by Jane Galaxy
“That weird smell from that one manhole cover.”
“The traffic.”
She took a sip, and he could smell something faintly like black tea.
“So, you were there,” said Jax.
“I was, I was there,” Vanessa replied.
“I did want to apologize.”
She was quiet a moment, and Jax wondered briefly if she was waiting for him to just say the words.
“You said you wanted to explain; explain first.”
“The honest truth is that we were rehearsing,” said Jax. She turned to look at him. “Really. Filming was going great right up until we had a love scene, and then . . . it’s like it just fell apart. We couldn’t seem to get any momentum going, and I thought she was maybe uncomfortable with the idea of being around a stranger who’s constantly in the news for being an asshole.”
Vanessa made a soft hmm sound, and he felt encouraged to go on.
“So we tried that, but of course it didn’t go the way I thought it would.” The less said about that, the better.
“Did things ever change on set?”
“Yes and no,” Jax said. “On the one hand, it still feels awkward, but on the other, we laugh about it when we can.”
“How’d you get to that point?”
“We haven’t talked about it, but . . . I suspect that Joanna isn’t into guys.”
Vanessa glanced at him again.
“Because she doesn’t want to make out with Jax Butler the Great and Powerful?” She had a hint of smile at her mouth.
“Because of the way she talks about her past.” Jax shook his head.
She was quiet for a long time, and they listened to the traffic echoing off the buildings around them.
“I guess that actually makes sense,” she said at last. “And apologizing looks good on you; you should try it more often.”
“If that’s the case, I can take out a full-page ad in some trade paper listing my wrongs,” he murmured. “Being straightforward feels strange, but I’m doing better.”
“I think I was unfair,” Vanessa said. “No, hang on, I was unfair. I was too ready for you to be in the wrong because I was angry with myself for veering off this narrow path I’d set out for myself.”
“Narrow how?”
“Looking after my sister in my parents’ place, being the adult. Giving things up so that we could get by. Visiting a film set, being around you, taking off with a fairly relative stranger for a week in the Mediterranean—that’s some pretty extreme luxury after chasing after celebrities on a bicycle, hoping to catch a break.”
“You work hard; you deserve to have nice things and a good time.”
“I had this whole idea of myself as the last barrier between normal and complete disaster, and I got distracted.” Vanessa turned her head so that her jaw rested against his shoulder.
She paused.
“I’m sorry, Jax. I was really ready for you to fuck up and jumped on the first sign of misbehavior.”
Jax let this wash over them a moment, waiting for her to look up.
“Would you want me to behave in a certain way? Like a partner, or. . . ?”
He felt the cup settle into the gap between their thighs, stretched out parallel to each other.
“You know, I’ve realized that the only words that come to mind when I think about this is that I want to see where things go. I just want to look over the next hill,” said Vanessa.
“Alright,” said Jax, and was surprised at how low and soft his voice sounded just then.
On his bed, she breathed his name out loud, ran the palms of her hands over his face, and planted open kisses on his mouth, his throat, his collarbone. He worked his way slowly down over her breasts, the soft compactness of her navel, parted her thighs gently with his hands and tasted her—a bit at first, the familiarity of her overtaking him, and then all at once.
Vanessa’s hips rose off the bed, her wrists shocked back into the pillow above her, and she tilted her head, making soft noises that became pointed, grew long and tight in the back of her throat. He ran his tongue back and forth, languid and effortless, thrumming her flesh with his fingers and running his thumb in a lazy circle over her sex.
Jax moved up and over her body. He kissed her slowly while he slipped back into her, dipping and swaying his hips so deliberately that her hands started to grab at the sheets with a kind of mindless desperation. It was worth the effort to take his time—the past few weeks had been too long alone.
She wrapped her thighs around his hips and with a sudden twist, flipped him smoothly onto his back and sheathed herself around him again. He could hear himself murmuring something, and his hands were roaming over her hips and breasts of their own accord. Vanessa balanced and steadied herself on the heels of her hands and began to move over him, slick and smooth, pinching her bottom lip between her teeth.
He rolled his hips at her in one long wave.
“Oh,” said Vanessa, her mouth open in surprise, her movements lighter and faster now, her breath coming in gasps and heading toward certainty. She sat up and reached behind herself to place her hands on his thighs, and Jax felt his whole body tense up in response. Vanessa let her head loll on her shoulders, her firm stomach stretched as she leaned back and gripped him hard.
Jax pressed up into her and followed.
When she collapsed forward into his arms, Jax brushed aside her hair and let Vanessa tuck her chin along the space between his jawline and shoulder. She wriggled up next to him, her soft warm breasts resting along his ribs, and sighed. It was peaceful, just holding her in his arms while she breathed slowly and clearly.
Jax lay perfectly still, cuddled up against her, and realized that even though she’d drifted off into sleep, he didn’t feel alone at all. He sank into a comfortable drowsiness that grew heavier, and had the vague thought before he fell asleep that being in love was much easier than he’d thought.
Chapter Twenty
THEY WERE DEFINITELY going to be late.
As much as Vanessa loved her sister, she did not love the way Claudia seemed purposely determined to spend as much time as humanly possible getting ready. First her hair needed to be straightened, then curled for some reason, and then her toenail polish color didn’t match her dress. And then her fingernail color had come off while she was redoing her toes, and now Claudia was bent over the dining room table redoing her manicure, too.
Vanessa had gotten ready, had been ready, hours ago. Days ago. A week ago.
She glanced down again at the strappy six-inch heels that Jax had given her. It had involved a private designer’s studio and three stylists with platinum blonde hair cooing at her while she twirled in front of a mirror. Jax had stood at the other end of the room with his arms crossed, smiling, just taking in Vanessa’s slightly embarrassed pleasure at being fawned over and pampered.
It had been weird in a nice way, and when she’d said that to Jax, he’d replied,
“You’ll get used to it.”
And that had stuck with her all week, in a kind of awestruck way, because now no matter what, she would be on the other side of the Hollywood entertainment industrial complex.
Because she wasn’t a paparazza anymore.
“Are you almost done?” she called to Claudia, who murmured something under her breath from the other room. “I’m starting to wonder if we’re going to miss the whole thing.”
“It’s not late if you’re the star!” shouted Claudia. “It’s called fashionably late for a reason.”
Vanessa gave a long sigh that sounded more like a groan.
They were definitely going to be late, because Claudia felt it would be more fashionable.
“Besides,” her sister said as she came through the archway from the dining room while tapping out a message on her cell phone, “everything’s already taken care of. You have nothing to be worried about.”
That was an understatement. Jax knew someone who knew someone who could get her an exhibit space at the MoM
A, but Vanessa had vetoed that instantly. He’d finally—with some pouting and exaggerated grumbling—talked to a friend who had a small private gallery in midtown.
From there, Jax had tried to have the gallery staff take care of everything so that she could be surprised, but she’d insisted on artistic control and integrity. That part had been fun—the curatorial assistants did all the printing, framing, and hanging, and she’d stood in the space for one afternoon a week before, figuring out the flow, the arrangement, the vibe.
Of her photographs. On the wall. Of an art gallery.
Vanessa’s first-ever photography show was opening tonight. Her work wouldn’t just be private projects stashed in black cases in the back of a closet or on a computer anymore. They were real, now. Real in the sense of a career, a future.
She paused near the front door to look at the one print she’d left hanging on the wall. It was of her father in his furniture workshop, tapping away at a nail while dust motes danced in a shaft of sunlight. He could have been an actor onstage with the spotlight on him.
“He would’ve been proud,” said Claudia, coming up behind her. Vanessa turned to give her sister a lingering hug, one that she found she needed.
“Was that Jax?”
“Hmm?”
“You were texting—was that him? I haven’t heard from him all afternoon.”
Claudia looked at the ceiling innocently. Or deliberately. Whatever way, it was very suspicious.
“Maybe.”
Vanessa squinted at her sister.
“Have you two been conspiring with each other?”
“He was nice enough to send a car—it should be downstairs,” Claudia said mildly, unconcerned. She looked up at the picture of Papa. “Are you ready?”
Vanessa took a deep breath.
“Nope.”
“How does it feel?”
“Way too personal. People are going to ask a ton of questions, or worse, they’ll just stare, and I won’t know what anybody thinks.”
“They’ll love it. You have a way with capturing personalities. A knack, almost like you’ve been practicing.”
“Gee, I wonder why that could be?”
Vanessa couldn’t help but look around for men with telescoping lenses and gear vests when she got out of the black town car in front of the gallery. Instead, what she saw was Jax, dressed in a fine gray suit and vest, warm brown monk shoes, and a blue tie that made his black hair look even darker.
It was amazing that he was here, she realized—not a thousand miles away. Not a surprise, just an amazing intersection of their separate lives. He was in front of her, and he knew her name, and said it out loud tinged with love. Six months ago she’d crawled around on a fire escape, and now she was here, and so was he. Life was so strange, Vanessa thought with a little lump in her throat.
She chased it away as Jax came up with his arms out to embrace her.
“I thought I said eight o’clock!” he cried teasingly to Claudia. “You’re practically on time, you know that?”
“I tried everything I could to stall her, but she was dragging me down the street,” her sister replied with a mock eye-roll. “You’re lucky I managed this much or we might have gotten here before everyone else.”
“Oh my God,” said Vanessa, “I knew you two were up to something.”
“Aw, we did it because we love you,” Jax said, putting his arm around her and dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. Claudia stood at Vanessa’s other side and poked her gently.
“And more importantly, you deserved a big entrance to your own show. There’s famous people in there,” she whispered dramatically.
Vanessa jerked her head around to look through the gallery window. There definitely were. She was the last person to be at her own opening, and everyone was going to look at her when she walked in. Famous people included.
Vanessa looked up at Jax with something close to panic.
“Famous people I’ve annoyed and who probably hate me?” she asked, cringing.
“Famous people who have been vetted and properly informed of this transition into a new phase of your artistic career,” said Jax with a wave of his hand, and he confidently steered the three of them through the front door of the gallery.
It was so full of so many faces she recognized. Jax’s hand found the small of her back, and it was surprisingly warm and reassuring in the sea of endless conversations and introductions. She had no idea how she was going to manage it, but at least he would be there with her for moral support.
There was Jax’s co-star Dominic Thompson standing with Bruce Padewski, the Broadway director. Lily Tran was carrying two glasses of wine over to where Taran Pope was reading one of the captions on the far wall. Joanna Hart, she realized with a jolt to her stomach, was talking to a dark-haired woman in a corner next to Vanessa’s photograph of a girl hiding her grinning face against her mother’s shirt.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to talk to her if you don’t want to,” Jax murmured, and Vanessa nodded. “But she does want to meet you eventually.”
And—
“Hello.”
“Gah!” Vanessa whirled at the low voice in her ear and jumped at the sight of Tristan Eccleston up close, looming over her. Photographing actors was one thing, but walking amongst them suddenly felt like being the only human in a crowd of absurdly tall gods with perfect hair and flawlessly angled noses. And this particular one was peering down at her with polite interest.
Tristan straightened, a bit startled, and looked at Jax.
“Are we . . . allowed to talk to her?”
“Oh my God, you weirdo,” Jax replied, trying not to laugh too hard. He turned to Vanessa and shook his head. “Don’t be fooled. You take away that accent, and what’s left is a massive nerd with too big a vocabulary.”
Vanessa elbowed Jax gently in his middle, but Tristan rolled his eyes with a smile and leaned in.
“He’s only saying that because he didn’t know what saturnine meant, and they had to change the script. And I was only asking because I’ve been to a show like that before. Octavia Schopfen did a performance piece at the Tate last year where she wouldn’t talk to anyone, and it was very confusing.” His nose crumpled into an adorable wrinkle that left her blinking in silence.
Jax scoffed, but he was still smiling.
“Vanessa, this is Tristan, Tristan, Vanessa.”
“Lovely to meet you. So here is your life’s work, so fascinating,” said Tristan in his famously plummy voice. It was kind of hypnotic to listen to him instead of photographing him from a safe distance. As he was speaking, he reached out to pluck an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray and smiled apologetically at the catering waitress, who turned bright pink and gaped before stumbling off into the crowd.
“Switch off the charm offensive before you melt everyone’s brains around here,” said Jax fondly, putting an arm around Vanessa.
“What!” cried Tristan, sounding wounded. “I can’t help if Americans all go weak in the knees the moment they hear someone speak properly.” He turned his large tragic blue eyes on Vanessa. “I would apologize for him, but he is terribly proud of you.”
She and Jax steered toward the center of the room to a wall-sized close-up of a cracked and peeling Eames lounger in her father’s workshop. Jax clapped his hand on the shoulder of a tall man with a sculpted shock of white hair who practically had his nose to the print.
“Knute, how are you?” he said, and gestured to Vanessa. “The artist is in.”
Knute Forsythe removed pince-nez glasses from his nose to give Vanessa a thorough look and shake her hand. Just as quickly, he turned back to stare at the photograph, as if he could glean more from it now, having seen her face.
She caught Jax’s eye for a significant look. Knute Forsythe at her gallery opening, and by Jax’s hand, no less. Apparently the audition had gone well, and judging by the way he was innocently tilting his head at her, he was holding on to something important but didn’t want to ru
in her moment.
“This must be a bit different than what you’re used to,” she said to Forsythe. “Cinematography is so sweeping, I mean.”
“Do you think so?” He folded his hands behind his back and gave her another long look. “You have a fascinating aesthetic,” the Danish director told her. “An interest in the texture of light that is not often seen nowadays.”
Eventually Vanessa and Jax made their way around the entire gallery, and she told him the story behind each photograph. They talked about Greece, ate skewered pot stickers with Claudia before she took a car home to rest, and sipped wine while Vanessa told him how her father had introduced her to photography.
As the evening wound down, Knute Forsythe himself bought three of her photographs—one of them a boy looking at the moon as he jumped over a puddle in a huge tire rut in a dirt road.
“We’re working together,” Jax told her, nodding at Knute. The two of them were sitting on a bench, the side of her thigh humming from being pressed warmly into his. He said it calmly, but there was something around his eyes that gave away excitement.
“On?”
“He’s making a movie about a school teacher who becomes convinced that the moon is going to crash into the Earth.” Jax actually dropped into a whisper. “And he’s cast me in the lead role.”
Vanessa felt her eyes go huge; Jax looked gratified.
“That’s great,” she breathed. “You must be excited to have something so. . . .”
“Different,” said Jax.
“Serious,” said Vanessa. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Jax folded his hands together and looked across the emptied gallery with quiet contentment, nodding.
“I think I’m going to like it.”
“Not having to climb into the exoskeleton?”
“Not every day, at least,” he agreed. “Dirk Masterson and I are inseparable,” Jax said. “I wouldn’t abandon him. But I want to be my own person, too.”
“He does manage to go through some serious character development,” said Vanessa thoughtfully. “Going from an arrogant rich guy to a team player and world protector is a big step.”