Close Up

by Elise Faber

I sat down on the couch with a sigh. God, I was tired. But it had been a long and trying week with Grant. Though, thankfully, the dailies looked good. Apparently, hate behind the scenes could translate well enough to mimic desire.

  A desire to throttle one’s co-star, that was.

  “Don’t get me started,” I said. “I’ve been spending my week trying to come up with a better alliteration than ego ejaculating.”

  He froze, slice an inch from his mouth. “Um, what?”

  I shook my head, took a bite of my own. God, that was good. After I’d chewed, I explained. “He’s like a cat pissing everywhere, marking everyone with his ego, but that’s not an e-word and so . . .”

  “Ego ejaculating.”

  A shrug. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Damon studied me for a long moment. “That’s not all of it.”

  My cheeks went hot. I could feel them burning and knew they’d be bright red. Thanks, karma for making me a redhead. That blush would be flared crimson across my cheeks, staining my chest. Not cute.

  Also, making it very obvious when I was lying.

  Which Damon knew. So he just lifted an eyebrow, stared, and waited.

  “Dammit,” I said on an exasperated huff. “Fine. It started with ejaculating ego and then I added to it.”

  “Added what exactly?”

  “Eagerly ejaculating ego elucidates earnestly excessive aches.” I stopped then shrugged when I saw his expression had frozen into one of shock. I was in it already, might as well tell him all of it. “I couldn’t think of an e-word for ache, but give me time.”

  He was still silent, still frozen, but then his eyes warmed, his lips curled up into a smile and—

  He burst into laughter. It was raucous and loud, and it wasn’t his soft voice or his sharp ordering tone or even his teasing intonation that never failed to make me feel lighter inside. This was . . .

  I’d delighted him.

  And I liked that, too, too much.

  But before I could dwell on that for too long, he’d gotten himself under control. “I’ll work on finding a suitable e-word for ache.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Shut up and eat your pizza.”

  He obliged, taking another bite before talking around the food. “I am eating.” He shoved my plate at me. “Now, you.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I said, batting his hand away. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

  “Meh,” he said. “We don’t stand on ceremony. Not between us friends.”

  Was it just me? Or had he emphasized the word friends? I paused, setting the plate back down, ignoring the way that made me feel. It was this movie. I was just tired from dealing with the Ego and—

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “Fine. Just tired.”

  See? If I said it aloud, it had to be true.

  “Well, let’s fuel that very talented actor’s body”—he opened the lid on the box—“with garlic bread.”

  My stomach did a funny dip when the smell of garlic hit my nose.

  Then I was on my feet, my hand clamped over my mouth.

  “Eden?” Damon jumped up, too, reaching for me. “What’s the matter—?”

  I brushed him off and ran for the closest bathroom. My knees hit the rug by the toilet, and I . . .

  Well, thankfully, I hadn’t eaten much, because it all came up and landed in that white porcelain bowl. Awful. It tasted awful, felt horrible, and the usual relief that came from the after-effects of puking didn’t come.

  My stomach still churned.

  A hand rested lightly on my back, a wet washcloth in front of my face. “Here,” Damon said.

  I got his soft voice again.

  And it calmed my stomach in a way the puking hadn’t.

  “Thanks,” I murmured, taking it. Shit, I shouldn’t have had that catered lunch. I’d thought the salad had tasted off.

  He sat on the edge of the tub. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Just a long week.”

  Fingers brushed over my forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, sitting back and wiping my mouth with the washcloth. The nausea had disappeared. “I think that I’d better lay off the extra pepperoni tonight though.”

  “Seems fair,” he murmured. “I’ll go put it in the fridge and get you a glass of water. Hang tight until I get back, okay?”

  “I’m fine—” I began.

  “You’re tired and you just lost what little you’ve eaten of dinner.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, lightly pressed me down. “Stay put. Clearly, your body has had enough.”

  I debated arguing with that.

  But then fatigue swept through me again, and I was reminded again of the long week and Grant and just felt really, really tired. Maybe we could have our weekly night with me prone on the couch.

  I closed my eyes, leaning forward and rested my forehead against the cool porcelain.

  Gross, but at least I’d just cleaned the bathroom.

  Lie, my housecleaner had come in that day and cleaned . . . because I was that person. But I was also a person who traveled a lot and worked fourteen-hour days and was glad to have the means to be puking into a clean toilet.

  “All right, ready to get up?”

  I nodded but didn’t move. I was just going to close my eyes and go to sleep right . . . now—

  Damon lifted me up into his arms.

  “Here, baby,” he murmured. “I’ll take you to bed—”

  “No!”

  He froze, fingers brushing my cheek. “I’m not going to—”

  “Just couch, Damon. Okay?”

  “Eden.”

  Just Eden. Not sharp but soft. Waiting and patient until I opened my eyes and stared up at him.

  “I won’t,” he murmured.

  I sucked in a breath. “I know,” I murmured back. “But I need this. Tonight. Can we just watch something lousy on Netflix and be lazy?”

  Warm chocolate eyes. “Minus the pizza?”

  “And the garlic bread.”

  “Okay, love,” he said with a nod. “We can do that.”

  And then he carried me over to the couch, setting me as gently on it as he might handle one of his very expensive cameras. He grabbed a blanket from the end, tucked it over me, then sat on the floor by my shoulder and reached for the remote. “So, what are we watching? Reality TV or a cheesy movie?”

  My eyes were drifting closed already. “You’ve Got Mail.”

  “That’s not cheesy, love,” he murmured.

  “I know.” My words were slow, lazy. “But it’s got daisies.” A beat as I yawned. “And I love daisies.”

  Silence, then a soft, “Good to know.”

  He cued the movie up, hit play.

  “And books,” I whispered.

  Damon turned his head. “It does.”

  “And a happy ending,” I murmured, giving up the battle with fatigue and letting my lids close and the intro of the movie wash over me.

  I was so close to sleep that I nearly missed Damon whisper, “You can have one, too.”

  But I did hear it.

  Though before I could feel panic at the words, sleep had tucked its talons into me and fully pulled me under.

  And when my alarm woke me up in the morning, though I hadn’t set it, and I found myself tucked safely in my bed, a glass of water on my nightstand. I knew Damon had stayed to make sure I was okay.

  I was also glad I’d moved past locking the bedroom door.

  I was even more glad for the coffee, brewed and ready to go in the kitchen, and the scrawled note telling me he hoped I felt better.

  But, and I wasn’t admitting this, even to myself, I also missed that Damon wasn’t there himself.

  Shit.

  I was screwed.

  So freaking screwed.

  A week later, I struggled with the dress, the material bunching and having gotten stuck on my hips.

  Cute.

  My wrestling with the skintight nylon should h
ave been a scene in the rom-com I was shooting with Grant. No doubt, it was hilarious watching me shimmy and wiggle and then sigh in defeat, arms flapping to my side.

  So, the knock at my door wasn’t welcome.

  I yanked at the straps, trying desperately for a few more seconds to get it up and over my breasts, but then the knock came again, and I figured that at least half of the set had already seen me in my skivvies and so it wasn’t much different for me to answer the door in a bra and half a dress.

  I pushed it open and froze.

  Damon.

  Standing outside my trailer door with a pizza box in his hands. “Hey,” he said, words coming fast. “You’d said it was okay to visit you on set, and I thought since it was Thursday Pizza Night that I’d—”

  He broke off his speech, eyes widening.

  “I’m stuck,” I said, rather helpfully, I thought.

  His throat working as he swallowed. “Um, I see that.” He coughed. “Should I wait out here? Or get someone to help?”

  I smiled at the thought of Damon running around set, declaring a fashion emergency. “No,” I said. “I’m sure I can get it. Come in and have a seat. Pizza sounds perfect. I still have an hour before call time.”

  He followed me into the trailer, making himself at home on the couch before I slipped back into the bedroom area to continue my acrobatics with my dress.

  But after a couple more minutes, I hadn’t made much progress.

  I was going to have to send Damon on the fashion emergency run after all.

  A knock on the wall.

  “Can I help?”

  Honey and velvet. Goose bumps lifting on my nape, heat sliding slowly down my spine, moisture pooling between my thighs . . . fear making my pulse speed up. Or maybe that was longing?

  Because I couldn’t—

  “Ed? Want me to try?”

  Fuck. Yes, I needed help and I needed it from Damon, so now wasn’t the time to be a wuss. No. Be smart. Don’t get attached or let him close or make ties—

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  A beat then soft footfalls coming my way, heat soaking into the exposed skin on my spine, spice teasing my nose . . . fingers on my waist.

  I shivered.

  “Cold?”

  It was a husky question, one that had any words drying up on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I mutely shook my head, holding perfectly still as one of his fingers trailed along my skin.

  “You’ve made quite a mess of this.”

  I cleared my throat, forced my mind to focus. “Yup. It’s a skill of mine. Making messes of things.”

  I’d meant . . . hell, I didn’t know what I meant, but I know what my words made us both think of.

  That morning.

  The kitchen table.

  And the mess—the glorious, pleasurable, most wonderful mess I’d ever been part of making.

  I coughed. “Well anyway, I’m also really good at not being able to squeeze into insanely tight dresses when I’ve indulged into a few too many Pizza Nights.”

  Damon cleared his throat, the damp heat of his mouth caressing my shoulder blades. “Should I go put the pizza on the craft services table when we’ve gotten you unstuck?”

  I pouted. “God, no. Why would you suggest giving away perfectly good pizza?”

  “Well, you said the dress was tight, and I know you have to work for a few more hours,” he said. “I thought you might not want a stomach full of heavy food, especially when you have to be on camera.”

  “I need fuel to keep working.” A grin. “And I’m done with starving myself to look good on film,” I said, proud my voice was steady. “I’m not saying I don’t want to be healthy or feel good, but if I can’t have pizza and garlic bread once a week and still be successful in this industry, then I don’t want this job.”

  His fingers had been working on the tangle on my right hip, but at my words, they stopped.

  I kept talking. “I have enough money put away from my modeling days that I’m pretty set. I can afford to be choosy. I can afford to be myself.” A shrug. “Sorry, apparently I’m feeling very life coach-like today. I just mean that—”

  “I think what you said is exactly why you will be successful in this industry, Eden,” he murmured. “It’s why I’ve liked you so much from the beginning. You’re you, always. Sometimes that’s gentle and sweet, sometimes that’s vulnerable, sometimes that’s tough and fiery. But it’s always real. No pretense. No shields—”

  I snorted. “Oh, I’ve got shields, Damon. I think you, for one, can speak to how thick they are.”

  “Armor isn’t the same as a shield.”

  That made me shake my head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  He sighed, tugging up the tangle of fabric before moving to work on my left side, but he stepped around to my front as he did so, chocolate eyes coming up to meet my green ones.

  Mint chocolate chip.

  The perfect combination of ice cream. Maybe it could be perfect in us—

  “I say that armor and shields are different because shields are raised to ward danger off. They’re strong and heavy and can only be held up for a limited amount of time,” he said, freeing an inch of the fabric. “But armor is different. It’s donned and worn through battle. It’s heavy like a shield, but it’s not easy to lay down. Knights had people to help them take it off.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  He shifted slightly, chest inches from mine, head bent, eyes locked on the tangle, but the angle meant that his mouth was very close to mine. “Armor needs help to be removed,” he said softly, “but that help has to be earned, to be provided by someone the knight trusts. A shield, they can let fall to the ground without assistance.”

  “Are you saying I have a shield or armor?” I asked, and yes, it was breathless.

  But Damon wasn’t breathing steady either.

  “I’m saying you have both,” he murmured. “But that you’ve never been afraid to lay down your shield, to take those blows . . . because your armor is so strong, nothing can touch that inner core of you.”

  My breath rattled out between my lips, my heart pounding as I absorbed the words, absorbed the truth to them. Part of me had always been willing or able to make that bodily sacrifice, just to protect the sliver of hope that better things were ahead that had managed to persist deep inside my heart. I had sacrificed my body when my husband hurt me, when my parents used an outdated and horrible law to marry me off.

  Then I’d sacrificed my body to make money, to provide myself a future. I’d dropped the shield a lot, the fear of using my body as fodder having long faded away as the necessity to eat and have a safe place to live ruled. But all the while, the armor surrounding that hope got stronger and heavier.

  Damon succeeded in freeing the last tangle, tugging the fabric up, helping me slip it over my arms and onto my shoulders. He hadn’t spoken as I’d been lost in thought, more proof that he knew me, had come to know me over many years.

  He slipped around to my back, smoothing the dress before tugging the zipper up, still quiet, still working it out.

  “You seem to be able to get underneath it.”

  His fingers had been between my shoulder blades, still clutching the tag at the top of the zipper, but my words made him freeze.

  “What?”

  A sharp whip of a word.

  I turned, knocking his hands away in the process. “You, Damon. You’ve taken years to earn my trust. You’ve been patient and kind and my friend.” I cupped his cheek. “It’s why you’re under my armor.”

  “Your friend?”

  My breath caught.

  That was a loaded question. One I couldn’t answer. I might have survived something horrible. I might have realized that Damon was there, deep inside, but I realized in that moment, that I still had hope, and it was safely tucked away.

  To expose it to the elements, even if those elements included someone like Damon, was too much, too soon.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. �
�Your friend.”

  I think that if I hadn’t been facing him, hadn’t been so close, hadn’t been staring directly into his eyes, I would have missed it. I wouldn’t have seen the hope in his eyes wither and die, wouldn’t have felt my own hope, locked up so tightly, pulse in sympathetic pain.

  But then he smiled and stepped back, my hand cupping his cheek falling to my side. “All set,” he said. “I’ll get our pizza ready so you can eat before your call time.”

  One more searching look, one more moment of his eyes filled with disappointment before he turned and started to walk back to the front of the trailer.

  “Damon?”

  He paused, glanced back over his shoulder.

  I bit my lip, wanting to say so many things but not knowing how. “Um . . . thanks.” A beat. “Thanks for being my friend.”

  “No problem, sweet—” He shook his head. “No problem, Eden. I’ll always want to be your friend.”

  Sweetheart.

  He’d bitten back a sweetheart.

  That hurt almost as much as him saying he wanted to be my friend.

  And yet, I had no one to blame but myself.

  Damn.

  Nine

  Damon

  Friends.

  Fuck.

  I tossed pizza onto the plates, my fingertips burning from having touched her skin, my hands aching from having resisted the urge to tug her close to my body, my mouth watering from the desire to slant my lips across hers.

  But friends.

  But . . . not giving up.

  Remember?

  I sighed, shoved down the disappointment that came from being called a friend, even after all the effort I’d put into being something more, and reminded myself that I’d promised patience and perseverance.

  She was worth it.

  I’d find a way through all that heavy armor. I had to.

  You seem to be able to get underneath it.

  Yeah, that.

  I needed to remember what she’d told me, that it was a huge step, and major progress. It was natural she would feel vulnerable about it, that she would then retreat after making an admission that put herself out there.

  But progress. I just needed to set my ego aside enough to remember it.

  Eden came out of the back, her footsteps shaking the trailer slightly as she moved. Keeping my attention firmly on her face, I tried to judge for myself if indeed I’d truly made it under that armor. But her emerald eyes held no secrets that I could deduce.