by Azzi , Gina
“What about you?” she slurs, her eyes heavy as she glances at me over her shoulder.
“I feel too full to feel tired.”
“We ate hours ago,” she snickers.
“Too full of energy then.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m going to sleep.” Harlow offers me a half-wave as she heads down a corridor toward the elevators that will take her to her hotel room.
Instead of following, I walk through the hotel, down to the beach. Cool sand tickles my toes as I kick off my sandals. A sweet breeze wraps around my bare legs. My head, bursting with the energy of a night out, laden with pretty alcoholic drinks and cloudy with the sinister thoughts I can’t escape, spins.
I dig my heels into the wet sand of water’s edge, staring into the endless expanse of sea. The night sky is dark but open, beckoning me to share my secret. To confide in the universe the unknown of my future.
Clenching my hands into fists, the blunt edges of my nails bite the skin of my palms. Throwing back my head, I feel strands of sweaty hair stick to the back of my neck and shoulders. My eyes close and I inhale sea and salt and broken promises. Then, my lips drop open and I roar.
The sound of my anguished cry reverberates through my bones, shaking my limbs and scooping fear from my soul.
The whipping wind eats my shriek, swallowing it into the great expanse where the sea meets the sky. My hurt and fear are stamped out by the vastness of nature. Mother Earth extends a gentle caress and dashes the tears from my eyes, the hurt from my heart.
I scream until my throat is raw and the sound of my blood pumping through my veins is blocked out by the rolling waves.
The sand grows colder under my feet.
The wind grows harsher.
The sea rushes up to meet me, the power of its strength a reassuring comfort.
When my lungs are empty and my body falls slack from all the energy expended, I relish the fatigue that wraps around me like a cloak.
Exhaling in relief, I turn to make my way back to my room. Exhaustion settles in my limbs, my mind grows quiet, and the comfort of sleep beckons.
But the shadow of a hunched figure, a fallen warrior, leaning over the railing of the penthouse balcony halts my steps.
Eli.
His hands clench the railing, his back hunched, his head bowed. He’s shirtless, the sinewy strength of his muscles on full display, rippling with every inhale.
In the dark night, in the quiet of stargazing, his arrogance is gone, his confidence vanished. Instead, a vulnerability clings to him, a loneliness that’s deeper than the surface. He pushes off the railing, his eyes rising to the beach. To me.
They slam into me and flicker with a sharpness, a recognition that causes me to freeze, my breath lodging in my throat.
His eyes cut me to my core, seeing past the mask I’ve perfected, penetrating the depth of my soul where my lies are twisted into half-truths and my truths are broken into lies.
My hand lifts to the center of my chest. I dig the heel of my palm in, reminding my heart to beat, my lungs to breathe.
Eli blinks once, slow and lazy.
Then, he stands to his full height, his body like that of a Greek god, his eyes bleeding a Greek tragedy.
He turns quickly and is gone, swallowed by his massive penthouse, hidden in the depths of fame and fortune and status.
I stand there, staring up at his balcony like a lovestruck teenager, until my body shivers from the cold.
Until my heart remembers to beat again.
12
Eli
“Brooke arrived, so Gray wants to move things around for today.” Harlow hands me a sheet of paper with a different scene outline than what I thought we’d be shooting.
I nod, studying the changes, before passing it back to her. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” she asks skeptically, sounding tired. As if she was expecting me to have some kind of outburst. But before I can probe further, my makeup artist, Michelle, steps in front of me with her brush poised.
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s not ideal to anticipate one thing and shift at the last minute but it’s part of the job.” I shut my eyes as Michelle dusts powder over my face. “Besides, it’s Brooke. We have an easy rapport and can read each other alright.”
“There is that,” Harlow comments, a hint of doubt in her tone.
“Why do you say it like that?”
“It must be weird, working with someone you used to — you know.” She hisses the last part since we’re not alone.
But I’m rarely ever alone while on set and filming, so it’s not like everyone in this room doesn’t know some of the details of my sordid dating history. Or the fact that Brooke and I were a short-lived thing nearly a year ago.
“It’s really not with her,” I explain, leaning farther back in the chair as Michelle works some kind of gel through my eyebrows. “We ended on good terms, both of us acknowledging it wasn’t going to work, and remained friendly. I’ve seen her out in L.A. and at a few parties since.”
“Whatever you say,” Harlow appeases me, sounding unconvinced. “I need an Advil.” I can hear her rummaging in her purse.
“Not feeling well?”
“The rum on this island is not like the rum back home.”
I snort, holding out my hand. “Pass me one too.”
“Headache?” She places a small tablet in my hand. I pop it into my mouth and hold my hand out for the bottle of water I know she has waiting. As usual, Harlow is on top of everything.
“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Too bad. I slept like the dead. It was waking up that sucked.”
I chuckle, sipping on the water and thinking about last night. About the third text message Natalie has sent me in three weeks.
We need to talk.
What could we possibly have to talk about?
After she blind-sided me with her lies when I was nearly twenty-four, and then again at twenty-five by marrying Gray Preston, I should know by now that avoiding Natalie is the best course of action. The last time I saw her, almost two months ago, she was drunk out of her mind, dancing in a club. Trying to get her home safely that night was a nightmare and the hangover she nursed the following morning probably put her out of commission for several days.
All my interactions with Natalie leave me feeling a mixture of disappointment, frustration, and regret. Not regret in the normal sense… no, it’s more of a nostalgia. A longing for what was followed by heavy remorse for what she lost. What we lost. Being in her presence, breathing in the scent of her perfume that pulls me into our twisted past, and looking into her eyes, eyes I once knew better than my own, always leaves me reeling. With each passing occurrence, my inability to read the situation, to understand her, bothers me more and more.
Since Natalie, I’ve built my wall so high up, you’d need a helicopter to scale it. No one knows the full truth of what went down between us. No one can comprehend the emotional turmoil she raked me through.
No one can understand how much I still worry about her.
“I’m pregnant.” Those words should have signaled a nightmare for a guy like me, in the position I was in back then. Broke, no job prospects, no defined future plans. And yet, all I felt was this undeniable flicker of hope. I was going to be a father. I was going to create a family.
God was giving me an incredible responsibility to become the type of man I always wanted to be. The kind of man who is nothing like my biological father.
I had no idea Natalie was going to terminate the pregnancy, or what that decision would cost me.
Or cost her.
My phone feels heavy in the pocket of my jeans, a reminder that I haven’t responded to her message. That I shouldn’t have ignored her.
But I did.
After I received her message last night, I texted Zoe instead. I messaged her to see if she wanted to run lines, and she ignored me.
I wound up pacing the floors of my
penthouse like some uptight parent pissed because my kid didn’t check in. I hated how worried I was about her. I hated the disturbing thoughts that swirled in my mind of her drinking and dancing and going home with a man who isn’t me. The scenarios I concocted in my head left me feeling restless and agitated. Needing air, I stepped onto the balcony, pushing out into the cool night.
And there she was, standing with her feet in the ocean, screaming into the sea.
The anguish on her face twisted my stomach. The pain that consumed her sobs broke something in my chest. I watched her, beautiful and tormented and so goddamn confusing, until her fury turned to acceptance.
That chilling notion frightened me more than not knowing what had caused her so much pain.
I ached for her, wanting to absorb her hurts into my skin and let them mingle with mine.
Jesus.
I scrub a hand over my face, earning a cluck from Michelle. I need to pull my shit together. Zoe should just be another woman on my team, on my payroll. All I should care about is if she shows up to train me like I pay her to.
Instead, her honey eyes seem to follow me during the day and appear in my dreams at night.
“Maybe you can grab a nap after you shoot the first two scenes.” Harlow’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“A nap. You can probably sneak one in around lunchtime.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll try to do that. You should too.”
“I know. I feel even worse now than I did when I woke up.”
Opening my eyes as Michelle steps back, I take a good hard look at Harlow. Her skin is pale, her hair limp, big sunglasses covering her eyes. “You look like crap.” I gesture toward her disheveled appearance.
“I don’t remember the last time I felt this hungover,” she admits, a rare occurrence for my type A, ridiculously organized, annoyingly chipper assistant.
“Everything okay?” I lean forward in my chair, wondering if it’s her mom again. Michelle gives me more space as she rummages through her products.
Harlow nods, “How’d your workout go today?”
“I scheduled Zoe for the afternoon.”
“For the best,” Harlow breathes, uncapping her bottle of water and taking a small sip.
“Why? What’s going on?” My suspicion churns like acid in my stomach. Does Harlow know what’s wrong with Zoe? Did they go out last night?
Is that why she didn’t answer me?
Did something happen to make her scream at the sea, cry tears of helplessness?
“Nothing. I’m recovering.” Harlow yawns. “You need me this morning?”
I glare at her, waiting for her to offer some insight about Zoe’s whereabouts, but my assistant stays tight-lipped.
I flip my chin at her, recalling my conversation with my publicist this morning. “Actually, I need you for about an hour on set today. Can you take some shots of me and Brooke for my social media platforms? Helen wants to spin shit in a positive way. Apparently, media outlets are speculating about some big blowout of Brooke and I working together.” I scoff, hating the media more with each passing year. “So Helen wants to do some posts that show how well we work together, how sincere our friendship really is.”
Harlow sighs, disappointed like I knew she would be. But work is work. I can’t blow off Helen because Harlow is hungover. “Fine. I’ll go grab a camera.”
“And a fruit smoothie?” I ask, offering her a smile. “One for you too. It will give you some energy.”
The door to the trailer slams behind her.
Sighing, I lean back into my chair and signal for Michelle to continue.
* * *
“Eli, God, it’s good to see you.” Brooke pulls me into a hug.
“Hey Brookie. You too.” I wrap my arms around her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.
Brooke is that girl. The hypnotizingly beautiful one who turns every head in every room she enters. She definitely turned mine the first time I saw her. Now, I’m just happy to see a familiar face and work with a woman committed to her craft. One who won’t cause insane levels of drama like several of my past co-stars.
Her chocolate brown eyes crinkle as she smiles back. “We should catch up. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. I think Caroline Reese’s surprise fortieth birthday party was the last time?”
I nod, recalling the night fondly. Caroline’s husband, Joe, threw quite the party. “She was hysterical.”
“Drunk out of her mind. I thought Joe was going to die when she popped out of her own cake.”
I tip my head toward the set. “You ready for this?”
“Absolutely. It seems your character is bewitched by mine.” She winks.
“Yeah, after your character pretty much seduces mine.”
Brooke shrugs, stepping onto the set. “You know how it goes, handsome,” she quips over her shoulder. “Want to grab dinner tonight? Catch up?”
“Sure. You can fill me in on the new man in your life.”
Her face brightens, her eyes taking on a hint of longing. “I hope he’s able to visit while we’re filming. You would absolutely adore him. Everyone does.”
“Someone’s in love,” I muse as Brooke blushes. “Achara? 8PM?”
“Perfect.” She flags down her assistant and asks for a copy of the script. “We’re doing the meet cute first?”
I nod.
She flips through a few pages, whistling under her breath as her eyes flash to mine. “We’ve got some steamy sex scenes coming up. This one today.” She taps a finger against her script before rolling it up and smacking it against my shoulder. “You sure you’re up for this?” she teases, knowing how the characters I’ve played in the past ambled around half-naked for most of the films.
Still, this movie is calling for the most passionate sex scenes I’ve ever shot.
I laugh, swatting her script away. “Hope you can keep up with me, Brookie.”
“Ah, you know that’s never been a problem,” she jokes back.
A movement behind Brooke catches my eye. A flash of emerald green.
I turn slightly and my gaze slams into Zoe’s.
Unprepared to see her on set, I fumble.
Standing to her left, spearing a straw into a large iced coffee, is Harlow.
Zoe’s eyes widen in surprise, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, worrying itself back and forth. She’s dressed in an emerald green pleated skirt that runs like silk to above her ankles and a cropped white halter that ties around her neck, showing off tanned shoulders, and dipping down to offer the barest hint of cleavage.
Instead of the train wreck that is Harlow, Zoe looks incredible. Not at all hungover, no bags shadowing her eyes, no bedhead or grogginess.
There are no signs that she tried to fight Mother Nature singlehandedly last night. No tells that hours ago she was a blubbering mess, swearing at the horizon.
Instead, she looks fucking edible. Her hair hangs around her shoulders, her posture rigid, her eyes clear.
Ignoring her presence — she shouldn’t even be here — and the way she rattles my nerves, I turn away.
But not before I notice Brooke’s gaze land on Zoe. Touching my arm, she offers me a sympathetic look. “If you care about her, you should prepare her for these scenes.”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
Brooke sighs, her expression softening even though I can read the disappointment in her eyes.
“You guys all set?” Gray asks, stepping into our little huddle and gesturing toward our marks.
“Yeah.” I saunter off to my starting point.
Tuning out the noise, I close my eyes and transform into Dr. Henry Shorn.
When Gray calls “action,” I am one thousand percent focused on learning to fish as a blind man, with zero fucks given to the arctic blast blowing from Harlow’s gaze or the hot fire emanating from Zoe.
“Cut!” Gray calls out when I finish the scene.
“That’s a wrap,”
Brian announces after a quick consultation with Gray. “Okay, since Brooke’s here, we’re going to move some things around. Take ten. When we return, we’re going to jump into Henry’s and Adelina’s reunion scene.”
“That’s out of order,” I blurt out like an idiot, since most scenes aren’t shot in chronological order. Obviously, the reunion scene takes place a hell of a long time after the meet cute.
Brian furrows his eyebrows at me. I glance at the ground, reminding myself how much I suck at being professional whenever Zoe is near.
“I’m just doing a quick touchup in hair and makeup,” Brooke says, dashing off to her stylists. Her hair has already been curled, falling down her back like a curtain. Her makeup is perfect, drawing attention to her luscious mouth. Her dress, tight in all the right places, pays homage to her former career as a supermodel.
When I note the crestfallen expression on Zoe’s face, I know I’m in trouble. Tucking a strand of violet hair nervously behind her ear, she shuffles uncertainly.
It’s cute. It’s sincere. It’s innocent in a way that tugs at my heart, causing it to expand upward into my throat.
There aren’t many women in the world who wouldn’t be intimidated by Brooke Silver.
Zoe sticks around, hanging with Harlow, who fiddles with the settings on a fancy camera she managed to swipe from someone on short notice.
Zoe’s eyes are trained on set, not quite meeting my gaze but still somehow focused on me.
Nerves churn in my stomach, quickly replaced by anger.
Why am I letting her rattle me? Who cares if she’s on set hanging with Harlow? I’m filming the movie of my career. Of course I have a beautiful co-star.
Who does Zoe think she is just showing up, looking like heaven and hell procreated, giving me looks after she spent the night doing god knows what with god knows who? She never even bothered to respond to my message.
Her eyes flash up to mine. The flicker of vulnerability in their butterscotch depths irritates me, replacing my concern for her with frustration. I don’t owe her anything. I asked her to hang out, and she blew me off.
