Rush (Trojan Book 4)

by S. M. West

  When he offered his hand for a shake, all the while holding my gaze, I was like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m Eli Lansing.”

  Still and frightened in an ‘Oh my God, this can’t be happening’ kind of way, I stared at his hand—the very one that did deliciously naughty things to my body—without uttering so much as a peep.

  At his touch, raw electricity zinged through me. His grip was warm and strong. Sensations tingled, spreading to my nether regions. Yup, he has a dangerous effect on me.

  My PA says something about Bryce, and I snap out of my Eli-induced mental paralysis.

  “Lydia, wait. I need a minute.” My hands rise to my flushed cheeks, and I focus on my breathing, trying to bring my vital signs down to a normal range.

  It’s like my mind and body have crashed, and I can’t seem to get control of myself. I’m in no frame of mind to meet Bryce Carmichael.

  It’s more about his brother, Ross, and his evil wife than anything else. I need to make a good impression, make Ross regret all he’s done, and ultimately, keep this job. Truthfully, I’m surprised Whitney didn’t meddle with this opportunity.

  “What do you need a minute for? Like the restroom or something?” She’s short with me, and I wonder if I could get another PA.

  I’m neither high-maintenance nor bitchy, so what’s her problem?

  “Yes, that would be good. Am I meeting Bryce now?”

  “Not quite yet, but soon. I’ll take you to a room where you’ll wait for him. He’s still on set.”

  Down another walkway, we enter a building, and I’m completely lost. Despite how snappish Lydia is, I need her. I’d never be able to get out of here on my own.

  The restroom is exactly what I need, and as my fingers comb my hair, I focus on centering myself. Then I follow Lydia past a doorway that leads to what could be the set.

  They aren’t filming, but people are moving about, and in the middle of it all, Sonia Crowley listens intently to a man standing in front of her. Even from this distance, I can see her photos don’t do her justice. She’s the next Penélope Cruz or Salma Hayek. Beautiful in a quiet yet commanding way.

  Sonia’s dark hair is pulled back into a tight, almost severe bun, much like a ballerina’s, and she’s wearing what looks to be riding gear. Camel-colored jodhpurs, knee-high riding boots, a crisp white, long-sleeved button-down, and leather gloves.

  The man she’s talking to—or more like, he’s instructing her—looks familiar. He must be Bryce. The resemblance to Ross is obvious.

  Lydia makes a clucking sound, and when I look at her, she greets me with an icy stare. “Let’s go.”

  She deposits me in an office, furnished with a large desk, sleek leather chairs, and a circular table for four, and leaves. I wait not so patiently for Bryce.

  I’m still in shock about Eli and how this day is unfolding. For something to do and well, because I’m dying to tell her, I pull out my phone and text Harley.

  Me: You’re never going to guess who I just met

  Three little dots appear the second I hit send, and she replies.

  Harley: Who?

  Me: Eli Lansing!

  We’re both huge Trojan fans, having seen them in concert more than once.

  Harley: What? No way! Where? Aren’t you supposed to be working?

  Me: I am. Eli’s one of the actors.

  I could tell her about Tristan Kingsley, since he’s a bigger name if we’re talking Hollywood but, duh, Trojan. And I haven’t even mentioned the real kicker.

  Harley: OMG! You’re going to be working with him? I hate you. Sooo jealous!

  Me: Yeah and there’s more.

  Harley: What? Who else are you working with?

  The chickenshit that I am, I give her the other hottie to drool over. Why? As a distraction? Or to let me off the hook about all things Eli?

  Me: Tristan Kingsley

  Harley: Seriously? Dying!

  Me: Yes. Everywhere I turn, there’s a hot guy.

  Now that’s mean, and I can also hear her curse me. My stomach growls. It’s a little after noon and I’m getting hungry.

  Harley: Suck on that, Ross! Look at you, bet you’re having the time of your life.

  Me: Ha! Not really. There’s one more thing.

  Harley: Shit, don’t tell me you’re also working with Silas Palmer, Jared Grange, and Grayson Bennett. If so, I’m ditching my next meeting and hauling ass over there.

  Laughter erupts from me at her ridiculous guess. As if the entire Trojan band would be here. Even alone, I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle my outburst, half expecting someone to step into the room and tell me to keep it down.

  Me: No. This is a movie not a rock video.

  I quickly type out another text before she can reply.

  Me: Eli’s my ONS.

  Harley: No Way!

  My thumbs ghost the keyboard, trying to think of a response when my phone vibrates. Harley.

  I don’t have a chance to even say hello when she spews, “No fucking way! Eli Lansing? Pru, why would you hold out on me?”

  She’s referring to the little I told her about that night, and the hurt in her tone pinches at my chest. “I didn’t know it was him.”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t know it was him? We’ve been fans of Trojan since day one.” Her skepticism cuts deep.

  Our undying love for one of the world’s hottest rock bands was just another one of those things we discovered we had in common.

  “Harley, I swear. He looked different. Familiar but different.” Silence lingers and my insides churn. I am a total wreck today. To lighten the mood, I lower my voice and say, “And hot as fuck.”

  She snorts. “Pru, I’ve got to say, I’m having a hard time grasping you didn’t recognize him.”

  “I know it sounds unbelievable.”

  This is where I could mention Jared was the one I most lusted after in the band, with Eli as a close second, but it’s irrelevant.

  And truth be told, I’m having a hard time coming to grips with my total blank when I saw him at The Salon. I wasn’t lying to Eli. I didn’t recognize him.

  Although something niggled at me, his familiarity—but his explanation for why I didn’t connect the dots makes sense. He was out of context in the bar.

  Besides, never in my wildest dreams would I believe my rock star fantasy would come true. Eli Lansing would take one look at me and want to jump my bones.

  But this is exactly what happened.

  He wanted me. He could have had any woman there, and he wanted me.

  My knees tremble with the realization, and Harley’s belligerence kills any further musings about Eli. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  “What? There’s nothing else.” My voice rises and I’m defensive, now on my feet and pacing. I could tell her about Whitney and I will, but that’s not what she’s talking about.

  “The two of you must have talked about The Salon. What happened?” Now she sounds more like herself, caring and concerned, and I relax.

  “We agreed not to talk about that night. To keep things professional and do our jobs.”

  “And how’s that working out?” The dry tinge to her tone is all it takes for me to let loose another pent-up chuckle. Not as loud or obnoxious as before.

  “It isn’t.” I’m frank as we both know how impossible it’s going to be. “But it’s our first meeting. It should get easier.”

  God, I hope it does.

  “Pru, I can’t…I don’t know…”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  “Do you think you can keep it professional? Do you want more with him?”

  “More?” I fidget, moving the phone to my other ear, not willing to give the question the thought it deserves.

  “Yes. Like do you think you’ll sleep with him again?”

  Just then, a tall, imposing man steps into the room. Bryce. I smile and hold up a finger.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” I end the call, sliding the phone
in hand behind my back.

  “Hello, Ms. Edwards, I’m Bryce Carmichael.” His blue eyes are intense and assessing as we shake hands.

  “Hi, please call me Pru.”

  He unabashedly trolls my body from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. It’s not a sexual, leering move, but more meant to intimidate, establish he’s the one in control. I’m familiar with the strategy as both his brother, Ross, and my mother are masters of that maneuver.

  It’s never worked on me. I don’t intimidate easily, and to ensure he gets that, I give him indifference, gazing at an abstract painting on the wall rather than giving him the attention he thinks he deserves.

  “My brother grossly underplayed your beauty, but I suppose there’s a reason for that.” He’s cryptic and I don’t like it. He knows something I don’t, and I wonder if maybe Whitney did get to him.

  “Well, he didn’t say all that much about you.” I feign boredom despite the risk of ticking him off.

  Bryce is my boss after all, and I’m certainly making an impression. I want to push about his comment but choose to let it go. No need to look for trouble.

  Tilting his head back, he barks out a laugh. “Excellent.”

  He claps his hands, and a crooked grin twists his lips. Older than Ross, he also has blond hair and blue eyes, and they look to be the same height. But that’s where the similarities end. Bryce has a roughness to him that’s absent in his brother.

  “I hear you’ve already met Tristan and Eli.” He holds out a hand, signaling for us to sit in the chairs, facing each other.

  “Yes. Eli and I had our first session, and I meet with Tristan this afternoon.” I sit, and his eyes burn a path from my heels up my legs, and up and up, until his gaze lingers on my chest.

  Now that was with interest. No, thank you.

  “Good. Good.” He stretches his long legs out in front of him and crosses his arms. “I must say you’re not what I expected.”

  “You already said that. Explain.” I cock my head to one side and arch a brow as if to say I’m waiting.

  If he’s going to beat around the bush, I’ll trample right through it. It’s hard to say if he’s playing mind games or if this is just who he is, but I’m not enjoying this.

  He chuckles. “Well…I don’t want to get into that. Let’s get down to business.”

  Fine. If that’s how he wants it, I can do that, so I nod. But if he keeps alluding to something, I will eventually push for more details.

  Bryce goes through the Spanish and Russian sections of the script. It’s broad strokes at this point, but he covers the overall feel of each scene, how he’d like me to guide the actors, and where he thinks they’ll need more coaching.

  Throughout the discussion, he makes no reference to Alina, the previous coach. It’s odd, but I’m also left with the distinct impression not to ask.

  “So tell me a little about yourself?” He settles farther into the chair, and I wonder if this meeting is the interview he never conducted but should have. Great.

  “Well, you have my résumé. What do you want to know?”

  “You speak, what is it? Five or six languages?”

  “Six.”

  “How so? I want to hear more. I’m always fascinated by beautiful women. Especially when they appear to be more accomplished than most.” He says the last bit like he’s questioning the validity of my résumé.

  “My mother’s an international banker. We lived all over the world, from Switzerland to Panama to Dubai. Languages come easily to me.”

  He rubs two fingers at the side of his nose. “I see. And you’ve never worked in film before, correct?”

  “Yes.” There isn’t much more I can say, and I only hope it doesn’t cost me this position. Although Ross made it clear his brother was the one in need.

  “Who are your favorite directors?” There’s now a smug air about him, as his eyes darken like a hunter convinced he has his prey.

  Just because I know little to nothing about the making of movies doesn’t mean I’m clueless.

  I don’t miss a beat and say, “Pedro Almodóvar, the Coen brothers, Baz Luhrmann.”

  The corners of his mouth slide down but not quite into a frown, more an expression of consideration. “What? Not me?”

  “Ah, I’ve never seen any of your movies.” I won’t lie or stroke his ego. No way.

  He widens both his eyes and mouth, slapping a hand to his heart. His attempt at mock surprise is pathetic, and I roll my eyes.

  “Okay, in all seriousness, they’re all great directors.” He leans in and lowers his voice like we’re telling secrets. “Again, Pru, you’re not what I’d expected. I would have bet you’d have said Spielberg, Scorsese, or Tarantino.”

  Frustration and a bit of my own smugness claws at my throat, as I mull over my response. But it’s so obvious. Too easy.

  “Well, good thing you aren’t a betting man.”

  Another hearty laugh, this one a little more genuine, erupts from the man across from me. He talks more about the movie, and during the conversation, I try to ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach, mixed with a touch of hunger.

  It’s hard to concentrate, as my mind keeps going back to the man I’ve had running on an endless loop in my nighttime fantasies. These eight weeks working on this movie, with Eli Lansing, are going to be torture.

  7

  Eli

  I’ve got my shit together

  “Eli, Bryce wants a word with you.” My PA sticks his head into my trailer, and I grab my phone, checking the time.

  I have a session with Pru, and she’ll be here any minute now. As if not only sensing my hesitation but why, Brian adds, “I’ll wait for Ms. Edwards and let her know you’ll be back soon.”

  “Okay.” I hustle out the door.

  This conversation could be about any number of things, but I have a sinking feeling I know what’s on the director’s mind. After the bomb that is Pru dropped into my lap, I wasn’t on my game yesterday.

  I kept flubbing my lines and missing my mark. At first, Carmichael kept his irritation in check, offering encouragement and acting as if we had all the time in the world.

  It was magnanimous of him since time is money when making a movie. And soon enough, that idiom surfaced as his thinning patience snapped. Bryce let loose curses and disparaging comments, and he wasn’t the only one upset with me.

  Both Tristan and Sonia were none too pleased if their glares were any indication, although Sonia never said a word. Tristan, at barely twenty-three, is a pro and usually laid-back, but not yesterday. After our hundredth take—okay, I’m exaggerating but I lost count—he started to kick up a fuss.

  The rumors were true. His tantrum-like behavior made an appearance, and while I wanted to be pissed because his antics took things from bad to worse, I was to blame.

  Eventually, Bryce called it and we all went home, but that scene is going to require a lot of editing. And now, I’m likely to get the reaming he never gave me last night. Everyone was eager to leave the set—or more accurately, leave me.

  While I wanted to wallow last night, I couldn’t. I had a date with Felicity, the one arranged before Pru showed up on set, and I needed to forget the hot-as-sin blonde—casual hook-ups weren’t the way to find a long-term partner.

  The date was a bust. Felicity was pretty and interesting enough, but she wasn’t Pru. Our two-hour dinner was long and excruciating, and I felt nothing, not even a stirring while we talked.

  And yet, with Pru, I come alive at the mere thought of her. Not to mention how my body reacts—haywire—when she’s in the room.

  That’s why I was a mess yesterday. I couldn’t concentrate with Pru on set. How the hell am I going to get through the next two months?

  “Hey, Bryce, you wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yeah. Shut the door.” He beckons me into his office, eyes still on some papers.

  After leaving me waiting, or more like stewing, he puts aside the document and walks around to my s
ide of the desk. He rests his backside on the edge, posture relaxed, as if we’re going to shoot the shit.

  What a joke.

  Bryce is a highly regarded director, albeit temperamental and quirky, but that’s part of his talent. And even still, he’s receptive to collaborating with me on scenes, listening to my ideas, and even including some of my suggestions.

  He’s aware of my aspirations to direct and has connected me with an indie production firm. They’re looking for a fresh face, but not necessarily an unknown, to direct their low budget film. It’s early days but this could be my first shot at directing.

  All that aside, I wasn’t called here for a chitchat. Nope. It’s nearly impossible to miss the tightness around his eyes or the way he holds back a grimace, causing tiny lines to spread from the corners of his mouth.

  “What the hell was that yesterday?” His voice is gruff, diving right into the thick of things.

  “I wasn’t focused. Sorry.” I’m owning my mistake. “I spent last night going over today’s scenes. I’m ready to go. It won’t happen again.”

  After the less than stellar date, I stayed up late running lines, partly because I couldn’t sleep and more because I didn’t want a repeat today.

  “Listen, if something isn’t working for you, tell me before we get on set.” He leans forward, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “I will.” I push to standing, ready for this conversation to be over.

  “We can’t have another shit day like yesterday. The end is close, and we’re about to tackle some of our toughest scenes. Not only on an emotional level but in other languages. I need your best.”

  “And you’ll have it.” My tone is strong and confident, but the longer we stare at each other, the more my conviction wavers.

  I fucked up yesterday, and I deserve the added scrutiny, but the thing is, he isn’t going to back off until I prove I’ve got my shit together. I know my lines, and I’m good to go, but talking about it makes me antsy.

  The pressure is on.

  This is my first misstep since we started filming. I’ve been on the mark and near flawless. Sure, I’ve needed more than one take, but I haven’t messed up my lines. Not like yesterday. I was scattered.