by Sara Forbes
I leap up to go after him but stop at the front door. I’ve fallen for the death threat thing before. What good would it do if I had the money? He’d only rip through that, and on and on until every last cent is gone. He’ll clean me out same way my father cleaned out the joint savings with my mother.
I’d promised myself to reform my brother, not to enable him. Maybe what he needs is a dose of tough love because nothing else seems to be working.
The bottom stairwell door bangs. Felix refuses to take the elevator, as he doesn’t trust it, given that I’m on the seventeenth floor—something I didn’t do on purpose.
I do love my twin, and it hurts like hell to fight with him. I’ll call him back when he’s calmer. By then, he may have won back the half million himself. If not, I’ll take out a loan from a bank, if they let me. I’ll play up how successful Aliens in Distress is going to be at the box office, and, hopefully, some clerk will buy it.
***
BY THE NEXT morning, my need to see Mia is acute. I sent a text to her last night, which she replied to, and that’s been the only communication in twelve hours. Granted, ten of those hours I was in an exhausted sleep, dreaming of her.
I’m watching from my office window as staff enters the gateway three floors below. They’re rushing to be on time for my eight o’ clock meeting. Soon I’m treated to the sight of Mia’s head of honey-blond hair swishing in the sunlight like a shampoo commercial. I hotfoot it down to the ground floor.
I catch her just as she’s entering the main door. Her hair is blown out in luxurious waves, her eyes sparkle, picking up the green from her body-hugging leather jacket.
“You look to die for,” I mutter.
“Don’t exaggerate, Jack.” She doesn’t come closer. It’s as if we have to suddenly reinvent our body language around each other. I miss the carefreeness of the island. Her knuckles clutching the strap of her purse are white.
“Join me in my office?”
Her eyebrows hike up. “To fill in some insurance forms?”
“Something like that.” I make two steps toward her and slip my hand under the hem of her jacket. So much for reinventing body language; I want her now. She sighs into the space just under my chin and her gentle breath caressing my skin sends ripples of awareness all over my body.
We push and collide all the way up in the empty elevator. I kiss her, stopping only when the doors ping open. It’s torture to have to control myself. With our brutal production schedule, I’m not going to get enough chances to see her today. Not that there’s time now either. The meeting’s in eight minutes.
“It’s going to be different now,” I say, cradling her chin. “I mean, in the studio. Potentially awkward.”
She tosses her hair and levels her gaze on me. “Jack, it’s OK. We’re all adults. We don’t need to go sneaking around. Do we?”
“But we do need to be consistent in what we say about what happened on the island. And it has to be the version we both want.”
She inhales. “Yes.” There’s a glint in her eyes, as if she’s daring me to define our relationship. I rub the back of my neck. Heck if I know what to say. It’ll cramp her style to be seen as the director’s pet; she’s said as much herself. But I don’t know if she’s talked to anybody. I called Rita last night to get the status of the filming, but she skirted around the issue of what might have happened off-screen in the past few days.
Mia and I stare at each other for a full minute. Five minutes to go before the meeting and there’s so much we need to figure out.
“I suggest we tell them nothing,” I say.
“Probably for the best.”
“We’ll say we practiced the scenes and used the time to, uh, sleep.”
“Sleep.” She nods.
“It’s none of their business anyway.”
“None.”
“Did you tell your aunt. Anyone?”
“Only Annie.” She backs off and leans her butt against my desk.
Why is this suddenly awkward?
“So, we act like friendly colleagues toward each other. Can you do that?”
“I can be Miss Congeniality. You?” Her gaze drills into me.
“Uh, yeah, or the male version thereof. Let’s go.” I put my hand on the small of her back to guide her out. It’s probably the last I’m going to feel of her until late this evening, and it’s not nearly enough.
The second we enter the studio, it’s obvious from the knowing smiles and the oblique looks that rumors about us have been zipping around like fireworks. There’s enough material here to create Survival-2 and a spin-off mini-series.
I rattle off a censored version of the story to a few people but no one buys it. I’d probably lose all respect for them if they did.
In our favor, though, there’s zero photo evidence. Islas Las Aves was the one place on earth where we could have gotten away with what we did without paparazzi turning up in a bush. A win for Jack and Mia against Hollywood sleaze mill. Fist pump.
***
I CHECK MY WATCH. Five to eight. I’ve waited all day. We agreed we’d both sneak up here to my office at eight, me a few minutes before Mia. My knee is jiggling sixty miles an hour. I’m like a schoolboy waiting for his prom date, all bottled up horniness and nerves.
Get a grip.
Right on the hour, she struts in, pink-faced, carefree, and slumps onto my lap. I kiss her until she’s moaning and I’m rock hard under the weight of her ass. This is the best way of saying hello after a long day.
“One moment, I need to lock the door.” I ease her off me and go lock the door with a click that brings satisfaction to the deepest part of my soul. If only I could lock out the world for an entire week. Sinking my spine against the door, I watch her while I undo my tie, throw it in the corner, and unbutton my shirt. “Let’s get our date off to a proper start.”
She giggles, coyly strips out of her jeans and T-shirt and pads over the carpet tiles toward me, snuggling into my chest as if this were a routine we had every day after work. It feels so natural, unlike all the glitzy dates I’ve been on in the past, which were more about being seen together than actually seeing each other.
“This has been torture,” I say. “How’m I supposed to survive a whole week without you?”
“I thought you were an expert at survival.” With a wicked glint in her eyes, she tightens her grip around my neck and grinds her hips against mine. I lose control, sliding my hands over her collarbone, breasts, torso, and belly, making her hiss with pleasure as I caress her tender flesh. There are so many things I want to do with her, so many ways of making her gasp.
I twist her around by her hips, smooth my hand down her spine, and coax her to lean over and put her hands on my desk. She does, without hesitation. I come up behind her and nudge her feet farther apart. When she’s making the angle I want, I massage the curves of her ass and trace along the folds of her pussy, teasing her, feeling her reactions as I inch toward her sweet spot. She quivers and moans. It feels incredible. She’s getting ever nearer, almost crying for release even without me making contact with her clit. Her pulse is racing.
“I will give it to you,” I rasp, slowing my caresses.
“No—now.” She hikes her ass higher, not afraid to beg.
“Mia,” I say warningly, smoothing my hand down her spine. “Trust me.”
“Mmm,” she hums.
“Do you?”
“Y-yes.”
She squeals out in her terror of not fully believing it. And I find that so, so sexy because I can transform all her pent-up frustration into ecstasy. My grip tightens on her hips, and I move my sheathed cock to her opening. I begin my slow, targeted thrusting where my fingers had been, observing how she gasps each time and how her fingers claw at the table edge. I speed up when my own need begins to demand attention. The edges of my mind blur as I lose myself to the rhythm of our slapping bodies.
Just as I’m sure I can’t hold out any longer, she stiffens, arching away from me as sh
e orgasms. It’s glorious. She slumps backward into me, reaching up to drape her arms around my neck, her wild hair covering half her face, her cheeks lit up with a beatific smile. I pump once more into her in this position; my world shatters. Every sensation goes blank as I release everything into her. Staying behind her, I clasp her in my arms, enjoying her heated skin sinking into me like I’m her chair.
I don’t know how long we stand here, gasping and returning to normal, letting in the big, bad world again. For one moment, it felt like we were back on the island, alone, and sensations were the only things that mattered.
If only.
“Let’s go to my place,” I suggest as we seek out our discarded clothes around the office. One of my socks managed to fly into the wastepaper basket and her bra hangs enticingly from a lamp. If I had a choice, I’d just leave it there.
“Good plan.” As she clips on her bra, she’s looking down at my papers on my desk, where I’ve got a page full of calculations, penciled on the back of the script. “You working out a new theory of relativity?”
“Almost. The logistics of getting to Italy and back.”
“Oh yeah. That. Hope it goes well for you.”
“It’s just a week,” I say. “I hope your scenes here go well too.”
Why are we talking like robots? “And once I get back, I’m taking you on vacation.”
She’s gaping at me. Even I’m surprised at me.
“Uh, if you want, that is,” I add.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Sweetest words ever spoken. And the look she gives me tells me she’s not just saying them either.
“Maybe not to Islas Las Aves though. Or indeed any island smaller than Iceland.”
She laughs. “Yeah, let’s stick to the mainland this time.”
Mia roams around my apartment, exploring, while I cook up a messy chow mein. She ambles barefoot into the kitchen to watch me chop the pak choi and declares herself impressed by my chopping prowess and well-stocked cupboards.
“Yes, I have fifty spices, most of which have reached their best-before date,” I say, waving my knife at the rack of little jars. “I keep thinking I’m going to make it home in time to cook, but I always end up calling for delivery.”
“You don’t eat out in fancy restaurants?”
“I like to avoid publicity if I can help it.”
“I’m starting to understand that.”
“Yep.” I toss the pak choi into the wok. “Something you’ll have to get used to if you’re gonna be a star.”
She grins and twirls a sprig of parsley under my nose. “You think I’m gonna be a star?”
It’s one of those questions that’s impossible to answer but dangerous to not answer, and quickly, at that. “If you work hard, graduate from a decent school, I don’t see why not,” I say.
Her nose wrinkles. “I have to wait until graduation?”
“Yes. You do.”
“What if I get scooped up before then?”
I turn to face her. “Even then there are basics you need to know.”
“Which I can learn on the job.”
“Hollywood doesn’t work like that any longer and hasn’t since its golden age.”
“I got this far, didn’t I?” Her voice has a sharp edge. “I must have some talent.”
I regard her through the rising steam. “I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help,” she blurts, and I’m instantly reminded of her saying—no, shouting—that at me not so long ago. “Cara thinks I’m good. She said I’m as good as Scarlett!”
“Whoa.” I lower the temperature on the stir fry and turn around.
Her eyes are flashing. “Yeah, Jack, whoa. She did say that, you know.”
“Interesting.”
What business does Cara have filling her head with these notions?
Mia sniffs and shakes her head as if I’m just not getting it. And I’m not.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to fight. Not in general, and especially not when I’m leaving tomorrow.”
The hardness in her face melts. “God, I’m sorry too, Jack. It’s just…a lot, a lot to deal with all of a sudden. I don’t know where my mind is half the time.”
I pull her in for a kiss. “I know where my mind is. It’s with you. Let’s make this a night to remember, because it has to keep us going for a week.”
19
MIA
THE SET’S A WHOLE LOT quieter with Jack, Rita, and Scarlett away in Italy for the last four days. Aunt Rita’s deputy, a prematurely balding, mid-thirties guy called Gavin, has been directing our scenes in parallel. He’s OK, but he lacks my aunt’s creative passion. He makes it all seem like work.
Janet has been skulking around the set, dutifully playing her role as a background Revain alien but not engaging in any kind of chitchat with me. Which is understandable. I can’t put off dealing with this any longer.
So, on our first break of the day, I bring her a foamy latte from the café across the road as an olive branch. I still don’t mention I get them for free.
Part of me is expecting her to fling the hot liquid back at me, but she takes it from me wordlessly and sips it, giving a faint nod of approval.
“Look, I’m really sorry the way it all panned out.” I take a place beside her on the bench. We’re both in our costumes and can’t sit too close in case our appendages get entangled.
Janet regards me with her doleful, gray eyes. “That’s OK. Goddamn salmon pâté, never again. I felt so rotten, I really couldn’t imagine going to Islas Las Aves anyway. And I was paranoid about getting sunburned. My skin can’t take the sun.” She eyes me closely. “You got a good deal more freckles.”
“Yeah, hey, you’re taking this very well. I feel bad about taking your rightful place.”
She huffs out a breath. “Life’s too short. Anyway, it gave me time to study.” She pats a bundle of three or four books beside her, partially covered by her jacket. “I’ve my finals in September that I postponed twice to do this movie. Jeez, I’ll be glad when it’s all over—these four years have dragged on forever.”
“Hope it’s worth it,” I say doubtfully.
“Of course it is. I’d never have gotten to pre-selection for these things otherwise. Anyway, come October, I got a part in a TV series lined up that we’re hoping Netflix will snap up some day. I’m playing a bored suburban housewife who has an affair with a Russian spy.”
“That’s incredible.”
“What are you doing after this. Anything lined up?”
“I—well.” She’s got me there, I have nothing. No plan beyond getting my first juicy pay packet and seeing my name in lights when Aliens in Distress goes live. “A few things,” I squeak, “that I can’t talk about,”
She nods knowingly.
That conversation puts a damper on my day. I try to rise above it, but I can’t. Janet’s moving up. She’s got a plan. Annie’s working hard on her degree. Jack’s planning his next movie. So’s Aunt Rita. I don’t have a plan. I just assumed that one thing would organically lead to another. I mean, with Aliens in Distress to my credit, my résumé’s going to look a whole lot shinier. Two movies under my belt and I’m still fresh faced. But I don’t actually have a plan.
I try to re-capture the euphoric moment I had on the island when my future seemed so clear, so inevitable. What Jack said about attending drama school is true of course. There are gaps in my education, massive ones. I don’t know half the terminology these people casually throw about on a daily business, and when they start making references to older movies, directors, and actors, I’m often lost.
I do want to learn more, and I know that an established institution like drama school is the quickest and only accredited way to do it. But when I look at Janet, twenty-four and, frankly, jaded looking, all those books, all those years—I have to ask myself if going the experienced-based route won’t still work out better for me. I don’t want to closet myself in a learning institution for
four of the best years of my life, getting older and less employable every minute. I’ll be freaking twenty-five by the time I finish.
“Looks like you’re up again.” Janet points her cup to the set where Gavin is standing, hands on hips, waiting for me.
“Yeah.” I leap up and trot over there fast as my three-toed little lizard legs will carry me.
It’s another scene with Chase, a farewell scene where I basically give him my blessing to have his way with my sister, because I have better things to do, like saving the galaxy and shit.
My throat is tight; I did this exact scene with Jack, and the memories flood back of how we acted it out behind a sand dune, adding our own bits, including an elicit, passionate kiss at the end. Not that I want to do that with Chase. God no.
I miss Jack. So terribly. And it’s only been four days. It’s ridiculous.
Once the cameras start rolling, my melancholy fuels my every word in this scene. I’m really listening to John Carter this time, really reacting to his words and the sub-text of what he’s saying. I owe it to Jack to implement his lesson, so patiently taught. I owe it to myself, too.
We get the scene done in a miraculous single take.
Jim, lead cameraman, gives me a rare thumbs up and then goes off on his break.
“Good job,” Gavin says. “Rita will be happy. You’re all done for today. Feel free to de-alien yourself.”
I’m wiping off red makeup when Cara comes to me in wardrobe. She takes a seat beside me at the mirror and hands me a fresh towel.
“Nice work. You’ve been honing your technique.”
“Thanks.”
“No worse for wear after your ordeal on Las Aves, I see.”
I glance at her, but her face is expressionless. “Uh, no.”
She sidles her chair closer. “I hope Jack treated you well.”
“Uh, yeah. No problems.” At least with all this paint on, she won’t notice my face turning red.