Love Unscripted
Page 96
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“I have a better idea - why don’t we just keep it here where it is safe and you can visit it whenever you’d like. How does that sound?” I joked.
He wrinkled his nose at me.
“So, what’s a PA?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s short for production assistant,” he said, like I was supposed to know what their job was.
“And they do what?”
“All sorts of things.” He shrugged.
“That clears it up perfectly,” I said sarcastically.
“They work for the ADs.” He grinned, knowing he was messing with me.
“Oh. So they must NBC the BFFs on HBO with LOLs, right?”
He started laughing hard. “Exactly!”
“Got it. It’s all clear as mud now.”
“Okay,” he retreated. “Are you ready for your next lesson, Ms. Mitchell?”
He stopped playing my guitar for a moment. “AD stands for Assistant Director. They’re responsible for stuff like the shooting schedule, you know, what we’re doing for the day. They also track our daily progress, making sure that we’re keeping up with the overall production schedule.
Some of the ADs make sure the cast and crew is where they’re supposed to be - stuff like that. The PAs, or Production Assistants, really do all sorts of stuff. Some work with the film crew, others are running stuff around the set, delivering paperwork or telling me to get out of my trailer. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how many ADs and PAs we have on this film - loads.”
“So when is the quiz?” I asked jokingly. “I’d like some advanced warning so I have time to study first.”
“Soon! Very soon!” he stated, strumming over the strings to croon his words. “I haven’t decided whether it will be oral or written though.” I definitely picked up on his hints.
The more he continued to play my guitar, the more I was willing to go along with just about anything he suggested. I liked the little facial expressions he made when he played; how his eyes would scrunch closed or his lips would twitch to the beat.
My eyes traveled down the tendon in his neck; how tasty it looked connecting to his collarbone. His gray T-shirt obscured the rest of the view. I just about lost my mind when he licked his own lips.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me the guitar. “Your turn.”
I was so dazed by my own thoughts that I just sat their like a lump for a few seconds.
“What?” he asked, looking at me funny. I knew I was supposed to reach for the guitar but my arms didn’t respond.
“Here… play,” he kindly urged.
When I regained the use of my limbs, I played a favorite song of mine, but my fingers messed up. I tried to start over, getting the chords right the second time.
Ryan wrapped his fingers around the neck of my guitar and removed it from my lap. He carried it over to its stand. Talk about a subtle hint! I guess I really butchered the song.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, abashed by his actions. “Was I that bad?”
He shook his head and pulled me up from the couch by my hands. Without saying a word he scooped me up in his arms and kissed me as he carried me down the hallway.
It was still dark in my bedroom when Ryan’s cell phone alarm beeped. I felt him stir, rolling over to stop its chime. I opened my sleepy eyes and looked at the time; my alarm clock displayed 5:30.
Ryan let out a groan and sat up on the edge of the bed, retrieving his clothing from my bedroom floor.
I ran my fingertips down his spine to let him know I was awake.
“Morning sweetheart,” he uttered quietly. He leaned back on me and kissed my lips softly, sweeping my hair off my cheek.
I brushed my hand over his defined chest.
“I have to get going,” he said with a frown.
“I know,” I whispered, saddened by the thought.
I turned the security alarm off and peered both ways down the darkened alleyway. Each end of the narrow road was illuminated by streetlights. It appeared that the entire town, including the birds, was still sleeping. “I don’t see anyone out there. The coast looks clear.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later.” He hugged and kissed me goodbye.
I crawled back into bed and pulled his pillow to my chest, enjoying the soft scent of his cologne that still lingered on the pillowcase.
“You’re whistling,” Marie said as she tapped a pitcher of beer for a waiting customer.
“Sorry. I’ll stop,” I apologized to her, fearing it was annoying. “That will be two dollars, sir.” I smiled at the older gentleman that I just served.
He wrinkled his nose at me.
“So, what’s a PA?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s short for production assistant,” he said, like I was supposed to know what their job was.
“And they do what?”
“All sorts of things.” He shrugged.
“That clears it up perfectly,” I said sarcastically.
“They work for the ADs.” He grinned, knowing he was messing with me.
“Oh. So they must NBC the BFFs on HBO with LOLs, right?”
He started laughing hard. “Exactly!”
“Got it. It’s all clear as mud now.”
“Okay,” he retreated. “Are you ready for your next lesson, Ms. Mitchell?”
He stopped playing my guitar for a moment. “AD stands for Assistant Director. They’re responsible for stuff like the shooting schedule, you know, what we’re doing for the day. They also track our daily progress, making sure that we’re keeping up with the overall production schedule.
Some of the ADs make sure the cast and crew is where they’re supposed to be - stuff like that. The PAs, or Production Assistants, really do all sorts of stuff. Some work with the film crew, others are running stuff around the set, delivering paperwork or telling me to get out of my trailer. I couldn’t even begin to tell you how many ADs and PAs we have on this film - loads.”
“So when is the quiz?” I asked jokingly. “I’d like some advanced warning so I have time to study first.”
“Soon! Very soon!” he stated, strumming over the strings to croon his words. “I haven’t decided whether it will be oral or written though.” I definitely picked up on his hints.
The more he continued to play my guitar, the more I was willing to go along with just about anything he suggested. I liked the little facial expressions he made when he played; how his eyes would scrunch closed or his lips would twitch to the beat.
My eyes traveled down the tendon in his neck; how tasty it looked connecting to his collarbone. His gray T-shirt obscured the rest of the view. I just about lost my mind when he licked his own lips.
“Here you go,” he said, handing me the guitar. “Your turn.”
I was so dazed by my own thoughts that I just sat their like a lump for a few seconds.
“What?” he asked, looking at me funny. I knew I was supposed to reach for the guitar but my arms didn’t respond.
“Here… play,” he kindly urged.
When I regained the use of my limbs, I played a favorite song of mine, but my fingers messed up. I tried to start over, getting the chords right the second time.
Ryan wrapped his fingers around the neck of my guitar and removed it from my lap. He carried it over to its stand. Talk about a subtle hint! I guess I really butchered the song.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, abashed by his actions. “Was I that bad?”
He shook his head and pulled me up from the couch by my hands. Without saying a word he scooped me up in his arms and kissed me as he carried me down the hallway.
It was still dark in my bedroom when Ryan’s cell phone alarm beeped. I felt him stir, rolling over to stop its chime. I opened my sleepy eyes and looked at the time; my alarm clock displayed 5:30.
Ryan let out a groan and sat up on the edge of the bed, retrieving his clothing from my bedroom floor.
I ran my fingertips down his spine to let him know I was awake.
“Morning sweetheart,” he uttered quietly. He leaned back on me and kissed my lips softly, sweeping my hair off my cheek.
I brushed my hand over his defined chest.
“I have to get going,” he said with a frown.
“I know,” I whispered, saddened by the thought.
I turned the security alarm off and peered both ways down the darkened alleyway. Each end of the narrow road was illuminated by streetlights. It appeared that the entire town, including the birds, was still sleeping. “I don’t see anyone out there. The coast looks clear.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later.” He hugged and kissed me goodbye.
I crawled back into bed and pulled his pillow to my chest, enjoying the soft scent of his cologne that still lingered on the pillowcase.
“You’re whistling,” Marie said as she tapped a pitcher of beer for a waiting customer.
“Sorry. I’ll stop,” I apologized to her, fearing it was annoying. “That will be two dollars, sir.” I smiled at the older gentleman that I just served.
