by Shayla Black
Brooke had seen it in the music industry over and over.
“Sometimes you’re put on a trajectory with the people you need most, right when you need them. Sometimes even before you need them,” Jillian said, looking out the window, her gaze distant. “The perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect second chance. That’s what this feels like.”
This was stolen wisdom—it certainly wasn’t Jillian’s. Brooke knew if she pressed Jillian on what those words meant, she wouldn’t be able to answer. Most of the time, Brooke felt like Jillian was living from the pages of a script, even when no one else was around.
But she didn’t challenge Jillian or even speak to her for the rest of the short drive. Instead, she thought of Keaton. Of how their paths had collided. But this wasn’t the perfect time or place for the two of them to connect. And they’d never had a real first chance, so this couldn’t be the second.
Still…there was something magical about meeting up with him again. And about connecting so instantly and completely. Her travels with Ellie had introduced Brooke to a lot of people. More than she could ever count or than she’d ever remember. Yet she couldn’t say she’d been so comfortable so instantly with many people in her life.
The limo turned into a lot and stopped. Their driver, Henry, spoke to the guard at the gate, and Brooke lowered a window so she could show the guard their passes. As soon as the glass was back in place and the car started moving again, Jillian had her mirror out to check her perfect makeup, searching for reassurance and accolades from Brooke.
And once the primping was done, the plotting began.
“Now, you just stay with me. Once I find him, you can make arrangements with a photographer.”
As soon as Henry opened the door, Jillian hopped out and was gone. The older man offered his hand, and Brooke took it as she climbed out.
“Whoa,” she said, tucking her arm through Henry’s and pulling her sunglasses over her eyes. “I just stepped into the oven.”
“Gonna be a hot one today.”
She frowned at Henry. “Do you have a cool place to hang?”
“Yes, ma’am. A café about a block over. Free refills on iced tea, and they let me sit there as long as I like.”
She smiled. “Okay, but only one glass of sweet tea. The others are unsweetened. Can’t have your blood sugar spiking.”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”
They both squinted against the Texas sun toward Jillian posing for paparazzi with their lenses sticking through a side fence.
“I think she found the photographers,” Brooke said.
“Some of ’em anyway.”
Brooke felt tired today. Not sleep-deprived tired, though she was that too—pleasurably so. But worn-out tired. “How much longer are you going to drive for Jillian, Henry?”
“Just between you and me, Miss Brooke?”
“Always.”
“Another year.” He turned his head and smiled, his weathered face crinkling everywhere. “Till my youngest grandson graduates medical school. I’m helping out.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“How about you?” he asked.
“Just between us, Sir Henry?”
He laughed at the nickname she’d given him on her first day. “Absolutely.”
She returned her gaze to Jillian, who was now chatting with various people outside the studio in the warehouse district of downtown Austin.
“A year,” she told Henry, then grinned at him. “Till my sister graduates nursing school. I’m helping out.”
Henry laughed and nodded. “You’re a good girl, Miss Brooke.”
“Thanks, Henry. I needed to hear that today.” She squeezed his arm. “Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it, honey.”
Brooke followed Jillian, knowing Henry was wrong, but she appreciated his faith in her. She scanned the staff clustered and milling outside the warehouse where parts of the latest Avengers movie were being filmed, but didn’t recognize anyone right away. Brooke had looked over the names of the people involved in the film at the higher levels and knew about half by name, another quarter by reputation. But she usually worked hand in hand with the people who were never listed anywhere other than someone’s payroll roster, which was always where most of the real work got done.
She paused a few feet behind Jillian as her boss sweet-talked an assistant director who had a tendency to hit on Brooke when he was drunk. That wouldn’t have bothered her quite so much if he weren’t married to a lovely woman with three adorable children at home.
With one ear on their discussion, Brooke scanned the area where crews moved equipment, a food cart worker stocked drinks and snacks, and staff conducted impromptu meetings in gaggles of threes and fours.
“We’re doing some staged filming in warehouse B,” Rob, the assistant director, told Jillian, “and there are several smaller mobile stages set up in warehouse A. The stunt crew is blocking out some scenes in there right now.”
Brooke instantly pulled Keaton’s handsome face to mind. She let the director’s chatter about other resources fade, tapped the face of her phone, and wrote a quick message to Keaton.
Hope your new job is going well. I didn’t get a chance to ask you what movie it was before I had to run. Can’t wait to hear about it when I see you tonight. She paused, grinned, and added, And I hope you won’t need much sleep for your day tomorrow.
“Judging by your grin, that text isn’t about work.”
Jillian’s voice made Brooke want to roll her eyes. Instead, she hit Send and turned off her screen. “It’s just ET, forlorn about missing out on your interview.”
That got a placated smile from Jillian. “This way.”
Jillian sashayed toward warehouse A like a queen bee. Brooke followed, curling her iPad toward her chest with one arm.
Rob’s gaze latched on to her, and he stepped halfway into her path. “Brooke, I didn’t see you.” His gaze purposely roamed her, openly hungry. “You look…amazing.”
“Hi, Rob.” She intercepted his hand on its way to her hip and took it in a deliberate grip, shaking it firmly. “How are Amanda and the kids?”
The mention of his family seemed to knock him off balance. “O-oh. They’re…good. Good.”
“Great. Tell Amanda I said hello.”
As she continued on, she heard his faint, “Uh…right…sure.”
Walking into the warehouse momentarily blinded Brooke. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust from Austin’s bright morning sunlight to the dark warehouse. Once she’d focused, it took her another couple of minutes to get her bearings. The space was cavernous, with several huge areas in the roof where the ceiling had been replaced with some kind of translucent material, so the sun filtered through, giving the warehouse an eerie, sci-fi sort of glow.
As the director mentioned, the warehouse had been broken up into different sets where various lighting and filming setups were arranged, but only the one taking up half the rear of the warehouse was being used.
Brooke took a deep breath and relaxed into the setting. Here, Jillian would be swept away by the activity, the energy, the excitement. The burden of coddling and soothing and entertaining wouldn’t be on Brooke’s shoulders. For a few hours, she could be free of those demands, and she anticipated the relief with a Pavlovian response.
She let her mind go and followed Jillian from person to person and group to group, where she was greeted with excitement and reverence. An action scene was obviously being blocked out at the back of the warehouse in a crazy maze of dark, multilevel metal madness. Brooke paused a good distance away from the action, her gaze wandering over the two smashed cars, the varied platforms of metal grates, the stairs…
“Hey, there.”
Brooke turned to the female voice and found a production assistant she worked with often and who shared Brooke’s affinity for chocolate, smiling at her.
“Hey.” Brooke hugged her. “Great to see you.”
“You too. Her
e for the duration or just a cameo?”
“Duration. You?” Schedules often fluctuated in this business with staff getting put on, pulled off, and moved around jobs as the norm rather than the exception. And actors’ schedules were even worse.
“Same,” Brooke said. “We’ll definitely have to find a time to get together and scope out the best chocolate around here.”
After Keaton leaves.
Brooke wasn’t giving up a minute of the short time they had left. After that, she’d really need chocolate.
“Deal,” she told Stacy. “So, get me up to speed on the film.” Brooke’s gaze strayed toward the back of the warehouse again, where several men planned out some kind of attack on the set with the filming crew. Jillian stood near the stunt crew, speaking with another director.
“The first thing you need to know,” Stacy said, “is that we’re behind schedule.”
Brooke’s attention was pulled from the shadowed corner. “Oh no.”
“I know Jillian’s going to be a bitch about it. I would have called you, but it just happened. Our stunt guy took a bad fall…”
The rest of Stacy’s words faded in shock. The shock gave way to excitement. And giddiness was bubbling in Brooke’s belly when she cut her gaze back to the darkened corner of the warehouse, where one of the men stood on top of a smashed military-type truck. But it wasn’t Keaton. Her gaze dropped to the man pacing out in front of the truck. He was shirtless, well built, and had dark hair, but that’s all she could see from where she stood.
Someone from the sidelines called, “Ready.”
The dark-haired man dropped into a runner’s stance and shook his body loose.
“Go.”
He ran. Long, loose, easy strides that ate up the distance to the truck. One foot took a step to the bumper. The other foot leapt to the hood. One more effortless hop and he executed a jump-turn-kick move so fast, Brooke almost missed it, and the other guy on the roof of the truck flew backward.
Brooke knew in an instant the shirtless man was Keaton. She’d never seen him work. She’d never seen him fight. And during their weeks together in Los Angeles, she’d only seen a sliver of his abilities when he’d been goofing around with the other Renegades, but she knew without any doubt that was Keaton standing on that truck. Which meant not only did she get to have him in her bed at night, she also got to watch him work during the day.
She had to have excitement oozing from her pores, and she didn’t have the first idea how she was going to lie about this to Jillian.
Up on the top of the truck, Keaton offered a hand to whomever he’d just knocked down, and the two busted up laughing about something. The rich, buoyant sound of Keaton’s laughter inflated Brooke’s chest with joy until it spilled over in her own laughter.
In that moment, the fluttering giddiness in Brooke’s heart made her realize she wasn’t just taking a swim with this guy the way she kept telling herself. She’d already jumped in the deep end.
“I want to be a stuntwoman when I grow up,” Stacy said. “I’ve never seen anyone have so much damn fun at work.”
“Right?” was all Brooke could think of to say.
“Brooke,” Jillian said, tearing her gaze from where Keaton and another guy climbed from the top of the truck and dropped out of sight.
“The fire-breathing dragon beckons,” Stacy said. “Good luck with that.”
By the time Brooke reached Jillian, her excitement shifted to alarm over the deviously pleased glint in her boss’s eye.
Jillian slipped her hand around Brooke’s forearm and turned her toward the stunt set. “He’s here, and he’s even more delicious than he was a few months ago when I saw him last.”
As they approached the set where cameramen and assistants and other staff gathered, Keaton and another man strolled out from around the side of the vehicles, talking to each other. Keaton used his T-shirt to wipe his face.
The sight of his chest and belly shining with sweat shot a streak of wild lust straight through her sex. Images from their night flashed in Brooke’s brain—the way they flexed every time he thrust. The intensity in his expression every time he drove deep inside her. The darkness of his eyes as he watched every flash of pleasure slide over her face. The hunger in his mouth, in his hands, in his body…
Oh. God…
“If you don’t want me to kick you on your ass,” Keaton was saying, a grin splitting his handsome face, “then take three steps back like I told you.”
The other man looked younger than Keaton. He was also very handsome, with more of an iconic American look with ash-blond hair and a square jaw. Definitely Jillian’s type. And age-wise… Well, she’d been going for them younger and younger lately.
“Last time you told me to take three steps back,” the younger man said, “I dropped ten fucking stories.”
Everyone around them laughed.
Keaton shook his head and slowed as he came to the camera station with a playback screen. “I should have sent you home when—”
His gaze lifted and casually scanned the people around them, pausing on Brooke. Time stopped for a split second. A split second when she saw him in exquisite detail—his hair damp with sweat around his face, his dark skin glistening, his expression filled with joy. Pure joy—for his work and the people he worked with.
Then she saw a spark of excitement flair. And that lifted her happiness to new heights. It was the same spark she saw in Justin’s eyes when she returned home from a trip, the same spark she saw in Ellie’s eyes when they met again after being apart, and, she’d discovered over the last year, it was what life was really about.
“Hey,” he said, drawing out the word with a little wait-you’re-not-supposed-to-be-here confusion that transitioned into excitement as the realization she’d made a few minutes before hit him. “Are you—”
“Keaton Holt?” Jillian’s overly excited voice cut through the myriad conversations, and she moved through the staff and crew as they parted like the Red Sea, allowing her a path toward Keaton.
Alarm skittered through Brooke’s heart, and her gaze cut to Jillian.
“What are you doing here?” Jillian’s face shone like a diamond. The picture of utter perfection. It was her all-in smile. Her nothing-can-compete-with-this smile. Her nothing-I’ve-done-wrong-in-the-past-matters smile. And she had 500 percent of her focus homed in on Keaton. Not the blond he’d been working with. The blond who was now wandering away like the rest of the crew, hoping to escape unnoticed while the she-devil was licking her chops over a different morsel.
“I reconnected with him last month at Steven’s birthday party in Beverly Hills.”
Denial hit Brooke fast and hard.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Not Keaton. Not Jillian and Keaton. She could have anyone else. He was Brooke’s only selfish desire. And they had so little time together.
Holding tight to the last flicker of hope, she darted a look at Keaton—and her stomach dropped to her feet. All the excitement there a moment ago—all the humor and life and happiness—gone. All locked behind a cool wall. One Brooke had seen others use when they were unpleasantly blindsided in public. One that often appeared in awkward and tense situations.
His reaction to Jillian confirmed the truth in Brooke’s gut—Jillian and Keaton had been together. When, where, how—it didn’t matter. Somewhere, at some time, they’d been together.
The images that flashed in Brooke’s head made her stomach clench and burn. She purposely refocused somewhere else in the room to clear her head. Because this was a problem. A really big problem. A potentially disastrous problem. A cut that had the potential to bleed her dry if she didn’t stem the bleeding.
She pulled her iPad into her chest and crossed her arms, as if that would help.
Jillian’s reputation had preceded her, as usual, and the crew had skittered off in different directions. But Keaton was too much of a gentleman to bail, even though the look on his face told Brooke there was nothing he’d rather d
o right that moment.
“Jillian,” was all he said.
And his voice was so deep and so cold, it made Brooke’s stomach quiver. It made her hope she and Keaton never reached a point in their relationship or their friendship where he ever used that tone with her. Even the possibility stabbed at her heart.
But Jillian didn’t seem to notice the antagonism. She swayed toward him like she moved toward everything she thought she owned, and Brooke’s muscles tightened, preparing to witness them kiss.
But Keaton caught hold of her biceps when her lips were still inches from his. And Brooke stood several feet away in the most impossible, most awkward position of her life. If there were ever a moment she wished the earth would open up and swallow her, this would be that time.
“What…do you think…you’re doing?” Keaton’s voice was private, but filled with who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are menace.
Before Brooke could excuse herself, Jillian performed the perfect backpedaling, smooth-it-over routine. “I was just saying hello, of course. We are old friends after all.” She pulled out of his grip but kept her voice light and adoring. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard morning.”
Keaton’s jaw pulsed, but when Jillian didn’t make another aggressive move, he shook out his T-shirt and tossed it over his head. Brooke’s gaze slid down his torso on the way to the floor again, pausing on red marks. Red…scratches.
Her face bloomed with heat. Her sex followed. She hadn’t seen those in the shower this morning. But she sure remembered making them last night. And good God, now she couldn’t think of anything else.
Straddling his lap, his knees spread so wide, her hip joints ached, he thrust with all the strength in his butt and thighs. Unrelenting, consistent strokes that hit their mark and hammered whimpers of desire and cries of pleasure and screams of ecstasy from her.
