“You’re hard too,” I murmur. “Was quick.” Brain. Work.
“That’s a given. I don’t need to touch you, sometimes you just appear in my head doing dirty things with me, and that’s enough.” He slips a finger inside me, with no resistance from my body or mouth. “I always wondered how dirty you were.”
I can’t speak, as he pushes a second finger into me, stretching me as he moves them slowly. I grip the edge of the sink. Our eyes remain locked, Tate’s famous smile joining his wait to have me powerless beneath his hands and the final yield to him.
“I bet you taste good,” he murmurs and places fingers in his mouth, leaving wetness spread along me.
Oh wow.
Tate drags his shirt over his head, muscles in his shoulders flexing as he throws the material to one side. Grabbing my wrists in one hand, he pulls me against him, mouth crashing on mine again. With his other, he pulls at the edge of my shorts and then the other, until they slide across my hips. I wriggle out of them as they slip to the floor.
He follows the move with attention to his own clothes, jeans unzipping. His erection pushes free, hot against my stomach and I curl a hand around him. To stop him? Satisfy my imagination and curiosity the last six years if the rumours are true?
He’s bigger than I’ve had before.
Had? Getting ahead of myself? Are we really doing this? Here?
Circling a thumb around my nipple, through the thin cotton, he looks down and bites his lip. “Gonna take that off? I need to see your breasts, Myf.”
“Need to?”
“Yeah. Off. You do it.” He steps back, and I swallow as I take in the glorious sight of Tate, unbuttoned jeans dropping halfway down his hips. And him. Hard. Wanting. Desire intensifies the aching arousal, and my mind can focus on nothing but how Tate will feel inside me.
I attempt to shake myself out of the craziness. Not happening.
I cross my arms and take hold of my top, slowly pulling up and off until I’m in the small hotel bathroom, naked in front of a man whose looking at me as if he’ll devour me and then come back for more.
“Fuck,” he says in a low voice and reaches out to cup a breast in his palm. “You know how you imagine things, and then reality is so much sweeter.” Drawing me to him, he places warm lips around my nipple, supporting the small of my back and then sucks.
At this point, I’m positive his name spills from my lips, but my lust shut down any control minutes ago.
Tate swirls his tongue around and parts my legs, pushing against me.
Stop, Myf.
And how the hell do I persuade my lit, horny body to do that?
“Do you know how hard it is for me to swear off sex for you?” His kisses rain across my neck, fingers moving to my clit again. “You have no idea how much I need this.”
This?
I wriggle from his grasp, or as well as I can considering his weight against me. “This?”
Tate props himself against the sink, arms extended as he looks down at me with damp hair sticking to his forehead. I can practically see his synapses attempting to fire into the right words. And he fails. “Weeks without sex, Myf, it’s driving me crazy. I guessed you didn’t include yourself in the ban and—”
I shove him in the chest with both hands. “Get off me!”
“What? What did I do?”
“You need this? Thought you’d release your frustration on me?” I snap, the insult turning me off like a light switch. Every good feeling about this man turns dark. “Seduce the leading lady? Nice moves, Tate, but not happening.”
He stands back and touches my face. “No. That came out wrong. You. I want you.”
“Save it.” Suddenly aware I’m naked and vulnerable in front of him, I bend down to grab my vest I removed minutes ago. Pulling it over my head, I then grab his tee and throw it at him. “I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think this was about me, not you getting off.”
Tate catches the top and pulls it on. “What’s wrong? You didn’t want me to have sex with other girls because you want me, right?”
“Omigod! No. That condition was meant to prove to me the sort of man you are. Thanks for confirming it.”
He zips himself back up as I avert my eyes, like a shy virgin and not the woman who was ready and willing for Hollywood’s most famous player to screw her senseless.
“Unfair, Myf. I haven’t fucked another girl since you asked me not to.”
“As you just told me.” I’m fighting down tears he can’t see as I bend again for my shorts. “Please leave.”
“Myf... Please. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s you. I want you.” He tips my chin as I hastily drag my shorts on. Dressed. Relief.
I’d almost agree sincerity reflected in his eyes, but this man’s a bloody good actor, right? “You know what? Forget it. Go and find another girl, I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do, or you wouldn’t overreact like this.”
I jab a finger at him. “Half an hour ago, you told me you enjoyed your casual, no strings fucks. And I just almost gave you one. I’m disgusted with myself!”
“No.”
“Yes, I’m attracted to you, Tate. I told you that in Vegas. But I can’t do this. I can’t see you with other girls after you’ve screwed me and dumped me. I’m stuck with you for the next few weeks, and it’ll ruin my ability to act opposite you. This situation would spoil everything!”
“I don’t intend to screw other girls. Our deal—”
“Liar.”
Tate sits on the edge of the bed and drags both hands through his messy hair, elbows on his knees, defeated. You’ll never win. “I feel something for you, Myf.”
“Thanks. Now go.”
“A lot.” The smouldering-eyed, bare-chested Tate looks up at me. “We should talk about this later, when you’ve calmed down.”
“About what?”
My heated skin cools under the room’s aircon, and I head across to turn it down, aware Tate’s eyes are on me. He approaches and places a large hand on my shoulder, and I shrug him off. If I turn to him now, the tears will begin.
“Everything. London. Vegas. Tonight. Again, I’m sorry, Myf. I really didn’t mean to upset you.”
“And I didn’t expect to fall for your smooth talk.” I turn a small choke into a cough. “But I’m not upset. Thanks for bringing me to my senses. At least I know now that I always was just the girl you wanted to fuck who got away.”
“Wrong.”
“I don’t know what you think you have to prove, Tate, but this will have to be enough. Yes, I’ve always fought against doing...” I wave a hand. “This. I probably will always have the voice suggesting I should, but I have some self-respect left.” I drag in a breath. “How about you take this as you won? You didn’t actually screw me, but close enough. I’ll allow that on your bedpost.”
“I don’t want to win, Myf,” he says and reaches out. I step back. “This was never about winning.”
“Sure. Can you leave now, please?” I make a show of tidying items on the hotel desk that don’t need tidying, my back to him. “I’m tired.”
My heart thumps, refusing to slow in the room filled with the scent of us. Tate’s breathing shallows as we stand and each moment without a word spoken pushes my heart rate higher.
“If you’re about to make some cocky comment about my reaction to you, and how awesome you are, what I’ve missed, don’t bother.” I organise a notepad next to a pen, in a neat line. Go.
“That bullshit never works on you and never did.”
I turn and run my tongue along my teeth. “Almost.”
“None of my tactics work, huh?” He pulls his features into a rueful look. “I always wanted the girl I can’t have. You.”
“And maybe that’s where your determination to win comes from.”
Tate rubs his temples. “This is pointless. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He pauses as if to kiss me, and I back away. “You have this all wrong, Myf.”
I drop onto th
e bed as the door clicks closed behind him, slumping into tears. Stupid, unwarranted tears of frustration and hurt. He wanted this, not me. Because him and me was always about this missed opportunity, not a fated desire to connect on anything deeper. How could this be anything else?
22
One understanding I’ve reached over the weeks working opposite Tate is how easily co-stars can become embroiled in affairs, especially with sexually charged roles like ours. The actors are chosen because of a chemistry, however professional people are, it must be impossible if that spark exists in reality too. On the flip side is how, when those relationships break down, careers are ruined.
Is this what I’m facing?
Following the line I crossed with Tate last night and because anger interferes today, how am I supposed to switch off? I never pinned myself as somebody ruled by her emotions, but recently I’ve decided I’ve lied to myself over that. I followed Miles to LA. Denied when things were going wrong between us. Spent the last eight weeks pretending to myself I feel nothing for Tate.
Look at how I operated as a teen. I stayed friends with guys rather than start relationships with them, and when others broke my heart, I ran straight back to those same men, safe in the knowledge none of the four would treat me as any more than a friend. This had the added advantage to keeping guys away because most concluded I was in a relationship with one, possibly more, of the weird kids I hung out with.
If I strip away the bluff and attitude to relationships, beneath Tate is a man I connected with. Always did. We shared a passion for success, spent time at the theatre as much as possible, read the same books and plays.
But not together.
I’d see him at the theatre when I was with a friend or date, surprised to see him alone sometimes. Or I’d find well-thumbed paperbacks in the dressing room, and not only the Shakespeare play that the production we were in was based on. The reimagining we starred in, a modern day retelling of Antony and Cleopatra as rulers in a post-apocalyptic world. The irony of Tate playing a man weakened by his love for a woman always amused me.
Is that what we did in Vegas? Reconnected those two parts of ourselves; the one Tate keeps hidden? I never understood why he did much of that alone. How could enjoying the arts possibly handicap him or his life?
The scenes we’re in today take place in the streets, and the weather isn’t kind. I’m grateful for the warm FBI coat as I contend with the icy wind. Sheltering in Brit’s car, I wait out the endless preparation for the next scene. You’d think I’d become used to the hanging around, but some days the boredom frustrates me. Especially when the void is filled with overthinking.
And annoyance at my co-star.
I partly chose to be late today and partly struggled to wake after a restless night rehashing every touch and word between Tate and myself late yesterday evening. Donna, the make-up girl, commented on my tired look, and I ignored any attempt for her to figure out why. Arriving late ensured no time for Tate to chat to me before others arrive.
We can’t avoid talking about the situation all day, but I can’t open up Myf while I’m trying to be Brit. Okay, so my teenage behaviour and avoiding Tate’s eyes won’t help the situation, but retreating is the only way I know how.
I cup the warm coffee mug in my hands and sip through the lid as I stare through the windshield. Cameras are set up to film the scene when we’re driving. Tension fills the next scene, following Brit and Dev’s kiss, and awkwardness between us won’t be a problem today. The door clicks as somebody opens it and Tate’s tall figure climbs into the car. I don’t need to look around to see it’s him; my body recognises his presence with the familiar rush through my blood.
“Dev,” I say and sip.
“Myf...”
I continue to stare ahead. “Please don’t talk to me about us. Right now, I need to stay focused on Brit.”
“I can’t focus,” he says in a low voice. “I’m really fucking stressed about last night.”
“Stressed? Or frustrated still?”
“Will you look at me?” I twist my head, and meet his tired eyes. The Dev and Tate grin is missing. “You need to calm down and talk to me about what happened last night, Myf.”
“I said, not now.” He shakes his head. “Tate, please. This is hard enough. I can’t focus on my confusion when we’ve a long day filming.”
His unwavering gaze remains on me. “I suppose.”
The crew continue to mill around outside the car, and I drain my coffee as I watch. “One thing, Tate. This needs to stop. I’ll drop the condition. I didn’t think you’d stuck to anyway. Find a girl to screw, be yourself. Don’t attempt to fool me into thinking you’ve changed.”
He takes my arms and turns me around. “We need to talk. Properly.”
“When we arrive back in LA. And you need to sort this divorce out. It hangs over us like a huge, black cloud. I want to move on from that day. From everything. You, Miles... Just all of it, and I’m stuck.”
His face softens. “Oh, Myf. I didn’t want things to be like this. I’ve fucked up everything, haven’t I?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. You were just being yourself, that’s all.”
“I’m not just talking about last night.” Tate pulls on the door handle and pushes it open. “I want you to talk to me this afternoon; otherwise the minute we get back to LA, I’ll find you.”
The cool air blasts in, then leaves as Tate slams the door and walks away, shoulders hunched. I’d avoided talking to him because I’d convinced myself he’d switch back to smug and arrogant, that he wouldn’t give a crap about the mistake last night. That he’d think he won. The worst part about last night’s events isn’t the embarrassment but the hurt, and the increased blur between us and our characters.
Should I have expected the behaviour when I half-invited it and definitely more than half-wanted it? If we weren’t working together and came across each other, it may’ve happened. The broken-hearted girl whose anger over Miles turned into a need for validation from a man she imagines holds unrequited love for her.
What would’ve happened if we’d acted on how we felt at college? Guaranteed broken heart from this man.
Instead, Tate reacts like this. Am I chipping away at him?
Is he telling the truth about how he feels?
Because I’m falling. Hard.
23
On the short flight back to LA, I attempt to focus on rehearsing lines for the next day’s filming and give up. I don’t need a constant reminder of Tate.
I rub the confusion from my tried eyes and tuck the script away. My desire to escape back to Wales in the season break increased since last night. I just have to deal with a week of filming yet.
I drag my carry-on suitcase past the flight attendants with a smile and goodbye, then head across the concourse. The LA airport throng suffocates me as I weave through the groups, almost tripping over people who make a sudden stop.
Next time I come to this airport, I’ll face a long and welcome flight to Wales.
A figure stands against a wall, occasionally glancing up. Tate. He’s obscured by a blue baseball cap, and I’m reminded of him handing one to the girl the other night. One or two people double take as they pass him. Stars come through here all day, every day, and Tate in the midst of the ordinary confuses people.
Nobody stops.
Apart from me.
He steps forward and takes the suitcase from me. “Come with me.” Tate’s brow is puckered, his face set hard.
“What’s wrong?”
“I told you I’d find you if you refused to speak to me.”
He strides away wheeling my bright pink case behind him, his head down. I pick up my pace. “Tate!”
A girl from my flight halts at his name, and her head snaps back and forth between us. Recognition lights her eyes, and she stops.
Tate pauses, and I catch up. “Shush! Come on.” Long fingers curl around mine as he tugs me after him, strides growing longer, and I struggle to k
eep up.
“Dev and Brit!” calls a girl’s voice. “Look, Tate Daniels.”
“Shit,” he mutters.
Two girls step in front of us, phones at the ready and faces eager. Tate halts and switches mode; he smiles up at them with a sexy Tate look he knows will charm them around his little finger.
“Hey, look, I’m really sorry, but I’m late for a meeting. Can we make this quick?”
And before anybody else appears.
He traps my suitcase between his legs as he poses for photos, arms around each girl as they take turns in placing their flushed and grinning face next to his. I scout around us, wary we’ll attract a crowd.
“I knew they were together!” says the curly haired girl as she stares straight at me.
“We’re not, just travelling together. Back from location filming,” I reply.
An arm locks over my shoulder and a phone appears, in my face. “You too!” enthuses the girl.
I blink. I’m unused to this; we’ve promoted the show with magazine and radio interviews but no public appearances yet. I look much different to Brit when I’m off-screen too. With less make-up and my hair and clothes styled differently, I’m ordinary looking. But add Tate to my side and it’s not hard to spot who I am.
The moment the photos are taken and their hastily produced boarding passes signed, Tate takes my hand again. “Okay, thanks. Nice to meet you.” Before anybody else can approach us, he doubles his strides away.
“They are so a couple.” I hear one girl say to the other as we race through arrivals.
Great...
“Where are we going?” I trip over a kid’s bag as Tate deliberately leads us through thicker crowds congregating around baggage collection points.
“My place. I’m sick of avoiding this shit.” We burst out into the airport pick-up area, crammed with taxis and shuttle buses, amongst tourists blinking in confusion and residents striding with purpose towards waiting cars and taxis.
Unscripted Page 14
