by Lucy Lambert
We switched to spooning. He held me close and tight, his breath hot when it rushed across my skin.
By the end of it, both our bodies glistened with sweat despite the coolness of the room. That four-poster canopy bed shook.
When he saw I was close he went faster, harder. Completely merciless. Not that I asked for, or gave, any mercy myself.
I climaxed first and he followed soon after, both our bodies going rigid and our faces filled with that almost-pain look of lust and desire satisfied.
He didn’t roll away from me right away, either. We stayed spooning for a while after that.
Vance smoothed the spray of my hair off my neck and kissed that, moving upward until he could suck my earlobe between his lips. He nibbled on it gently.
It tickled. But not in the normal tickling way. This was a good tickle, a pleasant one that made me want him again.
“Vance!” I said. I reached back and grabbed one well-sculpted hip.
He let my earlobe out from between his lips. “You like it. Don’t deny it.”
He slipped his arms around my ribs, not caring about my weight pressing down on him. His hands slid up my ribs, cupping my breasts.
That tickle inside me turned into something more. I turned my head, giving him a disapproving look.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never gone twice in a row,” he said.
“Like you have,” I shot back. Guys didn’t work that way. At least not any guy I’d been with.
My face was so close to his that we breathed each other’s breaths. Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his cheeks and brow, and I could see twin reflections of myself in his eyes.
“You’re right,” he said. He gave my breasts a saucy squeeze. He moved his face in closer, past mine, so that his lips rested near my ear. “Usually I prefer at least three times.”
As though to add some physical punctuation to what he said, I felt him stir. His hands became more insistent on my breasts. His kisses went up and down my neck, down my shoulder.
Soon, we began moving in rhythm again.
This time lasted longer, the sudden desperation of our first act spent. This time we took more care.
This time when we finished, the two of us exhausted, we lay together on the bed beside each other, both looking up at the painted ceiling.
Every muscle in my body felt languid and loose, like I was a human puddle. Some parts throbbed with soreness. But a good soreness.
“I’ve never done that before. Twice in a row, I mean,” I said.
Vance propped his head on his hands, his elbows pointing out. It made every muscle stand out on his chest and stomach and arms.
Despite my soreness, a little thrill ran down my stomach at the sight of him like that.
“Just like you’ve never been to London before,” Vance said.
“Well, I never thought either would really happen to me,” I said.
“And now they both have.”
I rolled onto my side so that I could see him better. He stayed on his back, but his eyes turned towards me.
“You seem pretty satisfied with yourself,” I said.
“You seem pretty satisfied with me. Twice,” he said.
“You’re horrible,” I replied.
“Kiss me.”
“No.”
He put one hand on the back of my head and pulled me in, my smiling the whole way. The smile disappeared when our lips met.
Later, both of us still lying nude on the bed, my head resting against Vance’s chest while it rose and fell steadily, I realized something.
I care for him, I thought, I like him. A lot. There was something vulnerable about him that I’d never noticed before, or at least been unable to put my finger on. Not until he told me that truth about his father.
I knew that that was how I felt about him. I didn’t know, however, whether I should feel that way about him.
I tried to not worry about that. I tried being in the present moment. The one where I had my naked body draped over his, his heart thumping in my ear. Thud-thud, thud-thud…
I let the rhythm of that heart lull me to sleep.
Filming resumed three days after we arrived in London. I thought it would've been sooner than that, and I remembered from my lectures that it usually did. After all, keeping the cast and crew quartered and fed cost money.
I asked Vance if he had anything to do with that lull in time. He shrugged in response, something of a smile on his lips.
To be fair, they were three great days. We toured Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, the Tower of London.
Even the Churchill War Rooms, which were a series of bunkers under the city dating back to the war. It seemed pretty fitting, given the nature of Warhawk.
There were cameras, of course. Just regular people on the street who recognized Vance and took some snaps with their phones, although I liked the way everyone here called them mobiles.
Though we also saw our fair share of professionals. Men who’d run up with big, expensive rigs, drop to a knee in front of us, and grab a couple shots before running off again.
If we sat down somewhere, like in Trafalgar Square to share a few pieces of newspaper-wrapped fish, we saw them on the other side of the square.
This time, I did my best to ignore them.
They didn’t return the favor. Them, and the tabloids they sold those pictures to.
Back at the hotel, Vance wanted me to share a room with him. It was tempting, but I refused. I told him I’d stay with the rest of the crew.
He balked at that, and got me a room at the Lanesborough, just down the hall from his. It came with its own butler, but I wasn’t raised to deal with such an extravagance, so I asked the man to take the time to catch up on his reading.
Vance walked me over to my door. “Come on over when you’re finished in there.”
“If I don’t?” I said, pausing with my key card just in front of the lock.
“You will,” he said.
“You’re always so sure of yourself,” I said.
“No, I’m sure of you. Besides, it’s just to help me run some lines,” he replied. He grabbed me by the hips and gave me a quick, hard kiss. Then he winked at me and walked down the hall.
My cheeks burned and ached at the same time. The ache came from the smile. The burn came from the feelings that kept welling up inside of me every time he did something like that.
I went into my suite, thinking that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had three such amazing days in a row in my life.
Sunlight filtered in through the windows, painting trapezoids across the floor and furniture. I didn’t want those days to end, even though I knew they must.
It felt like the two of us were on the cusp of something. That if we just gave it a little push, it could be something great.
I will, I thought, I’ll just check a few things, make him sweat a little, then go help him “read lines.”
I wanted to go, but didn’t want to appear too eager. I didn’t want to play into his hands too quickly.
So I plugged my laptop into the adapter in the wall socket. The hotel provided them free to Americans, which was nice.
I fired up the computer, figuring I’d check email, maybe see if anything good was playing at the theater.
As usual, about a billion emails waited for me. By now most of them were automatically sorted into the junk folders.
I brought up a couple British news sites and saw myself. Well, Vance and me.
Vance Tracker Tours London With Fling
Erin Paige – Has She Put On Weight?
Tracker Fling Erin Paige PREGNANT? Click Here!
I’m not just a fling, I thought.
Then what are you? The question rose up in my thoughts. I didn’t answer it.
My stomach churned. The headlines only got worse. I’d forgotten that as much as the tabloid journalism in the States could be mean, they weren’t as… sensational as their UK counterparts.
“Oh come on,” I sai
d, unable to help scanning a couple more articles, “There has to be more famous people here to talk about. Not just Vance.”
I hovered the cursor over the X on the browser, ready to quit. Then I saw one last headline that caught my eye.
Vance’s Former Lover Sandra Livingston In Town for Art Opening – Coincidence or Secret Rendezvous?
She’s here, I thought. Unable to help myself, I clicked the article.
Apparently Sandra was here to help dedicate some Van Gogh pieces at the National Gallery. Had been here since before Vance and I arrived, would be here a bit after.
Has Vance seen her? was my knee jerk reaction.
No, I knew. We’d hardly spent any time apart. And if they had been spotted together there’d be pictures. Lots of pictures.
I sat there a while, chewing my bottom lip.
Curious, I Googled the schedule for Sandra’s gallery stuff, then brought up the shooting schedule for Warhawk.
There was an overlap for that afternoon.
I’d asked Vance why they wanted to start filming so late and he told me it had to do with the light.
They wanted to get some of the exterior shots done while the weather held.
I glanced over the schedules again, confirming it all in my mind. My eyes strayed down to the clock, and I knew Vance would be expecting me.
So it’s decided, then, I thought. I’m going to see her this afternoon.
Vance and I spent the rest of that morning together running his lines. They were for one of the final scenes of the film, the main characters being pursued by German planes after crash-landing just past the cliffs.
He asked me if I wanted to come, and I did. But I wanted to speak with Sandra more.
No, it wasn’t a want but a need. There were still so many things I thought I didn’t understand.
So, with Vance’s kiss still tingling on my lips, we went our separate ways. He took a private car to the shoot and I took one of those adorable black taxis to the National Gallery.
I felt a little like a spy myself as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the cool air nipping some color into my cheeks.
London bustled around me. Somewhere a policeman blew a whistle before the wind took the sound and whipped it away.
I checked my phone. Just after one in the afternoon. Then I looked at the gallery. It was a long, beige building built in grand style with long, thin columns looking out over water fountains.
Tourists milled about, some climbing the pale stairs and others posing for selfies with the gallery in the background.
I thought about turning back. About just catching a cab back to the Lanesborough and waiting for Vance to return.
But I had to know.
I swallowed heavily. Then I took a deep breath. When I let it out, a shiver ran up from the base of my spine.
You can do this.
I climbed the stairs, passing between two of those tall, thin columns.
Chapter 23
VANCE
“We have to run!” I said.
This close to the sea, the salt tinged the air. Just a few hundred feet away stood the white cliffs of Dover like some final bulwark between Europe and England.
“I can’t!” she said, limping along behind me.
A piece of shrapnel had torn through her trousers on the outside of her left thigh sometime during the crash.
Her hair was wild in the wind, her lips a stark, rosy red against the paleness in her cheeks. Our leather aviator jackets guarded against that wind a little, but not enough.
“We’re so close,” I said, grabbing her by the arm. I’d haul her the rest of the way if necessary.
“There’s nowhere to go, Damien! And they’re coming around for another pass!”
I cursed under my breath and looked around. She was right, of course. There were no trees so close to the cliffs, no houses or hotels to take shelter in.
Nothing to stand between us and the cannons mounted on those Messerschmidt fighters swinging around over the cliffs, winging their way back towards us for the final pass.
I knew we couldn’t give up. Not now, not ever.
I grabbed her hand and squeezed it so that she looked at me. “We’re going to run anyway.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyes weary but fiery with a final defiance.
I turned, meaning to start for an outcropping of moss-covered rock that might offer some cover. She tugged my hand. I looked back at her.
“I haven’t said it yet, and I don’t think I’ll have the chance to later anymore. But thank you, Damien, for everything.”
“Thank me later, when we’re through this,” I said.
I looked up. The sun glinted off the cockpit of the nearest German fighter. I could practically feel him laying his crosshairs over his, finger poised over the trigger.
“Now run!” I said.
We turned and ran. Despite the shrapnel wound, she kept up with me.
If we can just get to those rocks…
But I knew we couldn’t. The props of those planes screamed behind us. Any minute now, I those cannons would open up with a final thunder. I could only hope it would be quick.
The .45 automatic in my shoulder holster banged against my ribs with every step.
I stopped suddenly. If this was really it, I wasn’t going to end it running. Fighting or nothing.
I put her behind me. Then I hauled the .45 out. I hardly felt the stippling on the grips biting into my palms.
I leveled the pistol, setting the sight on that lead plane. I fired. The gun crashed in my hand, though by now I could barely hear the sound of the report over the roar of those fighters’ engines.
I fired again.
She gripped me hard from behind, her hands clasped over my stomach. She yelled something into my ear but I didn’t understand.
I fired a third time.
The lead plane exploded.
Well, it would explode in the final cut. Right then, it opened up the smoke canisters mounted on strategic locations along the fuselage.
I stared dumbfounded at the pistol before I understood what happened.
The other two planes pursuing us broke off as a flight of half a dozen Supermarine Spitfires roared by overhead, the bullseye emblem of the RAF showing on their sides.
They chased the German fighters back over the Channel.
My shoulders dropped. I holstered the pistol after clicking the safety back on. Her arms still held me tight.
A camera moved in for a close-up on my tastefully dirt-streaked face.
I breathed a heavy sigh, ignoring the glaring lens of that camera.
“About time for the cavalry to arrive,” I said through a half-cocked grin.
Then I lifted my hand, shielding my eyes from the sun so I could watch the fighters dwindle in the distance.
“Cut!” Troy Sanders yelled. He stood behind the camera closest to me, watching the preview screen intently.
Linda dropped her arms right away. I glanced a question at Troy. This was the fourth take so far. Each one took a while to reset, since the planes needed to land on the nearby air field for refueling and, in the case of the “Germans,” resetting the smoke canisters.
It was a complicated scene with plenty of overlapping timing cues. For instance, on the previous take the pilots of those Spitfires arrived too early. I hadn’t even managed to fire one single blank through my prop .45.
This take felt good, though.
Troy looked over at the DP, who nodded.
“I think we’ve got it,” Troy said. The crew cheered.
I started right away for the trailers set up in the nearby lot. I needed to get out of this makeup and these costumes.
I wished Erin had been here. I didn’t understand why she wasn’t.
And I had a bad feeling about the whole thing. She’d seemed so distant when we parted at the Lanesborough.
Then I ran, shrugging out of that heavy leather jacket as I went. I needed to get back to her.
Chapter 24
ERIN
My stomach clenched. My jaw tensed, and for the umpteenth time that afternoon I forced it to relax.
I stood well back from the general crowd. We all stood in one of the broad, art-filled halls of the Gallery.
They’d set up a small dais with a podium for Sandra to speak from. She smiled out over the crowd, unfazed by the flashing cameras or the large, hulking bodyguards flanking the sides of that stage.
The two Van Goghs, I didn’t know which ones, flanked her on the wall behind her.
“Again, thank you all for coming,” she said, still smiling.
Her teeth are so white and perfect, I thought. Some of that clenching feeling inside me turned to jealousy.
I didn’t think that she saw me, or that she knew who I was. I mean, her eyes passed over the crowd, over me, a few times, but I hadn’t seen any recognition in them.
I was wrong.
“I hope you’ll all continue to support the arts. I know I will. Thank you, no questions,” Sandra said.
Despite that, when she stepped down from the podium everyone else clamored for her attention. A few held cameras over the press and snapped photos. Others thrust microphones in her direction.
She smiled and waved them off. The two huge bodyguards shoulders her a path through the press.
My heart sped up.
How do I get her attention? I realized that I hadn’t planned all of this very well.
But it turned out I didn’t need to worry about getting her attention. I already had it.
She passed me by, but as she did she slowed and looked at me.
“Follow me. Just keep your head down,” she said.
Again, I felt like I was something of a spy myself. I could no longer tell if the pounding of my heart was from nerves or excitement.
Behind us, a string of security guards blocked the throng of reporters and photographers from following down the hall.
We reached a side door. Probably one often used by celebrities to minimize the effects of their coming and going.
One of the burly guards held it open while Sandra passed through, he looked at me and waved me over.
