Spoiler Alert

by Olivia Dade

She kept waiting for him to grow bored, to produce his fancy headphones and listen to his latest audiobook, but he didn’t. He just lay outstretched and waited for her judgment.

  The scripts varied so widely, she didn’t think she risked confusing them. Still, she typed a few notes to remind herself of what she’d read and concluded.

  By Hook/By Crook: TV series set in Victorian NYC. Dramatic mystery/suspense. Slow-burn romance.

  Central characters: semireformed thief (female) and former prostitute (Marcus), who combine street smarts to find murderer targeting victims too marginalized to garner sufficient police attention. Audition required. $$–$$$.

  Exes and O: Indie film. Dramedy. Ophelia (O), for REASONS, ends up living with various ex-boyfriends as roommates. Jack (Marcus), whom she left and has missed ever since, is romantic endgame. No audition required. $.

  In theory, there was a second movie script competing for Marcus’s attention, but that was blatant misdirection on his part and not worth her notetaking efforts.

  She pushed aside her laptop. “You lied to me, Marcus.”

  He jerked on the couch. Paled.

  “April . . .” Sitting up in a rush of movement, he pressed his lips together. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . . I shouldn’t have . . .”

  His words faltered as he stared at her, stricken.

  That seemed like an overreaction to a harmless bit of deception, but she already knew Marcus was, well . . . sensitive. To his own emotions, but also hers. Alex might—in an epic example of pot/kettle fuckery—call him a drama queen, but she didn’t consider her boyfriend’s vulnerability a weakness.

  If he ever decided to shed the masks he used to protect himself, she would be more than willing to serve as a different sort of shield for him. She’d happily guard his tender spots from the unkind scrutiny of outsiders. For his own sake, but also because—selfishly—she wanted him to need her.

  More than that.

  She wanted him to love her. She could admit it, at least to herself.

  “It’s okay.” Moving over to the couch, she settled beside him and pressed a comforting kiss to his cheek. “Luckily for you, I don’t mind trick questions.”

  “Trick . . . questions.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  Once he’d relaxed against her, she poked his arm. “Despite what you said, you gave me two main contenders. Not three, you cheater.”

  His face brightened at her declaration, a sun unshadowed by clouds once more, and that expression alone was enough to tell her she was right.

  Still, he lifted an arrogant brow, his composure now restored in its entirety. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s hear your reasoning.”

  Turning to face him, she tucked one leg beneath her and let loose.

  “No way you’re choosing Julius Caesar: Redux. You love ancient Rome, but not enough to work with that director. Even I’ve heard the rumors about him, which is saying something.” Her lip curled. “Besides, that script is shitty, and you don’t need to take roles simply to get a paycheck anymore. You can pick a project befitting your talent and intelligence.”

  “Befitting my—” His mouth worked. “My talent and intelligence.”

  He seemed stuck on that phrase, but she had a challenge to win, so she wasn’t lingering.

  “It wasn’t a very convincing trick, honestly. If you want to fool me, you’ll have to do better than that.” She shook her head at him. “You’re too good for that movie, in every possible way. It’s not a contender. Your agent shouldn’t even have sent it to you.”

  He stared at her then, blue-gray eyes wide and unexpectedly solemn.

  When he eventually spoke, his voice was quiet. “I told her not to send me any more projects from that director, no matter how much his films make at the box office. Nothing else from that screenwriter, either, because the script was a misogynistic piece of shit. Just like you said.”

  “Score one for Team Whittier.” Licking her forefinger, she traced an invisible tally mark in the air.

  When he didn’t move, she indicated his clothing with a jerk of her chin.

  “Make like a dancing firefighter on a Vegas stage,” she said, “and strip.”

  His grin was slow as he straightened on the couch, and so was the peekaboo tease of his tee rising, then rising more, until that hard chest came into view. Finally, his bared muscles shifting with impressive fluidity under that hair-dusted flesh, he yanked the shirt over his head and flung it in her lap.

  When she gathered it in her fist, it was still warm from his body heat.

  She licked her lips with deliberate care, knowing his eyes would follow the movement. “One down. Two to go.”

  Sitting back, he rested a hand on her knee. Traced the oval of her kneecap. “I can’t wait.”

  There was a smile in his voice, even though his face was downturned, his eyes on his fingertip circling, circling, circling.

  “The indie movie . . .” When she pressed her thighs together, he glanced up and slanted her a wicked grin. “It’s a limited commitment, more so than the TV series. That probably appeals to you. It’s cleverly written. It’s a chance to show your emotional range. It’d also be one of the few comedic roles you’ve taken, and your first since you became as famous as you are.”

  His finger had strayed to the inside of her knee now, teasing the thin skin there through the flimsy barrier of her lounge pants. “Why haven’t I accepted, then?”

  “It’s not much money, but I’d guess that isn’t your main concern.”

  “No?” It was another near-purr, languid and sultry.

  Those strong hands urged her to her feet and stood her between his legs, where he still sat on the couch. Without warning, he tugged down her wide-legged pants, his palms hot as they skimmed down the sides of her thighs, her calves.

  She was still wearing panties, but she suspected that state of affairs might not last much longer, given the way he slipped a thumb under her waistband and stroked along her belly.

  “No—oh.” When he settled her on his lap, positioning her so she straddled his hips, that bulge in his jeans pressed right there, where she was aching and growing hotter. “Th-the cast is such a large ensemble, you might not get enough chance to shine. I also wasn’t sure Ophelia had much of an identity outside her exes.”

  He hummed in agreement and palmed her ass. Rocked her against him. “Two points for Team Whittier.”

  Her patience was nearly exhausted. She wanted his mouth, then she wanted his dick, and she didn’t want to wait longer than necessary for either.

  “Then take off your fucking jeans,” she told him.

  His eyes flared, and he didn’t hesitate further. Shifting her off his lap for a moment, he tugged down his jeans in a single, swift movement before kicking them aside. Then he was touching her again, dragging her closer, his possessive hands on her ass urging her back astride him.

  With only two thin, soft layers separating his cock from her sex, each upward hitch of his hips lit sparks behind her half-closed eyelids.

  “One more to go.” His voice was a rumble now, a deep vibration against her shoulder.

  Her chin tipped back, and he mouthed her neck. “The television show—”

  Shit. His hands were sliding under her shirt, stroking up her back and circling forward, and if she didn’t finish her analysis right now, she clearly never would, and if she didn’t finish, she wouldn’t win, and if she didn’t win, she couldn’t watch him strip naked before she rode that smug, sexy face of his.

  Well, she probably could. But it would feel even better knowing she’d won.

  “More tricks, Caster-Hyphen-Rupp?” She took one last moment to appreciate his hot tongue teasing that spot beneath her jaw, the pressure against her swelling clit. “So be it.”

  When she rose to her knees on the couch, he groaned at the loss of friction. Then groaned harder when she reached down and pushed him back against the cushions, sliding her fingers beneath the top edge of his boxer-briefs.

&nb
sp; “Raise your hips,” she told him, and he obeyed long enough for her to yank the fabric just below his firm, gloriously round ass.

  His cock bobbed against his ridged belly, hard and thick and wet at the tip.

  She didn’t touch it yet, even though she could. Even though she wanted to.

  He shook his head at her chidingly, but his voice was hoarse. “That’s cheating, Whittier. You didn’t earn that yet.”

  “I didn’t cheat.” She stared down her nose at him, cheeks aflame with lust. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re still wearing your boxer-briefs.”

  That cocky smirk should be illegal. “So I am. Not, however, in the intended manner.”

  “And not for much longer,” she told him. “Lie down.”

  At the flick of her finger, he stretched out full-length on the couch once more. This time, when she straddled his thighs, she did so with her fist tight around his burgeoning cock, and apart from a few semifrantic rolls of his hips, he didn’t offer any more distractions or interruptions.

  She gave him a firm stroke before speaking again, and he jerked beneath her and grew even harder in her hand. “I saw Francine’s note about where the television series’s showrunners hope to sell it.” The same cable channel as Gods of the Gates. “If they succeed, that should ensure a decent budget, and I’m sure your involvement in the show would help them make their case. The role has action sequences, but a strong emotional core too. I suspect you like the way they gender-flipped the characters, compared to the norm.”

  She licked her palm. Stroked him again as he bit off a loud moan.

  “I spent the longest with that script, because I was looking for telltale signs the show intended to shame sex workers. I couldn’t find any.” With her free hand, she stroked up that flat belly and over his chest as he squirmed between her thighs. “My guess? You were drawn to the role because everyone, even the female lead, dismisses your character as just a pretty face and fuckable body at first, but there’s much more to him. It’s a smart script, Marcus. The best of the lot. Good money too.”

  “So why—” He was arching beneath her and gasping now, to her infinite satisfaction. “Why haven’t I auditioned already?”

  Her hands stilled. Dammit. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I couldn’t quite figure it out.”

  After blowing out a hard breath, he managed a wry tone. “If you do figure it out, let me know. Because I have no idea, and I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Okay.” This deserved her full attention, and his too, so she removed her hands from his body and placed them on her own thighs. “Do you have any theories?”

  He subsided down into the couch again. “I don’t want to leave you, of course. But the audition would only keep us apart for a day or two, so that’s not it. Not all of it, anyway. And I don’t want to stop acting entirely, so that’s not the issue either.”

  Reaching up, he tucked a swath of her hair behind her ear. “I haven’t been able to make myself audition for months now, and I don’t know why. Even though it feels ungrateful to waste these opportunities. Foolish too.”

  “It’s not foolish.” She laid her palm over his heart, as she’d done before. “There’s no right or wrong answer here. Just—”

  “—whatever makes me happiest,” he finished, a slight smile lightening his expression. “I hope that’s true.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s true. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  He winced then, his flinch sudden and violent, and she hurriedly scrambled off his lap.

  “Did you get a cramp?” She scanned him, but couldn’t see an obvious issue other than his flagging erection. “Where are you hurting?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I—”

  Her cell rang, cutting him off, but she ignored it. “What can I do to help?”

  “Please, answer your phone.” When she didn’t move, he shooed her away. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

  Preoccupied with his mostly naked, possibly hurting state, she didn’t check the screen display before answering her cell. It was a mistake.

  “Hi, sweetheart! So glad I caught you at home tonight.”

  Her mother’s voice rang through the connection, bright and cheery. Too bright and cheery, which meant Mom was anxious. Probably because her daughter hadn’t been answering her calls regularly.

  “Hi, Mom.” Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. “Yes. For once, we decided to stay in and relax, instead of going out.”

  Marcus was shooting her a quizzical look as he tugged his boxer-briefs back around his hips, no doubt wondering why she was lying to her mother. She and Marcus hadn’t spent an evening out since Alex’s visit, partly to avoid paparazzi and partly because they both seemed to be natural homebodies.

  Apparently he hadn’t noticed her rejecting JoAnn’s calls.

  “You’re—” Her mom cleared her throat. “You’re still seeing your young man?”

  April bit back her instinctive, petty response. Do you need a fainting couch or smelling salts? I know you must be shocked.

  “Yes.” It was polite, and the best she could manage.

  Her mother didn’t ask for more details, thankfully. “In that case, I’m issuing an invitation for two. Your father and I would love to have you both here for my birthday lunch, if you can make it. The first Saturday in July, just the four of us.”

  The air in the apartment had turned damp and chilly against her exposed legs. April wrapped her free arm around herself, curling inward as she dropped her chin to her chest.

  There was no good way to refuse. If April said the exact date didn’t work, another would be proposed, then another, until it became clear the date wasn’t the real problem, and she’d have to address issues she wasn’t ready to raise yet. Make declarations she’d wanted to consider further before meeting her parents again.

  When April was a child, her mother had worked so hard to make birthdays special. She’d arranged dizzying spreads of gifts. Parties that included everyone in April’s class. Streamers and balloons and, one year, a petting zoo in their backyard.

  Even cake, whatever type April requested.

  “One cheat day per year, sweetheart,” JoAnn always said. “Make the most of it.”

  April should be willing to attend her mother’s celebration, despite everything. In recognition of all those other birthday parties, if nothing else, because Mom really did care. Mom really did work hard and want what was best for her daughter and hope for her daughter’s happiness with each phone call, each visit, each reminder of what health and beauty and love required.

  Marcus’s arms wrapped around her from behind, warm and hard and supportive, and she swallowed past the obstruction in her throat.

  “Hold on just one second, Mom.” Muting the phone, she stared blankly into the kitchen and asked him. “My mom wants to know if you can come to her birthday lunch the first Saturday in July. They live in Sacramento, so it’ll be a half-day trip.”

  No hesitation. “Of course. I’ll put it in my calendar later.”

  Before he could say more, she unmuted the phone. “We’ll be there. Just email me the details and let me know if we can bring anything.”

  “Perfect.” There was an awkward pause, which her mother eventually filled with yet more cheery chatter. “Nothing too exciting is happening here, although your father and I are considering spending a weekend in Napa next month. He got some new clients, and they recommended this vineyard—”

  No. No, April was done talking about her father. That much she knew.

  “Listen, Mom, I need to get to bed early, so I should let you go.” Marcus’s hands, stroking up and down her chilled arms, paused. “Talk to you soon.”

  How her mother managed to fill absolute silence with hurt, April would never understand. Even from two hours away, the guilt of it dragged her head lower.

  “All right. Love you, sweetheart,” JoAnn finally said.

  Aft
er another swallow, April stated the truth. “I love you too.”

  She couldn’t disconnect fast enough. When she turned in Marcus’s arms, he was staring down at her, forehead creased, and she didn’t want questions from him. Not now.

  Her hands were unsteady, and she fisted them. “I won, right? With the final script?”

  He slowly nodded.

  “Then get naked,” she told him. “After that, I’m claiming my reward.”

  As he removed his boxer-briefs, she stalked toward the bedroom, flipped the light switch, and waited for him to follow. Once he did, she greeted him by stripping off her shirt and tossing it in a corner, then tugging down and kicking away her panties.

  He inhaled sharply and bit his lip, but his brow didn’t smooth.

  “I don’t want to talk about the call right now,” she told him. “I will later, I promise.”

  He nodded again, this time with more certainty. “Okay.”

  In mute defiance, she planted her fists on her hips and stood there absolutely naked, the overhead light at full brightness, so he couldn’t possibly fail to see her for who and what she was. Every curve. Every roll. Every freckle. Every stretch mark. Every inch of her bared and his to take or leave.

  He took his time studying her, then stepped closer. Closer again, until their legs tangled and the crisp hair on his thighs rasped against her sensitive skin.

  The stroke of his knuckles down her neck was careful. Tender. “What do you need, April?”

  All this evening, they’d been discussing wants, not needs. But at this moment, for her, maybe the two were the same.

  “As my reward, I want you to fuck me with all the lights in this room blazing.” She tipped her chin higher, refusing to break eye contact. “I want you to look at me the whole time. Can you do that?”

  Against her belly, his renewed desire began to make itself known, and the hardening of his cock felt like triumph. Absolute victory, over a foe she’d been battling and battling for decades now.

  He laughed, even as his hands rose to cup her breasts. “Of course I can do that. I’ve done it before, and it would literally be my pleasure to do it again.” Then he hesitated. “Only . . .”