Forever in Hollywood Page 8

  “Going somewhere?” His familiar voice came from right in front of me. I froze mid-step and met his gaze momentarily before looking away. His face was somber. I was unsure if I wanted to push him out of the way and leave, or run back in the room. I couldn’t think; my nose tingled telling me I was too intoxicated to make a rational decision.

  “I thought maybe we could play a little together.”

  “What?” I let myself actually look at him then. Sure enough, in one hand he held an acoustic, and slung over his shoulder was his own familiar dark cherry stained guitar. I glared at him. Was he really so arrogant he’d think playing a little tune would make things right?

  “What are we, in a musical? Fa La La La and everything is fine again? Life does not work like that.” I huffed with exasperation.

  “Just let me say what I have to, please. Then you can yell at me or hit me over the head with my guitar if you like.” He took my silence as permission to speak, rushing the words. “It’s not what you think. I have never pursued any of these women. They come after me. I never lead them on or make then think we have something. This is something they will brag to their friends about next week.”

  “This isn’t making you look any better.” If this night was going to keep getting worse, I needed another drink. Only now, I wished for something stronger. I walked back inside and grabbed the still-open bottle. He followed.

  “Look, I’m only a man, and I am weak. How many times am I expected to turn away women who beg for it? If I turned them all away, eventually someone will question my sexuality.”

  I clutched the bottle between my fingers and held it to my lips before taking a long, savoring drink.

  “Would you at least tell me what exactly you’re mad about?”

  “I’ve already explained this. You pretend to be someone you’re not around me. I don’t like fake people. Why would you do it anyway? You weren’t trying to get into my pants, were you? Because, I mean, from my point of view, it didn’t seem like that before. And now…well, after seeing you on set, I’m beginning to think otherwise.” I raised the bottle back to my lips before setting it down on the table. I was rambling; I knew my words were coming out faster than normal. The wine must have been getting to my head.

  “Bloody hell.” He set the guitars against the door and slumped into the nearest seat. “Mind if I have a swig?” He grabbed my bottle and tipped it up to drink the warm ruby liquid.

  “Sure, help yourself,” I mumbled, after the fact. I didn’t like the situation he’d put me in.

  “Marissa.” He shook his head and scrubbed his hand over his face. It made a sound like sandpaper over wood. “I don’t play games like that. I wouldn’t be here right now if that was the case. Would this not be too much trouble if I just wanted a roger on the side with you?”

  “But you ignore me on set, just like you ignore them.” After all my mistakes in love, I’d determined to never trust or like someone like him. Yet I wanted to forgive him, even with as difficult as he was making it. Why indeed would he be here if he just wanted sex? There was no way I would give it up. He had to understand I was too much trouble.

  “I ignore you so people won’t get the wrong idea. If I spend too much time with you, people will talk. I couldn’t even use the excuse that we were talking about the script. Our characters don’t interact.”

  “What about Anne?”

  “What about her? Her fiancé is a good mate.”

  “She has a fiancé? I’ve never seen her with anyone.”

  “Indeed, he’s in Japan on business. I’m a not friend of your wanker of an ex, and as far as I’m aware, you haven’t even told anyone you’re getting a divorce. How do you think it’d look if people knew how much we were together?”

  “You ignore the girls you sleep with, too.” I stated the obvious not wanting to let him get by with some makeshift excuse that was sounding more and more plausible. I had to have every detail of his mind’s inner working.

  “So they don’t get the wrong idea.”

  “But why are you putting me in the same category as them? Am I no different?”

  He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m not putting you in the same category, I am putting you way above them by respecting you.” He appeared almost angry at my lack of understanding.

  “That’s a real dick thing to say about the women you sleep with. You have sisters—how would you like it if some guy treated them the way you treat these women?” Forget forgiving him, I stood up, ready to demand he leave.

  “I do respect them when I’m with them. It’s different. I treat them well and don’t think badly of them at all, like apparently you do.” He paused. “You’ve said you have an open mind to people’s life choices. This is a life choice. I’ve been taken advantage of too many times, so I chose this life. I’m sorry, but I do have flaws. I want you in my life very badly, and I’m willing to fight for it here, but if you can’t accept my life choices then I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

  Having him in my life was something I wanted more than anything, and it was refreshing to have someone fight for me. I shook my head and grabbed the bottle from his hands.

  “I think you’ve got things backward. You can’t ignore me and say this is best for me when that’s not what I want. If we act like friends on set, and you don’t give me the ol’ ‘goodbye thanks for the screw pat’ people won’t be talking. They’ll assume we’re what we really are, friends. I can protect my own reputation.” I wanted to stress the point that I saw us as only friends. I wasn’t really sure if it was more for my own reassurances or his. I needed him to understand I would never view him as anything but a friend.

  He gave me a hesitant grin. “Am I really that bad? The ol’ goodbye pat? Really?” He imitated my voice and the strain on his face accentuated his dimple.

  “Um, yes…apparently it’s quite the joke on-set.”

  “Well then, if I get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness, promise not to give you the ol’ goodbye pat, and stop ignoring you on set, could you find it in your heart to ignore my weakness and remain friends with me?”

  Like a sailboat on a windless day, my anger stalled in its tracks. Why in the world did he value my friendship so much? I mean, we barely even knew each other. I smiled at him for the first time that day. “I’ll think about it.”

  He let out a deep breath. “Well, that’s a better answer than you yelling at me or looking like you wanted to take a swing at me with my poor little guitar. I can live with this…for now.” He stood up and went to retrieve the guitars. I looked at him questioningly for a few moments before I realized he was leaving.

  “Wait, you apologize to me but can’t even stick around? You’re going to leave and what—call one of the new extras so you can go screw some random woman again?”

  “No!” He jerked around. “I didn’t think I should press my luck with you tonight. I’m not meeting anyone. I want to end things on a good note.”

  “Why did you bring two guitars up here then, Andrew?”

  “I had them in my car, thought I might be able to use them as an excuse. Do you really want to play?” His lips stretched across his face in a wide grin.

  “Well, you can watch me peck at the strings like a chicken…and I’ll watch you play. How about that?”

  “Whatever.” He flipped the acoustic in the air, catching it by the neck and holding it out for me to take in one fluid motion. He sat next to me, and we picked at a couple of songs.

  After a few rough stops and starts, I eased into playing. He strummed an accompanying tune. His long, straight eyelashes fell over his cheeks. As he lost himself in the music, his breathing slowed to a rhythm that matched the song he was playing. It was as if his body and soul fused with the instrument in his hand. I fumbled with the guitar as I stopped playing and watched the worry painted on his face dissolve.

  Those beautiful green eyes opened, and his concentration shifted from his instrument to me, yet the sound flowed from it with ease
and a smile played on his lips. He tapped his foot to the rhythm encouraging me to continue playing. So I did and giggled my way through a song as Andrew tried hard to come up with chords to match my horrendous playing. Eventually I gave up and set the guitar down to listen to him play. The melody drifted off into something unfamiliar. His fingers flew over the strings, and his index and middle finger moved so fast I couldn’t see which strings they hit to make the instrument sing.

  At my questioning look, he murmured, “Something a couple of us guys made up on the set.” He smiled and hummed a wordless tune that matched his chords.

  I suddenly imagined myself in place of the guitar. His left hand glided over my breast, down my ribcage, then back again, while his right, middle and index fingers played me like the strings. I was sure my face flushed scarlet but Andrew would never know. He already drifted back into his personal escape, eyes closed, tapping the floor softly with his toes as he played. Every so often his head would sway from side to side.

  A loud bang on the wall startled me out of my trance. Someone next door was upset by the noise. Andrew put the guitar down and looked at me. “I really am sorry about everything.” He sighed.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll try to ignore your disgusting extracurricular activities from now on.”

  He looked down at his hands and then back at me. “So, what’s with the wine?”

  “What?” I laughed, a little nervous by the sudden shift in conversation.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little trashy to be drinking right out of the bottle?”

  I shrugged. “No glasses.” I grabbed the bottle and took another gulp before offering it to him. He gladly accepted and placed the bottle to his lips.

  “Dare I ask?” Was it the wine, his explanation, or a combination of both that dissipated the anger I felt toward him? Curiosity burned in its place.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ask what?”

  “The girls, do you keep count?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I tilted my head to the side contemplating my answer. Did I want to know how many women he had slept with? If the numbers were shocking, I don’t think I could overlook his sexual overindulgence again. Our tenuous friendship wouldn’t survive it. I shook my head. “Okay, but please tell me you’re being safe. If not, lie anyway.” I pursed my lips concerned.

  “I’m not a clot.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet. “It’s getting rather late, I should go.”

  “No, don’t go.”

  “It won’t do our cause any good if we both fall asleep again and show up to the set late.”

  He was right. I got up to walk him to the door, and he placed his hand on my shoulder. It lingered for a moment before slowly trailing down my arm to my elbow. Then he walked out the door. He was good at leaving me breathless with his exits.

  I stared after him, my arm still tingling from the trail of goose flesh that rose in the wake of his touch. I dead-bolted the door and flicked off the main light switch before heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

  The next morning Andrew was already on set when I arrived. For the first time in four days he was on time, seated at the front of the room with a few of his co-stars. A tall Styrofoam cup was being rolled between his two large hands while he engaged in the current conversation. I also noted he had shaved and his hair looked styled.

  He must not have had a booty call last night. The thought pleased me, but I didn’t have time to ponder why since the meeting started.

  After the daily announcements and a few quick revisions to the schedule, I found myself meandering around the set talking to one of the special effects tech artists about helping them with some of the bloody scenes. I wanted to branch out and help where I could be useful. The tech was showing me some of the blood-splatter devices when a hand brushed by the back of my arm.

  “Hello.” The British accent rang in my ears. He was at my side looking at the little bladder of blood I was holding. “What are you doing over here?”

  “I’m learning tech stuff. This is really fascinating. Chris here”—I motioned to the guy standing across from us—“told me I could help rig some of the effects today.”

  “Multi-talented little thing, aren’t you? Well, come on, the director wants to re-shoot some wide angle battle scenes so you need to get ready.” My surprise must have shown on my face because he smirked. It was the most he he’d ever said to me at work. I followed him back out to the set.

  While the director was positioning everyone and the cameras for the shot, I eavesdropped on Andrew’s conversation with his co-stars. It wasn’t intentional, but my attention was drawn by the mention of my name.

  “I’m telling you, we need to invite Marissa to one of our jam sessions. She can play.” I was flabbergasted. I certainly could not play. What was he thinking? I’d make a fool of myself! Telling him I didn’t want to be ignored on set was a mistake if he planned to embarrass me. I looked over wide-eyed at the group as they stared back at me.

  A voice rang out from the center of their group. “So, you’re going to join us for lunch?” It was Andrew’s close friend, a rather dense muscular guy with short black hair and eyebrows as thick as a forest.

  “No, Andrew is nuts if he thinks I’m picking up a guitar in front of anyone!”

  “Come on now, I’ve heard you play and sing.” He smiled and bit the tip of his tongue playfully.

  “No, no, no, no!” I protested furiously. My hands were clammy, and I was positive my face turned several different shades of red.

  The director called for places and action then saving me from my embarrassment.

  Andrew laughed as he took his place on set.

  Lunchtime came and I found myself wandering by the sound stage. I heard someone tuning an instrument. The door was open. Music drifted out into the street around me. My feet wanted to walk into the room but my head screamed at me to leave before someone caught me there.

  My more rational side won out, and I ran off in the opposite direction.

  ****

  As I rehearsed my lines alone in my room that night, a knock at my door startled me. It was nine p.m. There could only be one person out there, but he’d promised not to show up un-announced any more. He also had other ladies to occupy his free time since the extras started showing up on set.

  I jumped up out of my seat and knocked the chair back against the wall with a bang. It was a stupid, careless move on my part, but I flung open the door. Andrew stood in my doorway once again. My heart picked up speed, and my breathing hitched. It was a sight I would never grow tired of seeing.

  “Hello,” he breathed, tilting his head down to meet my gaze.

  “Hi, come in. I wasn’t—” I was caught off guard by his appearance. There was something desperately wrong. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, and a distinct odor of musk and sweat permeated the air.

  I stretched out my hand and ran my fingers down his bicep. It had a slight tacky feel to it. I jerked my hand back, and I wiped it on my jeans.

  “Oh God!” I crinkled my nose. The shock and disgust must have made my face look like I’d sucked a lemon. “You did not just come here after having sex? You’re supposed to stay there…and shower. Ugh! You’re such a pig!”

  His head hung low and shoulders slumped. “She told me she was married. It’s the first time I’ve ever done this, but I kicked her out. I feel bloody awful.”

  “Why the hell would you sleep with a married woman?”

  “I didn’t know she was until she said, ‘My husband’s going to kill me.’ Bloody hell, what have I done?”

  “Karma’s come back to bite you in the ass.” I made a gagging sound. “I don’t want to see you like this! Go take a shower.” At least he was upset about what he’d done.

  The smell made me sick. He looked reluctant to leave, though. It seemed silly that a guy could not be alone at night. But it certainly looked that way. He was either sleeping with an extra or spending time in m
y hotel room. He came to me because he was upset. I needed to be an understanding friend.

  I sighed. “You can use mine. There are fresh towels over the toilet. But don’t touch anything till you’re clean. I don’t want that smell contaminating my room.” He smiled at my concession and went to pat me graciously on the shoulder. I recoiled. “That includes me!”

  When the shower turned on, I sat at my laptop.

  He came out of the bathroom before I finished typing. I had to stall him so he didn’t look over my shoulder and read the e-mail I was writing about him. After all, it included a detailed description of how I no longer needed to imagine how he would look if we had sex. He gave me a first-hand view without the pleasure that usually accompanies it.

  “Do your clothes smell? If they smell like sex, you are still leaving.”

  “I don’t know. Come tell me.” He held out his arms for inspection.

  I walked over and stuck my nose at his chest and inhaled deeply. I could still smell the musky odor. “Ugh, you do!”

  “Wait, I think I’ve got another shirt in my car. Don’t kick me out,” he said.

  Before I had any warning, he slipped his shirt over his head and threw it into the bathroom. I was unprepared to see him without a shirt, and could do nothing but blink and stare. No wonder women flung themselves at his feet all the time.

  Hidden behind his nasty shirt was a large, bronzed square chest and abs suited to wash my panties on. I might have been imagining things but I swore even his ribs displayed rows of muscles bulging out the side. Someone would have to live at the gym to achieve this lean perfection. I must have looked like a fool staring at him like I was, but I couldn’t stop myself. I had to resist the urge to run my fingers over his sculpted stomach.

  “What?” he said innocently. There was no way he couldn’t have noticed my awed expression. Had I been talking out loud? I hoped to God if I had that I hadn’t said anything about washing my panties on him.