by Roxy Reid
I catch his face between my hands, then kiss him, my hair falling in a dark curtain around us. “You’re so beautiful,” I murmur.
“Me?” Joshua asks, his voice strained. “I am not the beautiful one in this relationship.”
Relationship. He doesn’t even realize he’s said it, but the reality of it blooms around me. We do have a relationship. It’s strange and fragile and temporary, but it’s ours. And for this one night, it doesn’t feel fragile at all.
I pick up the pace, riding him hard.
He’s frowning at the ceiling again.
I swat his arm.
“Joshua. What if what I need is for you to lose control? Ever think of that?”
“It… can’t be that simple. No,” Joshua shakes his head. “You’re saying that now. But when I screw it up—”
“I’ll think God, that man is beautiful when I’m making him come,” I rock into him, and he shudders. “Come on, Joshua,” I say. “Don’t leave me out here all alone. Be with me. Right here. Right now.” I catch his hand and kiss it. Like he’s always doing for me when we’re in front of the cameras, and he’s trying to tell me it will all be ok.
Joshua looks at his hand in mine. “That’s really what you need?” he asks, like he’s expecting there to be a trick.
“Yes,” I say.
“Okay. Okay then,” he catches my face in his hands, peering deep into my eyes, as if to convince himself it’s really what I want. “Here goes nothing.”
And then he finds my lips and lets himself go.
It’s messy at first – our hips bump, our rhythms clash, but his hands are tight, bruising my hips as he holds me where he needs me, and when we figure out how to dance together, it’s all the more exhilarating.
His face is a symphony: lust, tenderness, humor, heat. And all of it so very Joshua. When he lunges for another kiss it shifts our angle, and suddenly I’m gasping for breath, clutching him from pleasure, coming and coming and coming. Then he’s burying his head in my shoulder, biting my neck as something powerful sweeps through him too.
A breeze blows through the hotel room as our hearts slow together.
Joshua runs a gentle thumb over the place he bit, “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t leave a mark.”
“Liar. You absolutely want to leave a mark,” I joke.
The truth is, I’m shaken. That was… better than I thought it would be. Much better.
I climb off Joshua, feeling suddenly shy, and start to turn the clock back so he can see it.
Joshua covers my hand with his, “Don’t.”
“But we should check what time it is. You still need to do your nightly check-in with Darian, in case there’s anything time sensitive. And neither of us have checked our email in hours–”
“Fuck all that,” Joshua turns to get rid of the condom, and turn off the lights.
When he climbs back into bed, he wraps his arm around my waist, cuddling me to him. I feel every inch of my body relax as I breath him in.
“Who are you, and what happened to Joshua King?” I ask.
“He lost control,” Joshua says, and starts kissing me again.
14
Joshua
I’m dead asleep, but my phone’s going off. I reach to turn off the alarm, but it’s not on my bedside table. It’s in my pants, on the ground. And it’s not my alarm. Someone’s calling me at … I check the clock.
3:07 in the morning.
Normally, I’d treat that as an emergency. But Sienna is sound asleep in bed next to me, her head resting on my chest, and I can’t think of a single thing worth leaving this bed for.
I trail my fingers through her hair, and she makes a sound and nestles closer in to me.
I still can’t believe she picked me. I mean, I know women like me for flings. And every now and then someone’s interested in a relationship until one of us realizes that it’s never going to work. But for something real? No one thinks I’m a good bet. Not even me.
I’d think this was just sex, but sex is never just sex the first time.
And she waited until she was 26, so… this has to matter to her, right?
And if it does, then maybe … I matter.
I peek down at her. The room is dark, but there’s just enough moonlight to see that she’s smiling in her sleep. Naked except for my ring.
I relax as a slow, hopeful certainty spreads through me. I matter to Sienna Bridges.
My phone rings, and I groan. It’s not Poppy, she’s with Brittney this week, and she never calls when she’s with her mom.
Unless something’s wrong. With her, or Brittney. And I’m hours away, unable to help. Visions of Poppy in a hospital bed have me out of bed in a flash and fumbling for the phone.
It’s Darian, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Until I see he’s called 48 times in the last half hour.
I look back at Sienna, sleeping in a cloud of white sheets and moonlight. And I am so, so tempted to toss my phone and crawl back in with her.
But Darian would never call me this late unless something’s really wrong. And he definitely wouldn’t call me this many times in a row. I put on my pants, and go out on the balcony to call him back.
He answers on the first ring.
“Darian, what’s wrong…”
“We’re going to lose the script.”
I nearly drop the phone. “What?” I bark.
The serenity of the ocean below seems to be mocking me.
“Marilyn Cohen is getting nervous because the buy was anonymous. And she’s worried we’re going to ruin it, so she’s returning our money and selling it to an old friend she trusts. I was going to tell them who you were, but then I thought, what if I tell, and we lose Elinor Swift? And we’ve already invited all the reporters to the launch party, and I’ve given the rest of the leads their signing bonuses… Josh, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do.”
“She can’t take back the script,” I say. “Can she?”
“Legally? No. But do you really want to start our company by taking Abe Cohen’s grieving widow to court?”
I slump against the balcony railing. He’s right. The easiest thing in the world to boycott is a movie. I don’t even want to think about what a court battle would do to our shooting schedule.
I play out all the scenarios in my head.
Finally, I say, “Tell her the truth.” Elinor Swift can make or break a movie, but she can’t generate Oscar-worthy scripts from thin air in two months.
Darian hangs up, and I know he’s already making the call.
I stay on the balcony, my heart in my throat, waiting for Darian to call back and tell me that it worked. Or tell me that my fear of public criticism and wanting everything to be perfect has cost me my dream.
The surf pounds, and the night wind chills my skin. I’m thinking of going back in for a shirt, when my phone rings.
“Did it work?” I ask Darian.
“I couldn’t get through. It’s the lawyer’s phone number I have, not Marilyn’s. And apparently he’s blocked my number, since I called him even more times than I called you.”
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I kick the balcony rail.
This can’t be how it ends. Years of planning and investing, all up in flames because I picked tonight to let go.
I try to think if I know anyone who knows Marilyn Cohen.
Hell, anyone who knows the lawyer.
“Who’s the lawyer?” I ask.
“Bill Davis. I guess he normally does music contracts, but he’s a friend of the Cohen family–”
“Music,” that’s why the name sounds familiar. I think Brittney knows him. “I’ve got an idea,” I tell Darian. “Don’t pull the plug on any of the production company stuff yet. And for God’s sake, get Elinor Swift to sign the damn contract.”
I hang up and call Brittney, but she’s not picking up. I try three more times, but I don’t really expect an answer. The woman sleeps like a log. And since Poppy’s with her, she doesn’t have the fear of God to
wake her up.
Luckily, I have a key to Brittney’s house and nothing to lose. I shove my phone into my pocket, and go inside to grab my shirt and shoes.
Sienna shifts in her sleep.
Shit. I didn’t think about Sienna. I’m her ride back to L.A.
She trusts me enough to have sex for the first time (and ok, the second and the third), and I repay her by dragging her out of bed in the middle night and shoving her into a car with no explanation, or time to do something as basic as take a shower.
No. It’s out of the question.
I’ll call her a car to take her back to L.A. when she wakes up. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.
I jot a quick note on the hotel stationary, and leave it on her bedside stand.
Hell. I don’t want to leave her. She’s sweet and peaceful in her sleep, and when I move a strand of hair off of her face, she nestles into my hand.
I fight off a horrible feeling that I’m choosing between Sienna and my career. But that’s ridiculous. Sienna’s one of the only people in the world who knows what this production company means to me. She’ll understand.
I kiss her forehead, lingering to breathe in her sweet scent, because at some point in the last few weeks it’s become the scent that calms me and makes me feel like it’s all going to be ok.
I gently take my hand back, and she stirs, blinking up at me sleepily.
“What’s going on? Why are you dressed?”
“Shhh. Something came up. I have to get back to L.A. It’s an emergency.”
“Is Poppy ok?”
“Work emergency. Poppy’s fine. But I have to go,” I stroke her hair. “Go back to sleep. I’ll have a car come pick you up.”
She shakes her head, and for a wonderful second I think that despite the early hour, she wants to come with me.
But what she says is, “I’ll just take a Lyft.”
“From out here? That’s over a hundred dollars. Let me…”
But she’s already rolling away, giving me her back. Her breathing deepens, and I realize she’s asleep again.
I sigh, and dig in my wallet. Luckily, I have cash. I leave three hundred on the bedside table, and add “for the Lyft” to my note. I think a little more and add “also breakfast.”
Ok, now I’m just stalling.
I stand, and leave the hotel room without looking back.
If I let myself look back, I don’t know if I’ll ever leave.
15
Sienna
When I wake up Joshua is gone. I’m alone in a hotel room and there’s a wad of bills on the bedside table.
It comes back to me quickly – the best night of my life, Josh leaving in the middle of the night, something about a work emergency. I notice his note, and see that the money is for a Lyft to get me back to L.A.
But it doesn’t come back quite quickly enough to replace the feeling of being used.
Sex had. Joshua gone. Money on the table.
I throw back the covers and get out of bed.
I know he’s not like that. At least I tell myself he’s not like that, as I shower, and get dressed in yesterday’s rumpled, sandy clothes.
It’s just that Joshua lives in a different world than me. One where he gets business calls in the middle of the night. One where his professional dreams are so big, they’re worth rushing off in the middle of the night for. One where three hundred dollars is pocket change. One where he always needs to be in control.
For some reason, that makes me feel worse.
I slip on my shoes, grab my purse, and turn to look back at the hotel room.
Last night, with Josh, this room felt magical. A little oasis away from our real lives. Where I could pretend I was his equal. Where I could pretend that maybe this thing between us, whatever it is, could be more than a lie born out of bad timing and mutual business interests.
Today, it just looks like an anonymous hotel room. The money sits on the table. Where, realistically, money has probably sat before.
Of course this thing with me and Joshua wasn’t - isn’t - going to last. I know that. I’m not stupid. But I thought I’d get a few weeks before the universe started throwing signs at us. Maybe a few days. At the very least, breakfast.
Whatever. I don’t need him. I turn to go, head held high.
Then I think better of it. There’s no one to see my pride. And it won’t mean anything to him.
I go back to the bedside table, and take the note, with his beautiful, sloppy, barely legible handwriting. I fold it carefully and tuck it into my purse.
It’s not a love letter. But knowing Joshua, it’s the closest I’m going to get.
I leave the cash as a tip for housekeeping and head out to find my way home.
It turns out there’s a car rental place a ten minute walk from the hotel, which is a minor miracle. I’m farther from the city than I realized, and I just don’t feel like sitting awkwardly in the back of someone’s car right now. Driving along the highway while belting along to the radio seems more my speed.
I’ve got that good hollowed out feeling you get after almost an hour of singing, when I spot an old-school diner just outside the city and pull over.
I’m already feeling better than I did when I woke up. Obviously I overreacted to the cash on the bedside table. Joshua was just trying to cover the cost since his work emergency left me without a ride. It’s not a sign from the universe telling me I’m dating hopelessly above my league. It’s a sign that I’m dating a thoughtful man.
Not that we’re dating. Are we dating? I’m going with him to an event later this week, but that’s a fake date for the press. Although now that we’re … whatever we are … I can’t see how it will be that different than a real date.
Is it just that we both mean it when we kiss now?
Because I’m realizing that I meant it before. I absolutely meant it.
I park and head into the diner. Everything is retro mint green and pale pink, and I feel vaguely like I’ve seen it in a music video. I slide into a booth and pull the menu out from behind the napkin dispenser.
As I look at the dozens of ways I can order eggs and the one way I can order vegetables, I suddenly realize how hungry I am.
Well. I did work out last night. Although Joshua did most of the working. The things that man can do with his mouth. Also his hands. Also his dick.
I hide my smug smile behind the menu.
I’m deciding whether or not I need hash browns or pancakes with my eggs and bacon when my waitress shows up. She’s older than God, with a faded vintage t-shirt, a precisely placed notepad in her apron pocket, and a look that says she expects me to know what I want, or else.
I panic order everything, plus the coffee.
She jots it down on her notepad, then squints at me over her glasses, “Are you an actress?”
“No,” I say, confused. In two years of living in L.A., the number of times I have been mistaken for an actress is exactly zero.
“Hmm,” she says. “I know you from somewhere.”
She disappears before I can explain that I’ve never been to this diner before, so I shrug and pull out my phone to answer work emails for a while.
Five minutes later my waitress slams a cup of coffee down in front of me, “I know who you are. You’re Joshua King’s fiancée.”
“Oh. Um,” belatedly, I remember I should probably say yes, so, “That’s me.”
She gives me a pitying look, “Well, don’t give those gossip sites any mind. I’m sure he loves you.”
“...Ok,” I say, wondering when I’ll get my pancakes.
“He’s one of those old fashioned types that marriage really matters to. I can tell. Otherwise he would’ve gotten married a half dozen times already, like everyone else in this town.”
Ha. If only she knew. But I smile and say thank you.
“Just stay off of that horrible Hollywood Scoop site, and you two will be fine,” she says. A bell dings from the kitchen. “Oh look,
your order’s up.”
She goes to get my food, and I finish tapping out of my email. Then, purely out of curiosity, I pull up Hollywood Scoop. I’ve been avoiding the blurbs about Joshua and I, but my waitress made it sound like Joshua and I are a full story or something…
But it’s not about us at all. At least, not about me. There’s a zoomed in photo of Joshua at an outdoor cafe with Brittney, and the heading, “Joshua King Cheating on Fiancée With First Love Brittney Archer?”
I roll my eyes. They’re definitely trying to make something out of nothing. I like that he and Brittney are close. It’s what makes both of them such good parents to Poppy. And it’s how I know Joshua is going to still treat me like an actual person worthy of respect when we eventually end this thing between us.
I’m scrolling through the photos, trying to figure out what restaurant they’re at so I can give Joshua crap about it later, when my waitress returns with my food.
“Oh, honey. I told you not to look at it.”
“It’s fine, I trust him,” I smile at the photo sequence of Joshua noticing the camera, scowling, and abruptly trying to hide both himself and Brittney behind a giant opened newspaper.
Who says print journalism is dead?
Curiosity sated, I set my phone aside and dig into my blueberry pancakes, which taste like heaven. I settle into the booth, content to carbo-load and people watch.
There’s a pretty cute kid across the diner applying whip cream to her eggs. Clearly not as smart as Poppy, I think. In the corner, a middle-aged couple quietly tease each other. At a table near me an old man finishes eating his single egg, asks for more coffee, and unfolds his newspaper. It’s easy to imagine him coming here every day, and I smile.
Until my eyes snag on the paper itself. The headlines look oddly familiar, but it’s definitely today’s paper …
Dread creeps into my stomach as I realize where I think I’ve seen that paper before.
But that’s impossible. Joshua said he had a business thing. And it’s barely ten. How bad of an emergency could it have been if he has time to meet Brittney for breakfast?