Star Struck

by Meredith Michelle

  “I suppose. Hadn’t really got that far.” He pauses and turns his head slightly before continuing. “But I can assure you, Anna, I will find you.”

  Total relief and pleasure washes over you at his words. But he continues, “You know how you say we hardly know each other?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But in an odd way, Anna, I feel I’ve known you all my life. And I want to spend much more of my life getting to know you.”

  A surge of warmth flows through you at the promise in those words. You can’t think of a way to tell him how he’s made you feel—even though you’ve only met—how completely right this seems. You don’t want to break the spell and you let the silence sit as you savor the moment.

  Working your fingers down his back, you stop to massage each tense muscle. His lower back is firm and tapered, and you straddle his waist to work in circles just above his belt line. Once his back feels sufficiently relaxed you move to his arms, enjoying the definition of his strong biceps, his sinewy forearms. You take each finger and firmly squeeze the tension from each one. Now that your eyes have adjusted to the dim light, you notice how delicious his slightly calloused palms look, and you can’t help but lean down to plant a kiss lightly in each one.

  Colm begins to turn over slowly. “Anna, that was—”

  You silence him with your lips, pressing yourself against the length of his body in an urgent kiss. You bask in the delicious taste of him, kissing his cheeks, his chin, lingering on his neck, breathing in his spicy scent. You move up again to kiss his beautiful eyelids.

  “Ow!” he yells.

  “Sorry!” You’d completely forgotten about Colm’s swollen eye. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  Colm sits up with a low laugh. “I’m fine, Anna.” He takes your face between his large, rough hands and kisses you slowly, then leans back onto his elbows. “Just relax and let me have a look at you.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face as his eyes move from your face down to your neck. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it travels down, lingers at the swell of your breasts, then continues to your waist and hips.

  When he speaks, Colm’s voice is huskier. “Anna, you are truly perfect.”

  This makes you smile, and you lean in to kiss him, pressing your palm gently against the rough stubble on his cheek.

  He reaches up one hand behind your neck and pulls you to him. He skims your top over your head in one smooth motion and deftly flips you onto your back, then hovers over you for one more moment before lowering his mouth to your stomach. His tickling kisses are the perfect complement to the delicious abrasiveness of his scruff as he works his way lower. You are momentarily disappointed when he moves up again, but then he reaches around to remove your bra and sends you into ecstasy as he uses his mouth on one sensitive nipple and his fingers on the other.

  You reach down, intending to slide your hand into his waistband, but he intercepts you, interlaces his fingers with yours, and moves down once again. Using his free hand, he undoes your shorts and slides them down over your feet. He takes a minute to look at you once again, then runs his hand down the curve of your hipbones and lets his fingers play along the lacy edge of your thong. Then he hooks a finger under the elastic and pulls them free as well. He runs his hand gently over your clit and bends to kiss it lightly. He looks up, gauges your expression, then returns to kiss more hungrily.

  Your insides clench at every touch of his lips and tongue, and you gasp as he reaches up to pinch and caress your nipple. You find you’re ready much too soon, and gently tug at his shoulder. He looks up for a moment but then smiles before resuming.

  You feel yourself getting closer again and have no choice but to give into the moment. Colm senses your readiness and pulls his hand from yours, thrusting his thumb deep as he brings you closer with his tongue. He finds a sensitive spot and the sensation is too much to bear. You arch into him and come with a groan. “Oh, Colm,” you sigh, as waves of pleasure wash over you. You shiver as he flicks his tongue over your sensitive skin one last time, then slowly kisses his way up to your lips.

  His jeans strain against his bulge. You smile and reach for him again. You trail one finger lightly up the hard ridge and Colm breathes in sharply, but as before, he stops you. He looks into your eyes. “Let me just hold you,” he says.

  He pulls you to his side, wrapping one arm under you. The fingers of one hand trail lightly across your hip, while the others gently strokes your hair. You kiss him once then rest your head on his muscular chest, resisting the urge to reach lower. You listen to his heartbeat and feel yourself begin to surrender to sleep. You’ve never in your life felt so safe and so at peace.

  Much too soon, Colm draws in a deep breath and sits up. “Anna, I’m exhausted. I should go.”

  “Please,” you say, “let me—”

  He interrupts you with another lingering kiss. “I’m sorry for the day I’ve put you through, Anna, but glad I could leave you with a bit of pleasure.”

  You bite your lower lip in frustration.

  “Please, Colm,” you say, “just stay.”

  “How I wish I could, Anna. You’ve no idea.”

  Despite those words, Colm rises from the bed, stretches his back, and saunters slowly toward the door. You walk with him toward the door, a million thoughts running through your mind. He turns to face you, and you can’t hide the disappointment you feel.

  Colm bends down to lean his forehead against yours. “Anna, remember what I said.” He kisses you lightly one last time on the bridge of your nose and with that, he is gone, leaving you feeling like an empty vessel.

  * * *

  The days on set trudge forward at the speed of molasses. The thickly applied makeup cloys in the hundred-degree heat and the hot costumes stick and chafe, making you want to rip them off. You haven’t slept well since Colm left, and there are mornings you can barely bring yourself to get out of bed.

  Jackson’s nose is covered with such a thick layer of tape and gauze. You can’t tell how bad the damage really is. He’s sidelined to recover for a few days and the shooting schedule is adjusted accordingly, so at least you get to avoid that confrontation.

  Buffy, on the other hand, has moved from vitriolic hostility to a disaffected flatness that is even more disturbing. Ever the professional, she comes in to do her job but no more. You can’t figure out what you can say that will heal the wound of misunderstanding that now seems to run so deep.

  * * *

  As shooting wraps, all you can think about is returning home to find Colm. He hasn’t so much as sent a text since leaving the set. Even though you’ve been listening for crew gossip about Jackson’s plans to sue, you don’t hear a word.

  The last day of shooting breaks cloudy and cool and you hope and pray the few beach reshoots can be wrapped despite the overcast sky. You sit in your trailer waiting for Buffy to arrive, leaf back through the script you’ve finally finished reading, and try to shake the cloud your experience here has cast over everything else in your life.

  An hour later, your annoyance at Buffy’s lateness turns to genuine worry. Buffy’s never missed a day of work since you met her. The knock on your door summoning you to the set will come any moment, so you decide you’d better go looking for her.

  You wander the back lot and ask the few straggling crew members still hanging around craft services or making their calls to other trailers whether they’ve seen Buffy. No one has. You go to the set to look for her but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  Jackson’s trailer is the last resort. You know you have no choice but to go see whether she’s there. The last thing you want to do is to interrupt the two of them together but you don’t know what else to do.

  Jackson’s answers the door after you’ve knocked only twice. “Anna,” he drawls with his usual lopsided smirk, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I’m trying to find Buffy. Is she here?”

  “Haven’t seen her,” he says smoothly. “I thought she
spent the night with you.”

  “With me? Why would she be with me?”

  “Well, she does share your trailer.”

  You shake your head in frustration. “Jackson, she hasn’t spent more than an hour in my trailer since you and she started—whatever it is you started. She’s been staying here, hasn’t she?”

  Jackson gives a casual shrug, “Well, she’s spent some time here, sure, but it’s not like we’ve been shacking up or anything.”

  “Well, she’s certainly spent a lot more time with you than she has with me lately.” You glance around Jackson’s trailer and notice he hasn’t actually asked you to come in. There are no signs of anything out of the ordinary, but still, something just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s just this gloomy day, but you can’t shake the feeling.

  Jackson’s nose, you now notice, is unbandaged. Other than a little redness and a bit of a blue tinge below his eyes, it looks totally fine.

  “You certainly made a speedy recovery.”

  “No thanks to your boyfriend,” Jackson shoots back with an angry sneer.

  You decide to press further, not about to let him off the hook.

  “When was the last time you saw Buffy anyway?”

  Jackson laughs and folds his arms over his chest, “What is this? CSI St. Thomas? When was the last time you saw Buffy, Anna? I don’t have time to play detective.”

  “Seriously, Jackson, can’t you just answer me? I’m worried about her.”

  Jackson rolls his eyes. “She’s not responding to your beck and call for once in her life and now you’re worried about her? Maybe she had something to do, Anna. Maybe she just didn’t feel like working today. I know this will come as a shock, but the whole world does not revolve around you, sweetheart.”

  Again, you have the feeling that Jackson is using his hostility to cover something. He certainly hasn’t answered anything you asked directly.

  “Jackson, I’m going to ask you again, and I hope you answer me this time. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “All right, all right, cool your jets, Anna.” He pauses and looks down at the ground for just a moment too long. “Last time Buffy was here was the morning before last. She left to do your makeup and I haven’t seen her since. You guys have been fighting. Everybody knows that. Give her a minute and she’ll be back. She’s pissed at you, Anna, but she’s not stupid. She doesn’t want to lose her job.”

  Once again something doesn’t ring true in Jackson’s tone, though you can’t quite put your finger on it.

  Walking back to your trailer, it finally dawns on you: his reference to everyone knowing you and Buffy had been fighting. A seed of uneasiness plants itself in your stomach.

  Throughout the day you become increasingly worried. In Buffy’s absence, you’re forced to share Jackson’s makeup artist, a busty bleached-blonde who doesn’t have half of Buffy’s skill, but at least she gets you through the shoot and doesn’t make any attempt at conversation.

  After day two with still no sign of Buffy, you decide to approach Jeff Jeffries to voice your concern—or part of your concern, anyway.

  Jeffries half-listens to you as he watches dailies on a little screen in his trailer, a double-wide decked out beyond belief. He runs a chubby hand over his balding head and finally breaks away from the screen to give you his attention.

  “Look, Anna,” he begins, “I know she’s your friend and you’re worried about her. God knows we’re all worried about her. She’s costing us time and money here. Jackson’s girl is good, but I’m having to pay her double and it’s taking you twice as long in the makeup chair.” He clears his throat and heaves a foot onto the ottoman in front of his oversized leather chair. “But look, she’s probably taken up with some local, and between the Jackson thing—don’t think I don’t know about that—and the problems with you, she needed a little break. Why do women do these things? I don’t know.” He pauses again, grunts, and brings his other foot heavily up to rest beside the other. “One thing I do know,” he tells you before returning his full attention to his video screen, “is when she does show up, she’s fired.”

  “Nice,” you mutter, knowing you’ll find no help here, and head for the door, making a mental note not to work with Jeffries again any time soon.

  Security proves to be equally useless. A hassled-looking officer takes a written report and promises to ask for the help of local authorities, but when you check back in the next day they almost laugh when you ask how much progress has been made. The same uniformed genius who shoved you out the door the day of the Colm and Jackson incident says he’s still waiting for a return call. “We’re on island time,” he offers by way of explanation.

  The rest of the cast celebrates the final day of shooting but you’re in no mood to join them. You seethe watching Jackson joke and flirt, seemingly completely unbothered by Buffy’s disappearance.

  Finally, you make the heart-breaking call to Buffy’s mother, Rose, to ask whether she’s heard from Buffy. When she tells you she hasn’t, a tearful conversation follows wherein you tell Rose about what happened between you two and about your suspicions toward Jackson.

  Rose takes the next flight she can and meets you on the island. You vow to stay with her until you find Buffy, and in the meantime, to take the story to as many media outlets as possible. The crew and cast finally depart and you’re surprised but unsurprised at the same time, by the total lack of concern for your friend.

  You continue to have the nagging feeling that if only you’d persisted in trying to reach her, to prove to her that there really was nothing going on between you and Jackson, to just keep being her friend no matter what, that none of this would have happened.

  * * *

  The studio contract requires you to travel for a three-week press junket for Tropical Tango, and your next project starts meetings immediately after the press tour wraps. The two weeks you and Rose have spent looking feels like two days, and you still have so much searching to do.

  You’ve promised to stay and look for Buffy for as long as it takes, but you never thought it would take this long. Local authorities are finally helping, but with frustrating, island-laid-back sluggishness. You’re painfully aware that each day that passes means a greater chance you may never see Buffy again.

  If you stay to keep searching and forego the press junket, you’ll lose a substantial percentage of your Tropical Tango fee and possibly even future work when word gets around you haven’t honored your contract. Although you know Rose is leaning on you in her daughter’s absence, you’re not sure what more there is you can do other than be there for her. You’ve turned over every rock you can think of and still have not even the slightest lead. The police are telling you they are working overtime looking for her and to leave it in their hands. You have your doubts, but your professional obligations are pulling at you. A steady stream of phone calls, e-mails, and texts from your agent, Jeffries, and finally from the studio urge you to honor your obligations.

  Rose is more than understanding of your dilemma and encourages you to do what you feel is right. “Go, Anna,” she urges you. “You’ve done as much as you possibly can. I can take it from here.” You can tell part of her wants you to stay, but you know she’ll never say so.

  The pressure and sleepless nights wreak havoc on your mind. You’re almost paralyzed with indecision. You try to call Colm but the call goes directly to voice mail. You leave a message you feel certain he’ll never get.

  Finally, your agent calls to say you have three days to report to the New York set of your next project or you’ll be replaced. Still, you feel that if you have just a few more days to look, maybe you’ll turn over a rock you haven’t yet. At the same time, if you’re being completely honest, you have to admit that your hope is beginning to fade. You just don’t know what to do.

  To stay on the island and continue your search for Buffy, turn to page 116.

  To leave the island and report to NYC, keep reading.

  Absolutely
ridden with guilt, you say a tearful goodbye to Buffy’s mother and board a plane headed for New York. The chill that greets you when you arrive on the set is palpable and the wintry cold of the city hits you like a slap in the face.

  Worse still are the glossy headlines announcing—ANNA CHAMBLISS MISSING IN ACTION!—along with speculations of an island affair or the insinuations of more sordid reasons for your “unexplained absence” and the question, IS ANNA HEADED FOR REHAB? Astoundingly, there are no mentions of Buffy’s disappearance.

  A mere mention of Jackson’s name in connection with the story on the Hello Show brings the threat of a libel suit by Jackson’s attorney, so you surrender that angle. Though you still suspect him, you know nothing can be proven until Buffy—or her body—is found, so you concentrate on lighting a fire under the island police to step up their search effort. Like the media, their interest seems to wane too quickly. You’re well aware that the last thing they want is a negative smear on their most lucrative industry: tourism. Everyone around you seems to want to forget, to smooth it over as quickly as possible, as though Buffy never even existed.

  Colm’s interest in you follows a similar pattern, and you know you have no one to blame but yourself. He calls you as soon as he listens to your message, then for a few weeks he calls you daily, pleading for a return call. You text him that you’ll call when you can, but in an odd way you don’t want to allow yourself any pleasure until Buffy’s been found. Eventually, the calls every day become two or three a week, then once a week, and the tone of his messages becomes more and more glum. His final communication, a simple text saying, Hi, A, pls call when u can goes unanswered, and it’s with an odd sense of pleasurable masochism you realize you likely will never hear from him again.

  The box office on your new film doesn’t do well. You’re distracted throughout the shoot and rush off set as soon as the day is over. You know it isn’t your best effort, and strangely you don’t really care. You continue to dog every newspaper, magazine, television, and radio station until the producers turn you away as soon as you approach. Those that agree to an interview preface it with a caveat that the “disappearance” story is not to be mentioned.