Between the Lines
Page 16

“Are you suggesting that I have experience in being scorned?” I’m aiming for playfully sarcastic, hoping it’s not resembling resentfully bitchy.
He looks down at me, eyebrows raised. “I’m suggesting no such thing. I just can’t see any guy being as stupid as Will, if Lizbeth was as hot as you.” I can’t stop the blush that creeps across my face. “What happened to you last night?” He’s so good-looking up close that it takes my breath away. I feel like I’m standing next to a work of art. “I looked up and you were gone.”
“Yeah, I’ve been craving more sleep lately.” I turn to grab a bottle of water from the cooler, breaking the mesmeric connection.
I almost tell him I’ve been getting up early and running every morning, but I don’t. Graham and I are the only ones from our cast up and on the street that early, though we’ve crossed tracks with a couple of the production people. Not that Reid would bother getting up early to run with me. I tell myself I don’t want the complication.
The assistant director calls for attention. “Okay folks, let’s get some general party shots, dancing, some semi-inappropriate touching, etcetera, and we’ll be finished for the day.” This announcement earns an exhausted cheer from everyone. “Places!”
***
This morning, Graham was waiting in the lobby when I got downstairs. As we headed for the trail, deciding to reverse our usual direction to mix it up, he examined the sky. “It’s overcast this morning.” The clouds were dark and heavy, the air laden with a metallic pre-storm smell. “We may get rained on.”
The sky remained merely ominous until we were at our halfway point, when it opened up a couple of seconds after a single deafening crack of thunder shook the ground and forced an embarrassing yelp from me. As it started pouring, we looked at each other and burst out laughing. We were drenched in five minutes. When a covered picnic area appeared just off the path, he sprinted towards it, and I followed. We sat on the table with our feet on the bench, staring out at the wet landscape.
I combed my fingers through my hair, squeezing the water out of it. “So what did you decide about the smoking?”
“I want to do it. Quit, I mean.” He ran both hands through his dripping hair, pushing it back and off of his face. “It won’t be easy, though.” He bumped my knee with his. “So, are you prepared to be my support group?”
I smiled. “I guess I sorta have to, since I’m the one who goaded you into doing it.”
He stared at me like he was trying to read my thoughts, and I was abruptly conscious of his proximity, his dark eyes examining my face. “Maybe I don’t deserve your help after teasing you so mercilessly about your cute little ‘huh’ habit.”
Raising a hand to my face, he gently swept a strand of wet hair off of my forehead, tucking it behind my ear. (Cute. Little. Huh. Habit?) I swallowed, my pulse thrumming so loudly in my ears that it drowned out the deluge pounding all around us. Our eyes held as his hand lowered, grazing past my ear, my shoulder, and down my arm, raising a wake of goosebumps in a trail behind his fingertips to my hand where it rested on my thigh.
Taking a deep breath, he hopped down from the table, tugging at my hand, staring out at the rain. My hand was still loosely caught in his. “I don’t think it’s going to let up soon enough. We’re going to have to brave it. Just think coffee.” He looked back at me and smiled. “And I’ll try not to think cigarette. Though no promises until I get those damned patches.”
“Okay.” My voice was weightless, too insubstantial to be heard.
“You ready?”
I nodded. He squeezed my hand once, and then let go and jogged out into the rain. I followed him, a million more questions in my head than were there ten minutes before.
Chapter 19
REID
Walt Riggs, an LA friend and front man of a band, is in Austin for a gig tomorrow night. I’m exhausted as hell after filming a twelve-hour day, but I don’t have any scenes tomorrow, so I told Walt we could hang out tonight. I pick him up from the airport in the limo, and Bob insists on going along. The man takes his bodyguarding duties seriously.
While we’re waiting outside the arrival gate, Bob and I are playing Call of Duty. I’ve gotten used to playing Tadd and Quinton, so I think nothing of shooting Bob’s guy in the head after a campaign. We do it all the time. Bob, however, is unfamiliar. His mouth drops open and he just looks at me. “What the hell, man?”
“Er, sorry, Bob. Didn’t know you’d have an issue.”
“We’re partners. We just kicked ass together, Semper Fi and shit, and you shot me. That’s just wrong, man. That’s just so wrong.” He shakes his head, crestfallen. Jesus. Note to self: don’t play Call of Duty with Bob.
Walt comes out then, his jagged punk emo hair hanging in his eyes, leather bands wrapping both wrists, fitted t-shirt, jeans tight to his ankles. He’s always dressed like this, caught constant crap about it from his jock older brothers and dad until recently, when all of a sudden he’s a rock star. His bag is slung over one shoulder, along with his guitar case. I hit the button to lower the opaque window, calling his name as he’s glancing around. He sees me and smiles, sauntering over as the driver exits to take his stuff. People crane their necks to look at him as he hands it over.
He’s unlikely to be recognized by many people at this stage, but he will be, and soon. Rolling Stone sent someone to do an interview and photo spread with his band a week or so ago. In addition to his half Irish, half Korean looks—pale skin, coal black hair and piercing green eyes—the boy has serious vocal talent.
“Hey, man. Nice.” He appraises the limo as I push the door open and he gets in, shoving the hair out of his eyes.
“Better get used to it.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” He glances at Bob, immediately thrusting a hand out. “Hey, I’m Walt.”
Bob gives him the bone-crushing shake I know from experience and barks, “Bob.” Walt doesn’t even flinch.
“Groovy.” He looks at me. “So what are we doing, man? I’m totally wired, but I need a shower. That flight was a bitch—the air wasn’t working right or something. It was like hell in the sky.” He stops, pulls out his boarding pass and scribbles something on the back of it—my best guess is lyrics.
I check the time on my phone. It’s a little after eight. “We can drop you at your hotel, come back at like ten?”
“Brilliant.”
When Bob and I get back to my hotel, Bob says the car will be ready at 9:40. He lumbers off the elevator, less effusive than usual, and turns left towards his room. I probably should’ve apologized again for killing his Call of Duty guy. I shake my head, turning right to go down the hall to my room, and look up just in time to see Graham going into Brooke’s room. They are so hooking up.
Emma’s room is a few down from Brooke’s, and since I know where Graham is—and therefore where he isn’t—I think about inviting her to go out with Walt and me. But she had a more demanding day than I did—more scenes, which equaled more retakes due to flukes like the A/C not keeping up with the temperature in that house and everyone looking shiny. Plus she has to film tomorrow and would need to be back in early.
I’m a patient guy. Okay, that’s bullshit… but I can be patient with good reason. The concert tomorrow night will be perfect for testing Emma’s and my off-screen chemistry. I’d already planned to invite the whole group. Brooke is a total music beast, especially little-known but growing hotter breakout bands like Walt’s. She’ll definitely be there, and will no doubt keep Graham’s attention, leaving Emma to me. I pass Emma’s room, having a couple of vodka shots in my room to loosen up instead.
*** *** ***
Emma
After the day’s filming, I was too tired to think clearly, let alone do any more than change into boxers and a t-shirt, order a bowl of fruit from room service, take a few bites, and collapse. Thank God my parents decided to entertain themselves tonight.
I could have sworn Graham was going to kiss me this morning, and I wanted him to, but instead, he turned away. Or ran away, more like. Because of Brooke? And then I went on set and Reid was attentive and flirting with me all day, but I’m not sure he wants more than a fling. I don’t think that’s what I want.
I fell asleep way too early, thoughts of Reid and Graham swirling through my head, and wake at 10 p.m. to the thrashing images of a Nirvana video on the TV—Come as You are. I’ve been sleeping for two hours, and I can tell I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep for another couple of hours, at least. I putter around the room, restless, eat some peanuts from the mini-bar, brush my teeth, watch a few videos, do some sit-ups.
Finally I grab my room key, open my door and peek into the hallway. No one’s out. I pad down to Graham’s door and knock softly, wait twenty or thirty seconds and knock again, a little harder. Nothing. As I turn to go back to my room, I hear a door open farther down the hall. I glance back and see Graham, leaving Brooke’s room. Craaaap. Practically running to my room, I jam the card into the lock and for once it immediately blinks green and I’m in, shutting the door behind me. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
A minute later Graham knocks at my door; I know it’s him without looking. I chew my thumbnail, deliberating. He maybe almost kissed me this morning, and he just came out of Brooke’s room. But we’re friends, and nothing actually happened this morning, and it’s silly to refuse to talk to him because he was in her room.
I take a deep breath and open the door, employing every acting skill I possess to fix a pleasant expression on my face. His arms are propped on either side of the doorframe, his lanky, muscular body filling up the space. I’m aware of nothing but how casually sexy he is: barefoot, in jeans and a white t-shirt.
“Hey.” His dark eyes search my face. “Did you need something? I just… thought maybe you were knocking on my door just now…”
“Oh, no. I mean, no, I don’t really need anything, and yeah, I knocked on your door, but it’s cool. I’m just bored. I fell asleep for a while, and now I’m awake and kinda wired…” Shut up, Emma. “and… uh… that’s all.”
“Bored, huh? What did you have in mind?”
I try to push away the answers that crowd in, most notably come in and finish what you started this morning.
“I don’t know. I was just thinking maybe you were still up, or something…”
“Well, you were right.” He smiles, stretching against the door frame, hands gripping the top, his shirt teasing up and displaying a sliver of skin. “So. Can I come in?”
“Oh,” I back into the room, “Sure. I’m sorry. Jeez. I guess I’m still a little fuzzy from the late nap.”
He walks past me and drops into one of the chairs and I sit on the bed, folding my legs under me. “Do you wanna watch something?” he asks, tilting his head towards the television. “Or… I could interrogate you, find out all your secrets.”