Zoey Hart is nowhere to be found. My cock sinks as a PA hands me a towel and helps me shrug on my robe. Jewel joins me. There’s raucous applause and cheers amongst the crew. I just shot my first scene since my accident, and I’ve blown them away.
Jewel’s director husband runs up to us. He hugs his beautiful wife. I wish there was someone to hug me.
Envy grabs me by the balls. To watch and film the woman you love kiss another man must be so challenging. Let alone People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” But he doesn’t seem threatened. Though likely twenty years older, he and Jewel must have a very strong marriage. Something beyond sex. Soul mates? Like my parents?
Breaking from the embrace, Niall pats me on the back. “Brandon, my man, you were absolutely brilliant. You nailed it.”
Before I can thank him, a familiar breathy voice calls out my name. My eyes find her quickly. Katrina. With the dog on a leash, she breezes my way.
“Where have you been?” I ask her while the little monster sniffs around my bare feet. I curl my toes, fearful he’ll bite.
“Oh darling, I’m so sorry I missed the scene, but I had to take Gucci for a walk. He needed to make a wee-wee.”
I mentally roll my eyes. She turns her attention to Jewel and Niall. Niall’s arm is wrapped around his wife.
“Darling, introduce us,” Katrina insists.
Reluctantly, I introduce my co-star and director to my fiancée.
Katrina plays up to them. “So wonderful to meet you! I do hope the two of you will be coming to our wedding.”
At the word wedding, I feel a tightening in my chest. It’s something I don’t want to think about. Make that the last thing I want to think about.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” says Jewel. “In fact, we just received the invitation. So clever to have it attached to a miniature horse-driven pumpkin carriage. I assume you’re going to be a Cinderella bride?”
Katrina’s face brightens. “Yes!”
Niall chimes in. “We’ll be there for sure.”
Jewel excuses herself to get changed while Niall tells us he’s going to review the shot list for the upcoming action scene. Alone with my fiancée, I change the subject to the only one on my mind. “Katrina, did you by chance see Zoey while you were outside?”
She contorts her face with disgust. “Yes. I wish you hadn’t reminded me. That pathetic girl was throwing up by your car.”
My pulse speeds up. “Is she okay?”
Katrina huffs. “How the hell would I know? I don’t associate with her. And besides, how could you even think I’d get close to a pool of vomit!?”
Before I can respond, something that feels like molten liquid trickles down my ankle. I look down and rage whips through me. The goddamn dog has peed on me! Its leg is still lifted.
Katrina gushes. “Finally! That is so cute! Gucci thought you were a fire hydrant.”
Fuming, I clench my fists by my sides. As if enduring this humiliation isn’t enough, on my next exasperated breath, the fucking dog bites me. I yelp and then shout some expletives. Blood is pouring. An observant PA runs to get me a Band-Aid. She returns quickly and wraps it around my big toe. I thank her, wishing I were thanking Zoey.
“Bad boy,” scolds Katrina, lifting the dog into her arms. “You’re getting a time out!”
The little dog cowers at the sound of her harsh voice. For a minute, I almost feel sorry for him, especially when his big brown woeful eyes meet mine. Katrina marches off with the dog. The pup’s gaze stays on me as if he’s expecting me to rescue him from whatever inevitable punishment he faces.
While the crew prepares for the next set up, I hobble to my dressing room. Collecting my cell phone, I sink into the couch and immediately speed dial Zoey. It rings and rings. No answer. Next, I text her. No answer. Finally, I email her. No answer.
Worry washes over me. It’s not like her not to respond. If I didn’t have to dive right into the next scene and spend the afternoon shooting an action sequence, I’d go home and check on her. Suddenly, I wish this day could be over.
I take a deep breath. It doesn’t calm me. I don’t remember the last time I cared so much about a girl. Or if I ever really did.
Zoey
I’m surveying the contents of Brandon’s refrigerator so I know what to order tomorrow when I hear a car pull into the adjacent garage. It must be Brandon. It’s after seven. He must be done with his shoot.
“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen. His voice sounds urgent.
Closing the refrigerator door, I spin around to face him. “What do you mean?”
“Katrina told me she saw you puking in the parking lot.”
“I must have eaten something funky from craft services. Or maybe that donut did me in. I Ubered home. I’m much better now.”
At least, part of my white lie is true. I do feel better. My sudden bout of nausea, however, had nothing to do with what I ate. The panty-melting, passionate shower scene Brandon filmed with Jewel made me more than hot and bothered; it made me sick to my stomach. I had to leave. And then outside, at the sight of Katrina, nausea rocketed to my chest. After puking my guts out, I managed to call for an Uber car and went home. Totally wiped out, I crawled into bed and spent the rest of the day sleeping it off. I still don’t feel one hundred percent and his presence doesn’t help.
Brandon’s violet eyes darken. “Why the hell didn’t you answer my texts or calls?
His angry voice intimidates me. “I turned my phone off and fell asleep.”
“Don’t ever do that again.” His curt tone is reprimanding. “I need to know where you are every minute of the day.”
Control freak. “Maybe you should put me on a leash or insert a tracking device under my skin.”
“Maybe I should. A collar and leash would suit you.”
From the tone of his voice, I think he’s serious. The image of me in Gucci’s rhinestone accessories pops into my head with an amusing yet arousing mental montage. Master and Slave Girl. Sit. Beg. Come. Flushing, I quickly change the subject.
“How’d the rest of the shoot go?”
With a deep breath, he rakes his perfectly mussed up ebony hair with his right hand. My eyes grow wide. It looks like Frankenstein’s. Every finger except his thumb is bandaged in splints.
“Jeez. What happened to your fingers?”
“Fucking jammed them,” he mutters, heading toward me.
“How’d you do that?”
“I did my own stunt. I was supposed to punch my assailant. But just as I was about to make contact with him, Katrina’s damn dog got loose and bit the guy’s ankle. He flinched and I ended up bashing a wall.”
“Ouch! That must have hurt.”
“Hurt like hell,” he says, swinging open the fridge door with his left hand.
“Are you sure they’re not broken?”
“Pretty sure. The set doctor said they’d be more misshapen. It’s just a sprain.” He grabs a beer with the good hand and with his thumb, struggles to pop off the bottle cap. I’m mildly amused he can’t get it off and let him struggle. He’s obviously not ambidextrous—well, at least when it comes to little things.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, frustrated.
“Let me do it,” I finally say, taking the bottle from him. I twist the top off easily. “Piece of cake. Here.” With a smug smile, I hand him back the bottle. He takes it from me with his good hand.
“Thanks.” His voice is small, surprisingly humble. Leaning seductively against the counter, he takes a chug of the beer, arching his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. He looks sexy as sin. Almost orgasmic.
“Aah! Just what I needed,” he says after the long swig. “Do you want some?”
“I don’t think there are any more beers left.”
“No, I mean a sip of mine.”