Oh, and free alcohol. The free alcohol is a nice touch.
With a few drinks in him, Josh starts talking a little more about himself. About his life before trying to become an actor, his parents, his sister.
His biggest struggle with the acting, he says, is that he never figured out how to sell himself. At least, that's what a sleazy agent once told him. I said I couldn't disagree with that, and when he looked skeptical, I had to expound on the point.
"The problem is, you've gotta think like a businessperson," I tell him. "A marketer. And your product is you."
"I know how to be enterprising," he insists. "I've got a knack for it. My brother stole cable when we were kids, and I recorded all the episodes of Emmanuelle in Space and sold the tapes at school."
"Wow, that's great. I'm pretty sure that's how Mark Cuban got his start." I resist the urge to throw my empty nut dish at his head. "Can you focus, please?"
"Not really," he admits. "Now I'm wondering if Emmanuelle holds up, at all. It's been a long time."
I let out a little snort of laughter. "I promise you, she doesn't. Want me to make a note on your schedule to subscribe to Cinemax later and make sure?"
"You don't have to look so jealous, you know." He winks in my direction. "She means nothing to me, I swear."
"Jealous?" I repeat, a little too loudly. Hell yes, I'm jealous. I don't want him fantasizing about Krista Allen, I want him fantasizing about me.
Right. Because that's realistic.
"Persuasive argument," he says. "But the whites of your eyes are green, baby girl."
My lips thin. "I don't think that's a saying."
"It is now." He grins. "You like it? You can have that one for free. Put it in one of your books." He takes a sip of his gin and tonic, and makes a face. "This is shit. I only ordered it because it sounded like something Steele would drink."
I roll my eyes. "He drinks scotch."
"Only scotch? That's way too boring." He's not even close to sloppy, just has an edge of muzziness to him. And he's tilted over slightly in his seat, bringing our heads closer together than they strictly need to be. "I'm surprised you didn't make me sign a contract so that you own everything I create for the character, too. What if I show up in ten years and try to sue you?"
"Yeah, that sounds like you." I could pull away, try to put some more distance between us. I probably should. But for some reason, I don't.
"You gotta be careful, judging a book by its cover." He sets down his empty glass very deliberately, still smiling at me, but very slyly now. "I know I seem like an honest salt-of-the-earth type, but what if I'm really a scumbag?"
"Oh, I don't doubt you're a scumbag. Just not that kind of scumbag." I gesture at my empty cup. "How about those warm nuts, huh? I wonder if they do refills."
He's laughing, a low, quiet chuckle that sends a tingle through my whole body.
And I laugh too, a little bit, although it's not very funny at all.
***
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, in my pajamas, in the incredibly swank Los Angeles hotel Morning Brew is paying for, when there's a knock at my door. Frowning, I go to the peephole.
It's Josh. Why didn't he just text me, or something?
"What's wrong?" I ask, pulling the door open.
"Does something have to be wrong?" He half-smiles, stepping inside without me having to invite him. "I just thought you'd want to do some last-minute cramming."
Swallowing hard, I glance down at my pink pajama bottoms, stretched out and threadbare from years of overuse. Hey, I'm a writer - the number of days during the week when I actually put on real clothes is pretty limited. And my tank top has certainly seen better days. None of it's flattering, per se, but it's definitely more revealing than anything I've worn in front of him. Not a great combination.
This time, I think maybe he notices. At least a little bit. His eyes keep flicking to my body, and then I remember I'm not even wearing a bra.
Shit. Well, it's kind of too late to save it now. I could throw on a bathrobe, but he's probably already at least seen the outline of my nipples.
Compromising, I fold my arms across my chest. "So, what did you want to go over?"
He shrugs, sitting down on the bed. "I dunno. You're usually in charge of all that."
Obviously, he's not here to go over lines. And he seems a little sloppy, like he might have hit the mini-bar before he came over. Maybe he wants to blow off some steam, and he figures a quick fuck the night before the show is the best way to do it. While I can't deny the idea has its appeals, there's no way I'm going to just be Josh's booty call because he's lonely and bored and nervous. Not because he thinks I'll be an easy lay, 'cause a girl like me must have self esteem issues a mile wide.
I've got no idea how to play this. I don't want him to leave, exactly, but there's no way I can unwind while he's here. And I'm not just falling into bed with him. I can't even picture us kissing without flashes of past conversations entering my mind, conversations I had with other guys, but with Josh filling their shoes instead. It's not you, I just don't have time for a relationship right now. You know? Flash forward to me running into them with a size two in yoga pants at the coffee shop. That was fun, but, you know, I just don't see us going anywhere... Well, you're not exactly who I pictured taking home to the folks... You know you'd be even sexier if you took up jogging or something...
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. "Honestly, I didn't really have anything planned. I mean, if there's anything you're not sure about..."
Josh smiles, his hands curled around the edge of the mattress like he's about to launch himself back onto his feet, and right out of the room. This obviously isn't the reception he expected. Did he think I'd be wearing a little pink nightie and waiting for him with my heart palpitating?
That's not fair. I don't even know if he's here for sex. I just can't figure out why else he'd be here, and it's nearly impossible for me to look at him without thinking about sex, so it's a natural conclusion.
So, I'm standing here in a hotel room with Josh the tattooed, rough-around-the-edges struggling actor, who's playing Landon Steele, or maybe at this point it's Landon Steele playing Josh. I can't really be sure anymore. And I'm thinking about sex. Specifically, I'm thinking about the kind of sex that destroys hotel furnishings. The kind of sex where you don't just want to take a shower afterwards, you have to take a shower afterwards. Ridiculously filthy, over-the-top sex. A guy like Josh is built for exactly that kind of thing.
"Penny for your thoughts." He cocks his head a little, and I realize I'm staring. "Or, did you just want me to leave?"
"No," I blurt out, before I can think twice. "No, you don't have to leave."
He shrugs a little. "Okay. So you wanna play Solitaire or something?"
I laugh at him, although at least fifty percent of my brain is still consumed with images that would probably get cut from Emmanuelle in Space for being way, way too filthy. "Solitaire is a one player game," I remind him. "And I'm pretty sure you know that."
"Right." he snaps his fingers. "I'm thinking of Old Maid. I'm not exactly a card-playing man, in case you didn't pick up on that."
"Didn't you play a gambling addict in that one Lifetime movie?" I sit down on the bed next to him, because, you know, what the hell.
"Oh ho, somebody's been reading my profile." He snorts. "I figured if you were gonna bring something up, it'd be that horror TV serial that got cancelled after two episodes. You can still find the pilot online. I gotta recommend checking it out. It's awful."
I'm chuckling, feeling some of the tension of the last few weeks melt away from my knotted-up shoulders. "Did you have a line?"
"I had a few," he says. "I was the asshole boyfriend who basically whines and begs for sex, so of course he's the first one to die. I can't remember what the killer was supposed to be. I don't think we even had a scene together. I just did a lot of ADR screams, and then they made me up to look like a bloodied corpse. You kno
w how hard it is not to twitch your eyelids? Or breathe?"
"No," I admit, feeling bolder now. There's no real denying the chemistry between us, and even if it's mostly just casual friendship, it's something else, too. Otherwise, a guy who looks like him wouldn't be spending his evening with me. He thinks I'm a sure thing. I don't want to be, but I'm starting to feel the inevitable pull.
Just kiss him.
"Do your lines," I suggest, cheekily. "I want to hear you sound like a real dickhead."
"Uh, you already have." He's laughing. "Unless you're still holding tight to that whole 'Landon Steele is just a misunderstood genius' thing."
"I'm pretty sure I never said anything of the sort!" It's tempting to just grab a pillow and whack him with it. "I mean, he understands women, but that doesn't make him a genius."
"Just a pussy genius, then." Josh shrugs. "Okay, fine."
This time, I really do reach for a pillow and swing it at him. It thumps harmlessly on his back, but the look on his face is priceless.
"Did you just start a pillow fight with me?" he exclaims, jumping to his feet and arming himself. "Oh, no, that's a really bad idea. You'd better back out now. You're gonna regret this."
I shake my head, laughing. "You're going down, Steele."
"All right, then." His eyes sparkle. "Get ready for the fight of your life."
We're on opposite sides of the bed, so at first, we sort of feint each other for a couple seconds. But when I make a rush around the foot of it, Josh jumps onto the mattress and gets in one good thwack. I follow him, managing to give him a face-full of pillow before we inevitably tumble into a heap and he's laughing on top of me, the warm weight of his body pinning me deliciously.
"Looks like I win," he smirks. "That didn't take long at all."
"That's what she - mmmphh!"
His hand clamps over my mouth, and hell if that gesture doesn't go straight to my core. I squirm underneath him, feeling his body respond to mine. My heart's beating a million miles a minute.
"Don't," he warns. "Or I'll be forced to prove to you how wrong you are."
"Mmmmfff," I insist, and he finally lets me talk, although I kind of wish he wouldn't. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
He smiles, his hand just brushing against my arm, like he's toying with the idea of pinning my wrists down. "Dunno. Depends. Is there anything I could do to you that you wouldn't like?"
Well, there it is. My chance to throw all my cards on the table. He knows I want him, and he's giving me the opportunity to admit it. What a gentleman.
"I'm sure I could think of something." I'm as non-committal as I can be, with the hottest guy I've ever seen grinding his hard-on between my legs. I feel dizzy with need, but I don't even know how to articulate it.
Josh laughs, ducking his head down like he's maybe going to kiss me, but doesn't. Considering that everything below our waists is currently mounting a valiant mission to get as close as possible, in angry defiance of our clothes, it's an absurdly coy gesture. We're practically dry-humping.
"Can I ask you a personal question, Ms. Tuggey?" Josh murmurs.
I nod, taking a moment to find my voice. "I think that's appropriate to the situation."
"Are you not wearing any panties?"
I am, in fact, not. I don't, in fact, frequently wear panties to bed. It's so commonplace for me that I actually forgot until he pointed it out, and now I've realized just exactly how filthy this is, and oh yeah, there goes the last shred of my resolve.
"I never wear panties to bed," I purr. A slight exaggeration, but it has its intended effect. I'm drunk with anticipation, almost forgetting to worry about what's going to happen in the morning.
At the sound of my voice, something in him snaps. His hips rock against mine, making me moan, and he growls in my ear:
"Dirty bitch."
It's wrong, but it's so, so right. I am a dirty bitch. Or at least, I want to be - for him. Landon Steele never talks this way, but that's fine with me. Landon Steele can fuck right off.
I realize I'm staring at him, wide-eyed, and he probably has no idea what that means. He looks a little scared, actually, so I try to smile, to reassure him it's okay. But there's something in the back of my mind, in the pit of my stomach, some horrible uneasy feeling that I can't shake. Once again, the room starts to feel too small. There's not enough air.
Something in Josh's eyes changes, and he's propping himself up on his elbows. No, no, no. I don't know what this is, but I don't like it. I don't want him to stop. The spell will be broken.
"Kimberly, are you..." He stops, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a minute, then opens them again. "I'm sorry. That was too far. I'm sorry."
"No." I'm shaking my head, quickly, even as I can feel my sanity slipping away. I don't know what it is that upset me, but it's not that I feel insulted, not in the least. "Just, I didn't expect that. It's not...I'm not upset." I'm very fucking obviously upset, I'm sure he can see the panic in my eyes, but I'm not sure how to explain it's not what he thinks it is. Because I don't actually know why I'm panicking, until suddenly I do.
The last guy who did dirty-talk with me. I've shoved the memory down, deep, because I don't want it anymore. I don't want it ruining one of the things about sex that I enjoy the most.
But it happened. I remember now. It's not that it went too far, exactly, it's that he meant it. He relished humiliating me a little too much, because he really believed I wasn't good enough. I know Josh isn't that guy, but I can feel the sucking panic in my chest nonetheless and there's no tamping it down now.
God damn it. Why do I have to be so neurotic? Why can't I just forget about the past and enjoy the present?
"What, then?" He swallows hard, pulling himself away from me. I'm starting to get tunnel vision. I can't stay here.
"Nothing," I insist. "It's nothing. You...please, you didn't do anything wrong. I just, it's just me. I just can't. I'm sorry." I'm babbling, very aware I'm not making any sense, and I feel like the worst person in the world.
"You can't what?" His voice sounds very far away. "Kimberly, please, tell me what's going on. I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought you wanted this. You've been giving me those eyes since we met, but I don't know what to do. You're hot and cold, every time I get too close you just run away. That's your choice, Kim, I'm not gonna get mad at you for changing your mind. But a guy can only take so much of this."
I can't hear this right now. I want to scream at him, but I know it's not his fault. None of this is his fault. I'm just broken, defective, with a sexuality that's been trampled by too many careless men. And I feel like an oversensitive drama queen for even having that thought. Just get over yourself, for fuck's sake.
"Kim, please." He's drawing closer, I think, and I back away like a wounded animal in spite of myself. "If you want me to leave, tell me to leave. But if it's up to me, I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what I did wrong. I want to know. I don't even care if we fuck tonight. Honestly, I don't. I'll go jerk off in the shower, I'm not gonna lie about that, but I just don't want you to hate me. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can never, ever do it again."
Even if I wasn't slipping into a panic attack, there's no way I would be able to explain it. And right now, the survival instincts are on full red alert. There is no rational part of my brain functioning anymore, nothing but primal fear thrown into overdrive, making every cell in my body scream danger.
I must tell him to get out. I must yell it, because even through the red haze, I can see him wince and back away. I don't really remember it. I never remember much, when this stuff happens.
There was a time when I'd call an ambulance for something like this, thinking for sure I was dying. I know better now. I'm not dying. My body just thinks I am.
And if there were some way I could spontaneously burst into flames and disappear from this planet, well, now would be a really fucking good time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of a knock o
n the door.
Shit. I must have forgotten to set an alarm last night. When Josh came over, I was still debating how much time I needed to get ready before we left for the studio. I'm probably running incredibly late.
When Josh came over.
I can't think about that right now. No time. I jump out of bed and go yank the door open, because there's no point in false modesty when he's already seen me in this exact same outfit.
But it's not Josh on the other side of the door. It's housekeeping.
"Uh." I stare at the maid for a moment, trying to process my thoughts. "What time is it?"
She frowns a little, glancing at her watch. "Nine-thirty, ma'am."
Shit fuck.
Shit fuck goddamn.
The show is on. The show is on, right fucking now, and I'm missing it.
"Thank you, please come back later!" I shout at the poor maid as I slam the door in her face. Fuck fuck shit goddamn. I'm throwing on my clothes in a more or less random order, grabbing my purse, heart pounding in my throat. The studio's about six blocks from here, and that's six Los Angeles blocks. I don't know if they're actually longer than New York City blocks, but they sure feel like it. Hoofing it is my only choice, though. Just glancing out my window as I frantically yank a brush through my hair, I can see traffic at a standstill. I could get there faster riding on a giant turtle.
In some nice jogging shoes and a triple-reinforced sports bra, this would be no big deal. But even if it was somehow practical to change after I arrive at the studio several hours late, I don't have anything sensible to wear. The shoes are going to be killer. But what's my other option, going barefoot?
I don't even draw any stares as I run through the hotel lobby, my heels clacking on the marble floor. There's an outside chance I'll fall and break my neck, which would probably be a mercy at this point. But I make it out to the relative safety of the sidewalk, where at least there's some built-in traction.
Meeting Mr. Steele Page 7