Double Take: A Leading Man Romance

by Harley Rayne

  Double Take

  (A Money Man Romance)

  By Harley Rayne

  Copyright 2016 © Enamored Ink

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  Chapter One: Kylie

  I’m watching the camera.

  It’s the worst part of my job, and it strikes me as completely stupid. I’m sitting on the kitchen island with the thing - an Arri Alexa high definition camera with a Zeiss Standard Speed lens package - propped up on its rig in front of me.

  Everyone else has gone to lunch and I’m stuck here, my stomach growling, a protein bar that I can’t eat on the island beside of me. I don’t want to be picky about it (it was frankly nice as hell for Rob to give me anything at all) but I’m allergic to peanuts, and I’m not sure anyone would call an ambulance anyway; it’s not like we have an impressive budget.

  Craft services is set up in the living room on some shabby fold-out tables, and I can smell the catering from here. It’s from some cheap-ass, pseudo-Mexican place, but I’ve never wanted terrible food more.

  As if to add insult to injury, Rob saunters in, taco pinched in his fingers, as he shovels a bite between his lips. “You want me to grab you something?” It’s an empty offer, and we both know it.

  Rob is the director, and he’s a visionary. At a mere thirty years old, he’s already had a film at Sundance, scattered with acclaim. He’s the reason I wanted to work on this film in the first place. He’s the reason I accepted a production assistant job when I have a bachelor’s degree in film studies. I had to start somewhere.

  And this movie is art. It’s a cast of two, with this veritable mansion as the only set. It’s risky, but so is Rob, as an artist.

  The thing is, Rob is also impressively hot, and I find that I can’t ever get up the balls to say no to him. Except when I’m politely declining an offer that would garner half a gram of effort from him. “I’m good,” I hear myself say, and I tap the protein bar as if I’m making an excuse for myself.

  Rob takes down the rest of the taco in a bite and sucks the residual salsa from his thumb. I find myself staring at his lips as he does, wondering how much trouble he goes to in the morning in order to get that perfect devil may care sweep of stubble. I wonder, for the millionth time, what it would feel like between my legs.

  I realize, as he nods, distracted already, that he’s probably not the kind of guy who’s interested in foreplay of any kind, but fantasies are just that… fantasies.

  “Good, good.” He’s parroting my words as he glances around, unconsciously showing off his perfect fucking bone structure. He’s slim, but toned. He’s wearing a leather jacket, even though it’s spring. His hair is cut boyish and short, but it’s slightly greasy. He’s a perfect example of someone who looks like he’s simultaneously trying too hard and too little at the same time.

  It’s the analogy for the whole fucking film.

  “Brett been through here?” He looks at me again, and his eyes are so blue I think I’ve forgotten my own name.

  Somehow, I find myself enough to answer, “Nope. Sorry. I’d have watched the porn star, but I was too busy watching the camera.”

  Rob laughs, and it’s a deep, robust sound. “Right. Well, keep up the good work, kid.” He taps my knee before he leaves, and I can feel the movement shoot through me, like a shot of cold water hitting me from the inside out. I came into this film clueless of how star-struck I would be around our director, but even more haplessly unprepared as to his casting choices. He wanted to reach a new demographic, or bridge some gap, or make statements, or some other bullshit, but I don’t need to reserve judgment to know that porn stars are terrible actors, and Brett Buckhurst is nothing but a gorgeous face with questionable morals and an unfortunately well-known name.

  When Rob leaves the room, I’m listless again. The backs of my feet beat against the island, my hand rubbing over the place on my knee he’d touched. I’m aware that I’m aroused, but if I don’t have time to grab a plate of nachos, there’s no way in hell I’ll be given time to get off.

  I hear Rob’s irritated voice from the hallway. He’s pacing; his voice keeps getting closer, then further, then back again. “I don’t give a shit if he’s in the trailer. We’re making a fucking movie. Jesus Christ, I don’t care if he’s got a… he could have a fucking llama in there for all I give a shit. Go in there, and tell him we need him on set in five.”

  If you’re early, Rob had told the cast and crew on the first day, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re late, you’re fired. And I have to hand it to him: he’s the living incarnation of those words. The first to arrive to set, and the last to leave.

  His heavy steps carry him back into the kitchen where his flushed impatience has brought color to his cheeks. I have a flash of an image of him crushing his querulous lips to mine until I’m weak, his calloused fingers tugging my hair until I melt underneath them. He comes at me quickly, and I almost think it’s going to happen, but he clutches my arm instead.

  “Hey, go grab Brett from his trailer for me.”

  “I have to watch the camera,” I say dumbly, and I hate myself for it.

  Rob’s lips press together tightly, almost pursed, but he nods. “It’ll live for a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, okay.” My mouth is dry when I say it, a mix between fervent need and fight or flight.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  As he retreats, I realize that even after a week of twelve-hour days, he still has no idea what the hell my name is.

  Chapter Two: Brett

  The woman underneath me is absolutely smoking. I’ve already forgotten her name, but then again, she’d muddled through it in the first place. I wanted to fuck her the moment I saw her, and though I don’t want to live up to the expectation I’m sure the whole goddamn cast and crew has of me, a few unalienable things are true.

  First of all, I’m hot.

  I have to be. My entire career up until now has hinged on that fact. I live on a diet of protein and vegetables, spend hours in the gym every day, and I have a close, personal relationship with a cosmetologist.

  Second of all, I like to fuck.

  During an interview at the last AVN Awards, someone asked if I ever got tired of fucking off camera. I’ve never met a pussy I didn’t like, had been my answer, and the soundbite went viral. Yes, I have a reputation. And I’m okay with that.

  But fucking on camera is becoming a chore. I hate to sound ungrateful, but there isn’t an easy way to say it. I’m contractually obligated for the next three years with Kinked Up, but I’m ready to move on. It took some heavy charming to convince my agent Lori to agree to let me find a mainstream role, but she gave in.

  She always gives in. I’ve caught her in the office getting off to one of my movies. Her motivations aren’t hard to follow.

  The hot redhead under me right now had folded with one smile, but she’s even more gorgeous when she’s splayed over the couch in my trailer. Her ass is on the arm of it, her back arched so her body is bent backwards, and I’ve got my hands on her thighs, clenching them around my hips.

  She’s taking my cock like she’s dreamed about it for years. Her eyebrows are knit, her lips are parted, and she’s panting… but she’s otherwise silent. I reach down and thumb her clit, flicking it, and she gasps.

  “Moan, baby,” I growl, and she looks momentarily horrified.

  Her voice is in a whisper when she states the obvious. “They might hear.”

  “I don’t give a fuck.” I hear the slap of skin as I pick up my pace and angle my hips upwards.

  She finally responds how I want. Her eyes are on min
e as she lets out a cry, as though she’s been holding it back this whole time. I feel her pussy clench, responding to the deeper intrusion, and I reward her by groaning, “Fuck, yeah… like that, baby.”

  She’s found her voice now and she uses it with sharp whines, and a request of her own. “Harder… deeper…”

  I pull out of her and in one quick motion, I use my grip on her thighs to flip her over so she’s bent over the arm of the couch. Before she’s had a moment to adjust, I’m back inside of her, pounding into her, and she whimpers, helpless.

  I reach forward and fist her hair, yanking it, and she arches against me. Again, I feel her body respond before her voice does. Her thighs are weak; they’re trembling now that my hands are at her hips instead of around them. She’s close.

  I urge her closer with, “Fucking let go, baby, come on.”

  She shrieks, but it takes me a moment to realize it’s not at my ministrations. It’s at the knock on my trailer door, loud and intrusive.

  I respond with a bark of, “What?” but my pace doesn’t slow.

  Red Hot responds by reaching behind her, pressing at my abs to stop me. I obey, and my hips still.

  The voice behind the door is almost annoyed. She doesn’t want to be there. She probably lost a coin toss. “Um… Rob wants you on set in, like… soon.”

  “Yeah, I got it!”

  There’s a pause that feels longer than it actually is, and she responds, “Yeah, okay.”

  Redhead suspends her breath, but she lets it out when she’s sure the other woman is gone. I can already tell she’s done. I give her the option. “You wanna keep going? Or ya wanna stop? It’s up to you.” My hand smoothes over her ass, relishing it for a few moments.

  “Um…” She starts to shift her body, so I step back to give her the space. “I just… sorry, I…”

  “Hey.” I ease out of her slowly, knowing she’s sensitive, and offer her a hand, which she takes, helping herself up. I smile, my palm slipping to the side of her face. “Don’t ever apologize for that shit. You don’t want it anymore, it’s fine.” I seal the comment with a kiss, and she grins against it.

  “Maybe later,” she tries, but by the way she says it, I doubt she’ll ask me for a repeat. The fantasy is over.

  “Just let me know.”

  I scoop her maxi-dress from the back of the couch and hold it out for her with one hand, rolling off the condom with the other. She redresses, looking incredibly bashful, and it almost makes her sweet. “I’ll see you on set?” Her voice is hopeful.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Red Hot scurries out and I hunt for my wardrobe, tugging on the torn jeans and t-shirt as soon as I find them on the floor. I’m sweat-soaked and flushed, but I’m sure the whole set has heard the details by now, so I don’t put much stock in it. I do take the time to wash red lipstick from the coarse hair at my jaw, and run a brush through my hair. Red Hot had groped it with so much fervor that it’s knotted -- though the sweat doesn’t help -- and I’ve only got a few minutes to spare as I finally emerge from my trailer.

  It seems my interloper has been sent to babysit me; she’s there the moment my door is open. I recognize her from set, but she’s mostly running errands. Kylie. That was her name. She brought me coffee one morning. “I guess I’m late, huh?”

  I try to make her crack a grin by providing one of my own, but she’s not having it. She’s all business, and her hard corners are irrefutable. “You smell like perfume,” she says, and I look down as though I can catch a glimpse of it.

  “Thanks.”

  “And sex.”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t know if she expected me to own up to it so quickly, because she looks momentarily surprised. But she recedes a little, pressing her thick-rimmed glasses up a little in a gesture that has become a habit to buy her time.

  “Great, well.” She pauses, and after a moment adds, “You missed lunch, “ as if it was a punishment instead of a decision.

  I find myself nodding, amused. “I ate.”

  She scoffs at that and then with a seemingly instinctive reaction says, “Fucking gross.” I feel triumphant. I start back to set with her at my heels, and I can’t help but wonder what her mouth tastes like.

  Chapter Three: Kylie

  Brett is the fucking worst.

  He smells like Karen, the redheaded production designer, and as I follow him to set, I realize he probably didn’t even take a shower. Not only that, but his shoulder-length hair is sweaty and matted, and I know exactly why.

  It’s disgusting, but more than that, it’s unprofessional. He’s working. This isn’t a brothel, it’s a film set. And I’m shocked at how cavalier he is about this entire thing. It’s like it’s a joke to him, and I can’t help but hate him for that. I studied for four years on technique, on lenses, on cameras, on storyboarding, and he screws the first redhead on set. Typical. Seriously typical.

  My glasses fog from the temperature change once we’re back inside the house, and I take them off to clean them on the edge of my shirt. He’s back on set with a minute to spare. At least I did my job.

  Karen comes up to me with a wary look and levies an accusation. “I told you to stay with the camera.”

  “Rob told me to get the talent, Karen.”

  Brett is a few feet ahead of me, and snaps his finger once as though he’s realizing something. We both look at him, but he simply gives Karen a half-smile and steals away, presumably to find Rob.

  Karen melts on the spot. She’s as smug as he is.

  It’s predictable, really. She’s one of several women on set who have bowed to the altar of Brett Buckhurst, some of them literally, and there’s no telling how many people he’ll plow through by the time filming is done.

  To be fair, it’s been a week so far and Karen is the first incident, but now he’s on a roll. It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure.

  I hear the rigger, Nate, and the director of photography, Keith, merrily declare, Heyyy! from the room next to us, and I can only imagine that Brett is being greeted for his conquest. He’s playing into this “bad boy” narrative they have of him. If he wanted to dilute the public’s image of him, he’s failing. Part of me is glad to hear him crash and burn.

  Karen gives me a job taking coffee orders, and I bite my tongue as I write hers down. Flat white, two packets of Splenda. I head to the next room reluctantly where our lead actress has the makeup artist hovering around her. Brett waits his turn. He’s being pressed for details. How was it? You nailed her, right? Carpet match the drapes?

  But oddly enough, he doesn’t answer the questions. I’m surprised when he turns to them, an edge in his tone, and says, “Guys, I’m working.” I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to shut them down with dignity.

  I linger in the doorway to watch the exchange, assuming that my position is unseen. Most of the cast and crew don’t notice me unless I’m delivering caffeine, and even then, it’s questionable.

  Keith leans in further. “Got it, man. We’ll talk later.”

  “No.” Brett seems firmer this time. He’s warning them. “If you’re so curious about how I fuck, I’ll sign a DVD and send it to you.”

  To be honest, I’m impressed. He doesn’t have to defend Karen’s honor. She probably wouldn’t want him to in the first place. I make my entrance to infiltrate the tension in the room with a single word. “Coffee?”

  Our actress is a green tea, sweetened. Keith and Nate lick their wounds and turn me down. It’s Brett who surprises me. “No, I’m good, Kylie.”

  The worst person on set, the one with the loosest morals, and the only one who knows my name. I fumble with my pen a little. He’s thrown me. I forgive myself for being surprised; it’s probably some Jedi mind trick he learned in the business. Know all the women. Screw them when you need something.

  But he smiles, and it’s almost charming, as he adds, “Thanks for making sure I was on time.”

  “It take
s a village,” I hear myself say, and I’m already questioning what the hell I mean by that, other than spouting out random sayings to make myself seem witty. I’m idiotic at the moment, and my cheeks are burning red, so I leave quickly to hunt down the rest of the crew.

  I find Rob in one of the bedrooms and I find my footing again. He’s alone, pacing the length of it, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. I’m pretty sure a stampede could come through the room and Rob wouldn’t flinch at all.

  But he notices me. Somehow, within all of his reverie, he notices me. My heart skips a beat. I’m not sure how, because he doesn’t even look up, but he does reach back and wave his hand as though he’s beckoning me over. “Hey, kid, come here for a second.”

  I’m clutching a notepad with a dozen coffee orders on it, but his voice could find me in a minefield. I go, thumb rubbing over what I’ve written, suddenly nervous. I say nothing. I’m afraid to interrupt his creative flow.

  He turns his head towards me a little without actually making eye contact, as though he’s trying to be polite but too far into his own thoughts to actually follow through on it. “Get on the bed.”

  I freeze. My face blanches. My pussy gives a single throb. “Sorry?”

  “Get on the bed. I need to see something.”

  My eyes dart to the door quickly, then back to the bed, as I’m given the impression that no one says no to him. I’m not going to be the first. He has a process. I’m the one, at the moment, who can help him. I click my pen closed as I crawl onto the bed and look back at him awkwardly. I’m no model, definitely no porn star, and I don’t know how to present myself. “Like this?”

  Rob is taking me in, his eyes swallowing my body, but he’s seeing me through a keen director’s gaze. I’m aware of this. It does nothing to quell the need inside of me.

  “Up a little higher, on your back, but push up on your elbows.”

  I crawl as he directs, the mandala designs on the duvet giving way under my palms and knees. I try to move slowly, even try to throw in a little sensual flare as I make my limbs elongate like a leopard, but my commitment to holding onto the pen and the notepad prevent any real sexiness. I roll over as he directs, pushing up on my elbows, and I watch him for signs that I’m doing the right thing.