”
Grrr.
I thought that if he had any idea just how much the rest of the world enjoyed watching his movies, he might feel a little better. But I got it. Anytime I see myself on videocam, I just want to crawl under the nearest rock and die. But Trip never knew how good he was. At anything. I mean, Jesus. I could cite a few offscreen performances that still brought a smile to my nether regions.
“Trip,” I whispered, watching his jaw clenched in profile, the light from the screen giving him an ethereal glow. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but I’m watching a really talented actor give an amazing performance.”
His eyes were still focused on the screen, a disgusted look on his face. He swiped a hand down that gorgeous mug before fixing those piercing eyes at me. “Lay, I can’t take it. We’ve got to get out of here. This was a bad idea.”
I was enjoying the movie, but if he wanted to go, I figured his vote on the matter trumped mine. You know, considering it was his movie and all. But I thought he was prematurely evacuating.
He’d started to shift, clearly intent on standing up, when I stopped his movement with a hand clamped over his. “Trip. Please don’t go. Just give it a few minutes. It’s a really great movie, I swear. Can’t you just try and pretend that’s not you up there? Please?”
He was sitting at the edge of his chair, in full sprint-mode, but the look on my pleading face must have registered. In one fluid move, he flipped his palm upward, threaded his fingers through mine, and gave a quick squeeze. He took a cleansing breath and eased back into his seat.
But he didn’t release my hand.
When I was a little kid, my father always had this great trick whenever I had to get a shot at the doctor’s office. He’d make me grasp his hand as the sadistic nurse was jabbing my skin with her medieval torture device, saying, “Just squeeze my hand for as bad as it hurts.” The psychology of the ritual always worked. Like, I’d be able to lessen any pain I was feeling from the needle by releasing it right into my father’s waiting hand. It always took the edge off, thinking he was taking a portion of the hurt for me.
That’s kinda what Trip was doing with me right then, trying to transfer his nervousness into my palm, letting me take some of it away for him, and I was glad to do it. Every time he spoke onscreen, he gripped my hand a little tighter, cutting off the flow of blood to my extremities. But still, I took it all. Took everything he had to give me. I took it like a champ.
The longer I held his hand, the more I noticed the pressure against it slowly decreasing. Before long, we were simply sitting there in the dark, holding hands. I didn’t know if we were crossing over some line of impropriety, because even though hand-holding never counted as cheating in the history of unfaithful couples, my nerve endings would have said otherwise. I became aware of the little kneading motion his thumb was making against the pad of my palm; the deliberate, insistent pressure he was radiating into my skin, and I started to get hot. Not just turned on—I mean, yeah, sure, there was that, obviously—but actually temperature raising, sweaty brow hot.
“Trip. Cut it out.”
He was doing that Trip Thing, that effortless seduction that he’d always been capable of. Just to torture me further, he turned his peepers up to eleven, looked right into my eyes, and asked faux-innocently, “What?” A smirk accompanied his face to slither out the next response. “Two old pals can’t indulge in a little innocent hand-holding?”
“There is nothing ‘innocent’ about this,” I whispered back through my teeth.
Maybe he’d gotten used to living in a place where words like fiancée and engaged held no meaning. But I didn’t live in that city. Hell, I didn’t live on that planet.
His voice dropped to a low, gravelly whisper, “Layla. We’re not doing anything bad.” He shifted his body more toward mine as his head tipped closer to my face and added, “But of course, bad can be arranged.”
He punctuated his statement with a raised eyebrow and I felt that familiar electric charge travel all the way through my entire nervous system. If Con-Ed could have bottled whatever this guy was packing, Giuliani could’ve kept the whole city off the grid indefintely.
A current was running through me at his nearness, his smoldering eyes, his thumb still rubbing seductively against my palm.
He was so bad. I was bad… This was very, very bad.
Chapter 16STARDOM
He gave a chuckle and slunk back to his side of the armrest, which I had begun to think of as Switzerland. Neutral zone. Safe territory. This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine. You gotta hold the frame.
I shook myself out of the stupor and grabbed my soda, taking a huge pull from the straw, trying to cool down. And then I took another. And another.
And then, the next thing I knew, Trip was leaning over toward me again. I watched in stunned silence as his slacked lips parted, caught a glimpse of his tongue poised at the entrance to his delectable mouth… eyes fixed on the movie… Shit. He wanted a drink.
Jesus, just ask next time.
I placed the straw within his range, and with his eyes never leaving the screen, I watched as he wrapped his perfect mouth around it and took a sip. I may have let my knuckle brush lightly against his bottom lip, but I regret nothing. I was spinning from the feel of his thumb still massaging my palm, and my brain was not my own at that moment.
And yet, it never occurred to me to let go of his hand.
I put the cup back into its holster before I could lose my grip and send it spilling down the length of the theater. I expelled a shakier-than-I-would-have-liked sigh and then noticed Trip’s mouth curling up into a smirk.
He knew. That sonofabitch knew exactly the effect he was having on me, exactly the reaction he was provoking from my shattered insides. Was he thinking about the kiss we’d shared the other day? Yes, of course he was. I knew I was incapable of thinking about little else. The way his lips felt against mine, the pure, unadulterated lust he was able to provoke in me. The way I’d melted willingly into his strong arms, succumbing to the spell he’d so easily put me under.
Just to throw some salt in my wounds, he shifted in his seat in a way that left no doubt about his discomfort. But so what. If he was dealing with a case of blue balls, it was his own damned fault. He started this.
And apparently, he was going to continue it.
At first, when I felt his knee brush against mine, I didn’t think anything of it. An accidental brushing. But then, he allowed his knee to press against mine, briefly, intentionally... giving me a “kiss”. I almost died right then and there.
“Trip...” I warned.
I hazarded a look in his direction, saw that he was leaning away from me, his cast arm propped up on the armrest to his left, palm cradling his chin. Again, hi
s eyes remained fixed on the screen, but his lips were trying to contain a smirk.
“I know what you’re doing. You know what you’re doing. Please stop.”
He turned his face toward me, his hand now smooshing his rested cheek. “And just what is it that I’m doing, Lay?”
Ummm, threatening to give me a heart attack?
“Just because you’re trying not to watch the movie, doesn’t mean you can play games and distract me from it.”
His eyes were set to ‘stun’. “Is that what I’m doing? Distracting you?”
I ignored the laserlike zap I received in my belly. Against my will, I let out and answered with a heavy sigh, “Yes.”
That seemed to entertain him appropriately. His shoulders shook, silently laughing to himself while I berated myself for letting him see just how distracted I truly was.
He leaned back toward my direction to add in the most dangerous, panty-dropping whisper, “See, because I thought what I was doing was seducing you.”
And that’s pretty much the moment I was sure my spine abandoned my body, as every inch of my flesh turned from solid matter into a melted, gelatinous goo.
“Okay. That’s it. We’re outta here.”
I broke free of his grasp and grabbed my purse and jacket, did The Movie Theater Sidestep out of our row and headed for the door. Trip was at my heels, and I could hear the low laugh escaping from his throat. It wasn’t until we were out on the street and halfway down the block before I whirled on him, ready to give him a piece of my mind, fighting against the urge to give him a piece of my ass. I was angrier at myself than I was at him, but from my tone, you’d never know it. “I’m engaged, Trip. So are you, in case you need reminding!”
“What? Layla. We weren’t doing anything. Are you really mad?”
“Hell yes, I’m mad! And you’re right. We weren’t doing anything. You were!”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
