by Jordan Marie
1
Casey
“Iced Raspberry Cheesecake latte!” the lady yells out and I move back up to the counter. This is my secret addiction. This delicious concoction is the only thing keeping me sane lately. It gives me fuel to get through the day and the ability to stop myself from choking the stupid out of others.
“Thank you,” I tell the barista, handing her the money. She gives me my drink and instantly moves on to the next customer. I mean they’re busy, but would a return thank you be so much to ask for?
I glance at the clock on the wall and feel a moment of panic. I can’t afford to be late this morning. I work as a make-up artist on movie sets. When I left high school, I had one thought. I was getting away from Freemont. I was going to work my way through cosmetology school and I was going to own my own shop one day. I was on track for that, working at one of the best salons on Rodeo Drive. I was putting money away, and gaining a great reputation. It was getting to the point where I had a list of regulars and new clients coming in to request me.
One small thing changed the direction of my plans. One of my regulars came in, in a panic. She was a former actress, who was trying to revive her career after taking years off to raise her daughter. She received a last minute offer to guest star on a morning news show. She didn’t want to trust their makeup artist and since I had done the makeup for her new headshots, she came to me. Working her in, made her grateful enough that she demanded I do her makeup at all her jobs. That began a career I never saw coming and one I truly love.
Now I have a list of several producers, directors, actors and actresses who all request me. I pick and choose who I work for and when. I’ve met some amazing people and people that others wish they could meet—who aren’t as great as I hoped they’d be. My latest job was on the set of Aden McIntyre’s latest film, Dreams of Love. Aden is one of the biggest names in Hollywood—or rather he was. He took some time off, there were whispers he had a nervous breakdown. I’ve talked to him enough that I don’t think that was it. But he’s having trouble coming back. This will be his third film in five years and there’s rumors that if this one doesn’t hit, he may be done. Which isn’t good for a lot of reasons and the main one is that this set has been riddled with accidents and problems. The latest one being Aden’s stuntman’s parachute failing to open. He got the backup one to work but he missed the marked spot for landing and got tangled in powerlines. He’s alive, but he’s not in great shape. Production was halted until a replacement was found. Today is our first day back on the set, and being late is not a great way to start it.
I’m making my way through the crowded streets. I think it might be one of life’s greatest mysteries that the streets can be empty up until the moment you are in a hurry, then people seem to congregate and delay you. After pushing my way through, and yet only getting about ten steps ahead, I decide to cut through a back alley and across the park. I’m rounding the corner when I slam into a solid wall—of muscle.
My latte is crushed against my chest and runs down my white cashmere sweater—leaving a maroon, brown and vanilla trail of goop in its wake. I stare at my breasts in disbelief and then slowly look up at the wall I ran into. It’s a broad, well defined chest and the more I look up—the more I like—until I reach the face. I know that face. Gavin O’Leary.
Holy crap!
“Damn! I’m sorry, lady. I didn’t see you coming through here,” he mutters. His large hands are on my shoulders to steady me. I can’t complain because if he hadn’t caught me I’d probably be on my ass looking up at him. As embarrassing as this is, that would have been much worse. When he takes a step away from me I notice he has his phone in his hand. He doesn’t bother checking on me—I mean my drink was a cold drink but all he sees is the Starbucks imprint! I could be suffering from burns! Instead, however, he immediately goes back to texting.
“Don’t worry about me! I’m fine here!” I huff, and almost regret my outburst when his gaze directs itself back to me. He gets a frown wrinkle in the middle of his forehead. It’s been twelve years, but I still remember that look.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter. I take the crushed cup in my hand and literally shove it into his, trying not to let glee show on my face when a large, messy clop of liquid drops down on his obviously state-of-the-art cellphone. “Hold this,” I growl, trying to take the tiny napkin I have in my hand and gather the worst of my drink off my chest.
“Crap! My phone!” he laments, instantly letting the cup drop to the ground.
“So sorry. Though I’d worry more if my sweater wasn’t ruined, I wasn’t late for work and my boobs weren’t currently drenched in the drink that I needed to get through the day!” I answer, and I don’t really care that I’m whining.
“Shit. Okay. Let me get a text off to my buddy and I’ll help you out,” he mutters, barely looking at me. Seriously?
“Don’t bother I—”
I can’t get the rest of my sentence out because he reaches down and grabs the bottom of my sweater and wipes his phone off.
He wiped his phone off! He wiped his phone off on my now ruined cashmere sweater!
“Are you for real right now?”
“What?” he asks, texting away and not bothering to look at me.
“Did you really just wipe your damn phone off on my sweater?”
He slides his phone in the back pocket of his worn denim jeans—and I shouldn’t be noticing how good he looks in them. I’m angry enough that I shouldn’t notice that he’s wearing his hair a little longer these days, or that his blonde hair is streaked from the sun either—but I do, and that fact annoys me.
“It’s not like it could hurt. Your sweater is pretty ruined,” he replies casually.
“No thanks to you,” I growl.
“You’re the one who was flying around the corner—”
“And you’re the one who was texting and not looking where he was going!” I counter, literally screaming because I can feel my blood pressure rising.
“The main thing is not to get excited. It could be much worse. At least the drink was cold. Here let me help,” he says and I swear I think he’s almost laughing. He moves his hands down to gather the remaining cream and ice chips from the drink. I jump back quickly.
“Will you get your hands off my boobs?”
“It’s not like I was trying to feel you up, lady. You’re the one whining because I wasn’t helping, so I thought I’d try to help,” he replies and this time I can hear frustration in his voice.
Who is he to get frustrated with me?
“Moron,” I growl. I slide my satchel off my shoulder, letting it fall to the ground.
“That’s a big bag. Maybe if you didn’t carry it around, you’d be able to move easier—”
I know my bag is big. It’s also heavy. It contains all of my personal favorites in foundation, eye shadows, and things that Roberta loves. The set provides quite a bit, but there are times I’m happier with my own stuff, especially when it comes to my friend.
“Shut up and hold this,” I mumble, really not wanting to hear his voice at this point. I yank my sweater off and throw it at him. He catches it against his chest, his eyes going round in surprise.
“Yeah. I don’t think that’s going to work,” he says. I look down at the tight camisole shirt I’m wearing. It reveals way too much skin, and cuts way too low on my breasts. The horrible part though is the darkened fabric where the latte soaked through. It literally looks like my boobs are leaking milk. I want to cry. There’s no help for it. Hopefully I’ll get on set and sneak into the wardrobe department before anyone can see me. I reach down and grab my satchel. I walk around Gavin, leaving him holding the now ruined sweater. “Don’t I know you?” he asks again, and I deserve a medal for not kicking him in the balls. I don’t reply and keep walking. “Hey wait! What about your sweater?” he yells after me.
I don’t bother turning around. “Keep it dude, you earned it,” I sigh and wal
k away.
I went twelve years without seeing Gavin. Maybe if I’m lucky, it will be twelve more before I see him again.
2
Gavin
I watch the little fireball walk away. In all my years of living in California you would think nothing could surprise me. I work with some beautiful women. I’ve slept with some amazingly beautiful women. Fuck, I worship at the feet of women in general. There’s never been a power in my life, like the power pussy has over me. I freely admit it and the closer I get to thirty the more I realize I will be a slave to the pussy forever. As I watch the red-head, with a chip on her shoulder, curves that go for miles, an ass that could make the devil beg for forgiveness, and tits you want to bury your face—or dick—in, I can hear the sound of a whip cracking in my head. I could so be pussy-whipped for a chance to have that.
Of course I’d want to gag her mouth so she wouldn’t bitch me to death. Probably with my dick.
That thought makes me laugh as I look down at the stained sweater in my hands. I give the woman one last look and then look back at the sweater. I walk down through the alley and toss it in the dumpster. It’s probably a good thing I pissed her off. I have a feeling tangling with that particular woman would be like trying to wrestle a mountain lion. I glance over my shoulder seeing if I could catch one more glimpse of her. I see her as she turns another corner and that round, pear-shaped ass disappears. I never thought wrestling a mountain lion would be fun until now.
My phone rings, distracting me from the foul-tempered, fucking stacked woman.
“Yo,” I answer without looking at the number.
“You’re late,” Aden growls.
“Hey man, I sent you a text. Several of them. Don’t you check your messages?”
“I didn’t get them.”
“Or you ignored the beep. I was telling you that my truck died. I called a tow and then I jogged to the nearest coffee place. I’ll be there soon-ish.”
“You’re a mess. All that money you make you would think you’d shell out some of that cash for a decent ride.”
“Do not badmouth Cherry! She’s amazing,” I laugh, walking into the packed Starbucks.
“She’s a broken down truck that should have been hauled off to the junkyard years ago,” Aden returns.
“She’s a classic and the only woman who hasn’t let me down,” I respond ordering a coffee by pointing to the picture and holding up one finger. I’m really good at sign language when I want to be.
Aden is not entirely wrong. Cherry is a 1985 gray and cherry red Chevy pickup. It’s rusted in places that shouldn’t rust. It burns oil and uses gas like a bitch. But it was the first vehicle I bought with my own money. It annoys the fuck out of my parents and seems to ward off gold diggers. Which means in my book, she has my loyalty.
“She only leaves you walking, late for work and trying to hoof it in,” Aden replies, dryly.
“Whatever,” I answer, I mean there’s not much I can defend. He’s right. I still refuse to give up my truck, however.
“Just get your ass here. This movie has been held up enough. I don’t need them firing your ass and holding up production again.”
“I’ll be there. You sure don’t sound like a man who is happy with his job, A,” I respond taking the coffee from the pretty little thing with a sassy smile. I toss her a fifty with a wink. “Keep the change, sweet thing,” I tell her. I get rewarded with warm blue eyes and a deep smile from beautiful red lips that I wish I had time to taste.
“I really want this damn job done. I should have never agreed to take it on in the first place.”
“Why did you again?” I grin into the phone. I take a drink of the coffee and let out a sigh of appreciation as I sip the caffeine down. Coffee, nectar of the gods.
“Because Roberta asked me and she’s one of the few people I respect in this business,” Aden grouses.
“Someday that twisted sense of loyalty you have is going to bite you in the ass,” I warn him again for the millionth time.
“It already has. I got Gloria the lead female role didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “How’s that working out for you by the way?” I take a drink of my coffee still laughing because Gloria is Aden’s ex-girlfriend—not that the world knows that yet. They’re selling this movie as the crowning achievement. The power couple’s finest hour, starring in a blockbuster film together. It wouldn’t do to let the world know that Gloria Randall, the distant relative of a Hollywood legend, is in fact a two-timing, lying, cheating bitch who slept her way into every film she’s ever been in. Aden found her sleeping with his current director, which might have been a big enough betrayal, if he hadn’t already got her the part in the movie. I love Aden like a brother, but he’s kind of stupid when it comes to women. He needs to learn from me and live by my philosophy. Only deal with women who know the score going in, never get serious and stay away from trouble.
On that note, I finish the call with Aden and make my way back to the studio. My mind turns back to the redhead from earlier. She spelled trouble—a lot of trouble. I still say there was something vaguely familiar about her too. It’s just as well I’ll never see her again though. Too many women to sample to put up with a mouth like that.
No matter how lusciously thick those lips were.
3
Casey
“What happened to you?”
“I had a fight with a Raspberry Cheesecake latte,” I sigh out mournfully. “And it won.”
“Honey you’re supposed to drink them, not bathe in them.”
“Very funny, Roberta. Sorry I’m late. Let me grab a t-shirt from wardrobe and we’ll get started.”
“No worries. The director is in a meeting with the producers and the lead actors, so we have time.”
“Well thank goodness for that I guess. What are they meeting about?” I call out over my shoulder, already walking towards the small closet that connects to Roberta’s makeup area. It mostly contains clothes she is supposed to be wearing for each scene. There are a few extras that wardrobe has brought over and thankfully some of those were plain t-shirts. I grab a soft, pale pink one and quickly toss my camisole on the floor and replace it with the tee. I wish I had a new bra, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least I don’t look like my boobs exploded with milk—I count that as a win.
“Who knows. Maybe Gloria’s current boyfriend is pissed at the producers for scheduling so many interviews with her and Aden as a couple,” Roberta shrugs.
I go back to the chair Roberta is sitting in, grab a brush and immediately go to work. Roberta has been a friend for a long time. I owe her more than I could ever repay. She’s older than me. She hasn’t given me her exact age, but I think it’s somewhere around her mid-fifties. She’s gorgeous even though she obsesses over her wrinkles. She’s got beautiful blonde, wavy hair that helps disguise the gray that she worries about. Though, this movie calls for the gray, so we’ve had to enhance it and I’m not sure she’s crazy about that. She’s tall, slim and looks better than most women half her age. Hell, I’d like to look as good as she does.
“I don’t see why she’d leave someone like Aden anyway. That man is fine,” I laugh, looking at her through the mirror.
“I know. A real woman wouldn’t, I imagine, but one who is more worried about her career slipping away,” she trails off with a shrug.
“I doubt her career would keep her warm at night like Aden could,” I respond.
“That’s the God’s honest truth if there ever was one,” Roberta answers, smiling.
We talk for a bit longer and then she leaves once I have her dolled up. I close my eyes and take a moment to relax. I can feel the dull thud of a headache forming behind my eyes. I couldn’t sleep last night which made today the absolute worst day to miss my early morning shot of caffeine.
I walk down the hall to a small lounge area they have set up for the low-level employees—like me. Coffee on the set tastes like dried ashes, but at least the aroma is familiar. I f
ill up a small cup, frowning because it’s way too cool for coffee, but it will have to do. I have to do Gloria’s hair next—desperation is my name. I admit my steps are slow leaving the lounge. I dread Gloria like the plague. As much as I like Aden and the few other stars that I’ve met during this film, I can honestly say I can’t stand her.
“Damn! I’m sorry I didn’t see you!”
I’m slammed up against the talking wall, the coffee crushed against my chest—just like last time. I look up and there’s Gavin—just like last time. He ran into me again. While texting on his phone—again. Not watching what he was doing—AGAIN.
“You have got to be kidding me!” I growl.
“You!” he says, surprised.
“Yes me! You, idiot! How do they let you walk around by yourself?”
“Shit, lady. I’m sorry. Honest.”
“I can’t believe you!” I huff, not willing to take his apology. Maybe if he had offered it the first time around I’d be more inclined—better yet, if he had learned not to text and walk blindly so it could happen again. “What are you doing?” I cry when he has his hands on my shirt trying to pull it off of me.
“You don’t want to keep that coffee on you like that! It’ll burn!” he says, continuing to try to lift my shirt.
“Will you stop that!” I cry, slapping at his hands. “It’s cold! I’m not burning! You, moron!”
“I think she really likes you.”
This comes from a different voice. Aden—the star of the movie. Great, freaking great. I should probably watch my mouth, but really two times in one day is kind of ridiculous.
Gavin stops and steps away from me suddenly. It kind of surprises me. I look down at my ruined shirt for a minute, not believing my luck for the day.
“You’re really a sweet angel aren’t you?” Gavin mutters, causing me to look at him.
“What are you talking about?” I ask exasperated.