by J. Kenner
I shiver, more undone by his words than I should be. But I'm starting to realize that I like the way it feels to have a boyfriend. Someone by my side who has my back.
Not Lyle, of course, because I'm not a fool and I know this is just pretend, no matter how much zing there might be between us. But being with him has shined a spotlight through a gaping hole in my life. A hole I'd been carefully ignoring because I have so much else going on.
But now...
Well, now I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to ignore it anymore.
"Laine," he presses. "Tell me."
I sigh. "Nosy much? Fine," I add before he can push again. "I was just thinking how unexpected you are."
His brow furrows. "How so?"
"I guess I'd assumed you were a loner. But here you are, surrounded by friends. And it's just, I don't know..." I trail off with a shrug.
"Because of the girls," he says. "Because I pay for sex, you assumed I was a guy who just lived in his own little world."
I bite back a wince. "Well, yeah. Sorry."
"It's okay. I get it." He takes a sip of wine. "Relationships are hard in this business. And I'm at a point where my career could explode. So I don't ... let's just say I'm focusing on work, not dating. Does that make sense?"
"Sure. Like you said, with what you do, it would be extra hard to get close to someone. You never know if they want you for your connections."
"Exactly," he says, and I nod as if I completely understand.
Except I don't.
Oh, I believe that what he says is part of it. But I remember only too well his words that first night. His pressure cooker approach to sex. The realization that he wasn't looking for a companion, but a release.
And maybe that's all it was. But I can't help but think there's more. Because friendships take work, too, and Lyle doesn't seem to be lacking there.
My guess is that it's not about work, but about himself. About denial or punishment or something else. Something I can't see yet because I don't know him well enough.
And even though it's really none of my business, I want to understand. More than that, I want to help.
11
"I lost you."
I blink, then look up, Lyle's voice pushing through the storm of thoughts in my head.
"Sorry," I say, hitting a mental rewind button. "I'm right here. I was just thinking."
"You do that a lot," he says, his blue eyes teasing. "Should I worry?"
I laugh. "No. I was only wondering why exactly you're playing this game." That's not what I was thinking, of course. But it's still true. "I mean, your friends obviously know you're not big on the dating. So why this sudden performance? Why not just say that you met a woman in a bar and some fan with a camera phone pushed it out on social media. And then that's the end of that?"
He props his chin on his hand and peers at me with just enough intensity that I shift uncomfortably on my stool. "You see a lot," he says.
I shrug. "I'm a waitress. Which pretty much means I deliver food and watch people."
"Can't argue with that," he says. "And it's a good question. There's the reason."
I look in the direction he's pointing and see Francesca Muratti, one of the most famous women in Hollywood, talking to a man I don't recognize. She's tall and absolutely stunning with thick auburn hair and a regal demeanor. And I have absolutely no idea what Lyle means when he says she's the reason.
"Short version?" Lyle says when I ask him. "Frannie has a thing about dating her co-stars, but I'm not inclined to date Frannie, and that frustrates her. A frustrated mega-star isn't good for either the production or my continued employment with the picture."
"Seriously? Your business is crazy."
He nods. "Can't argue with that. But she's also got scruples, and she's hands-off any co-star who's otherwise involved. Involved seriously, at least. Which," he adds, taking my hand again, "we most definitely are."
"Absolutely," I agree. "She makes a move on you, and the bitch goes down."
He'd been about to take another sip of wine, but instead bursts out laughing. "You've definitely got the role down," he says, and I grin, both pleased and amused.
My grin fades, however, when Lyle mutters, "Oh, hell."
I'd turned away from Frannie, but now I shift back and see that the guy she'd been talking to has left, only to be replaced by a short man with a round build and wiry hair. Except for the fact that there's something a little too smarmy about his expression, I'd say he had a Teddy bear quality. Instead, I'm thinking he looks more like the evil marshmallow man at the end of the original Ghostbusters.
"Trouble?" I say, as both the marshmallow and Francesca turn toward me and Lyle.
"You can pretty much bet the ranch. That's my former co-star, Rip Carrington. Let's just say we aren't the close buddies that we were in the show."
He looks away, but I keep watching as Rip continues talking to Francesca, who in turn looks our way. After a moment, Rip leaves, and Francesca strides toward us.
"Incoming," I say, just seconds before she arrives.
"Hello, lover," she says, bending down to kiss his cheek. She turns to me. "Only on-screen, of course. From what I hear, that's your real life role. I'm Francesca Muratti, by the way," she adds, extending her hand to me. "Call me Frannie."
"Sugar Laine."
"What a charming name," she says.
"Where'd you hear that?" Lyle asks, his words overlapping hers. "From Rip?"
"What? No." Frannie laughs, but there's something about the sound that makes me think she's lying, and that's exactly what Rip was telling her. "From Ronald, actually."
"The head of the studio," Lyle tells me. Then he looks back at Frannie. "Nice to know our boss takes such a personal interest."
"Mmm."
"Speaking of the studio, we should probably think like publicists." He waves, and one of the photographers wandering the crowd rushes over. "Why don't we get a picture with all three of us?"
"Lovely idea," Frannie says, easing between us and smiling as the photographer snaps a series of shots, the popping flash making me see spots.
Once the photographer leaves, she starts to pull out one of the two vacant stools. "I understand you two have been dating for a while," she says to me. "Where on earth has he been keeping you?"
"In bed, mostly," I say evenly, then hide my glee as Frannie's eyes go wide, and Lyle almost spits out his drink.
"Oh," Frannie says, then actually laughs. "Well, good for you." She pushes the stool back in, then winks at Lyle. "I like her. I hope she comes with you to the set once we start shooting. Ta."
Then she waggles her fingers, flashes a million dollar smile, and disappears into the throng.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That just came out."
"Are you kidding? You were brilliant."
"I didn't piss her off? I wasn't sure if that was a real or a sarcastic invitation."
"Real," Lyle assures me. "Frannie admires people who can hold their own. I think you just sealed my freedom from being the apple of her eye."
"Good," I say. "After all, as your girlfriend, I want you all to myself."
That just popped out, too, and the moment I say it, I wish I could call it back, especially as I'm pretty sure I see a shadow darken Lyle's gorgeous blue eyes.
I tell myself I'm being overly sensitive. After all, he's the one who wanted method acting. Still, I'm relieved when the silence is broken by the arrival of a tall woman with an athletic build, long dark hair, and a face that looks familiar, but that I can't quite place.
"This is so incredible," she says to Lyle. "Thank you so much for wrangling me an invitation."
"Just one of the many perks of working for me," Lyle says. "Natasha Black, meet Laine."
"Great to meet you," she says, extending her hand. "I would say that I've heard all about you, but we both know that would be a lie. And I'm pretty sure lying is grounds for getting fired, and I actually kind of like my job."
I bite back a s
mile. Not only because I like her, but because I've remembered where I know her from. And the truth is, I've always liked her. "You actually have heard all about me," I say. "We went to high school together. You were two years ahead of me."
Her eyes widen. "Sugar? Holy coincidence, Batman, I haven't seen you in years. How are you?" She tosses her head toward Lyle. "Slumming, huh?"
I bite back a laugh. "Pretty much. But, you know, you take what you can get."
"Nice," Lyle says.
"Whatever happened with you and Harry?" I ask, referring to the boy she dated our junior and senior years.
She makes a face. "That's over," she says, and her voice is so tight that I know better than to press the question.
I'm starting to think I completely screwed up this particular conversation when she shakes her head, as if the thought of Harry is nothing more than an irritating gnat. "Listen, I only have a second. I saw Lyle and I told some friends that I'd be right back. But we should play catch up soon. Lunch, maybe. Or cocktails one night when he's not wining and dining you."
"I'd love to."
"Maybe one night when I'm training with Riley," Lyle says, surprising me, because making fake future plans seems a little unnecessary for a one time gig, even if we are doing the method acting thing. "We could meet up with you two after he tortures me."
He's watching her face as he talks, and so I take his lead and do the same, immediately noticing the way her cheeks stain and her eyes dip to the table.
"Maybe so," she says. "Guess we'll play it by ear." She focuses exclusively on me. "Later, okay?"
"Sure," I say, then watch her back as she hurries away, walking right past Frannie, who's once again chatting with Rip Carrington.
I turn to Lyle. "Was that my imagination, or were you torturing that poor girl?"
"Just satisfying my curiosity. I think there's something going on between her and my trainer. Actually, I think there's not something going on."
"But you think they want there to be?"
"More or less."
"So you're teasing her about it? What happened to your nice guy persona?"
He spreads his hands and grins. "What can I say? I'm one hell of an actor."
I shake my head and laugh. And as I do, it hits me. He may be acting, but I'm not. Not that I'm his real girlfriend--that part's as fake as it gets. But the comfortable feeling I have around him is one hundred percent real.
And it's definitely nice.
Unsettling, but nice.
A chime sounds, and Lyle stands up. "I think that's supposed to let us know that the rest of the show will start soon."
I glance at my watch, and since it's almost eight, I assume he's right. He takes my hand, and we start to head for the entrance to the makeshift hall, where other guests are gathering in front of the velvet rope that currently bars the entrance.
"Lyle!"
The speaker is an insanely handsome dark-haired man standing next to an exceptionally pretty blonde woman with girl-next-door good looks.
Lyle detours us into the throng, and as we head toward the couple, I rack my brain trying to figure out why the man looks so familiar. "Laine," Lyle says when we reach them. "I'd like you to meet Nikki and Damien Stark."
"Oh!" I say, sure I sound like an idiot. But it's not every day you meet one of the wealthiest men in the world.
I don't know much about the rich and powerful, but you'd have to be dead not to have heard of Damien Stark, the former professional tennis player turned entrepreneur who now runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise. And whose name is on the door of this gallery.
His wife, Nikki, isn't nearly as famous, but I've heard about her, too. Mostly because of the scandal. Before they were married Damien offered her a million dollars if she'd pose nude for a painting. It was supposed to be an anonymous image with her face turned away, but word got out, and it was all over the tabloids for a while.
My stomach twists as I recall the story, and I feel an uncomfortable kinship. Not that what I'm doing is the same, not really. But it's secret. And a little bit naughty. And for money.
So, yeah, there are parallels.
I shiver, thinking how horrible it would be if the world found out about me.
"Will we see you at the Foundation picnic next Sunday, Laine?"
I jerk my head up, realizing that Damien's speaking to me. "I'm sorry?"
"The Stark Children's Foundation picnic," Lyle explains. "And, yes," he tells Damien. "We're hoping she can juggle her work schedule and make it."
Since I know nothing about this, I just smile and try to look eager.
"Oh, good," Nikki says. "I'll keep my fingers crossed. And as for you," she adds, pointing a finger at Lyle, "I should warn you that you created a monster the last time you were at the house. Lara is all about being an airplane now."
I look between the two of them, baffled.
"Her little girl. One arm, one leg, and then we spin." He does just that, holding an imaginary kid while some of the other guests look on, amused.
"She can't get enough of it," Damien adds.
"Which is unfortunate," Lyle says, "since I end up with an afternoon of vertigo. I'll be a dead man once Anne's old enough to join the fun."
"You have no one to blame but yourself," Nikki chides. "You're the one who started it."
"Guilty as charged."
"How old is she?" I ask.
"Very firmly in the terrible twos," Damien says, his voice full of love and affection.
I'm about to ask about the other daughter when the music starts up and the docents remove the rope.
"Next week," Nikki says, as she and Damien wave, then fall in with the moving crowd.
We do the same, and soon we're in the dim hallway, the only illumination provided by the spotlights on the life size images that line the walls.
The photos are in a progression, each one more daring than the next, as if showing the progress of a woman coming into her own. And the woman, I realize, is Kelsey. The images are meant to be anonymous, but having met her, I recognize the angles of her shadowed face. Her posture. Her hair.
And the way that Wyatt has shot her...
Well, it's like looking through his heart at the woman he loves.
Lyle's hand rests against the small of my back, and I feel the pressure increase as we move through the exhibit. As the photos become more and more sensual.
By the time we exit the hall into a small, round room, I'm having to focus on breathing, because I'm so hyperaware of his touch that nothing else seems to matter.
Photos line the walls here, too, and the center is a stage entirely surrounded by a scrim. We make the circle, but now I'm not even really seeing the images. Instead, I'm imagining me.
Stretched out naked on a bed, my wrists bound with a bright red ribbon.
My legs spread as I straddle a chair, my eyes an invitation to the man just outside the frame.
Water sluicing over me in the shower, hot and steamy, my hand between my legs as I imagine him--
"--right here," Lyle says, and I actually jump. This time, at least, I don't have to worry about the blush. It's dark enough that he can't see my face.
"What?" I say, finally processing his words.
"I said we should stay right here." We're only a few feet from the stage, and as he speaks, he moves to stand behind me. Slowly, he wraps his arms around my waist, and the brush of his hands over my dress followed by the pressure of his arms tight around me is almost more than I can stand. My pulse kicks up, my mouth goes dry, and he's pressed so close that I'm certain he can feel the way my body has tightened and my heart is skittering.
The room lights dim as the stage lights come up, illuminating the inside of the scrim, so that we see the shadow of the woman behind it, her body bending against a pole as she holds a pose while the introductory music rises.
The scrim rises as well, leaving only a gauzy curtain through which we can clearly see Kelsey in the spotlight, a mask over her eyes, her lips pain
ted blood red.
"Are you ready?" Lyle whispers as the music builds, and all I can do is nod, my eyes fixed on Kelsey. The way she moves in time with the music, her body performing a sensual tease as she unties the wrap dress, then lets it drop to the floor, revealing a corset, garters, and shoes that really don't seem danceable, but to Kelsey seem to be as easy to move in as slippers.
The music starts out wild and hard, then shifts into slow and sensual, and the choreography matches each mood perfectly.
But it's neither the dance nor the woman that has captured my attention. It's the man behind me. He's pressed so close that I can feel his erection against me. And he's shifted his hands, so that now he's holding me in place with one hand on my rib cage, positioned so that his thumb strokes the curve of my breast as his other hand eases lower, until his palm is at the junction of my thigh, and his thumb could be stroking me oh, so intimately if it wasn't for the layer of chiffon and La Perla.
My entire body is stiff as I fight the urge to moan, to shift. To manipulate my position just enough so that he can touch me even more intimately in the dark. So that he can take me to the places this dance is leading.
So that I can simply melt inside the circle of his arms.
Except it's not real.
I close my eyes, reminding myself of that little, frustrating fact as I unsuccessfully will my body not to respond. My skin not to tingle. My core not to tighten with need.
I'm completely and totally turned on, and I swear that if he spun me around and stripped me bare right then, I wouldn't blink at all.
I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't want his touch or the fantasy that this could lead somewhere. I should just play the role I'm supposed to play and move on.
But there's this craving inside me...
And that's really not a good thing.
His hand rises, the edge of his thumb brushing my nipple, and the wave of longing that cuts through me is so intense it's almost painful.
As Kelsey continues her dance in front of us, I step forward, breaking contact. Immediately, I breathe easier, but the sense of loss that washes over me is almost as overwhelming as the heat that lingers from his touch.
"Sugar?" His voice is low, barely audible above the music.
I turn and manage a smile, trying to seem unaffected. Even nonchalant. "I know you're supposed to be proving to the world that you have a girlfriend, but you still have to keep up the nice Iowa boy rep, right?"