by Christa Wick
Near the end of the first week of Shayna outing Melanie and Declan to the public, the Hollywood pundits began wondering what the relationship meant for Declan's career. Photos were dredged up from archives—not of Melanie but other women who had mortally sinned by gaining weight. The talking heads mentioned the wives of other Hollywood hunks. Some of the women had been dumped and divorced when the weight began to pile on, others had been hidden away so that the public seemed to have forgotten that their favorite star even had a spouse.
One morning host after another brought attorneys on to talk about celebrity pre-nuptial agreements designed to address the issue of wives staying slim to avoid hurting their husbands' acting careers. Other so-called experts assured the public that all of the attention and hate suddenly being thrown Melanie's way was the cost of doing business in Hollywood—that everyone associated with a celebrity was open to inspection.
Bullshit, bullshit and more bullshit!
Melanie stabbed the off button on the remote as Declan came out of the bathroom after a shower he’d tried to talk her into taking with him.
Seeing the remote on the bed, he picked it up and tossed it into the trash can before dropping the towel enticingly wrapped around his hips and crawling onto the bed. She knew the look in his eyes, the mischievous curve of his lips. It sparked heat inside her, just as he intended, but she put her hand against his forehead before he could curl his gorgeous, naked body up against hers.
She nodded at the television she had just turned off. "You can't sex your way out of all this, Declan Bain."
For a few flashing seconds, he looked shocked, scandalized, insulted even, and then he smiled again.
"I'm not trying to. I need you, Mel. You can't begin to imagine how much of me I've been holding back for so long..."
She raised a skeptical brow as he trailed off.
"You know what I mean."
She shook her head. She truly didn't have the slightest inkling. Granted, they'd gotten incredibly inventive the last week—where they had sex, how they had sex. But not once had it felt sordid or dirty.
"I'm saying a man can't do what I've done with you without putting certain thoughts into a woman's head."
Now he was confusing the hell out of her.
"Thoughts?"
"You know," he went on with a groan. "Long-term thoughts. Forever thoughts."
She laughed, shaking her head again. The acts they'd accomplished didn't give her those kinds of thoughts, it was the look that would flash across his face at certain times during those acts or later when he was holding her or tenderly tending to her body after he had ravished it.
Even, as weird as it seemed, that habit he had of stroking the bridge of his nose at certain moments. She had never seen him do it on set or any interview. He did it at the sweetest of times and seemed embarrassed when she caught him.
"Who's to say I'm not using you as my boy toy?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from "forever."
For a second, he scowled at her. Then he dipped his head, evading her hands so he could seize her hips and pull her to the center of the bed. He straddled her, his knees against her hips and his hands planted alongside her shoulders as he looked down at her, his expression entirely earnest.
"I'm being serious, Mel. You're the only woman I've ever woken up next to, let alone every morning for a week. You're the only woman I've ever..." he paused, his cheeks spotting a dark red before he finished. "The only woman I've ever masturbated to when I thought I couldn't have you."
"I think you just obliterated the TMI barrier," she laughed, shocked by his admission.
Leaning back, shameless in his nudity, he planted his hands on his hips and cocked his head at her. "You know, I caught more than the eye rolls you were always throwing at my reflection."
He closed his eyes, his expression subtly altering piece by piece, his skill as an actor and an observer of people undeniable. He started with the slightest parting of his lips, then a hint of a drawn brow, next came the softest flare of his nostrils and then he opened his eyes and finished the look.
Melanie had felt her face mimicking him mimicking her with each change. She finished with him and felt like she'd just had one of those heart paddles they showed in the medical dramas on television applied to her chest.
"Oh," she murmured, emotion surging inside her. "Did I really look at you like that?"
"Yeah," he said, his face shifting to reclaim his own emotions.
All that time on set she'd been telling herself it was a celebrity crush. She couldn't hide behind that lie any more, not to herself or to him. It was weird how just making the face tricked her body into feeling everything she had felt all the other times she’d worn that expression.
"Wow," she murmured again.
"Yeah," he agreed and delicately draped his body over hers.
Hooking her gaze, he kissed the tip of her nose.
"How about we quit fighting the feeling and enjoy it?"
"Agreed," she said, angling for a better kiss and forgetting, for a few hours, that life was never that easy.
31
The second week opened with a phone call from Melanie's mother after dear, sweet, socially reclusive Nancy Winslow had finally been presented with the fact that her daughter was fucking Declan Bain.
"Mom," Melanie answered hoping her mother couldn't hear her heart hammering inside her chest. "What's up?"
Melanie knew she had dozens of "tells" when she was trying to hide something. Her father had been an expert on each and every one of them. But her mother was usually too busy thinking about other things, usually the book she was reading or the one she had just finished or the book she would like to start next. The only thing that had kept Melanie from lying to her constantly was a little too much guilt and far too much knowledge that she sucked at lying.
But "what's up" was one of her tells, a sort of short hand for "please, let's start talking about you immediately so you forget to ask me what's going on in my world." And, really, who doesn't like a little short hand?
"I don't know how to ask this..." Nancy began, her voice suddenly scratchy. "It's just that...well, don't say anything, but Roger has something called a Goggle alert—"
"Google alert," Melanie absently corrected as her mind raced whole sentences and paragraphs ahead of where her mother was slowly directing the conversation.
"If you say so, Melalee..."
Whoa! If Nancy was whipping out the "Melalee," the call had to be about something wrong on her mother's end.
"Sorry, mom," Melanie said, her tone gentling. "Just go ahead and tell me what the problem is."
Declan entered the room carrying a tray and two glasses filled with the fragrant tea he kept dosing Melanie with to keep her relaxed. She lifted a finger to her lips to silence him.
"Well," Nancy continued, before thoroughly eviscerating Melanie's wishful thinking that it was her mother who had screwed up. "He has an alert for Declan set up and...and it seems your name...well, your name and...well..."
"Breathe, mom."
Leaning to one side, Melanie planted a small kiss on Declan's cheek then took the glass he was offering her. Listening to her mom slowly get her breathing under control, Melanie sipped at the tea. The peppermint seemed to expand her mind at the same time it, or some other ingredient, infused her with a sense of peace. Or maybe the entire effect was from Declan making it for her, the shoulder massages that often accompanied the drink or the sprinkle of kisses along her face and neck that he liked to plant while she was drinking it.
"Are you and Declan having sexual relations?" Nancy managed to spit out after a few more deep breaths.
"Yes," Melanie answered. "Are you and Dodgy Roger?"
"Melanie Lee!"
Declan's face swung into view, his head cocked to one side and his right brow lifted high. She knew he was sitting close enough to hear her mother's question and could only imagine what he was thinking about Melanie's answer.
"By the w
ay, Declan is sitting right here, so he heard about the Google alert."
Both of his brows lifted at that, his mouth pinching to one side at the idea of his estranged uncle stalking him online.
"Don't you try to sidetrack me, young lady."
Melanie's lips mashed together at the accusation. Her mother was easily sidetracked. Melanie would just let nature take its course instead of giving Nancy a nudge in a new direction.
"Wouldn't think of it, mom," she answered after a few seconds of silence.
"I want to know why you didn't tell me," Nancy went on. "I know we haven't discussed things like this in the past...I mean, I don't even know if Declan is your first."
Melanie interrupted the woman with a groan. "Mom, please. Just say what you called to say without any more detours."
"Fine, Little Miss Bossy Pants," Nancy huffed before her words turned wet. "I love you. That's what I called to say. I love you."
Melanie's grip relaxed on the phone and the device started to slip out of her hand. Declan caught it before it could land in her tea. Taking the glass away, he handed the phone back to Melanie, her mother still waiting in silence for a reply.
"I love you, too, mom. I'm sorry I snapped. It's just been a stressful week."
"I know, I read all those horrible things they were saying, sweetie. None of it is true. You were a beautiful baby and that hasn't changed about you in all the years. You're still beautiful."
Melanie closed her eyes, fighting the urge to tear up.
"And Parable dropping Declan, well, it sounded like—"
Parable?
"Paravista?" Melanie asked, her voice dropping as she looked at Declan.
She thought, for half a second, that he'd kept the news from her, but he looked every bit as surprised as she felt.
"Maybe," Nancy agreed. "Para-something. But Roger says Declan is an amazing actor. He'll get more work and if you guys need any money, I have—"
"Whoa, mom, slow down."
Shaking her head in amusement, Melanie caught Declan smiling. He looked around the room with its marble tiling, custom furniture and artwork and gave a small shrug before whispering too low for Nancy to hear.
"Well, maybe a small loan."
Pushing playfully at Declan's shoulder, she tried to reassure her mother. "No one needs to borrow any money from you. Please, tell Roger to turn off the alert. As for you, stay off social media and don't talk to anyone about it. Seriously, people will try to pump you for information if they figure out you're my mother."
"Should I delete my Facebook?"
"No. I've already made mine private so people won't see me on your feed or in your friends list."
Despite a week of trying to dodge bullets and finally getting hit by the "mom" one, another laugh escaped Melanie. Facebook was the only part of the internet her mother really used and, Melanie figured, only because it had "book" in its name. Just like everything else in the real world that Nancy mangled the name of, she had first asked Melanie to friend her on "Bookface." No way would she ask her mother to delete the account. It might take another decade to get her back on the internet.
"Okay," Nancy said, her voice faltering. "I'm not sure what else to say."
"It's okay, mom. You've already said everything I needed to hear and it was perfect."
"Really?"
Evidently, Melanie had just shocked the hell out of her mother. The feeling was mutual—and strangely comforting.
Wiping away a stray tear, she answered. "Really. We can talk again later if you want. I love you."
"I love you, too, baby. Bye for now."
Melanie repeated the goodbye then ended the call. Putting the phone on the table, she turned to Declan.
"No one told you?" she asked, her voice incredulous despite seeing the surprise that had registered on his face.
He shrugged. "Maybe it's only a rumor."
"Wouldn't they have called you ... or your agent?"
"Fired Rex three days ago. He clearly forgot which one of us was earning the money the other one was spending."
Putting his tea down, he pulled her into his arms.
"None of that matters." He kissed her ear then took a little nip at the lobe before moving on to her neck. "I refuse to let any studio tell me who I can or cannot ... associate with."
She wondered at the pause then tried to ignore it. There was nothing wrong with what he’d said and trying to read more into it wasn't helpful.
Sure, they had ended their first week together dancing around the "L" word. She felt confident he knew her feelings even if she didn't openly state them. The proper name to pin to his emotions went unmentioned as well. She didn't want to push him into saying anything he didn't really mean.
Who the hell fell in love over the course of a week, anyway? Especially when they had closed themselves off from the world and, therefore, reality.
The kisses Declan had been planting along her neck turned more sensuous, his hold on her arm more proprietary. She opened up a little distance between them.
"What about the film you want made?"
"It was a gentleman's agreement, sort of. They don't have an option on it, so they can't stop me from making it somewhere else." He shrugged. "Or I can make it on my own, it's a lot more doable than even five years ago between lower tech costs and things like Kickstarter."
The nonchalant lift of his shoulders was totally fake. She'd picked up a few of his giveaway gestures and that was the first one she'd learned to recognize. Left shoulder lift, no big deal. Right shoulder, no big deal and a genuine query of why the hell was she worried about something. Casual lift of both shoulders and a quick fall indicated a "meh" level of concern, an issue he didn't like but the world wouldn't end because of it. However, both shoulders going up and flexing backwards before they fell again meant he was definitely concerned.
"You said I could read the script," she reminded him. Her interest hadn't waned, but Declan had kept her thoroughly distracted since making the offer.
His mouth puckered at her unspoken request.
"Feeling vulnerable?" she asked.
He closed his eyes, the pucker flattening before curving into a smile. His cheeks flushing a soft rose, he opened his eyes again and hooked her gaze.
"Yeah," he confessed.
"Welcome to the club." Wrapping her hands around the back of his neck, she leaned in and kissed him before placing her cheek against his, her lips near his ear. "May I please read it?"
"You would make an excellent interrogator," he teased, securing one of her wrists and ghosting his lips across her palm.
Her fingers curled reflexively at the warm sensation.
She laughed and shook her head. "Only if I'm interrogating you."
"Better be just me," he grinned back.
Declan stood, drained his tea like he was downing a brace of whiskey, then looked at her. "So where do you want to read it?"
She cocked her head, studying him, her gaze picking out the small tension lines at the corner of his eyes and again at his mouth. His feelings were anything but nonchalant on the status of the script. She looked around the room they were in, discounting it. As beautiful as the decor was, it was more for writing code or solving math problems.
"The screening room," she said after a few more seconds of thought. "I'd like to take my tablet in with me."
He nodded, the tension lines deepening.
"Jeez, Bain. I'll sign a non-disclosure agreement if you'd like," she teased, hoping the joke would ease his mood.
His brows bobbed as if that might be a good idea, but then he managed a soft smile and teased back. "Just don't make any copies—and don't think I won't strip search you or look through your tablet files."
A strip search was a game they hadn't yet played and the idea produced a tickle between her thighs. She blinked at him then pushed lightly at his hip as if telling him to get on with fetching the manuscript.
He left the room and she followed a few seconds later, taking both of t
heir glasses into the kitchen and replenishing hers with more tea before going to the princess suite she still hadn't slept in and grabbing her tablet.
By the time she made it to the screening room a few minutes later, the script was on the couch they had made love on her first night in his home. Stuck to the front page was a Post-It note.
Find me when you're done. Few calls to make.
The mention of his needing to make a few calls tightened her chest, but she pushed the worry aside. Picking up the script, she flipped to the back and saw that it was one-hundred twenty pages. Under standard conventions, that meant the movie was intended to run about two hours, each page representing about a minute on film.
The pages weren't as dense as a book page. The line spacing was bigger, so were the margins. As with any script, a lot was left for a team to fill in—set designers, costumers like herself, the cameraman and, above everyone else, the director.
Returning to the first page, she began to read with a deliberate slowness. The story alternated between two worlds, both of them dark. The main sets were a bleak forest filled with magical creatures and a grimy urban studio apartment filled with a troubled mind and the afterglow of hallucinations.
By page ten, she had a vision of both sets. A few pages after that, she had Declan cast in the two primary roles—an Oberon like fairy king and the all too real schizophrenic scribbling out lines in the run down apartment building, the shades drawn and only a candle to cast its feeble light on the paper, the electrical wires stripped out of the walls to prevent "interference."
By page thirty, she had her tablet out and her sketching app open. She started with an outline of Declan's body then thinned it. He would have to lose weight for both roles if he planned on starring in the film. A pointed beard and long hair for the fairy king, blond like his natural color, would thin his face, as would a little shadowing in the cheeks.
She sketched in a black velvet suit with silver trim and silver buttons, the color and fabric adding to a sense of sleekness and giving it the gothic edge the script called for. The headdress came next and it was where she went wild with the design.
Silver beads framing the edges of gossamer wings, real bird feathers—peacock for the all-seeing but shortsighted nature of a vain and lonely king. Next she added a touch of short raven feathers and once red roses on the verge of turning black.
