Action Shot

by Elise Faber

  “That’s not to say—”

  “That’s not to say a lot of things. People cheat or they don’t, and I think there are circumstances in many careers that can make it easier or harder.”

  “That’s true.”

  “The difference with us is that I hope we can make a pact to be honest with each other if this isn’t working.” Not that I thought it wouldn’t work or that I would let her go if it wasn’t—because, yeah no—but I also knew Artie needed the out. She needed to have an escape plan.

  I could give that to her.

  Even if I never intended to let her use it.

  She nodded. “We’ve always been good at talking things out.”

  “Yeah, babe,” I murmured and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “We have. Now, about our schedules. We’re both used to this life, we both know the deal. I can’t think of someone who would be a better fit to be in my life. The last person I dated couldn’t cope with the time away, and I’m not saying I enjoy not being with you, but I also know you get it.” I tugged at a strand of her hair. “And I would never do anything to undermine your career because I understand it. So, if we need more time together, we arrange our schedules to make that happen. If we can’t, we FaceTime or text or call when we can.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  I grinned. “I’m good at faking it until I make it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The most comforting words a woman can hear from a potential boyfriend.”

  “You asked and you shall receive,” I said, tugging her to her feet and slipping the script from her hands, setting it on the nightstand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I owe you a first date,” I told her. “And we’re going to miss our dinner reservations unless we leave now.”

  She glanced down at herself. “What? I’m wearing jeans and a smelly T-shirt.” Her fingers went to her hair. “And a messy bun—”

  I kissed her. “Beautiful,” I murmured. “And the place is casual.”

  “So, why are you wearing a nice shirt?” Her eyes narrowed in the direction of my button-down.

  I did up the couple of buttons she’d opened. “Because it’s more fun for you to take it off.”

  “Making me work for it?” A huff.

  “You’re the one who keeps bringing up the age difference,” I teased. “I gotta make sure my girl stays healthy.”

  Her head tilted to the side. “Your idea of my exercising is to take your clothes off?”

  “Yup.”

  That head shook, lips tilting up. “Okay,” she said. “I think I’m on board with that.”

  “Good.” I touched the tip of her nose.

  “Good. Now give me thirty seconds to make myself presentable for this date.” She coaxed me back then reached up and released her hair from the messy bun, shaking it so it fell in waves down her back. A second later, she’d slipped off her T-shirt and tossed it to the floor. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, but it would have been a lie if I’d said I didn’t let my gaze travel south to all that black lace and didn’t enjoy the view for several long moments. By then, she rummaged through her closet and extracted a silky indigo blouse. She tugged it over her head, fluffed her hair once more, and shoved her feet into flats.

  That thirty-second change might have been the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

  Not just because I’d been given a glimpse into something that was private, but also because of the confident way she’d done it. Artie was comfortable with her body and it showed in her movements, her composure, and also the fact that getting ready didn’t mean locking herself into the bathroom for an hour. Not that I would have really minded that, because that would have been her choice, but it was also nice that she didn’t feel that need.

  No extra barriers required.

  Just her and me.

  Yeah, that was pretty damned perfect.

  Nineteen

  Artie

  To my surprise, we didn’t get into Pierce’s rental and drive into the city proper.

  Instead, we walked a few blocks down the road and around the corner to a tiny pub where he held open the door and waved to the man behind the bar and called a familiar, “Hey, Liam.”

  “Pierce,” the man said. “Right through to the back.”

  “Thanks, bud.”

  Liam lifted his chin and Pierce took my hand, leading me through the pub and into a small room in the back. It was filled with tables, but they were all empty with the exception of one, which had a tiny placard that said Reserved sitting atop it.

  He pulled out my chair, settling me into it with a wink and an, “I’m doing this first date thing right,” then took his own seat.

  I opened my mouth to ask him the question that had been swirling in my mind since the hotel room, but I didn’t get a chance because a girl swept into the room and the next few minutes were spent being handed menus and ordering drinks.

  Then she left and we both spent some time looking at those menus, deciding what to order. And just as I’d started to open my mouth again to ask the question, she was back with our drinks.

  I stifled my sigh.

  Patience, young Jedi.

  Pierce waited until she set the glasses down to ask, “Would you be able to give us five minutes? My girlfriend is trying to tell me something.”

  My jaw fell open. “How did you—?”

  Breaking off with a shake of my hand, I barely heard the girl’s reply or felt her leave. My eyes were on Pierce.

  He covered my hand with his. “I know you, sweetheart.”

  I sighed, a reluctant smile on my lips. “You do,” I said. “Sometimes better than I know myself, I think.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  I lifted a brow. “Is it though?”

  He just grinned in reply and so I figured I might as well get on with what I’d been trying to tell him. “I keep bringing up the age thing?”

  His expression sobered.

  My heart sank. “Shit, I do, don’t I?” I made a disgusted noise. “Ugh, all this talk about age not mattering and me just being with a person and not giving a damn if I’m older or they are . . . and it’s all bullshit.”

  His hand covering mine twitched. “It’s not bullshit,” he said. “But I think it’s probably a good idea to think about where it comes from.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, “it comes from me being a total hypocrite.”

  “Does it though?”

  I pulled my hand back, narrowed my eyes. “I thought self-reflection is for the actors. You and I are supposed to be more transactional in our relationships.”

  “And would it make you feel better if it was transactional?”

  “Ugh!” I stood up, pacing away and then back. “No. Yes. Fuck.” I dropped my chin to my chest. “This isn’t about age at all,” I said. “It’s about me trying to erect as many barriers between us as possible.”

  “Is it?”

  “Don’t push it, Pierce.”

  He grinned, the stink.

  “Yes,” I grumbled. “It’s about barriers and staying safe and . . . I don’t like self-reflection.”

  “I think you’re good at self-reflection,” he said. “It’s what gives you your eye for film. I also think that you’ve done what we’ve all done, and that’s shut away the stuff that is too scary or painful to deal with.” He took a sip of his beer while I pondered that. “The trouble with shutting it all away, I think, is that it is going to burst free at some point.”

  I pouted. “You’re supposed to be younger and stupider.”

  He laughed. “Is that your cue telling me we’ve had enough heavy for tonight?”

  “You tell me,” I said. “You’re the one who supposedly knows me so well.”

  “You’re done.”

  I was.

  Just not nearly done with Pierce. Not by a long shot.

  After a delicious and carb-filled—the man really did know me—meal, Pierce and I strolled hand-in-hand out of the pub.r />
  It was dark and cloudy, mist hanging in the air and foreshadowing more rain in the coming days. But it wouldn’t be as tricky to deal with since our location filming was complete.

  We’d move into the studio, lock everything down, and then move onto the next project.

  For the first time ever, that thought made me sad.

  Thus was the power of Pierce.

  Because for the first time ever, I also felt hope.

  Being a weeknight, the streets were quiet and so we were the only ones on our stretch of sidewalk when he tugged me to a stop.

  “What—?”

  My back was suddenly flat against the brick wall of a building, Pierce’s body pressed into mine and his mouth slamming down. He kissed me like a man on fire, tongue darting beyond my lips, tangling with mine. His fingers of one hand gripped my jaw, angling my head so he could take my mouth at just the right angle, while the other slid down to my hip.

  I didn’t need any coaxing.

  My typical response to Pierce’s mouth reigned supreme as I lifted my legs and wrapped them tightly around his hips, climbing him like a tree and completely losing myself in the kiss, in his mouth and teeth and tongue.

  It was heat. It was desire. It was me and him.

  A light flashed behind my closed lids then another. I wasn’t sure if it was my pent-up passion or if it was a car turning onto the street. Either way, it seemed to remind us both that we were in the middle of the street.

  “Trouble,” he murmured as he drew away, sliding his palm down one leg and helping me lower it then the other to the ground.

  I smiled up at him. “That’s your middle name. You started it.”

  “Maybe.” He took my hand. “Let’s get out of this drizzle.”

  “Good plan,” I teased. “I have thoughts for how we can pass the time when we get back to my room.”

  “Reading that script?”

  “Reading something.” I shook my head. “Bad attempt at innuendo. I’ll leave those to you.”

  He squeezed my fingers. “Good idea.”

  “How about we just go back to the hotel, you give me multiple orgasms, and then we stay up late and read that script that you brought me?”

  Pierce grinned. “Sounds like the best night ever.”

  We walked back to the hotel.

  He gave me three—three!—orgasms.

  Then we stayed up into the wee hours of the night reading the script, fighting and brainstorming and talking over taking it on as our next project together.

  Staying up late is why we didn’t see the news story.

  Why we didn’t hear our cell phones.

  Why chaos was allowed to descend while we quietly slept in each other’s arms.

  Twenty

  Pierce

  My first indication that something was wrong was the pounding on the door. I blinked groggily, shifting my arm carefully to extract it from where it was trapped beneath Artie’s sleeping form.

  Shaking out the pins and needles, I walked to the door in nothing more than my underwear, not checking the peephole in an effort to get whoever was banging to shut the hell up and not wake Artie.

  That turned out to be my second mistake.

  I flicked the dead bolt to the side, yanked the door open, and then blinked at shock at what was there.

  At who was there.

  Clicking.

  It was the clicking that brought me out of my stupor, out of seeing a group of men in the hall outside the hotel room, black eyes of their cameras taking pictures of me in my underwear.

  But I didn’t react quickly enough because then I heard her.

  “Pierce. What’s—”

  “No!” I whipped around, started to close the door.

  Too late.

  “Artemis. Look here! Artemis!”

  She froze, sheet tucked around her naked body, as I slammed the door closed, not giving a damn when I heard one of the paparazzi cry out in pain after he’d stuck his foot in the doorway to prevent me from shutting it.

  I flicked the dead bolt, gathered Artie in my arms, and hustled her back to the bed, scooping up clothes as I went. Her shirt went on then her sweats. I yanked my button-down over my arms, did up the buttons, and shoved my legs into my jeans.

  And then I sat there.

  Wondering what in the fuck I should be doing at that moment.

  The knocking started up again, pounding that seemed to reverberate through my clenched teeth. I reached for the room phone and jabbed at the buttons until I got the front desk.

  “Why in the fuck are there paparazzi outside of Artemis Miller’s door?” I yelled.

  “I-I—”

  “Call security or the police. I don’t give a fuck. Get them out of here.” I slammed the receiver down, retrieved my cell from my back pocket. Forty-two missed calls. Text messages from my family, from my assistant, from the studio.

  “Fuck,” I groaned then sucked in a breath and began dialing. First to my assistant, who thankfully was already in the process of arranging for a driver and security. Next was to the publicist at the studio, who I sent on a mission to stop those pictures from hitting the press. It was illegal in the States to film in someone’s private space like they had done, and they shouldn’t be allowed to sell the pictures, but I didn’t have a whole lot of faith that the photos wouldn’t end up somewhere on the internet, considering how low they’d sunk in the first place.

  I glanced at Artie, saw she was pale and unmoving. “Hey,” I murmured. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  She blinked, blue eyes slowly focusing on me. “Hmm?”

  “We’ll figure this out,” I said. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I—”

  My cell buzzed, and I glanced down at its screen then back at Artie. “I—”

  “Take it,” she murmured, pushing off the bed and crossing over to the desk where her cell was plugged in. “I’m sure I have calls to make.”

  With a nod, I answered, putting it up to my ear and spending the next few hours putting out fires with the various studios I was working with. I half-expected to get my ass chewed on all fronts, but surprisingly most of the execs were understanding and told me to just keep my head down and keep working, that they’d do their best to get the paparazzi to keep their distance.

  But by the time midday rolled around, I knew that I was going to have to face the mob anyway.

  The crew would be arriving at the studio in the next few hours and if I was going to make the call time, I would need to leave soon.

  Security had arrived and were stationed at the hotel, with one outside Artie’s door.

  Cars and drivers were ready.

  Obviously, it was time to pack up and get out.

  My assistant had texted with new hotel information, which I forwarded on to Artie, who’d either been on the phone like me or glued to her laptop, fingers furiously working on the keyboard.

  Pocketing my cell, I crossed over to the desk where Artie was on her computer. What I glimpsed on the screen made my heart sink.

  “Fucking hell,” I muttered.

  The top picture on the gossip site was us from the night before, me pinning Artie against the wall, her legs around my waist, our mouths locked together.

  World’s Hottest Cougar, was the headline.

  She closed the tab, pulled up another. A slightly different angle of the kiss. Another. Her with my mom, both of them smiling at me at the airport. Another. My hand on her ass, but this time the words exclusive and breaking news topped a longer article.

  How anyone’s relationship could possibly be breaking news was beyond me, but I’d never understood the fascination with celebrities’ personal lives.

  Then again, I’d never have considered either Artie or myself celebrities.

  She sighed. “This is my fault.”

  “Bull—”

  “Don’t finish that shit,” she muttered and highlighted the name under the final article, a picture of a little old lady next to it, complete with glitte
ring necklaces and poofy white hair.

  “Who’s Beverly Hawkins?”

  “The person I sat next to on the flight over. Fuck, Pierce. I’m so stupid. She was priming me with questions, and I fucking spilled everything about you and me. I opened us up to—”

  “Hang on.” I placed my hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly, stopping her as I scanned the article. Once I got to the end, I met her miserable eyes. “So, you’re feeling bad because you told a woman you liked me, more than anyone you’ve ever been with, and that you’re falling for me”—I chuckled—“and you’re thinking I’ll be mad about that?”

  Artie brushed my hand away. “This isn’t funny!”

  “No,” I said, tugging her into my arms. “Those photos aren’t funny. The guys outside the door aren’t acceptable. But, sweetheart, I love you. I don’t care if the whole world knows it. That article isn’t the problem.” I touched her cheek. “In fact, that article is probably the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me.”

  Her hair moved wildly as she whipped her head back and forth. “She says I’m a cougar. That I just chew up and spit out men.”

  “And you said I was different than all the other men.”

  “I—” She stopped.

  “And nowhere in there did they mention a thing about the women I’ve dated. Where’s your outrage for that fact? I’ve dated younger women, and this Beverly woman doesn’t mention that? It’s bull—”

  She kissed me. “No more bullshits,” she said against my lips.

  “Are you going to freak out?”

  “No.”

  “Promise?”

  Her eyes closed then opened, her expression lighter, lips curving. “Okay, fine. I might freak out, but I promise to talk it over with you first.”

  Relief poured through me. “I’ll take it.”

  She touched my jaw. “You need to go. I probably should keep my distance until we have a little more support.”

  “I don’t think you have to,” I said. “But if it makes you more comfortable . . .”

  A nod.