by Tl Mayhew
“Only the best for my man Preston.”
“Don’t do that,” I correct.
“Do what?” he asks, reaching for the door.
I’m suddenly regretting having him tag along. There’s no job for him here. His job is back at his office, where he should be lining up work for me. “Don’t be a kiss ass. It’s not your style and isn’t something I need right now.”
“Got it. No ass kissing,” he replies with a thumbs-up and showing a little too many teeth.
He opens the door and waves me in. Shaking my head, I shove him like a brother would a sibling as I pass by. His surprised, fuck, I’m going to fall look, is classic as he stumbles a few steps before regaining his balance—laughing it off when he steps inside.
The interior is straight out of a rich and famous playbook. Nothing about this massive vehicle is what the average person could ever afford in their lifetime.
Marble tile floors and granite countertops give the interior a luxurious feel, while the sleek leather, fireplace, and massive seventy-five-inch TV invite you in for a beer and good football game. It’s not as nice as my apartment but it’ll do while we’re on set.
Right now though I’m not interested in a tour, I’m more concerned with knowing where Rook is lurking. He’s nearby; I can feel it. Pacing from the small kitchen to the window and back, I wait.
It hasn’t been ten minutes before makeup artists, stylists, and other essential personnel begin flooding the area. They’re followed by the cameramen and catering crew, each heading to their designated areas, where they prep for the onslaught of talent expected to arrive later.
Unbeknownst to them, the only talent they should be concerned with is already here. “This isn’t about you, my man,” I mutter to myself. “This is about making sure that piece of shit is booted the fuck out of here.”
“Did you see this refrigerator? It’s full of food,” Garret asks excitedly.
“Your point?”
“They must’ve planned on you cooking a real meal,” he chuckles.
I’d never really given it much thought, but his comment is not too far from the truth. The cooking lesson, it makes perfect sense. Using prop food would take away from the realism of the scene and that’s how you lose money. Details count, even if it means learning how to cook a French entrée. Otherwise a single post on social media, from a fan who picks apart every detail, could send any potential earnings straight into a tailspin.
“He’s here,” Garret whispers.
Looking through the glass of the RV, I narrow my eyes on the snake walking through the parking lot. “What is he doing here early, turning over a new leaf? We’re not starting at least for another…” I check my watch. “…twenty minutes. Fuck, there’s no time now.”
Just as the words leave my mouth, there’s a knock at the door. I take a moment, preparing the words I’m going to shout at him, and when I’m ready, I take a deep breath and pull the door open. “You son of a bitch!” But the person standing there is not him. It’s Teresa, my stylist and movie makeup artist.
The smile melts from her face like ice cream on a hot day. “Is this a bad time, Mr. Preston?”
I glance around her at the space between my RV and the next. There’s no sign of him, but the hairs on my arm are still standing on end, so I know he’s nearby. Without a word or giving it a second thought, I grab her arm and pull her in.
She yelps, stumbling a bit, and almost spilling the contents of her carry bag on the floor, but I catch her just in time. “Umm…”
“Shhh.” I place a finger over my lips, waiting for another knock at the door. When there isn’t one, I relax a little and show her to the kitchen island. “You can set up over there.”
“Yes, sir.” she responds demurely.
I pull up a barstool while she organizes what she needs to make me look like Andrew Smith, the character I’ll be playing. “Garret, make yourself useful and go find Rook. You can keep me posted on his whereabouts via text. He’s only an extra, so I don’t expect they’ll take too long on his prep.”
“Got it. Do you want me to send wardrobe your way as well?”
I look down. Wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, I consider his offer. But then decide it’s not necessary. For the cooking scene they’ll have me in a navy jacket like gourmet chefs wear and that can go over my clothes. “No, just have the jacket ready.”
He offers a nod then heads through the door.
Once he’s gone and Teresa begins brushing my hair, you could cut the thick silence with a knife. The negativity toward me is rolling off her in waves. She’s been my stylist for at least five years, but I’ve never seen this type of reaction from her. It was for her own safety, me pulling her in like that. What’s done is done, apologizing shouldn’t make much difference, but I do it anyway. “I apologize for grabbing you the way I did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pace. I realize you’re in a rush, so we’ll get through this as quickly as possible.”
“Very well, make me unrecognizable.”
The comment sets her at ease, even tipping her lips in a grin as she goes back to brushing and combing. After ten or so minutes, I’ve become Andrew: a millionaire with a heart of gold, pining for a single mother who’s barely scraping by. If she doesn’t get twenty thousand dollars by the end of the week, her dreams of ever owning a restaurant are over.
This movie is right up the alley of the network that also makes greeting cards, but with A-list celebrities and ten times the budget. You can bet I’ll not be watching it. But that’s nothing new, I’ve only watched one other of my own films, and it’s because it was the last one Tinka and I did together.
A Life Lost in Neverland was the ultimate rip your heart out kind of film. It was about a young girl who, as a child, had been sexually molested by her own father and then tossed into the foster system when he died. Her rage was valid because her father wasn’t the only one. Each home they moved her to it happened over and over, until the day she turned eighteen.
Tinka was the emotional unstable eighteen-year-old girl who fell in love with a twenty-something boy—me.
Neverland was essentially a metaphor for never having a place to call your own. While a life lost was her childhood innocence.
She and I were ecstatic about working on this one together. Our relationship matched the young love described in the script, minus the hardships. We knew it would be an Oscar winner.
Unfortunately, she got lost in the character and shortly after the film wrapped, she struggled to find her way back out. Add to that my afterhours fetishes and in her emotional state she’d decided I was no better than the men in the movie.
Unbeknownst to me, she eventually found someone, shall we say, less adventurous.
There was a time I loved her, and it was tough letting her go, but once she’d had another that’s where I drew the line.
I don’t have time for my mind to drift any farther down that rabbit hole. Instead I head toward the bathroom, intent on scrutinizing Teresa’s work. When I check the mirror, there’s not a hair out of place and my skin is caked flawlessly with makeup. Something needed to hide any imperfections found by harsh lights and high-definition cameras.
Not that I have any, imperfections that is.
Teresa is waiting by the door when I come back out. “Does everything look okay, Mr. Pace?”
“Perfect as always,” I tell her, opening the door and guiding her through. She stiffens momentarily at my touch but eventually moves along. We head opposite directions.
There’s a back entrance to the restaurant and it’s where Garret is waiting. “Well, what do you know?” I ask.
“I was told he’s waiting behind the main door for his grand entrance.”
There was a time when he would’ve had a main part, but he burned his own bridges and that time is not today. If he thinks he’s going to come in and make this his big comeback, he’s got another thing coming. I’ll see to that.
“Good luck, my man. I’ll be waiti
ng behind Jackson on camera one.”
I tip my head at him and walk toward the breakfast bar for a quick espresso and an energy bar before we get started, but when I approach the row of tables I stop midstep.
There’s a woman filling her small plate with fruit. I don’t know or care what she’s choosing though because my attention is drawn to her womanly curves and the red cocktail dress flowing easily over each one. Her look is accentuated by blonde locks that fall in waves down her back.
I could easily see myself pounding that fine curved ass with a hand gripped tightly in that hair. My dick twitches at the thought.
When she turns and her shimmering emerald eyes meet mine, she drops her plate and a hand flies to her mouth.
Her surprise is beautiful. She’s beautiful. Catching my breath and rendering me, “The King of the Big Screen,” speechless. After a beat I decide I want to know who she is, and I approach her cautiously.
Her eyes widen but otherwise she stays still, almost as though she’s paralyzed by my proximity.
Offering out my hand, I introduce myself, “Preston Pace, and you are?”
She places her hand softly in mine, and I can’t help but wonder what her delicate fingers would feel like wrapped around my dick.
“Winsley…Winsley Starling.” Her cheeks tint excessively, as she goes on, “I can’t believe I’m meeting you. I’ve been a huge fan since I was sixteen years old.”
Her comment hits me straight in the ego. Once an age is tied to a statement, there’s no easy way to look past it. “I guess my reputation precedes me.”
“I imagine there are very few who don’t know who you are,” she says, bending to pick up her plate and the fruit from the floor.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
“No, no that’s okay, I’ve got it. We can’t have The Preston Pace crawling around on the floor like a dog.”
Her words are innocent enough, but it’s a considerably different image in my mind. Instead of me it’s her on all fours. And in that dress, the view would be well worth her humiliation. “You can call me Preston,” I tell her, picking up a cube of watermelon and cantaloupe from the floor. “Maybe a bit of normalcy from me will give the crew something to talk about.” I offer her a wink and smile.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Thank you,” she says, raising her plate to me. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk with me, so I’ll leave you to it then. It was nice meeting you.”
Turning on her heel, she tosses her plate in the trash and begins walking away.
I’m not sure what part she’s playing, which means I don’t know when I’ll see her next, and she’s not an opportunity I intend on passing by. I call out to her, “Winsley…”
She stops and faces me. “Yes.”
“Usually everyone on set goes out for drinks after the shoot, would you like to join us?” I ask the question, but fight back the urge of leaving her with no choice and ordering her to do it.
“Preston, you’re needed on set,” the director’s assistant calls out.
She glances toward the voice in the distance and then turns back in the direction she was headed. “I’ll think about it.”
Who in their right mind would tell me they’ll think about it? I take a step forward, intent on giving her something to think about, when my name is shouted out again.
“Preston, now.”
Some days David just doesn’t remember who he’s talking to and with my mind on Winsley, today is not a day for a reminder other than a hard clap on the back as I pass by.
Strolling into the kitchen, I find Gina and the film crew waiting.
“Preston! It’s been awhile,” Gina says excitedly, moving in for a hug.
“It sure has. The last time I saw you was on the set of Days of Never. How’ve you been?” I answer, squeezing her tightly.
“Has it been that long?” she says, stepping back an arm’s length. “You look great, by the way.”
“As do you. In fact, I’m tempted to send all these guys packing and take you right here on this island.”
She laughs. “You always were quite the charmer, but my husband…” she glances toward the row of cameramen, “…might have something to say about that.”
I follow her stare and cameraman two gives me a nod. “You got married?”
“I did,” she says grinning from ear to ear, while holding out her left hand. “And we have a daughter.”
“That’s great. Congratulations,” I tell her, taking her hand in mine and examining the rock perched on her finger. My words are truly sincere, but I can’t help the twinge of jealousy at her happiness. While I’m not ready for that type of commitment, I wouldn’t mind having someone in my life who one day I could consider the one. For now, I’ll relish in the fact that a longtime friend of mine is in that place. If anyone deserves it, Gina is that person. “Hey, man, had I known…” I say to Gina’s husband.
“The names Braydon, and it’s no problem. My wife is hot as fuck and I’m sure that thought has went through the minds of many; they’ve just never actually said it out loud,” he says with a straight face.
I take that as he’s okay with my advances—this time—but if he catches me doing it again, I can expect a reminder who he is without hesitation.
“Read you loud and clear, my man. Might I suggest she remove the ten-ton weight from her finger while she’s in character? She is supposed to be a single mother who falls for the millionaire bachelor.” I point a finger to my chest while emphasizing my use of the word single. It’s my warning back. I don’t recognize him as a regular, which makes me think he’s new. I’ve known Gina for longer than they’ve been married. That fact alone gives me a leg up in this pissing match.
He’s challenging me with a death stare, and I’m feeling like I just won until I glance back at Gina. She’s shaking her head, discouraging him from going any farther. It knocks a peg off my ego but I’m fine with that. There’s no sense in stressing her out before our scene, and I’ve got another cocky bastard who needs taken care of.
Gina and I move into position. A quick glance at the wealth of food on the counter raises a grin to my lips. It’s all real; right down to the miniscule spices separated in small individual bowls.
The director takes a seat, just below the cameras, and calls out, “Silence on set.”
“Something funny?” Gina whispers.
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Take one,” a young stagehand says.
“And Action!” the director shouts.
“Today I’ll be teaching you how to make Moules Marinières, basically mussels in white wine sauce,” she says, arranging the ingredients in the order in which they’ll be used.
Mussels…of course. “Ah, interesting choice,” I respond, admiring the way her hands move as she places the ingredients in a pot.
“Why do you say that?” she asks distractedly, while moving busily about the kitchen.
“Aren’t mussels an aphrodisiac?”
It takes a moment for the question to sink in, but when it does, she stops in her tracks. Unsure how she should respond, her tongue darts out nervously and she stumbles over her words. “T-that’s um what…well, I mean it’s what people say, but I don’t know.”
“How is it you don’t know? You’re a French cook, aren’t you?” I fire off questions, and in three long strides I’m across the room, towering over her.
At the same time, she backs away, bumping into a rack of pans and they rattle on the shelf. “Yes, but…”
“Are you saying you’re teaching me a dish you’ve never tried?” I breathe out, blocking her in with hands on either side of her head.
With no place to go, she looks up through her lashes. “No, that’s not what I’m saying…”
Our eyes lock and her navy stare pulls me in, telling me a story of heartache and broken relationships. The sounds and smells of a kitchen pushed to the back of my mind while placing my lips on hers, does not. “Then what are you saying?”
I ask, leaning in closer.
“I, um, I’ve made them before. Lots of times,” she says, while her heavy breaths warm my lips.
My lips hover over hers, teasingly. “Did you try them?”
“Yes.” She breathes out, placing her hands on the rack behind her for balance.
“And, how’d they make you feel?” I ask, taunting her by wetting my lips.
“They made me…well, um…”
“Juliette! Customers are filing in, are you about done with your lesson?” the head chef asks, his tone stern as he steps in the kitchen from an office down the hall.
“Almost, Chef,” she replies, quickly standing straighter and brushing out the wrinkles in her clothes. No longer affected by my advances.
“Well, hurry up, we have a special guest tonight. An acclaimed food critic from the Times,” he growls, turning around and heading back to his hole-in-the-wall.
She looks from him to me and I know what she’s going to say before she opens her mouth.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll need to reschedule.”
Not ready to leave, I must think of a reason to stay. “How about if I just hang out and watch you work your magic? I mean hands-on is ideally the best way to learn,” I give her a once-over, “but if you don’t mind me being here, I feel I can at least learn something.”
“I don’t know. Harrison doesn’t like any distractions. And you don’t seem the type who just blends into the background,” she says, her eyes meeting mine.
There’s something there; I feel it. Moving toward the back, I lean against the wall. “I’ll watch from back here.”
“Not one word?”
“Complete silence.” I wink at her.
“Fine.” She gives in but gives me a warning look. I run my fingers across my mouth as though it’s a zipper and it makes her smile. Moving quickly, she gathers all the mussel ingredients and places them in the fridge then she wipes down the area and calls out, “Chef, I’m ready for orders now.”