by Witt, L. A.
I needed her. Not as a lover, but as a friend. If she was willing to forgive me, maybe we could give that a try. I couldn’t offer anything more than friendship. It would be way too complicated. And being friends would make things easier at work.
So tomorrow, I’d find her on the set. And I’d ask her to come into my office so we could talk. Like . . . actually talk this time.
I just hoped like hell she’d be willing to hear me out.
And in the meantime, I hoped I didn’t lose my mind in this quiet, empty house.
Chapter 9
I couldn’t sit still. Another meeting had commandeered the soundstage office where we usually did script readings, so mine was in one of the more cramped rooms at the edge of the production company’s Bluewater Bay compound. At a gleaming table in the too-bright, too-warm room, I struggled not to tap my pen on the table. My nerves were shot. My stomach was turning itself inside out. I hadn’t slept for shit. Not that I’d been sleeping well lately anyway, but the empty house, and all my thoughts of Natalya, and that conversation with Jeremy . . .
God. I could’ve killed him. As if I hadn’t had enough on my mind, he’d tweaked my nerves just right to make sure I was up until nearly dawn, and now I was a tired, twitchy mess.
I desperately needed to talk to Natalya. Maybe we would have been doomed to fail if we’d even thought about dating. The sex may or may not have been a bad idea. At this point, I didn’t know which way was up, so I wasn’t much of an authority about whether a relationship—casual or otherwise—was a bad idea. The one thing I was absolutely sure of was that things shouldn’t have ended the way they had. I had to fix that much.
But she wouldn’t even be here until later, and for the moment, I was stuck in a meeting anyway.
Meetings generally drove me batshit, but I had to admit, I enjoyed the ones with Hunter Easton and his boyfriend-slash-coauthor Kevin Hussain. They were knee-deep in the next Wolf’s Landing book, and Hunter insisted on working closely with me to make sure what went on the page would translate well to the screen.
But even a meeting with Hunter and Kevin was more than I could handle today. How could everyone keep dragging this conversation on? Couldn’t they see that I needed to be somewhere else? That I needed to handle a thing? Before that thing drove me out of my ever-loving mind?
My pen flew out of my hand and sailed over Kevin’s shoulder, narrowly missing his head.
He ducked, glanced back to where the pen had crashed into a box of printer paper, and then he met my gaze with wide eyes.
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat as heat rushed into my cheeks. “I . . . didn’t realize I . . .”
Hunter threw his head back and laughed. “Impressive throw, Anna.”
“Impressive?” Kevin squeaked. “She almost hit me with it!”
Hunter patted Kevin’s arm. “Being assaulted with office supplies is part of this job. Didn’t you read the fine print?”
“No,” Kevin said dryly. “I was too busy dodging projectiles.”
“Sorry.” I grimaced. “I was just distracted. I really didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Kevin smiled. “Just busting your chops.” He twisted around and retrieved my pen. As he handed it across the table, he added, “I figured if you were going to start using pens as weapons, they’d be flying at people like Finn Larson first.”
“I’m saving the weaponized toner cartridges for that bastard,” I muttered.
Kevin’s eyes widened. To Hunter, he asked in a playfully scared voice, “Is she serious?”
“Don’t know.” Hunter stroked his chin. “But it sounds like a really good idea.”
“Right?” I laughed. “Okay, okay. Come on, boys. Focus.” Uh-huh. Pot, kettle.
We all fidgeted and shifted, as if releasing a little bit of nervous energy would actually allow us to concentrate. Not likely—those two were as squirmy as I was, especially during meetings, and usually I was the most focused of the three of us. So this meeting was probably doomed to failure.
Furrowing his brow, Hunter absently ran his thumb along his jaw. “I’m just worried that whole parallel-dimension story line is going to blow the budget out of the water. Especially if we modify the story to keep Slade Lupin around.”
I smiled. “Honey, if The World Tree story doesn’t kill us financially, I’m pretty sure that won’t either.”
Kevin smothered a sheepish laugh. “Sorry.”
“As well you should be.” Hunter sighed dramatically. “That portal could’ve just been a pool or something, but nooo. Somebody had to go and make it so complex and—”
“The runes were your idea.” Kevin jabbed him playfully in the side. “Don’t even try to pin all that on me.”
“Um, Kevin.” I clicked my tongue. “The runes may have been Hunter’s idea, but I seem to recall making the whole damned thing light up and levitate was yours.”
“See?” Hunter elbowed him. “Your fault.”
“Well,” I said, “either way, we’ll make it work. It might cause a few gray hairs among the finance guys, but we’ll make it happen.”
Kevin patted Hunter’s leg and smiled. “I told you it would be fine.”
Hunter laughed. “Yes, you did.” Kevin shot him a playful glare, but didn’t say anything. To me, Hunter said, “So we’ll keep going the way we’re going, then?”
“Yep.” I closed my folder. “Just keep me posted on which direction you want to take the parallel-dimension line. That’ll mean some of this season’s talent will be coming back later, so I want to make sure everyone has a heads-up. I especially want to know if you’re killing off Slade Lupin for good, or if we’re bringing him back. I need to let Conner’s agent know if his role is going to turn into a recurring one.”
“I definitely want to keep Conner around,” Hunter said. “As hard as we worked to get him, we should hang on to him.”
“Assuming his character fits the story, right?” The way Kevin arched his eyebrow, and the little sheepish look on Hunter’s face, told me this had been a topic of intense discussion lately.
“Just let me know,” I said.
Hunter nodded. “Will do.”
We all got up from the table and headed out of the conference room. On the way, Hunter wrapped an arm around Kevin’s waist and kissed his cheek. As they walked away, they exchanged a few words I didn’t hear and laughed. Oh hell, they didn’t just laugh. They looked at each other and giggled like a couple of schoolkids.
I smiled as I watched them go. God, those two were painfully cute. There’d been some speculation that Kevin was just Hunter’s boy toy, or that Hunter was Kevin’s sugar daddy, but that was such bullshit. These days, Kevin could’ve made his own fortune—and rumor had it he was negotiating a book deal on a solo series, which would probably have him rolling in money until the end of time—and anyway, no one could be around the two of them for more than five minutes without seeing how much they were wrapped around each other’s fingers. They were adorable, and I envied them.
While the cute pair made their way to the parking lot, Jeremy fell into step behind me and we went to one of the soundstages to check in with Corrie, who was directing. She’d put in for some fairly expensive equipment and effects, and she’d run into a number of walls. Her vision notwithstanding, the other producers were certain there were more cost-effective ways to film those scenes. Of course the male directors never had quite so much trouble getting things like that approved, but for some reason, she and I had to practically retrieve the head of Medusa and present the Holy Grail brimming with our tears to get what we wanted. Neither of us were backing down though—we pushed back, and in the end, got what we wanted.
I found her standing on the sidelines, a dog-eared script tucked beneath her folded arms as she watched the camera crew arrange the three cameras for the scene.
“Hey,” I said. “Any updates?”
She turned to me and rolled her eyes. “Well, they approved it. But Jesus fuck . . .”
I gri
maced as I stopped beside her. “Fun, isn’t it?”
“Totally.” A smirk played at her lips. “I think I figured out their weakness, though.”
I straightened. “Do tell.”
“I batted my eyes and asked if I should have a big strong man look over the blocking and effects to make sure I knew what I was talking about.” She put her finger to her lips and gave a shrill giggle. “Because I’m a silly girl, so what do I know?”
My jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“What’d Finn say?”
“He bitched, but he backed off.” She shrugged. “Anyway, he’ll get over it. He’s— Tyler, camera three is too close to the floodlights.”
One of the camera guys looked around. “Are you sure? It seems fine.”
She groaned. To me, she said, “Excuse me.” Then she stalked onto the stage, flipping open her script. “It’s right here. See?” She showed him the camera blocking diagram she’d tucked into the script. “It needs to be—”
I didn’t hear the rest.
Because Natalya.
She’d picked just that moment to walk into my peripheral vision, prickling the hairs on my neck, and when I turned, I just . . . stared. I had always been hyperaware of her presence, but now it was so much worse. Ever since we’d slept together, my senses seemed to be hardwired to her. And then I’d pissed her off, and now . . .
Fuck.
She was still as hot as ever. Hotter. Much hotter. Because I couldn’t touch her, and I knew what it was like to touch her, and I wanted to touch her, and she’d probably take my arm off if I tried to touch her.
Goddamn it. I let her go? I pushed her away? Fuck—what was I thinking?
Exhaling, I glanced at Corrie. She was busy with the camera guy, who insisted his interpretation of the blocking chart trumped hers. I had her back, though, so she’d get me if she needed help.
I left her to her crew and walked across the snake pit of cords and cables to where the stunt crew were preparing for the shoot, Jeremy right behind me as always. The scene called for several stunts at the same time, so nearly every stuntman on the payroll was here today. Pads and protective gear were tucked beneath costumes. Harnesses were secured to people and cables. The battered remains of a car were positioned so they could be set alight and hurled across the set, narrowly missing one character and sending the other flying.
And in the middle of it all, as people ran around with tools and harnesses, Natalya barked orders and sent her crew in every direction. The director in me was impressed—she seemed to know what everyone was doing at any given time, from those securing cables to the stuntmen themselves, and she was on top of everything.
“Where the fuck is pyrotechnics?” she snapped at someone as she adjusted Ginsberg’s harness. “I need that car on fire in ten minutes.”
“On it, ma’am!”
“And where is—” She looked around. Then she swore in her native tongue. “Stay here, Ginsberg.” And before he could respond, she stormed off.
As soon as Natalya was out of earshot, Ginsberg groaned. “She’s going to kill me on purpose one of these days, isn’t she?”
C.J., one of the stuntmen, nodded. “Yeah, probably. She’ll even make it look like an accident.”
“Dick,” Ginsberg muttered. He glanced at me, and his customary adorable smile lit up his face. “Hey, Anna. What’s up?”
“Just checking in on my stunt people.” I clapped his arm. “We’re working together on the next episode. You, um, might want to stock up on Aleve.”
He grumbled something, but shrugged as he fussed with his half-assembled harness. “Eh. Job security.”
“Yeah. Wait until you see what Hunter and Kevin have planned.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
I winked. “You’ll see.”
“Fuck . . .”
He started to say something else, but my focus was once again pulled to Natalya. She was on her way back across the set with a box in her arms.
She dropped the box on the table beside Ginsberg, making the two of us jump as metal clanked and the table protested beneath the weight. As she turned to me, her rigid expression hardened even more. Though she didn’t say a word, her eyes spoke loud and clear: What the fuck do you want?
My mouth went dry. This was definitely not the time to discuss anything personal. And apparently I didn’t have the vocabulary to talk about anything professional.
Shit. If nothing else, we did have to work together. Maybe not on this episode, but the next one, definitely. Even if we weren’t compatible on a personal level, the professional one wasn’t exactly optional.
Her eyebrow rose. Get it out and be done with it. I have work to do.
I cleared my throat. “Can you come by my office when you’re done here?”
She exhaled hard and probably sounded simply exhausted and stressed to her people, though the I don’t have fucking time for your shit was not lost on me. “It won’t be today.” She yanked a box cutter out of her pocket and sliced the tape on the box, severing a piece of cardboard in the process. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning. Nine.”
I gritted my teeth. One more night of not sleeping before we could talk. Awesome. Looking forward to it. But it was better than trying to hash it out here and getting her pissed off before she had to dangle some of my stuntmen from the rafters.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
* * *
“You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah.” I held her gaze over my desk the next morning. We were both standing, facing each other with no sound but the buzzing AC behind me. Her eyes were narrow and full of impatience. Mine were heavy from a sleepless night. And there wasn’t much time, because we both had people tapping their watches and waiting for us on opposite ends of the studio property.
“Well?” She shifted her weight. “What are we going to talk about?”
“I think you know.”
She swore in her native tongue. “For fuck’s sake, we have talked about that. What more is there?” She rose to her full height, lifting her chin as if that would bring her to eye level with me. “Or do you want to give me more reasons why bisexual women are unworthy?”
“No. It’s . . . nothing like that.”
Sighing, Natalya locked eyes with me, but she didn’t make a sound. She slowly folded her arms.
I took a deep breath. “Listen, I wanted to apologize. I think we might’ve ended on the wrong foot and—”
She snorted. “Try again.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I thought quickly. “I fucked up with you. I know I did. And I . . . I want to make that right somehow.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her arms tightened, and her eyes narrowed. “So you’ve changed your mind about bisexual women?”
I dropped my gaze. It wasn’t that simple. Fears didn’t stop on a dime, especially not when they’d been reinforced in the past.
Natalya huffed sharply. “That’s what I thought.” She started to leave.
“Wait. Natalya, I—”
She turned back toward me with daggers in her eyes, and my teeth snapped shut.
I put up my hands, blood pounding in my ears as I fought the urge to grab on to her and keep her from leaving. “Look, I’ve had some bad experiences, and I—”
“You’ve had bad experiences?” she snarled, facing me fully. “When I date men, they want me to bring girls into our bed.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “They want to share me. And then women . . .” Natalya laughed bitterly. “Women think I’m going to leave them for men. I can’t win.” She threw up her hands. “Men want me to be a slut, and women are convinced I will be. So half the population expects me to fuck on demand and the other half refuses to believe I won’t.”
Shit. Wow. I hadn’t even thought of what it must be like for someone like her. “They . . . really?”
“Yes!” She groaned. “Do you honestly think bisexuals just skate through life without ge
tting their share of bullshit?”
I chewed my lip. “Look, maybe you’re right. But can you see where I’m coming from?”
“No!” She gestured sharply. “No, I can’t! Anyone can cheat on you, Anna. Anyone can leave you for someone else, or want something you can’t give them.” Before I could respond, she shook her head and started toward the door. “I don’t know why I bothered coming in here. This is—”
“Hold on. Hold on.” I put up my hands again and, as she turned to face me, exhaled. “We . . .” I lowered my hands and held her gaze, and though it was a struggle, forced the fear and desperation out of my tone. “We have to work together. Is there any way we can put this behind us?”
“You tell me,” she growled. “If what you’re asking is, can I smile while I’m working with someone who thinks I’m . . . well, whatever stereotype it is you have about bi people—a slut, a cheater, a—”
“I don’t think you’re any of those things.”
She scowled. “Really.”
“I . . .” Blowing out a breath, I shook my head. “Look, I’m sorry. Like I told you before, I’ve been burned by a bisexual woman in the past. It’s . . . Maybe it’s not fair for me to assume you’re going to do the same.”
“Maybe?”
I swallowed. “It isn’t fair. I’m sorry.”
She studied me for a long moment, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the unspoken but. Slowly, though, as we silently held each other’s gazes, she relaxed a little, her features softening and her shoulders slumping just slightly.
Cautiously, I said, “Look, we have to be colleagues. Maybe we can try to be friends too.”
Her lips pulled tight again, and I thought she might tell me I could shove my delusions of friendship up my ass, but then she nodded. “Yeah. We can . . . we can try that. I guess.”
“And if things change,” I said. “If that chemistry is still there, and—”
Her gaze almost turned into a glare, but I put up my hand once again before she could cut me off.