by Sara Forbes
He sidles up to her, and slides his hand clumsily around her waist. His fingers slapping against the small of her back remind me of sausages. He leans in and she tilts her chin up gamely. But instead of using his hands to tug her in tight, to claim her like a real man, he twists his neck awkwardly to press his lips to hers while avoiding full body contact. Sure, she’s got sharp-looking metallic knobs and things on her chest, but come on, man!
I can barely watch.
“Cut,” Rita yells and I hear despair in her tone. She groans and twists around.
“What’s wrong with you?” She stomps toward me. “Got a headache or something?”
“No.” I straighten. “Take this.” I push my unopened bottle of water into her hand. “Drink.”
She grabs it greedily. “Thanks.”
I wait until she looks sufficiently revived and ask, “How far behind are we? Ballpark?”
“Twenty to thirty percent for today.” She gives a little shudder, and then turns and walks away, yelling out, “OK, from the top, people.”
I retreat to the comfort of my tree.
The makeup girls scurry from the scene. Mia’s face paint looks like it’s ready to crack and fall off in large pieces. Her hair under the net is noticeably frizzier than it was this morning, but it adds something. Her face is drawn tight; her demeanor is otherwise alert and cool. If she’s suffering, she’s hiding it well. Pressure seems to bring out the best in her. She’s more professional than everyone else on set. I made the right decision in letting her come along.
Then the nightmare begins again, the clunky dialogue, Chase’s awkward approach. This time when he leans in and repeats his timid rubbing of her arm, I groan aloud. His lips slop against a point that is somewhere on her lower jaw but not exactly her lips.
I bound forward, march past the cameras, and hear Rita’s “cut” only as a faint echo of the pounding in my ears. I fill the space Chase vacated, clasp my hands around Mia’s upper arms, and draw her slap against my chest. I wait for her startled gaze to hit me full in the eyes, and then I tilt my chin down. I give her one second to adjust to her new reality. Then, before my better judgment kicks in, I swoop in and plant my mouth full down on her lips, precisely covering her mouth. I feel her breath swelling into her lungs. With her mouth fully under my control, I press my palms into the space at the small of her back, encouraging her whole body to acquiesce to me. Kissing is an act of conquering and surrender. What part of that doesn’t Chase get?
But now, she’s responding, and I’m kissing her deeper, my tongue becoming greedy, and instead of drawing back as something vague and distant tells me I should, I seek more, more, more. My fingers register the silkiness of her skin and her goose bumps of desire. My body tingles with awakened lust. Mia lets out a low mewl deep in her throat, and it spurs me on to change the angle and taste her lips afresh. Kissing her is like finding a new level of heaven that they kept secret from me.
It shouldn’t be this good.
We shouldn’t be this good.
I break off. Her green eyes are huge and glassy. It’s all I can do not to grind my mouth against those pinkened lips again.
Utter silence. Even the breeze in the trees has died.
Fuck, what did I just do?
I turn to Chase. “See? Easy?”
Next thing there’s a black thing in my vision, and a blow against my jaw.
My hand flies to the point of pain. What the ever-loving fuck?
She whacked me! Mia’s hit me.
I stagger backward, holding up my arms in self-defense, but she’s backed away and taken up position beside Chase.
“Why?” she yells, rubbing her fist. “Why are you even on set, Jack? I don’t need you!”
“I’m sorry.” I turn and make some distance between us as fast as my feet can plow through the sand.
I pass Scarlett and Cara.
“Whoa,” Cara calls out, “that wasn’t in the script, Scarlett, was it?”
“Why, no, I don’t believe it was.”
“Must be the director’s cut.”
“Or the producer’s cut.”
They fall together, laughing.
I flip them off as I stay the course back to the safety of the tents.
11
MIA
I HANG BACKon the set while the others pack up. Scarlett and Cara are the last to leave—they’re arguing. I’m still standing where he kissed me. I’m still shaking. My freaking knuckles still hurt. Next time I’ll hit him somewhere softer.
He kissed me in front of everyone. One minute he’s busting me for my technique, next he’s kissing me. He’s obviously unhinged. The heat must be getting to him.
In the milliseconds of reaction time that I had between him shoving Chase away, grabbing me, and leaning in, I must have made the decision to let him kiss me. Otherwise, I’d have kneed him in the balls before his lips touched mine. I’m capable of it; I’ve had to do that before.
And my God, what a kiss. You can’t fake that. I wasn’t faking when I kissed him back. My jaw was slack with shock and his lips covered mine hard. Demandingly. Sensuously. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. I remember the scrape of his stubble and the scent of his deodorant. Dark temptation rippled through me before the anger streaked in.
I can’t believe I hit him! Is this the end of my career? Will I be branded as one of those actresses people can’t work with? How can I face Jack again?
Fuck.
I pull out my phone. The signal is strong enough to make a call.
“Annie, Jack Palmer just kissed me. Hyperventilate.”
I cup my hand over the phone so I can hear my friend’s response.
“What?”—crackle, crackle—“serious?”
“No, I’m saying it for your amusement. What am I gonna do?”
“But I didn’t think—I mean, wait, do you like him? What am I missing here?”
“I don’t know!” I wail. “He just crashed into my scene where I was meant to be kissing Chase, and he took over.”
“Stop. Who’s Chase?”
“Lead male. Terrible kisser.”
“Ugh. And Jack?”
“Great kisser,” I moan.
“Oh, Mia.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Don’t do anything. Let me think. This is the guy who slept with Alicia Gonzales?”
Her too? Damn.
“And he’s a great kisser?” she presses.
“As I mentioned.”
“And an incredibly successful businessman? Then further enumeration of his qualities is surely unnecessary at this point? Just enjoy it as a bit of fun. He’s probably sleeping with whatsherface anyway.”
“Scarlett? Oh, I don’t know. They don’t seem very close.”
“Do they have to be?”
“Well, no,” I admit. Way to make me feel better. “I don’t wanna be the producer’s pet.”
“Pffff, nobody has to know.”
“Everybody knows.”
“All right, so they know. Again, so what?”
Why did I think Annie would have the answers? What is the answer? I’m the producer’s pet. Oh God.
“Are you in Al’s?”
“Yeah,” she says gloomily. “I’m OK, he’s not here, but I have the late shift with him tomorrow and not even Jill’s gonna be there.”
“Call in your brother.”
“Already tried. He’ll be at a game.”
“OK, OK. I land in LAX at 7:00 p.m. I’ll get to you by eight, latest.”
“That would be great. Uh-oh. Someone’s coming, gotta go,” she says.
“Talk—”
But she’s already gone.
***
I WANDER UP along the rocks to burn off the adrenaline. Annie will be OK tomorrow. Al won’t get into bullying mode until much later, and I’ll be there to back her up. Life will soon be back to normal and all this fantasy island heat, and these fantasy island kisses, will seem like a weird dream. Everybody will succumb to a strange, am
nesia-inducing dust cloud and instantly forget what happened in this cove a few minutes ago. If only.
From my vantage point on the grass-smattered sand dune, I have a marvelous view of the beach at sunset. The crew have set up an impromptu party down at the water’s edge. Someone’s hooked up music to a speaker. Garlands of indigenous pink flowers are strewn between the trees, demarcating a dance area. It’s an enterprising crew, all of them hardworking, courteous, and with a good sense of humor. I’ll miss them when this is all over.
And what then? I’ll be a bit part actress on a cult movie that time forgot. I have no illusions that this movie is going to be a box-office hit. It’ll be back to square one. Only worse, because Aunt Rita won’t give me another leg up.
Maybe my association with Jack Palmer isn’t something to be worried about. Maybe I should let the rumor mill do its work and milk the only opportunity I’m going to get any time soon to get my name in the papers.
A tryst with the producer? Oh, maybe so, maybe not. Let them think it, speculate about it, and call up CNN. Can it actually hurt me? No. As long as I play it smart, I’m safe from anything actually happening, but I can use the situation to my advantage. Let’s face it—I can hardly slip lower on the ladder.
I gather my flip-flops and march across the sand toward the staff party. I could maybe dance with him to get the ball rolling. I bet he’s got some great moves.
As I breeze past the little circle of sound engineers and cameramen they hush. They’ve never done that before. See? It’s already starting. Head held high, I join Cara and Helen.
Cara’s smile is guarded. “Everything OK, Mia?”
“Perfect.” I give her my boldest smile and nod at her half coconut. “What are you drinking?”
“Pina colada, or as close as we’re going to get to one on this godforsaken island. Fresh coconut milk spiked with a splash of Scarlett’s rum.” Cara nods at the group gathered behind the caretaker’s shack. “She’s over there and will make you one if you ask nicely.”
I can’t see Jack around. Does he disapprove of this little party? It’s not costing him money, so why should he care? Aunt Rita’s nowhere to be seen either. I guess they’re having a powwow in the tent with the shadows and light.
“Mia, darling,” Scarlett coos when she sees me. “Come have a cocktail.” She gestures to an impressive array of green coconuts with squares cut out of their tops.
I laugh. “Did you hack down every coconut on the island?”
“Near enough,” Hannah says.
Everyone’s watching me. For a bunch of actors, they sure are useless at disguising their burning curiosity or the fact that I’ve been the topic of their conversation until two seconds ago.
Chase gives an embarrassed cough and shuffles aside to admit me into their circle.
“Thanks.” I accept the half coconut Scarlett thrusts into my hands and take a swig. It burns a pleasant trail down to the pit of my stomach.
I pat Chase’s arm. “I’m sorry about that incident earlier. You were doing just fine. Jack really shouldn’t have butted in.” I’m adopting the tone of long-suffering partner of the wily Jack with not even the slightest tremor in my voice. And they’re buying it.
“No worries,” Chase says, looking everywhere but me.
Scarlett’s gaze darts between me and Chase. “Well, I’m glad that’s all cleared up,” she drawls in her Texan dialect. “You know what? I think it’s time we all got up and danced. Come on, people!”
The strains of the Careless Whisper jazz intro accompany these words, and I’m reminded of my mom singing to this song in her car. Humming, I pull Chase onto to the sandy dance floor. Helen and Jim follow, and then three other couples.
Soon, everyone is twisting and gyrating to the music, which has switched to something less nostalgic, kicking sand with bare feet, our faces bathed in the pink light of dusk. Our shrieks of laughter drown out the singer’s voice. Scarlett’s rum is super strong. Tension eases from my aching shoulders and arms.
My gaze keeps straying over to the tent. If he comes out, would he want to dance? Is it crazy that I want him to stop being a planning freak for just one night and join us? Would he take my heated body and pull it against that athletic frame? Would he kiss me again?
12
JACK
I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF sand, sea, sun for a lifetime. Give me mountains any day. Next time I make a movie, there will be only cool Alpine landscapes with waterfalls, luscious grass and wildflowers, and cool, cool breezes.
My crew is buoyant despite the fact it’s 7:00 a.m. I suppose they slept well after their dancing session and whatever concoction Scarlett was passing around last night. They might as well have their fun before I hit them with the emergency plan for finishing the movie.
We only got 80 percent of the scenes done here, and that’s being generous. There’s not much scope for partying once we get back to LA. I’ll need to have an extra word with Scarlett on ramping up her performance. She should be a better role model for Mia.
The tents are packed and the equipment and rucksacks lie in a neat pile outside the island keeper’s shack. Rendezvous with the propeller plane is at 8:00 a.m.
“One last dip?” Jim is saying to Helen as I stomp past them, doing a headcount.
“I don’t like jellyfish,” she squeals.
“I’ll throw you in.”
There’s a lot of that going around, people letting off steam after the grueling two days. Fair enough. It doesn’t cost anything.
I find Rita at the water’s edge, gazing out to sea.
“You know, the light won’t be the same in Death Valley,” she says.
“That’s what filters are for.”
She sighs, and before she can suggest another island, or Florida, or any other damn place we can’t afford, I ask, “Where’s Mia?”
“Haven’t seen her,” Rita says.
Her rucksack is here, but I see no sign of her. She’s not gone for a dip. I understand if she wants to avoid me after yesterday, but I’d feel a lot happier if I could add her to my head count.
I apparently suck at playing the carefree producer, because Rita fixes me with a look and says, “She’s a sensible girl, Jack, don’t worry. She’s around. Ask Cara. They were talking this morning.”
Cara, who’s way down by the rocks picking up shells, says, “Oh, she went for a walk.”
“Do you know where?”
“I told her about the beautiful spot for bathing at the northernmost point. It’s a must-see. She might have gone there.”
I squint in that direction, but the northernmost point isn’t even visible from here. “OK, quite a hike. Just as long as she’s back in time. Look, there’s the plane now.”
Sure enough, the propeller plane with the yellow-striped wings is coming in to land on the strip half a mile in from the beach, its drone getting louder. “She’ll hear that and come running.”
Cara looks at her watch. “Well, she has time.”
I frown and check my own watch. “No, she doesn’t.”
“We’re not leaving till ten.”
My stomach lurches. “Ten? We leave at eight. In twenty minutes!”
Cara’s eyes widen. “Eight?” Oh, my goodness! I screwed up with my calendar and put it in a different time zone.”
“Call her,” I order. I don’t have Mia’s number.. If I did, I’d be yelling down the line right now, whereas Cara seems quite cool about this. Too fucking cool. I grab her phone.
She doesn’t protest as I hold it to my ear. It’s ringing. Then I hear a faint buzzing coming from the rucksack pile.
Fuck, Mia doesn’t have the phone on her. Probably saving battery for the trip, which is what I’d do.
“I could run and get her for you,” Cara offers.
“No, stay here. I’m faster. Shit.”
The north point is half an hour walking. If I run and grab her, we can be back in thirty minutes if we sprint for our lives.
“Tell the pilot, OK?”
“What if he doesn’t wait? You said yourself—”
“Cara, for God’s sake, make him wait. Bribe him if you have to. Any amount, got it?”
She nods solemnly. “Got it. Go, Jack!”
I thrust her phone back at her and take off, running faster than I’ve ever run on my treadmill.
I lose track of where I am relative to the north point. The island’s coastline repeats itself, cove after cove. At the back of my mind there’s this niggling worry that she’s drowned. I keep searching the waves just in case.
She’s not at the next cove or the next, and by now I’m feeling the first twinges of deeper anxiety. My lungs are bursting too. I slow to a jog. I take off my shoes and place them on a rock and start up again. Why did she go off alone? Why did Cara have to mention a beautiful place? It’s all the same freaking sand and water, isn’t it? What if Mia’s injured in some way and I have carry her back?
Wait…I see her—a dot on the beach, moving back and forth before a copse of trees. She’s on her feet, uninjured. Pottering about like an idiot. Unbelievable! I do a full arm wave. But she doesn’t seem to see. Her unhurried back and forth motion continues. Rooting myself in the sand I beckon to her with another full arm swoop. “Come on! Mia!” I’m shouting into the wind without any chance of her hearing.
I dash another stretch until I can make out her form better. It’s her all right, in her skimpy black bikini, her hair flying horizontally in the breeze. She’s not facing me, so she can’t see me.
She’s too engrossed collecting shells. What is it with women and shells? No way she’s going to see me before she hears me, so I run on. When I catch her, she’s going to fucking wish she’d never head of Aliens in Disguise or Aunt Rita or Hollywood.
She finally notices me when I’m all of ten feet way.
“Jack?”
“What in hell?” I gasp out, bending over to catch my breath in painful heaves. “The plane…is leaving. Now.”
Her face crumples in confusion.
“Leave the fucking shells,” I shout, making a move to snatch the large conch she’s holding, but she’s faster and pulls out of my reach. She shoots me a look of sheer venom and picks up her sandals.