Excessive - The Complete Series Box Set (A Single Dad Romance (X Series #1)

by Claire Adams

  Chapter Eleven

  The Backslide

  Emma

  It’s been three weeks since Damian broke up with me, and as funny as it might sound, I’m still not sure where I stand with him.

  The breakup itself was a clear enough signal, but let’s just say there have been a few peculiarities to the situation that have kept the question alive.

  “Good morning,” Damian says, and gives me a kiss on the forehead.

  Yeah, like him being naked in my bed after spending the night.

  “You know,” I tell him, “one of these days, you’re going to have to make an honest woman out of me.”

  “I think it might be a little soon to talk about marriage,” he says.

  “I’m not talking about marriage. I’m just saying that we’re technically still broken up,” I tell him. “Really, I don’t think I’m so much a dishonest woman as I am a confused woman.”

  I reach under the covers and slide my hand down his body, between his legs.

  “See?” I ask. “This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen with exes, so are we fuck buddies, are we in a relationship, what?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “You know,” I tell him. “I could be pretty pissed off that you broke up with me.”

  “I didn’t break up with you,” he says. “Wait—yeah, I did. I really need that coffee.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “you do.”

  He’s still looking at me, though.

  “You don’t expect me to make it for you, do you?” I ask.

  “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he says.

  “So, what,” I laugh, “every time you want me to do something, you’re not going to bother asking, you’re just going to give me the puppy dog eyes?”

  “If it works,” he says. “If not, I’ve got backup plans.”

  “Get your own coffee,” I tell him, and throw the covers over my head.

  He’s still not moving.

  I don’t really care whether or not he has coffee, but having been presented with the expectation of hot coffee in a pot, I’m starting to crave a cup myself.

  I pull the covers back down and he’s just lying there, staring at me.

  “What?” I ask. “I already told you I’m not making you coffee right now.”

  “I just think you’re pretty, that’s all,” he says.

  Pretty’s not a bad thing to be called, but it is a strange option considering all the alternatives.

  “Thanks?” I ask.

  “Seriously,” he says. “You could be a movie star or something.”

  “You haven’t seen Battle for the Nexus, have you?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I can’t say that I have,” he answers.

  “I played Morgan Salazar, the sexy former Marine commander who succumbs to greed, lust for power, and the sheer temptations that come with wearing silk overcoats with nothing recognizable as a top underneath,” I tell him. “If that didn’t make me a movie star, I don’t know what possibly could.”

  “It actually wasn’t that bad,” he says.

  I turn my head to look at him.

  “You actually saw that?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he chuckles. “I’ve seen all your movies.”

  “I’m sorry,” I answer. “I don’t know why that’s my go-to response when someone tells me they’ve seen all my movies.”

  “Yeah, that’s a bit of a strange one,” he says. “Anyway, I really liked that speech you gave when you went from being Morgan Salazar to the Mistress of Temptation. It was very moving.”

  “Yeah, I remember that scene. I believe I was talking to a group of half-man, half-assorted-sea-creatures at the time,” I tell him. “How inspiring could that possibly have been for you?”

  “It was pretty good,” he says. “Solid inflection, didn’t overact on the more dramatic lines. I was really impressed.”

  “Why would you even watch a movie like that?” I ask. “I haven’t even seen the completed version, and I was at the premiere. Of course, the premiere was held at a Bennigan’s off of I-5, and I spent most of my time hiding out in the bathroom.”

  “You’re really that ashamed of your films?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think I was at the time, but now that I’m starting to claw my way out of the absurdity of the low-budget scene, it doesn’t really seem that bad. They were terrible movies, but they got me here.”

  “That’s what led you to my bed, huh?” he asks.

  “No,” I tell him, and give him a playful punch in the chest. “That’s what led me to the world of legitimate film.”

  “Where’s that?” Damian asks. “From what I’ve seen, legitimate films are like static on a radio: they’re always there, but nobody’s quite sure where they come from.”

  “You tried really hard there, didn’t you?” I ask, and in a mocking voice, I add, “‘Legitimate films are like static, myeh.”

  He opens his palms and looks up to the ceiling, saying, “She wonders why I broke up with her. Can you believe it?”

  “Oh, fuck off and make me some coffee, will you?” I ask.

  “Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a better idea.”

  He smiles at me and turns his body toward me. I look into his eyes and say, “That’s your hand on my tit.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “It seems like a better idea than coffee to me.”

  “Your hand on my tit?” I ask.

  “Why do you call them that?” he asks. “I thought most women hated that term?”

  “What’s the difference?” I ask. “Am I talking about different things when I call it a boob instead of a breast or a tit instead of a mammary or a love pillow instead of a quivering alabaster orb?”

  “Dude,” he says, “you just blew my mind.”

  “Dude?” I ask. “So, are you going to just keep your hand there awhile or—”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Yeah?” I ask. “You’re just going to leave it sitting there motionless like a dried-up octopus with three limbs missing?”

  “That paints a bit of a picture,” he says, “but I was thinking about starting with the hand on your alabaster orb and maybe, you know, seeing where things go from there.”

  “Are you starting to think that maybe we should just stop talking?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he answers, and he leans over me to kiss my lips.

  With one arm under my pillow and his other hand massaging my “tit,” Damian kisses my mouth and my jaw on his way to nibble on my ear.

  His hand moves from my breast down between my legs and he parts my legs with his fingers, his hand moving over my core. I’m running my hands down his back as he gets me so wet, his fingers soft, but commanding.

  I move my hands across his body and in between his legs to find him already hard and throbbing in my hand, and as I tug softly, he moves one, then two, fingers inside me.

  My body’s churning with lust, and I’m not going to lie, a bit of confusion. This beautiful man massaging my G-spot still hasn’t reversed the breakup.

  In practical terms, that doesn’t mean much, but it’s a level of uncertainty that I’d just as soon do without.

  “What are we, Damian?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” he asks before kissing my breasts.

  I’m a bit distracted at the moment, and I don’t really feel like explaining. “What are we?” I repeat.

  He looks up at me, his fingers still inside, but still now. “You’re really into the labels, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “It’s not so much that I care for labels,” I tell him. “I just want to know if this is going to end any day now, or if you’re looking to make it a more permanent thing.”

  “Can’t we just,” he says and his fingers are moving again, “enjoy each other and worry about the rest of it later?”

  I can certainly think of better times to have this conversation, but it’s getting in the
way of my “enjoyment,” so I persist. “Someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, what do I say?” I ask. “I think we can make it that simple.”

  “It’s not really my place to answer that question for you,” he says.

  “Clumsy,” I tell him. “If someone asks you if you have a girlfriend, what do you say?” I ask.

  His fingers stop again and he slides them out of me. “Nobody’s really asked,” he says.

  “Hey, Damian, do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Now that was clumsy,” he says.

  “If you don’t want to be in a relationship,” I tell him, “that’s fine. Really, I’m enjoying myself and if sex is all we’re going to have, I’m okay with that. But it would be good to know where I stand, or at least a general idea.”

  He sighs and rolls onto his back.

  “It’s complicated,” he says.

  “Why’s it complicated?” I ask. “It’s a pretty simple question.”

  “It’s not just about what I want,” he says. “It’s about whether or not my life is currently suited to accommodate a serious relationship.”

  “You’ve had a little time to think about it, though,” I tell him. “Seriously, there’s no wrong answer here.”

  Who am I kidding? Of course there’s a wrong answer.

  “Danna has relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis,” he says. “I’ve been taking care of her for the last few years, even before she moved in and she just had an episode. Apart from my professional concerns, like finding a temporary agent that’s not going to screw me over and trying to keep my mind in the moment at work rather than worrying about her, she’s my sister and she’s not doing so well. I think that has to come first, doesn’t it?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “That should definitely come first. But does taking care of her mean that you can’t have a life of your own, too? I’m not trying to take you away from her at all. I’m just asking where you see me in your life.”

  I’m starting to feel like I’m nagging him, and I don’t like that feeling.

  Maybe it would be simpler if I just shut up and went with it. Sooner or later, it’ll be clear exactly what we’re doing, and in the meantime, I am enjoying myself.

  Still, I wouldn’t be this persistent—it wouldn’t even be this strong on my mind if I weren’t already emotionally involved to the point where I really do need an answer if we’re going to keep going.

  Maybe it would just be simpler if we just called the whole thing off.

  “I’m going to go make some coffee,” he says.

  “All right,” I tell him. “Make a full pot, will you?”

  “Always do,” he says.

  That seems a bit wasteful.

  He’s out of bed and out of the room.

  Well, that didn’t go the way I hoped it would.

  I know what I’m doing right now. I’m pushing a wedge between us because I’m freaked out about actually getting close to him.

  I think I would have been happy if he’d said we’re in a relationship, but with the uncertainty having gone on for weeks now, if he’s going to keep hedging his bets, I’m going to keep pushing him away.

  That’s only fair, I think.

  I get up and cocoon myself in my bathrobe. Damian is in the kitchen pouring water into the coffeemaker, and for a moment, it almost looks like a traditional, domestic scene.

  I shudder.

  “What are you doing today?” I ask.

  “I’m working,” he says. “What are you doing today?”

  “I’ve only got a couple of scenes today, so I’ve got a radio interview scheduled for later,” I tell him.

  “Fun,” he says. “Fuck it up.”

  “Why would you think I would I fuck it up?” I ask, ready to turn a bit of tension into a full-blown argument.

  “Whoa,” he says, turning around with his hands up. “It’s the same thing as telling someone to break a leg before they go onstage. I forgot that I haven’t said that to you before.”

  He’s suitably penitent that I let it go.

  I actually kind of like that, telling a person to fuck it up before they have some kind of performance to give, and make no mistake: radio interviews are performances.

  “All right,” I tell him. “You’re forgiven—but watch it.”

  “All right,” he says, laughing, “all right.”

  Things aren’t perfect. His mind is elsewhere a lot of the time, though his reasoning for that is sound enough. I don’t know if we’re friends or fuck buddies or lovers or on our way to a big wedding one day, but all in all, I’m happy with the way things are, and so I ask, “How’s the coffee coming?”

  * * *

  On the set, I’m starting to notice something odd.

  When I come around a corner or out of a room, everyone seems to be staring at me, and as much as I’d love to chalk it up to the world-class performances I’ve been giving, day after day, almost without rest and yet always with perfect poise and all that, but I’m not that ego-blinded.

  Despite the increase in attention, nobody’s coming up to me or talking to me. They’re just staring.

  Staring.

  I manage to ignore it long enough to go through most of the day—wardrobe, hair, and makeup followed by the scene where my character finds Damian’s character cooking naked in her kitchen with the exception of a single oven mitt. He actually did the scene totally nude even though they’re never going to show anything between his knees and his navel in the final cut of the film, bless him—before someone finally walks up to me, and as soon as she opens her mouth, I know what’s been going on all day.

  “So, I don’t mean to pry or anything, but you just seem really nice and I don’t like knowing that something’s going on when it’s about you and you don’t know…” Tammy from wardrobe asks.

  Yeah, she kind of trails off and doesn’t actually come to a single clear point, but judging by how uncomfortable she is talking to me, I’d say there’s really only one possible explanation, and she gives it.

  “There’s a rumor,” she says. “It’s about you and, uh,” she looks around and then leans in close, “it’s about you and Damian,” she says.

  “Really?” I ask, not sure whether to play it like I’m surprised or like I don’t have time for idle rumors, and so am using the word and its inflection in order to chastise her for paying mind to such childish games, so I end up about somewhere in the middle, and even I’m confused.

  “Yeah,” she says. “They’re saying that the two of you have been arriving to work at the same time even though you’re driving in two separate cars. They say that’s because you’re spending the night together and, um,” she leans in close again, whispering, “They say that the two of you are having sex.”

  I may be a little frustrated and more than a bit confused, but I know better than to confirm an on-set rumor about Damian and me. Even with Damian’s unwillingness to come to a decision aside, I’m not going to say anything.

  I’d really rather not start looking like the chick that’s only here because she’s getting nailed by the lead.

  “They say we’re having sex?” I ask.

  “I thought you should know,” she says.

  “If Damian and I arrive at the same time every once in a while, which, for the record, I don’t know that we do,” I tell her, “it’s because we’re both supposed to show up at the same time. I’ve shown up at the same time as you and we’re not having a torrid love affair, are we, Tammy?”

  “Well, no…” she starts.

  “So why is it that when you and I show up at the same time, it’s a coincidence, and yet when Damian and I show up at the same time, it’s got to be sex?” I ask.

  That should do it.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t create the rumor. I just thought you should know what was being passed around and everything.”

  “And I appreciate that,” I tell her, and take her by the arm. “Now, why don’t we both go to work and focus on thing
s that actually have some bearing in reality? You know,” I tell her, “like acting.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Thank you, and again, I’m sorry.”

  She thanked me. That was weird.

  “All right, you have a good day, Tammy,” I tell her, and release her arm.

  She says something back that I couldn’t possibly care to hear, and I walk away.

  I’m glad I got that nipped in the bud.

  If there was going to be one big moment where Damian and I faced exposure, that was it, and I actually got her to thank me and apologize for even bringing it up.

  Yeah, I’m good.

  I’m in my trailer waiting for my next scene when Mick, one of the assistants to the director, knocks and lets himself in without waiting for me to answer.

  Mick has boundary issues.

  “Hey,” he says. “Dutch wanted me to let you know that Jones is running long on his scene and they don’t think they’re going to be able to get to you, so you can go home or whatever.”

  Mick, along with having boundary issues, is a moron.

  “Thanks, Mick,” I answer. “I’ll see myself out then.”

  “It’s just for today,” he says. “I’m sure Dutch will do your scene tomorrow.”

  “I’m not worried about it, Mi—”

  “—or another scene,” he interrupts. “You know, I know sometimes they like to shoot scenes for a movie out of order and I didn’t want you to be concerned if the scene you did tomorrow was the one you were supposed to do today.”

  I just look at him.

  Someone pays this man money to do things. It’s incredible.

  “Thanks, Mick,” I tell him. “You’ve put my mind at ease. I think I’ll be able to muddle through without undergoing too much psychological damage.”

  One more thing about Mick is that he doesn’t understand sarcasm.

  “Well, I certainly hope not,” he says. “Do you think that’s a possibility? I’m sure we could talk to Dutch and he could—”