by Ren Benton
Olivia’s smirk suggested she’d prepared for every objection. “Ah, but it’s Single Gin who’s the ice queen. They need only consult the archives of your relationship to see you melt around him. When you’re together, sparks fly, passions flare out of control, and the frosty exterior that repels lesser suitors melts away, leaving you naked, wet, and dripping.”
Lex bent his neck to impede the transmission of the image of a naked, wet, dripping Gin from his brain to his dick. “She’s not going to be the villain. How about she didn’t mislead you on purpose? We thought we could keep things strictly professional, but once we were in the same room, we couldn’t control ourselves.”
He usually drew less literally from his fantasies for inspiration, but he’d rather have this one out in public than put Gin through anything Olivia would cook up.
“Yes, good!” Olivia’s eyes glittered with approval. “Gin, can you be distraught that I was a casualty of your scorching passion?”
“I’d hate myself if you were, so I think I can fake it.”
“We can drag this out only so long, so for the DVD release, you two will either have to split up again or get married to keep public interest alive.”
Gin sighed. “The celebrity relationship cycle at its finest.”
“A lifetime in the business has made you cynical,” Olivia observed, “which is the best trait to have in a scheme like this.”
Gin’s weary slump jerked upright. “Shit.”
“We don’t have to do any of this,” Lex reassured her.
“Not that.” She bolted for the stairs. “We left Ethan alone with Simone.”
Olivia’s laugh poured like warm honey through the studio in her wake. “She’s gone. You can quit standing in solidarity.”
“I wasn’t.” He was leaning, and not with any particular purpose.
“Mm-hm.” Olivia managed to make that little hum of agreement clearly indicate he was full of shit.
“I was sitting when you got here.”
“Before that, there was no one to unite in solidarity against.”
“Neither of us is against you.”
“Of course not, darling, but you’re body, mind, and soul for her and won’t let her stand alone if there’s even the slightest possibility of trouble.”
She wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t like he planned it that way. He sat. “Speaking of trouble, I need to warn you about Simone.”
“I spent the whole morning with her, which is more than enough time to understand her. I’ve no doubt she’s trying to electrocute the gay out of poor Ethan as we speak.” She had an avid gleam in her eye. “But what a character study. Perhaps the most fascinating thing is that a woman who can out-bigot a Republican Senate candidate spawned an activist like our little Gingersnap.”
Simone didn’t deserve any credit. The empathy that lent star power to Gin’s acting at a tender age and elevated her writing to tear-jerking levels drove her to uplift and defend those in need. She used the microphones shoved in her face to promote movements and raise awareness, and she didn’t follow trends — months, years after a story dropped out of the news cycle, she would remind the world that people continued to struggle.
She hadn’t emerged from the womb with a soapbox and picket sign, but Simone had provided ample opportunity for her to practice from an early age. Uplifting and defending people who came in contact with her mother — friends, Ryan, hotel employees, anyone on set who wasn’t famous — trained Gin for the work on a broader scale, just as Simone’s ugly responses to her efforts had prepared her for backlash from those who enjoyed keeping their boots on the throats of the downtrodden.
That backlash made Lex appreciate her now-absent security team even more, but Gin’s worst-case imagination declined to speak up in that regard. She thought Fogle had given her some kind of immunity. Men who like to threaten women seem disinclined to follow through when the woman has already killed one of their kind.
That she’d done it while wounded and armed only with a golf club — and that the media had unanimously decreed Garth Houle’s photos of Fogle’s corpse too gruesome to publicize although they had no qualms about showing the Greene twins saturated in their own blood — did add to her invincible mystique, but to the right rot-brained psycho, that would be an irresistible challenge.
Which only fueled Gin’s determination. If everyone is silenced by fear, the assholes win.
But Lex had put in a lot of hours of deep conversation to earn that knowledge, and it wasn’t his to give away. “Ask Gin.”
“It’s so romantic that you’ll guard her privacy with your life, even if your secrecy does make me want to choke the information out of you. Do you share secrets with her?”
“Not yours.” And only the most harmless of his.
“Silly boy, I have no secrets. Five minutes of privacy would kill my career.”
“So why are you so far in the sticks not even the most desperate paparazzo could be compelled to tread? You could have pitched your plan to Gin over the phone.”
“I wanted to see Perry-Greene with my own eyes. Now that I’ve met her, I understand why no one else will do. She is the last hope of lost causes, the final beacon before endless darkness.” Sympathy softened Liv’s voice. “No wonder your demons nearly had to kill you to drag you away from her.”
Olivia had demons of her own, which gave them something in common but made them a dangerous combination. Lex was fond of her, but he didn’t dwell on her. When she intruded on his thoughts, they took the form of Haven’t heard from Liv in a while, better check on her, never reruns of time spent with her, never agonizing over the impression he’d left on her soul. Their relationship existed in the present, no trailer heaped with smoking wreckage dragging behind them.
If only it could be that simple with Gin.
Olivia propped her head on her hand and got a faraway look in her eyes. “The first thing she said to me was ‘We both know I don’t have the budget to afford you, so let’s skip the part where we pretend you’re here to audition.’ In that moment, I understood why she’s special. You and I, we’re vain creatures. We want to be seen, but only on our terms, perceptions we control, and we’re full of pride at how thoroughly we deceive fools.”
Those shared demons knew just where to pierce a dark heart to make it ooze.
“Then Gin comes along, kicks over the smoke machine, takes a hammer to the mirrors, catches us naked and vulnerable behind the flimsy, tattered curtain where we hide, and she doesn’t say a word about the fakery or the bare ass hanging out. She says, ‘Okay, now that I know what we’re really working with, let’s get down to business.’ No judgment, no blame, and somehow, she makes the ugly truth look more appealing than all our beautiful lies.”
Not always. The truth took on the ugliness of each deception that went into hiding it. When the lie went on and on, the truth became a monster too terrible to behold, grown mighty on a steady diet of betrayal.
“I had her only a few weeks and know how liberating it is to have no choice but to be your real self with one person who expects nothing else from you. I don’t know that I’ll ever again be satisfied with someone too stupid to see past my bullshit. I’m terribly bitter I can’t be friends with this woman because we’ve shared you. You were an interesting time, Lex, but not worth that price.”
“Agreed. You would have been better off saving yourself for Gin.”
“On the other hand, without you as an excuse, I never would have dared audition for her — I’m not cerebral enough for a Gin Greene film. I wouldn’t have this role. And since we don’t move in the same circles, I wouldn’t have met her socially, either.”
“Now you share a circle. How you play it from here doesn’t have to have anything to do with me.”
“It will if you stick around, and you’re not behaving like a man who plans to move on.”
“There’s nothing to move on from. It’s just a job.”
She conveyed a world of skepticism with her eyebrows. “You
never offered to save me from boredom by sending me pictures of your glamorous life.”
“You don’t get bored.” She didn’t get jealous, either, so why did she keep comparing the way he treated her and Gin? “She’s a good friend to have, Livvy. Don’t let a man get in the way.”
“It will be awkward.”
She might appreciate the novelty of being seen as she truly was, but she was using him as an excuse to put a stop to it. He knew because he’d been there. “If Gin was at all uncomfortable with you, she wouldn’t have risked tainting her movie by casting you. She’s not competing with you for me or anything else. She’s not intimidated by you. How many women can you say that about?”
“Several, but they’re all trying to fuck me.”
“Too bad for them you only like the soft, fluffy ones you have to chase.”
She laughed darkly. “Keep that to yourself. When I’ve mined all the treasure from the mother lode of neuroses, I’m going to whisper my liking for hard men and soft women in Simone’s ear and watch her launch into outer space to escape my deviant lust.”
“You’ll never know how much I envy you that secret weapon.”
“Kiss Ethan on the mouth. She’ll keep her distance.” Olivia rose, straightened her seams, and looked ready for a fresh photo shoot. “Now, since I feel partially responsible for visiting the plague upon this land—”
“Partially?”
“She was at the airport. If I’d packed for warm weather, I’d have switched my ticket to the Maldives at the sight of her. You’re lucky we came as a set.” She patted his cheek. “I will make the ultimate sacrifice and distract Mommy Dearest while you and Gin work your magic for our movie and make puppy eyes at each other.”
He’d probably made several kinds of animal eyes at Gin, but he definitely would have noticed if she’d aimed any his way. She’d maintained the maximum professional distance allowed by their history and current cohabitation. “Don’t believe your own story, Liv. It’s just a job.”
“If you really believe that, you need my help more than I thought.”
The prospect of her help made his pulse jump in alarm. “Liv,” he warned.
“I love you both and want what’s best for you.” She sailed out the way she’d come, tossing an ultimatum over her shoulder as she went. “Patch things up on your own, or I’ll be forced to intervene.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, uncertain how he’d get even a minute alone with Gin to patch things up while she babysat Simone and he hovered over Olivia to make sure she minded her own business.
Ethan delivered lunch to the studio and accepted an offer of sanctuary. He took Olivia’s place on the couch with considerably less panache. “Gin needs a hideout more than I do. She’s aged.”
“I offered.” Lex stirred the contents of his bowl to ensure every clump of broccoli grabbed the maximum allotment of garlic-fragrant sauce. “But, you know, fire and rattlesnakes.”
“Venomous snakes are a fun new addition to the mom-pocalypse, though I wouldn’t be surprised if Simone has only been warming up for the day she opens her mouth and literal vipers spew forth.”
After Ethan returned to the surface bearing empty dishes and compliments to the chef, inspiration moved Lex to add a hint of sibilance to the villain’s signature sound — evolution of the masculine infection into a snake that spoiled the sisters’ paradise.
He rose from the dungeon hours later, satisfied with the day’s work and resigned to take one for the team so Gin didn’t fall behind on her edits. The tinkle of ice hitting glass and the sharp, wet-creosote smell of alcohol greeted him like an old friend.
An old friend that had broken out of prison and wanted to get the gang back together.
From behind the bar, Simone swirled a bottle of liquid amber at him. “What can I get you, Lex?”
He’d passed this test thousands of times, but the parasite coiled at the base of his brain still forced him to weigh every damn answer. “I’ve been sober for five years, Simone.”
Eyes the same green as Gin’s roved over him, leaving his skin twitching in their wake. “That’s no fun.”
“What can I say? I’m old and boring.”
His liver was also one bender shy of needing replacement, but he knew better than to expect Simone to sympathize with his fragile health. He left her to the booze and headed for the kitchen in hope of finding better company.
The unsettling sensation of his ass being watched gave him a new appreciation for small houses with lots of walls to break predatory lines of sight. He cleared the dining room and wedged himself into the first corner that offered concealment.
Gin peered at him around the refrigerator door. “Looking a little desperate, bud.”
And it had taken less than a minute of exposure to get him there. Change of plan — he’d protect Gin’s workspace from within, a human barricade providing support to the sturdy slab of wood holding Simone at bay.
Until then, he could help in other ways. “I missed the memo about my kitchen assignment.”
She nudged the fridge closed with her elbow, hands otherwise occupied with an onion and an orange. “So far as I knew when I made the roster, your greatest skill in the kitchen was...”
She faltered en route to the island and grasped for an end to that sentence other than her original intent.
Lex could guess where she’d been headed. He’d always believed there was no point letting a kitchen go to waste just because he couldn’t cook. He appreciated ample counter space — she needed room to squirm while he feasted with her legs draped over his shoulders. He knew how to use appliances — the cold steel of the refrigerator against her bare skin made her arch against him for warmth while her legs were wrapped around his waist. And then there was the incident involving a necktie and the handle of the dishwasher, though Gin could make the case those talents had been hers.
Her throat moved as she swallowed and settled on, “Microwaving leftover takeout.”
That had never been as satisfying.
“Things have changed.” He had new skills, though he’d be happy to show off the old ones on demand. “I’m six meals in debt. Let me help.”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“You don’t trust me to chop an onion?”
“I’m worried about your fingers. Aren’t they insured individually?”
“As a set, and I have to lose ninety percent of them to collect the payout, so I’m saving them for one big sacrifice.”
“In that case, how can I object?” She placed the onion on the cutting board. “How will you spend the money with only one finger left?”
He stepped around the island to join her. “Memorize my card number, learn to sign my name with my teeth, and keep this finger” — he held up his right index finger — “to point at what I want.”
“That’s not the finger I thought you’d choose to keep.”
He picked up the waiting knife and cut both ends off the onion. “I’m sensitive now and understand waving that finger at people I’m dependent on would negatively affect their eagerness to do my bidding.”
“So sensitive that the prospect of anyone uneager to do your bidding has you tearing up.” She used a dishtowel to gently blot his burning eyes.
“Don’t run off. This onion is making me emotional.” He rocked the knife along the side to split the skin.
She grabbed a grater from a nearby utensil bucket. Short scrapes of the orange over the blade produced a dusting of zest. The sweet citrus tang fought the onion for supremacy and won.
The opening to confide would close if he didn’t use it soon. His fierce desire to pick an easier topic was exceeded only by his resistance to wasting what little time he had with her on meaningless chitchat. He took the plunge. “I have nerve damage, so loss of function is more likely than multiple amputation.”
She fumbled the orange and chased it across the counter, arresting its roll with an outstretched arm and holding it there. “How likely?”
>
“The neurologists can’t say.” He stripped off the outer layer of onion, fingers deft for one more day. His heart raced way out of proportion to the task.
Incoming panic attack, dumbass. You wouldn’t have this problem if you’d accepted that generous offer of soothing liquid refreshment.
Lex counted through a couple of breaths. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Talking wasn’t going to kill him unless he hyperventilated, passed out, and fell on the knife.
He was getting the hang of this worst-case scenario stuff.
“It’s not a traumatic injury that they can pinpoint the damage and predict its course. What I have is more like patchy erosion. When a spot wears too thin, whatever it’s attached to is finished.”
Could happen to a fingertip, a leg, or a side of his face. Could cause a little numbness, complete motor failure, or unrelenting pain. Not knowing was half the fun.
“Can it be fixed?”
“No. I’ve been strongly advised to not drink it worse, though.” The knife thudded against the cutting board, and the onion split in two. “Noninflammatory diet helps some.”
Her fingers tightened, piercing the orange’s spongy pith.
The source of his anxiety declared itself: he’d been afraid all along her reaction would be You deserve it.
He did deserve it. He’d done this to himself. He was just so fucking tired of being beaten up for it when his body was already doing its best to kick his ass.
She took a ragged breath, then turned to press her face against his arm. “I’m so sorry, Lex.”
His muscles sagged with relief. Of course there’d be no judgment or recrimination here. Not from Gin, who only wanted to know the worst possible outcome in advance so she could make an informed choice between rattlesnakes and flames.
He couldn’t comfort her with onion-covered hands, so he made do with resting his chin on the top of her head. “It’s not that bad, bear.”
It was terrifying, actually, but not worth upsetting her. He’d wasted all that time bracing to receive her criticism; selfish prick that he was, he’d given no thought to how the alternative — compassion he should have expected from the final beacon before endless darkness — would hurt her.
