What the hell?
We talked about this moment. The kiss was supposed to build up. Be soft and tentative. Not this. I cling to the mantra ‘this is Dev and Brit’ but these lips are Tate’s—insistent, bruising, devouring, the passion from our frustrating relationship mirrored by our characters. I’d argued with the director that Brit would push Dev away, reject him, but Roger had other ideas about how she should react.
The hold on me tightens as my legs attempt to buckle, and I move to grip his hair. We kiss with the frustrated passion of two people refusing to acknowledge the sizzling heat between them.
Brit and Dev, Brit and Dev.
Myf and Tate.
The director calls for us to stop, and Tate removes his mouth, but not his arms. I move my hands to his chest, pushing Tate away, but don’t fail to notice his heart beating harder against my hand than it should. Eyes on mine the whole time, he steps back. The honest, raw desire on Tate’s face is clear. Dev didn’t kiss Brit. That was Tate kissing me.
The flashback hitting this time isn’t Vegas, but London. Back then, we rehearsed the kiss in the production we co-starred in over weeks, and I managed to stop our lips more than touching briefly every rehearsal. As with now, that was a huge mistake. The humming tension we built intensified each time we rehearsed, because we didn’t follow through to the kiss I secretly wanted.
The first time we kissed, opening night, beneath the stage lights and in front of an audience, the tension exploded. Everything phased away until Tate was the only person my body held awareness of. We’d touched in rehearsals, acted out the passion simmering below ours and our characters’ control, and that combusted as our mouths finally met for more than the seconds they ever had before.
Six years ago, onstage in London, my life forged with Tate’s. Never has a kiss triggered such an immediate need. Every broken embrace and touch held back in rehearsal had saved to unleash at this moment. I didn’t want to stop, immersed in the character, Cleo, who craved the man she could never have. Tate played Ant, her sworn political enemy sent to seduce and kill Cleo, but his passion would lead to his death.
Every night Tate and I performed the same kiss, and each time my reaction intensified instead of dropping away as I hoped familiarity would. By the end of the five-night run, he walked into my dressing room and launched the full force of his desire on me.
The offstage kiss we shared on that night, pressed against the wall by his strength and desire almost tore open my carefully wrapped secret—I wanted Tate to be the fantasy guy I dreamed I’d meet at college. I held the romantic notion I’d find a man who’d love me with a gentleness to match the great passion we’d have; somebody who shared my direction and purpose in life.
A man who’d love me forever. I cringe at my naivety back then, at the young Myf intoxicated by Tate’s effect and willing to fool herself into satisfying her aching for him.
I still don’t know what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.
Tate was due to graduate a few weeks after the stage play’s run, and either way everything would end in hurt.
So I told him to leave.
At least by pushing him away that night, I didn’t need to face his smug face or the possibility he’d hook up with another girl hours later. That was Tate’s style, each co-star a guaranteed fuck, and I refused to be one too.
The day after the closing night party, I never saw him again before he left London. Not for four years.
Here, beneath the tree canopies, a world away from London, the levy broke again. Everything dammed from years ago flowed out, the kiss moments ago deluged us not only with our recent past but our long-term history.
The only way I can end this new tension is to turn to the director and reality; step out of memories and into the present.
I place another mint in my mouth, desperate to remove Tate’s taste. “That’s not the way we discussed the kiss,” I say with irritation.
“We wanted the surprise factor. The heat the viewers are waiting for. Tate said—”
“Tate? Shouldn’t I be involved in those discussions too?” I bite down hard on the mint in anger.
“Dev’s a passionate man, Myf. We’ve seen that through the whole season. I don’t think slow and sensitive fits him.” Tate’s eyes burn my skin, my blood refusing to cool from earlier.
“You reacted perfectly—the improvisation worked.” Roger waves his hand in a dismissive way and turns to a woman next to him. “I want the kiss from a different camera angle. Can you ask Logan to set up?”
No. No.
Make-up artists appear at my side this time, brushes and lipstick poised to turn my mouth back in time to before I kissed Dev. Tate’s eyes remain on mine the whole time, as the crew make arrangements around us.
The director and co-director talk in low voices, flicking through the script and glancing at us. My mouth dries further as the co-director approaches. I don’t always like Danika’s suggestions; she adds weak facets to Brit’s character. I’m supposedly a strong female lead, but when Dev is around, I turn into a simpering girl or need rescuing from the bad guys. Like today. Again. Alleys, forests... probably my home next.
She beckons Tate over too. “Okay. I chatted to Roger. Let’s see the kiss from an opposite point of view.”
“What do you mean?” I ask too quickly.
“Gentler. Slower. More build up. Brit—you make the first move.”
A protest rises in my throat, but Tate’s barely disguised amusement stops me reacting, and I shrug. “Sure.”
In position, fussed over and preened, I wrap Brit around myself, hiding Myf beneath her character. But the man’s eyes I look into are Tate’s.
Everything flows perfectly as we repeat the lines until the last: “Over twenty-four hours,” he says in a low voice. “More than a day wondering what the hell happened to you.”
“You needn’t worry.”
He rests his fingers on my face, rubbing my cheeks with his thumb. “I do though.”
I close my eyes against the sensation; pissed-off Tate has such a huge effect on me. My insides dance in dizzying circles as if I’m channelling the girls at home wishing his lips were on theirs. An invisible spark tingles my mouth as he shifts his lips nearer, and the one, screaming thought in my mind is I need to get this kiss right. I cannot spend an afternoon repeating this scene and stand here attached to Tate all afternoon.
I open my eyes to him and the situation. It’s not only Dev and Brit who won’t be able to rewind after the kiss in the show but us too.
“Myf?” he whispers. “Your move.”
He waits. Everybody waits, but their eyes on me don’t register.
I press my lips to Tate’s, brief and gentle, then withdraw and dip my head acting Brit who regrets her action. He tips my chin and traces my bottom lip with his thumb. His kiss barely touches my lips as he wraps an arm around my waist and draws me closer. This time I’m unravelled in seconds, the slow sensual kiss digging down and pulling my insides tight.
Hell, this man can kiss. The restraint we held back unleashes and turns the heat in the scene higher than the rough kiss Dev gave Brit earlier. Tate slips his tongue in my mouth. I jerk at his unprofessional move, but his fierce grip prevents me withdrawing. I forget myself and tangle my body and tongue with his, everything and everybody around fading to nothing as it did in London. I grasp at keeping the world upright, scared Tate will pull me off my axis again. We’re yelled at to stop in time for me to not lose my grip totally.
The scene cuts and I step back rubbing my lips together, unable to look at Tate. Every nerve in my body’s lit up, and if he touches me again, I swear I will combust. I turn away from him, scalp prickling under his scrutiny.
Focus. “All okay?” I ask Roger and Danika.
“Yep. Bloody intense, but perfect. We take a lunch break and back to the final scenes out here. I want these all finished today—standing in the middle of a forest for another day doesn’t appeal.” He nods at Tate. �
��I’d like to film the fight from a few more angles, then move on to your earlier scenes looking for Brit.”
“I’m done?” I ask.
“Sure. Long day for you tomorrow, rest up. I need every scene in town wrapped up in two days; otherwise, we run behind schedule. Studio time needed for this episode too.”
“Thanks.” And thank god. The stuntman involved in Tate’s fight sits on a nearby canvas chair sipping coffee as make-up girls touch up his bruises and straighten his clothes.
Tate doesn’t say a word.
I hitch a ride back to the hotel with the actors from the British gang who recently had Brit tied up and held hostage, leaving Myf held hostage by Tate.
19
The main restaurant in town successfully recreates the 1950s feel. Chrome stools line the counter, where metal advertising signs from the era are positioned either side of a neon pink “diner’’ sign. Red plastic seats run either side of metal tables; even a jukebox takes pride of place in one corner. The menu matches and offers the classic diner food—no fancy ‘sliders’ or ‘tapas’ that I usually come across in places I eat.
Confident Tate won’t choose somewhere this public to eat, I headed in and chose an empty booth away from the teenage group nearby. Tate’s bound to accuse me of avoiding him, and we’ll need to talk about what happened on set today, but I’m not mentally or physically prepared yet.
The woman server resembles an extra from Grease, dressed in a pink uniform. Although she’s older, blonde hair greying, I doubt she spent her teen years in the era. She returns with my burger and fries and nods at me as she places the loaded plate on the table. “You filming with that show?”
“I am.”
“They’re coming in here tomorrow.”
“I know,” I say with a small smile.
“Paying me a crapload to shut the place for the day.” Her small, pink mouth broadens into a smile. “It’s why I keep the place like this. We’ve had a few of you lot come through. They love the theme.”
The woman gestures to the “you lot” on the wall; gold-framed signed pictures from actors and actresses stretching back twenty years.
“Which show are you?” she asks, as she pours coffee into my white cup.
“Angel City.”
“Ah. My daughter likes that.”
Few share the diner with me—at one table six teens, guys and girls, cram into a booth eating from plates between them. At another, a girl sits alone copying something from a large book onto a notepad. I tip my head. School math textbook. Poor girl, I freaking hated math. She’s skinny and the brown hair scraped away from her pale face into a ponytail accentuates how tired she looks. She sips iced tea as she scrawls with her pen.
A girl from the teen group leaves her seat and sashays away, and a crew cut guy resting an arm across the bench leans out and watches her ass in the skintight jeans. The blonde-haired girl surreptitiously kicks the lone girl’s bag halfway across the floor and offers an apology in a gratingly false voice.
My stomach turns with memories and anger. Until I became friends with Dylan and Jem, this was my situation. Once I buddied up with the other misfits, the old clique left me alone. Dylan and Jem ensured nobody disrespected me, and if they did, the pair would “talk to” them. Why were people wary of the guys? Lies spread they were drug addicts, which the boys didn’t correct as the rumours helped keep people away from us. The drugs came later, and Dylan managed to escape the grips of addiction before Jem did.
I nibble on a fry as my situation’s strangeness catches up the way it does sometimes. The kids from school who teased me for studying to get the hell out of St Davids aren’t actresses starring in an increasingly popular TV show. Ha, losers, mutters my teenage self.
The door opens and a figure with a baseball cap pulled tight over his face strides in. He might be covered and no longer wearing his character’s signature leather jacket, but I’m more than aware who this broad-shouldered man with the plaid shirt open across a grey tee is.
The diner entrance is behind the larger group, and the studious girl opposite me and the door doesn’t look up. Tate spots me and slides into the booth opposite.
“I’ve been looking for you, Myfanwy.” He pushes a menu towards himself.
“Is that so?” I pull the plate away from him, and he pulls it back with a grin.
Tate rolls up a sleeve, revealing a purple bruise across his forearm. “I hurt myself for you.”
“You mean your stuntman roughed you up a bit? Poor thing.”
He touches my wrist lightly. “Your skin looks sore. Were the ties too tight?”
“Not really. I’m getting used to being tied up all the time.”
Tate’s lips twitch, but he leaves sharing whatever thought my words prompted.
I relax as he takes his fingers off me and rests back. “You should stop getting yourself into these situations, Myf.”
“Tell the scriptwriters, not me.”
“Nah, I quite like being your hero.” He smirks and picks up the menu. “How was the kiss?” The sudden question, one I expected but not the minute I saw him again, spins my head.
“Fine. Roger was happy with it.”
Tate lifts his eyes from the menu, and my stomach flutters as he regards me. “Were you happy with the kiss?”
I rest back against the bench seat too and watch him, as his eyes return to the menu. “As a professional actress, yes.”
“I noticed you tasted minty.” His voice lowers and he looks up again, pupils darker. “That was considerate.”
“Numbed my lips.” I sip my iced tea.
Tate chuckles. “I hope I wasn’t too enthusiastic.”
Please stop. “Dev is a passionate man. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“There’s no getting through to you, is there?”
Oh, if only you knew the half of what I want after today.
Judging by the growing intensity between us, at the silent communication exactly what today meant, he knows. I straighten against the growing ache for him to touch me again and grasp at what I should be saying to him.
“You shouldn’t have used your tongue,” I inform him.
The slow, steady, hormone-inflaming look rests on me. “You did.”
A sudden shriek hits my ears, and I jump in alarm. Is the diner on fire? An armed gunman holding up the staff?
Wow, my FBI role is getting to me.
The pretty girl who borderline bullied the other girl sitting alone stands several feet away, pink-glossed lips parted.
“Omigod! Tate Daniels!” She glances at the table her friends sit at, then lowers her voice. “Aren’t you?”
The girl with the math book shares the local “it girl’s” goldfish expression, but doesn’t say a word.
“Oh god,” I mutter as she pulls her phone from her skinny jeans pocket and fumbles around.
“What’s wrong?” asks Tate.
“A couple of minutes ago this one basically bullied the girl over there.” I point and Tate tips his head to regard the brown-haired girl.
“Is that so?” he asks.
“Please can I take a selfie with you?” The girl with us breathes the words, waving the phone and positioning her head next to Tate’s.
Why do fans ask permission when they never wait for an answer? The situation would piss me off, but to his credit, Tate always takes the treatment in his stride.
“Don’t tell your friends,” he whispers and places a finger on his lips.
The girl’s smile grows smug. “No, I wasn’t going to. They might spot you though.”
“We’re not staying long.” He nods at my half-empty plate.
“I’m almost done,” I tell him.
The girl finally registers me as I speak, raking a gaze over me. Was that a hint of disbelief?
“Oh, you’re Brit! So it’s true? Are you together? Like, in real life?”
When the hell did that rumour start? “No,” I retort.
“Oh cool, so he’s on the ma
rket.” The teenager tries a seductive pout on the man almost ten years older than her.
“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” says Tate and fights a smile. “And that’s not a particularly nice phrase, is it?”
I can’t help my brows shooting up. Wow, comebacks at fans?
“Uh.” The girl stares back as Tate turns on the smile she’s waited for. “Sorry. Um. Thanks.”
Flush faced, she stumbles away.
Tate continues to look opposite and catches the other girl’s eye, grinning. Turning the colour of her mistreated school bag, the girl ducks her head back to the textbook.
“Excuse me,” says Tate.
The problem with Tate Daniels is his unexpected quirks. One minute he’s as arrogant as they come; the next he’s tuning in to people around him. So when he walks across to sit opposite the studious girl, I’m stunned.
I can’t hear the conversation, but her wide-eyed disbelief melts into smiles, although she continues to grip her notepad to her chest. Tate signs her math book and they chat for several minutes, before he slides around to sit next to her. Arm around her shoulder, he allows the girl to take a few pictures. Before walking away, he shakes her hand and gestures at the book. She nods, smile glued to her face.
Tate reaches our table again, halts, then spins back around. He places his hat on her table before resuming his position opposite me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “You look... shocked.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Thought she might want someone to chat to. I hate coming to places alone.”
“Maybe she was happy studying in peace.”
Tate chews his lip. “But she could find peace anywhere. I think she chose here to be around people. I wonder what her story is?”
My damn heart softens at his words and actions. “I’m not sure, but I think her new story will be ‘the day Tate Daniels spoke to me and gave me his hat.’”
Tate laughs. “She’ll have more to say than the high school princess, that’s for sure.” He rubs a hand across his hair, now sticking in several different directions. “Can we go? I don’t want hordes of salivating teens arriving at the diner.”
Unscripted Page 12
