by Ember Casey
“Maggie, wait,” he says. “I really think you’ve got the wrong idea about me.”
“We can talk about this in the morning,” I say without turning my head or slowing my stride even a little. My little sedan is only a parking space away now.
“Maggie.” He grabs my arm.
The moment I feel his fingers on me, I jerk away. But he must have been anticipating that. As I twist away from him, his other hand comes up and grabs my wrist. Before I can even swing around and jab my keys at him, he’s pressed me up against my car. My back is against one of the doors, the handle digging into my spine. And my fist with my keys is crushed between us.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand, but my voice shakes. “Let me go!”
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” he replies, and the calmness in his voice terrifies me even more than all the rest. “And you keep running away.”
“Let me go. You’re scaring me.”
“Good. Some women need to be scared.” His voice is still chillingly calm. “I’ve been very kind to you, Maggie. I’m only trying to help you. Is this how you show gratitude?”
Since I can’t free my hand with the keys, I’m forced to resort to other options. I lift my leg and then ram my heel down on his foot as hard as I can.
Even in the near-darkness, I can see his eyes bulge in pain. He curses, his grip loosening slightly, and I see my chance. I tug my wrist out of his grasp and shove him away. He stumbles back a step and I bolt around the car, fumbling for the unlock button.
He recovers faster than I expected, catching me just after I round the back of the car. With a grunt, he throws me against the side of the trunk, but I’m still fighting. I swing at him with my keys, slicing him right across the cheek.
With a curse, he snatches my wrist again, gripping it so tightly that my fingers pop open in pain. Blood begins to drip from the slice in his face as he tosses my keys aside into the darkness of the parking lot.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands, shaking me.
I don’t try to answer. I don’t think I could speak even if I wanted to. My mind is focused on one thing—getting away from him.
Suddenly his head jerks up, and he looks over his shoulder as if he’s heard something. I don’t hear anything. But I’m not about to lose another opening. I bring up my knee, catching him right in the soft bits between his legs.
With a howl, he falls back. But he doesn’t have the chance to even hit the ground. As I push myself back upright, a figure appears as if out of nowhere and grabs Ford by the collar.
The next minute is a blur of fists and feet. Ford doesn’t last long against his opponent. When the other man finally releases him, Ford is cowering, one hand raised in surrender and the other covering his balls. Which I hope are still throbbing.
For the first time, I glance at the other man. Somehow, I already knew who it would be.
Orlando.
He takes a step toward Ford, fists clenched. And he looks ready to kill. Once again he’s that alpha wolf, ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Which I suspect wouldn’t be much. His eyes are wild.
“You’re fired,” Orlando growls. “I don’t want to see you on my set again.”
Ford straightens, his fear shifting into shock, then finally into outrage.
“You can’t fire me!” he says.
“I can and I will,” Orlando’s voice is hard as steel. His eyes are still fire. “I won’t tolerate violent behavior from anyone on my movie.”
“You were the one who attacked me!” Ford snarls. He’s almost twitchy, every bit the cornered beta wolf who knows he’s been defeated but is too proud to admit it.
“If you’re not gone by the time I count to three, I’m calling the police,” Orlando says. “And if you show up on one of my sets again for any reason, I’ll kick your ass so hard the police won’t have anything left to identify.”
“Fuck you, you egotistical bastard,” Ford says, wiping his bloody cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m going to sue your ass for assault. And for wrongful termination.”
Orlando doesn’t even flinch. “One.”
“When the press hears about this, they’re going to—”
“Two.”
Orlando hasn’t raised his voice at all, but his tone makes Ford go rigid. Without even glancing my way, he turns and runs across the parking lot like he’s running for his life.
I don’t realize how tense I am until all the feeling suddenly rushes out of my legs. I lean against my car for support as Orlando tears his eyes away from the retreating Ford and turns to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Yeah. Just…shaken.” What the fuck just happened? My heart is beating so fast it’s impossible to catch my breath. And my head feels very light.
“I’m going to call the police,” he says. “They’ll—”
“No!” I exclaim, throwing out a hand. “I…” I don’t really have a good reason why he shouldn’t call the police, except for the fact that it means I’m going to have to deal with answering questions and giving a statement and reliving all this when all I want to do is go home, curl up into a ball, and pretend none of it ever happened. I just want to go home.
I turn toward the driver’s side door of my car, but then I remember I no longer have my keys.
“I…” I look around. I don’t remember which direction Ford threw them. And we’re far enough from the street lamps that the asphalt is entirely in shadow, so I have no idea how I’m going to find them anyway. But it’s the only way I’m getting home, so I have to try.
I push past Orlando and drop to my hands and knees, feeling around on the dark pavement. Did I hear them fall over here? I don’t remember. He couldn’t have thrown them far.
A firm hand grips my arm, and I instinctively flinch away. Orlando releases me.
“Let’s get you home,” he says to me. “Is there someone I can call for you?”
“No,” I tell him. There’s no need to bother my brother with this, and my parents have bigger things to worry about. “But I don’t know where my keys are.”
“I’ll help you find them.”
He crouches down beside me, and for the next few minutes we search in silence. Finally, I hear a soft jingle.
“I’ve found them,” he says. He climbs to his feet and then offers me a hand. I only hesitate a second before accepting. My legs are still a little wobbly.
“Thanks,” I tell him, reaching out for my keys.
“Actually…” His hand freezes with the keys just beyond my reach. “I think it would be better if I drove you home.”
“I can drive just fine.”
“You’re in shock, Maggie. Look at your hand—you’re shaking.”
I glance down at my hand, and sure enough, my fingers are visibly trembling in midair. I quickly curl them into a fist and drop my arm.
“I’m fine, really,” I tell him. “I’ll just call a cab.” Not that I can really afford a cab right now, but I can’t let Orlando Fontaine of all people drive me home. But would it really be better to sit in the back of a stranger’s cab? Or call my brother and have to explain to him what happened?
Orlando doesn’t look convinced by my insistence that I’m fine. For the first time, I allow myself to meet his gaze, and the worry in those eyes nearly knocks me over.
“I’d feel better if you let me drive you,” he says. “Or someone else you know.”
And if I’m being completely honest, I would, too. So I nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
“My car’s right over here.”
He leads me across the parking lot, and when I stumble—only because I’m not used to wearing heels all day—he immediately reaches out an arm and supports me. I almost pull away from him, but honestly, I want the support. His arm is comforting.
Part of me wants to ask him what’s going to happen to Ford—Is he seriously fired? Is his part going to have to be recast and
all his scenes reshot?—but I also don’t really feel like talking about the incident anymore. Thankfully, Orlando doesn’t say anything else about it. He just silently leads me across the parking lot, his arm a warm, reassuring presence against my back. My skin feels hot and prickly, and my heart feels like it’s pulsing a hundred beats a second.
There are only a handful of other cars still here, and he guides me to a very expensive-looking silver sportscar. Without a word, he opens the door and helps me into the passenger’s side.
I’m in Orlando Fontaine’s car, I think, looking around in amazement. The dashboard looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. And the soft leather of the seat feels absolutely luscious beneath my hands.
Orlando climbs into the driver’s side and pulls out his cell phone.
“Where would you like me to take you?” he asks.
I give him the address to my brother’s apartment, and he plugs it into his GPS before pulling out of the parking lot.
We’re both silent for the first several minutes. He keeps looking at me, though, and I can feel those eyes boring into me as I stare out the window. Finally I turn my head and glance at him.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “I can’t remember if I’ve said that yet.”
“There’s no reason to thank me,” he replies gruffly. “I won’t tolerate that behavior on one of my films. Or anywhere.” He glances my way again, heat burning in his eyes, and his hands tighten on the wheel. “I should have fired him weeks ago. His attitude has been terrible from the start. I wouldn’t have kept him if I’d thought even for a second that he was capable of…” He must see something in my face, because he lets that sentence trail off, but his eyes still burn as brightly as ever. “I let him off easy. I should have crushed his skull in.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. It’s terrifying to see him like this—if I thought it was intense when he was on set, it’s nothing next to what I see in him now—but I’m not scared of him. Not this man who reacts so strongly to another man attacking me.
So I do what I always do—try to lighten the mood.
“I’m just sad I only got one good kick to his balls,” I say.
Orlando’s so shocked by my words he almost speeds right through a red light. He manages to slam on the brakes at the last minute before turning to look at me in surprise.
“I’m just saying,” I tell him, much more lightly than I feel, “that if you’re going to chase him down and crush his skull, I’d like the chance to stomp on his balls another couple of times. In heels. And then maybe set them on fire.” I offer him what I hope is a convincing smile.
He looks at me, and though his eyes are as sharp as ever, his anger from a moment ago has shifted into something a lot more like curiosity. He studies me as he has before, like I’m some part of his movie that needs to be analyzed from several angles. It makes my heart speed up again.
“While that’s a difficult thing for me to imagine personally…” He shifts in his seat as if picturing his own balls on fire. “…I can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. And more.”
And then the light turns green, and he goes back to looking at the road.
“I hope this incident doesn’t keep you from pursuing more work in this industry,” he continues after a moment. “There are always bad people—and it sometimes seems like there’s an exorbitant amount of them in Hollywood—but there are good people, too. People who are trying to weed the bad ones out.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I tell him. “I never had any plans to stay in the industry anyway. I’m just a random extra you found in the bathroom.”
He glances my way, then back at the road. “You don’t want to be an actress? I thought every young, beautiful woman had dreams of being a star.”
“Not really,” I confess. I can’t believe he thinks I’m beautiful. “Not that I don’t want to be in your movie. This has been amazing.” Up until tonight, anyway. “But I wasn’t one of those girls who dreamed of growing up to be a famous movie star or anything. Honestly, that sort of life sounds miserable.”
“How so?”
“All the publicity, for one thing. Who wants paparazzi following them around, photographing their every move? I want to be able to go to the grocery store in my sweatpants and not have the pictures slapped all over the tabloids.” Especially considering how much time I spend in my sweatpants these days. “I’d like to be able to date whomever I want without it being front page news. And gain weight or lose weight as I like without people speculating about whether I’m sick or pregnant. There are perks to being normal and anonymous.”
“Are there?” he says, a slight quirk appearing on one side of his mouth.
He’s laughing at me again, I think. And then I realize why.
“Not that I don’t understand why other people would want that life,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’m sure there are plenty of benefits to it, too. Like being able to sell your wedding photos for millions of dollars. Or having people you’ve never met send you fan letters about how wonderful you are. That sort of thing.”
He looks even more amused. “Is that what you think my life is like?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I splutter. “But you seem to be enjoying it just fine.”
“I’ve never known any other life,” he tells me. “But I guess I lucked out—the paparazzi don’t usually care about me. Not like they do with Luca or even Dante.” He almost smiles, and his grip loosens on the steering wheel. “I get the best of both worlds, I think. I’m not hunted down by photographers or crazy fans, but I get to enjoy the opportunities that come with my family name. I’m not arrogant enough to believe I would be where I am today if I didn’t have my parents.”
“You’d get there eventually,” I say. “You’re talented enough.”
He glances my way. “There’s no need to flatter me, Maggie. I know my name has opened a lot of doors for me.”
“I mean it,” I say. “You really are talented.” I don’t admit that I’ve watched all of his movies in the past few days. Even the one the critics panned. “I can’t wait to see how you’ve interpreted Henry VI.”
He glances at me again. “You’ve read the Henry VI cycle?”
“Part of it,” I tell him. When that amusement flickers back into his expression, I add, “Well, it’s three whole plays! That’s a lot of Shakespeare to read in only a few days.”
“So you picked it up after your first day on set?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I was curious. I’m glad I did, though. It’s really good.”
“It’s fucking brilliant,” he tells me. “People always overlook Shakespeare’s history plays, but they’re the most exciting ones by far. You’ve got everything in Henry VI—intrigue, murder, backstabbing, war, even some humor. And there are a lot of parallels with modern society and politics. It’s as dramatic as any soap opera out there, but at the same time there’s a complexity to it—it tells us a lot about the human struggle for power. And about the human condition in general.” His eyes shine the way they do when he’s really focused on a scene, burning with that inner genius.
And honestly, hearing him talk about his work is just as much of a turn-on as I imagined. He can say what he wants about only being where he is because of his name, but I don’t believe it for a moment. Not as I stare at him right now.
“Did you study Shakespeare, then?” I ask him, longing to hear more.
“I took a couple courses about his work back during film school,” he says. “But most of my love for him comes from my father. He’s a huge theater buff. He was taking me to see plays by Shakespeare and Beckett and some of the other greats by the time I was seven years old.” His mouth curls up slightly. “He did it with all of us kids, but it really stuck with me. And Dante—a little anyway. We still go to the theater together a few times a year—my father really likes all the high-brow stuff. Sometimes he even convinces my mother to come along.”
I grin. His answer has brought up a
dozen more questions, but before I get the chance to utter them, he speaks again.
“What about you, then?” he asks. “If you don’t want to act, then what do you want to do? What did you study?”
“I didn’t study anything exciting,” I tell him. “I finished up my master’s in visual marketing last year, and right now I’m willing to take any job that will have me.”
“Really?” he asks, eyeing me askance. “I was expecting you to tell me you went to art school or something.”
“Because of my doodles? Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Those are just for fun. Besides, I’m not sure I have enough hustle to turn that into a career.”
“You never know,” he says. “There are lots of careers out there for someone with a good eye.” I catch him studying me out of the corner of his eye. “But that still doesn’t tell me what you want to do.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I wasn’t one of those people who grew up dreaming about any specific career. And then when I got to college and had to decide what to study, I decided to be practical. Marketing seemed like a good way to go. Especially my last year in college, when my dad first got sick. It’s been hard watching my parents struggle with all the medical bills.” I don’t know why I’m telling him any of this, but I keep going. “I went on to get my master’s, and then I thought I’d launch myself right into some high-paying job after I graduated, find some way to help them out with things, but it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. I worked at a coffee shop for a little while, just to have some money coming in, but they fired me when I told them I couldn’t work one of my shifts because I had an interview. They said they needed someone who was more committed to the job, and I can’t blame them.” The fact that I completely bombed that interview was just the icing on the cake, but I try not to beat myself up about that too much—right before I met the potential employer, my mom called me to tell me my dad was going in for another emergency surgery. I’m surprised I could even remember my name during that interview, let alone do anything else.
“So that’s my story,” I say, deciding to end things before I get all teary. “So you can see why I was so excited to get this part, even if I don’t want to be an actress.”
