by Nicole Snow
My skin sizzles where his fingers touch. It's a struggle holding my eyes open, keeping them on him. I'm so conflicted and ashamed I wonder if any amount of money is worth this.
Whatever happened in our five years apart, my body hasn't forgotten his touch. Familiar electricity runs through his fingertips into me. Every nerve crackles, blisters, sings as his fingers dig into my skin, firmly but gently. My breath becomes shallower. I focus on the black pools in the middle of his gem blue eyes, the ones that betrayed me so many years ago.
“Beautiful, just beautiful, you two,” the photographer says again, more clicks and flashes going off like bombs around us. “Robin, I'd like you topless for the next shot, if you don't mind.”
I do mind, prick. I mind a whole hell of a lot, but there's no way around it without raising a career sinking fuss. I hesitate, my hands going behind me, stopping on my bra's clasp.
Once it goes, there's nothing between us except my black panties, now becoming painfully wet between my thighs.
Luke's hand glides gently down my back, stopping just short of my ass. He lifts an eyebrow. “Think of me as Mr. Black, Ali. No hard feelings,” he whispers.
Easy for him to say. Even easier to hide the hard-on pulling at his trunks. I catch the faintest glimpse of the bulge threatening to peak out of his waistband when I look down, popping my bra off.
More cameras explode all around us. Luke wraps his arms around me and pulls me close, just enough to hide my bare breasts against his chest, exactly like the photographer wants.
I tip my head back, trying to look like we're in the throes of passion. It's actually a small relief to put distance between our faces. My nipples graze his hard muscle. They're hard as diamonds.
The asshole has to be enjoying this. I take quick, tentative glances at his eyes, searching for the boy who used to torture me and love it. Amazingly, I only see a man doing his job, no different than a model posing for a junior art class.
I'm not sure why that's so infuriating. How can he go through the motions, without even being hot and bothered?
“Marvelous!” A woman's voice rings out behind us. It's Frieze again, here to enjoy the show. She's carrying on a quiet conversation with Pierce next to her. “Oh, Photographer Man, can you get them to do the pose we talked about? The one where their lips are oh-so-yummy-close? My fans simply adore those.”
We stop. Luke and I both look at the photographer, who twists his lips sourly, before he relents with a smile. “You heard the good lady. Let's see the pose, even if it ain't great for marketing.”
Luke's hands clench my back tighter this time. Goosebumps rise on my skin, circling his fingertips, peppering their way down my spine. I whip my head forward, staring into his eyes, watching his face move closer to mine.
Jesus. I can't breathe.
He bends me in his arms, tips me over the edge of the hot tub. His lips are coming, so close their heat burns on mine, without even touching.
“Hold,” he whispers, closing his eyelids.
Mine flutter open again. There's no more than the faintest gap between our lips. Every sense I have dies in a cloud of smoke.
Hot, forbidden memories flood my veins like slow moving lava. I still want him, damn it. Rather, my body has no solidarity with my heart. It's happy to go tense, steamy, and wet when I'm locked in his embrace, a prisoner to the past and my own very present desires.
I think it's the hate boiling in my heart that keeps me from pushing my lips just a little further, straight into the irresistible storm of his mouth.
No matter how sexy he is, how well he calls to my senses with his mad inks and muscle, I'll never forget our unique pain. I'll never forgive him for hiding what he knew, for letting his father prey on us, or for abandoning me in the end.
How can you trust me after this? I hear his last question in my mind, dark as the day he said it.
“What?” I snap, giving him a vicious look, before I catch myself. I'm hallucinating. The bad memory too vivid.
“I said, trust me, Robbi. We're done.” He pulls his hands off me, motioning to the crowd breaking up around us.
The photographer has his back turned, checking over his precious marketing photos. The numerous aides, plus the director and author, are gone.
We're alone in the bustle around us, two almost naked enemies pretending to be lovers. I turn the hell around without another look at him, pick up my robe, turning my body to the nearest exit. Before I can get very far, his hand goes around my wrist, and jerks me backward.
“You look like you could use a drink,” he says, picking up the champagne flute and tapping its side with his thumb. Bubbles course through the fluid, more chaotic than the rage unsettling my blood. “No use wasting the props.”
“No thanks,” I say, ripping my hand away from his.
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, lifts the champagne to his mouth, and takes a long carefree pull. When he's finished, he frowns, staring into the glass. “This crap isn't quite like I remember. Too coarse. Enough to give a man heartburn and make him regret drinking it, if he isn't careful.”
His eyes find mine. Real subtle. I'm seething.
“I'm not your damned champagne. Don't care what you remember about me,” I say, leaning in, whispering raw hate through my teeth into his ear. “Stay away from me, Luke. I'm not playing your games.”
He blinks, as if I've just told him the evening forecast instead of a serious warning. “It's not all bad, Robbi. You're not the girl I remember. You're more beautiful than her, and a hell of a lot stronger, too. Makes me think there's a chance we just might pull this off, without letting past experiences derail it.”
Past experiences? Really?
I can't read him anymore, no matter how long I gaze into his bottomless blue eyes.
Is he warning me back? Being sincere? Or just trying to get under my skin without shredding it?
I don't know, but I'm not waiting to find out. As soon as he lifts the champagne glass to his mouth again, waiting for my response, I throw my robe around me and move.
His eyes never leave me the entire time I'm leaving the set, heading to my changing room.
I hold it until I'm safely inside.
Then, and only then, do I let the tears wreck the makeup caked to my cheeks.
I knew I hated him. But I never knew how deeply until this afternoon, when I had to bare myself for this cold, unflinching savage man.
If he wants the games, I'm stuck with his rules. Luke cares about his career, but losing a few million if the movie goes bust means nothing to him. I have a lot more at stake. I'm forced to tread lightly if I want to get anywhere at all without a fatal trip that sends me crashing down, obliterated on the ruins of our past.
He'll be there to break my fall, one way or another.
He'll cut me. Make me bleed. Yes, bleed, just like the very first words I ever heard on his lips, when I intruded on a life I wish I'd never walked into.
Lucus Shaw would be intolerable enough as a complete stranger. He'd threaten my body and my mind.
As my ex, the only man I've ever loved, he's a quietly screaming sword pointed straight at my heart.
There's a three day break from the studio. Plenty of time to practice lines, explore the town, and get ready for the flight to Chicago, where we'll be filming the next few parts on the ground.
It should be easy. Something I've done a thousand times in my brief, but devoted acting career.
Instead, I'm too restless to spend more than an hour or two glancing over the next few scenes, always with wine or strong espresso. My go-to drinks aren't helping me internalize a damned thing. Uppers, downers, and plain old water can't wipe away the fresh burn marks Luke left behind.
I'm pacing the living room in my rental when my phone rings. MOM lights up the screen, leaving me to sigh, and lean on the counter while I take the call.
“How's my little actress doing?” she beams, as soon as I press the button to connect. “I feel privileged you're still taking
time out of your busy schedule to take my calls. Why aren't you out in the California sun if you're not on the set?”
“I burn easily, mom. You know that.”
She laughs. We make the usual small talk about how I'm settling in, finding my way around L.A., noting all the restaurants on my very long list I have to try.
“Oh, you'll never believe this,” she says, later in the conversation. “Remember Hayden Shaw, the older brother, who came to see us once or twice? He landed himself in hot water. Some kind of fling with an heiress. He ran out on her and the baby she's carrying, chasing the wife he cheated on. It's been the talk of the town here in Chicago the last couple weeks.”
I stop, pinching the edge of the counter so hard my fingers hurt. “Yeah, well, that's a shame,” I say, trying my best to sound calm. Like I'm not in ground zero of another Shaw storm hellbent on upending my life.
“They're all sick. Every last one of them,” she says coldly. “Anyway, I'm so, so happy for you, darling. All the things we went through when we lived and worked on their estate...it's almost worth it, just to see you where you are. Happy, safe, successful, and free from idiots so rich they think they're entitled to use the world and its women as their personal carnival.”
“Let it go, mom. Dwelling on the past or the present drama from anyone named Shaw won't do us any good.” I wish I could follow my own advice, instead of using it as a convenient escape from straight up hypocrisy.
There's a long pause on the end of the line. “Maybe you're right. Sorry, I'm being insensitive. I know the anniversary of Danny's death is coming up. Squawking about the Shaws is the last thing we need to think about.”
Two years next week since dad met his end in the hospice. He went down empty, drunk, and heartbroken to the very end. Rambling about his cheating whore of a wife, blaming mom for everything, telling me he never should've agreed to work for any of those freaks.
Ugh. I hadn't even thought about it until she reminded me.
“Honey?”
“Yeah, I'm here. I'll do something to mark the occasion, don't worry. Maybe go out to his grave since I'll be home for the next couple weeks filming.”
“If you need anything, just holler. I'm always here for you, even with this. Whatever happened between me and Danny, you have my support. You know it's not his fault he turned into a rambling, broken lunatic by the end, right? Frank Shaw drove him there. That horrible, selfish man ran us straight off the cliff. He's dead now, too, and I'm glad. I framed his obituary earlier this year, did you know that? If it wasn't for the security at the Shaw's posh tomb, I'd go there personally just to spit on his fucking grave!”
“Mom...come on. We don't need this drama.”
I have plenty to deal with by myself. Every wicked day I'm playing Allison Evers.
“Sorry, sorry, you're right. I can't help but get a little giddy every time I hear about their misery.” She takes a long breath. “Keep up the amazing work. Tell me everything. We'll try to do lunch one day when you're in town, and the firm isn't breathing down my neck.”
She's serious about her work. It's her taken years to claw her way into law after going back to school and landing a new career. Whatever her other weaknesses, I admire her a lot for adapting.
“Got it. Talk to you later,” I say, but she's already gone.
I try not to dwell on the strange relationship between my mother and me. Try.
Always her favorite word when there's a chance to spend time together, outside the mandatory holidays and birthdays.
It hasn't been the same since I left Chicago, found my way west, and watched dad deteriorate from afar in one useless rehab facility after another. On the surface, everything looks fine. She dotes over my career success, helped pay my way through acting school, and gushes over me on the rare visits to extended family.
It's not okay. She's never come clean about everything that went down in the Shaw house, and I'm too afraid to ask.
I love my mother. I respect her. But we're not open or honest, and maybe we don't need to be.
Hearing about more Shaw drama is the absolute last thing I need in my life. I'm too busy worrying about what I'll say when mom finds out who's playing my lover on the screen.
It'll be hell explaining – or pretending I can.
She'll never understand what would cause me to work with Lucus Shaw. And how could I blame her when I don't understand it myself?
“Do you want to see my dark place, Ali? You can't keep your little nose out of places it doesn't belong, so I think you do. Hell, I'll do you one better. I'll make you feel it.” I pause, mouthing Luke's lines from the page in my hands, cringing internally when I imagine him saying them to me. “God. I can't do this.”
I'm a mess. My head is swimming. I've polished off half a bottle of good moscato looking over the script. It's getting harder to sink back into my shy, submissive, painfully curious Allison role.
Harder, I realize, because everything is an act of surrender to him.
Even if it's pretend, I'm handing Luke total power over me on a silver platter.
“This isn't going to work,” I whisper to myself, throwing the thick binder onto the coffee table, watching as it slams shut. “Seriously. What the fuck am I doing?”
I'm a day away from the next shoot in Chicago. I'll probably have some time off once I get there before filming resumes. The studio is having emergency negotiations with the production crew over salaries, something that's bound to tie things up for weeks. There's rumors they might strike.
I don't know whether to welcome the down time, or despise it because it's preventing us from getting this over with.
For now, it might be what I need to save my own skin. I haven't managed to memorize half of what I should this week, much less capture the tone, the emotion, all the non-verbal extras that go into a successful part.
I'm too busy thinking about him, and his stupid family. I stay up late, buzzed, my eyeballs glued to the shitstorm about his older brother all over social media. Just days ago, the entire world thought Hayden Shaw was a spoiled, cheating bastard. The #DeadbeatBillionaireDaddy not-so-eloquently captured in the hashtag lighting up self-righteous Twitters and Facebooks everywhere.
Now, his baby mama is recanting everything. He's had a press conference, and he's bringing his woman, Penny, home to the windy city.
The sensational blunder and lightning romance has turned into the biggest celeb love story the tabloids have seen since Prince Silas overseas settled down.
The media was wrong about Hayden Shaw. He's not the cheating, irresponsible, fabulously wealthy shit they claimed. I guess the devil has a sense of humor, or else one of the Shaw brothers actually has a heart.
Whatever the truth, it's not helping my predicament here. It's just feeding an obsession I shouldn't have.
I stare at the clock. Eight p.m. Still early enough to deal with this boulder rattling around inside me as I struggle with the script, or at least humiliate myself trying.
Reaching for the manila envelope next to me, I pull out the studio packet, and start digging through contacts. It takes me a minute after I've found his number to send him a text. My fingers hover over my screen, burning because there's no better option.
This hurts like hell, but I type my message and hit send.
Robbi: We need to talk. Are you free tonight?
I throw my phone down, freeing my hands to rub my temples. This was stupid.
He probably won't write back, or he'll do it when he's at the airport tomorrow. He'll tell me we can meet up in Chicago, some quiet place downtown, just like the few times we spent time in the city together in 'the old days.'
I muddle through the script for another twenty minutes. Ms. Evers got caught rifling through her billionaire boss' contacts, and she's found out more than she should about the kinky, elite parties he used to attend.
Curiosity killed the cat, according to the old cliché. Fitting for a plot that's full of them. Only this time, it won't kill me. Deat
h would be too merciful.
Rather, it's going to get my bare ass spanked by a man I loathe in front of half a billion people.
I really shouldn't have poured myself a fourth glass of wine. I'm worrying about the risk of winding up like my alcoholic father when my phone pings loudly, bringing me out of the stupor.
My eyes go to the screen, heavy with more than a little dread. He replied.
Luke: Dreadnaught Wine Bar. Nine thirty. How does that sound?
Miserable. I want to come clean, tell him I'm drunk, and I never meant the request for a meeting. Not for real.
But if I don't get on with this and try to make peace, or at least come to some kind of understanding, my career is torched along with my nerves.
I write back, telling him it sounds fine, and head into the kitchen to drink some water. It goes down cool, refreshing, easy. Just the freshness I need to make it to my bedroom, where I tear open my closet, digging through the few outfits I haven't packed yet for the trip tomorrow.
I close my eyes, try to control my breathing, and make a solemn vow with just my clothes as silent witnesses. Three simple rules I make up on the spot stand between making this meet the groundwork for a truce, or a complete shit show.
Don't let him get to you.
Don't get wet.
Don't think about the past.
If I can follow through on three simple rules, I might walk away without Luke holding an atom bomb over my head. I won't let the questions and doubts I'm turning over in my head rule me.
Searching the closet gives me one more before it's over, though. What the hell do you wear to a meeting with a man who destroyed you?
“You're five minutes late,” he says, as soon as I take a seat across from him. “Not like I can blame you. I'd drag my feet, too, if I'd decided to show up for more punishment.”
Taking extra care to tuck the plain grey dress I've picked out under me, I flick my hair behind my shoulder, and stop myself from asking if this was a bad idea. “The punishment doesn't technically start until our next scene.”
