by Harley Rayne
When I wake up again, I’m home.
It’s a shocking enough dichotomy, and I feel incredibly stupid to be here in the first place, but I’m having trouble putting a few of the pieces together.
Rob is here.
The thought is just shocking enough to me that I respond with a little noise, and a desperate attempt to push myself up. But I’m weak, incredibly so, so I lay back down. I’m in bed. Rob is in my house, and I’m in bed.
He’s got a cold, wet towel and he’s pressing it around my face. He’s almost sweet and delicate, like I’ve never seen him around me before. He’s almost like a friend now, or a boyfriend, and I’m too surprised to answer.
“Hey,” he says, when he notices that I’m blinking awake. “I figured you were a goner.” He looks concerned and relieved. My guess is that he’s considering the lawsuit that could occur because of this.
Even my voice sounds weak when I answer, “No, I’m right here.” My stomach is churning, and I’m trembling. Rob puts his hand behind my neck and urges me to sit up, propping up a few pillows underneath me. He holds up a Gatorade, guiding it to my lips, and I drink it as he tips. He’s more tender than I’ve ever seen him before.
“You went down pretty hard,” he says, gently. He pours a bit more of the blue liquid between my lips. “You didn’t hit your head or anything, so that’s good. When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”
I pause. It’s hard to say, and the last thing I want to do is sound ungrateful to the man who’s employed me and inspired me. But the truth is, I can’t remember. My lips part as I think, and I finally answer truthfully. “I don’t know. Yesterday morning… maybe the night before.”
Rob blinks a few times, and the shock registers. “Two nights ago? Seriously, you have got to take better care of yourself. Why didn’t you get something from craft services?”
I’m feeling chastised and stupid, and can feel pinpricks of tears threatening. “I was told to watch the camera.”
Rob hesitates at that. There’s a moment of realization. He clears his throat, gives me another sip, then puts the bottle on the bedside table. “You should have told me. I would have gotten you another protein bar or something.”
Now I’m really embarrassed. I look at him, and my eyes are watering, my face flushing. I’m horrified when I admit, “I’m allergic to peanuts.”
There’s a pause, a lingering silence, and finally Rob laughs. It’s a singular noise that pierces the room, and I wonder momentarily if he’s insane. “You’re what?”
“I’m allergic to peanuts, so I couldn’t eat the protein bar.”
“Oh my god.” But his expression is almost one of endearment, and he cups my face in his hand. I look at him, and wonder if it’s possible to actually drown in someone’s eyes. “Kid. You have to tell me these things. The movie is important, but my crew? They’re far more important. If you aren’t taking care of yourself, then there’s no movie. I need you.”
I want to tell him that I need him, too, more than he’ll ever know, but another question comes to mind. My eyebrows narrow, my face reading the confusion I don’t try to hide. “How did you know where I live?”
“I checked the contact sheets,” he answers, and his thumb rubs against my cheekbone.
So he does know my name. I’m somehow moved and shocked and terrified all at once, and I take in a shuddering breath. Already the sugar from the Gatorade is helping me regain myself a little.
Unexpectedly, Rob leans in, and presses his lips to my forehead.
It’s an innocent gesture, one of a caretaker, but I feel the small scrape of his stubble, and I realize that, no matter the careless crush I may develop on a porn star, there’s still this undeniable wanton desire for Rob. His lips feel like everything I’ve ever wanted and so much more.
“I got some rice and beans from craft services… I’m going to heat them up for you.” He speaks with his lips still against my skin, and I’m soon trembling again, harder this time. He draws back and smiles down at me, and his expression melts my heart completely.
“Okay…”
Rob leaves the bed, and I sink back against the pillows, the touch of his hand and lips still burning. I can see him through the accordion divider, hunting around for a plate in my cabinets, but I have different ideas, and very different needs.
Those needs result in a hand slipping underneath my sheets, and it’s subtle enough that I’m sure he doesn’t see. As I watch him, it’s easy enough to imagine that this is more than just his pitying a starved production assistant, and that this is normal life. Rob could very well be here; he fits in so nicely, as he finds what he’s looking for and plates up the food.
As he waits for the microwave to heat what he’s brought, I press my panties to the side. Considering that I’m only wearing a t-shirt and my panties, I come to the realization that Rob must have pulled me out of my pants. The thought causes a surge to go through me, and my fingers are immediately wet.
I simply stroke myself, teasing my sensitive folds with a few fingers, leaving me hungrier for him than I am for the food he’s heating up. He looks back towards me, and I see him through a slit in the divider, where he says, “I was really worried about you, you know.”
My arm strains as I plunge a finger inside of myself, mercifully guarded as I draw the thick black and white paisley duvet up to my shoulders with my free hand. I feel slick and tight to myself, aware that I’m doing something I shouldn’t, but delighted all the more by it. “That’s really nice of you.”
“It’s my job to make sure you’re taken care of. You’re one of my employees, and a damn good one.” He pulls the plate from the microwave, hunts around for a fork, and starts back towards me. I pull my finger from inside of me, and rest my hand on the mattress at my side instead.
When he makes it back to the bed and sits down on the edge of it, I sit up further and draw my arm out, like nothing happened.
He hands me the fork and asks, “You went to school for film?”
I take it, scoop up a bit of rice, and nod as I slip the prongs between my lips. It buys me time. Rob is asking me about my experience. Rob. And he seems genuinely interested.
“Where?”
I swallow before I have the strength to answer. “UC Berkeley.”
He lights up a little. “Shit. Good school. You do a final film project?”
I’m shaking all over again. If he’s going where I think he’s going, it will have been a culmination of dreams that I’ve had since I graduated and saw his first film. I’m dumbstruck as I answer somehow, “Yeah.”
“I’d love to see it.”
A chill passes over me, and I wet my lips, shoving a forkful of rice and beans between my lips. It’s hard to eat at the moment, my stomach wanting to reject everything, but I need the few moments of composure. “Um… yeah, yeah. It’s…” My mouth is full, and it comes out muffled, so I pause to chew and swallow. “It’s on my bookshelf. Lorraine.”
He rises instantly and heads over to the bookshelf beside of my bed. It’s all movies, except for the bottom row, which features books on filmmaking, and searches. When he finds the DVD, he plucks out the case and pops the disc.
“DVD player?”
I wish I could pass out again. I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle the experience of watching Rob watch my senior student film. “It’s just… low budget, and it’s kind of awkward…” I’m making excuses in advance, regardless of how proud I’d been of my film at the time, in case he thinks it sucks. “You know… student budget, borrowed equipment…”
“I know. Trust me, I’ve made my fair share.” He stoops down at the table that holds my television, my DVD player supported on a rickety stool, and begins the process of loading it in. He takes the remotes from the table and joins me in bed, and suddenly, I can think of nothing else.
He crawls onto it, so his back is pressed against my headboard and his shoulder is pressed against mine. He presses
play, and I wonder if there’s any way I can put my hand between my legs again without him noticing.
Rob reaches over the duvet and gives my leg a little pat of encouragement, turns and looks at me and says, “I’m sure it’s great,” before his attention is on the TV in front of him.
And me? I want to die. I want to die, so that this can be the last thing I remember: Rob in bed with me, after heating me up some food, watching a movie I’ve made. I couldn’t have dreamed up the scenario if I tried.
I let out a shuddery breath and sink down lower, setting the plate on my bedside table. And in a move I’m not sure comes from me, I lean, and my head finds Rob’s shoulder.
As if instinctual, his arm lifts and stretches, settling around my shoulders, the sounds of my movie playing in the background. I turn my head up slightly to catch his expression, and I notice that he’s smiling. Closed lips, sure, but the expression is there, and I’m suddenly completely happy for the first time since I took this beneath-me job.
Chapter Eleven: Brett
I’m drinking.
I don’t do it a lot, but when I do, I go hard. Melanie had a head start, so I invited her to grab a bite so I could catch up. After Kylie’s incident, the rest of the day was canceled. I’d tried calling her phone, but no one had answered. I’d wound up texting Rob.
Do you know if Kylie’s okay?
He’d given me an answer I hated.
I’m with her now. She’s fine.
With her now. Rob is with her now. I wonder, as I push salmon around my plate, if he’s already made a move or not. It would be fucking typical of a director like him to put the moves on a PA. And Kylie has it bad enough for him that she just might agree to do it.
Melanie is eating a salad -- of course she is -- and working down a vodka cranberry. I want to tell her not to mix her liquors, but I doubt she’d listen to me anyway and I’m not her fucking dad.
I haven’t been really listening to her up until this point, so when she asks me a question, I lift my brows along with my Johnny Walker Black Label, neat. “Sorry, what?”
Melanie is gorgeous. Her dark skin is flawless, and she always smells like vanilla. She keeps her hair natural and long, framing her face in coarse black curls. When I grabbed it earlier, stroked it back to kiss her for our scene, it gave under my fingers, and I’d lingered there. It’s an organic beauty.
“I was asking what it was like to be with Hanna Havana.”
Melanie is bi, and admitted very early to watching my porn, not for me, but for my costars. But the alcohol is opening her up even more, and making her curious. I’m thankful for the distraction. Just in case Kylie calls me back, I keep my phone out and face up on the table.
“She’s okay.” My salmon has too much salt on it. I cut off the top of it entirely, pushing the offending seasoning to the side of my plate.
“What about Lucy Rotten?”
I shake my head as I take another swallow of scotch and motion to the waitress, pointing down at it. I’m going to need more, and soon. “Good. She’s good.”
Melanie sighs and finally levels with me. “I’m freaked out here, Brett. Come on, you’ve got to give me something. Today got my nerves all fucked up.”
I’m not immune to her pleas. Not really. I’ve seen worse shit on porn sets before than someone passing out, but after worrying about the intensity of a scene and dousing it with four shots of whiskey? I don’t blame her for feeling the pains.
“Okay. You’re right.” I let out a slow breath and smile, trying to give her my attention. I finish off the scotch and trade it for the fresh one our waitress drops by. “Lucy was wild. Really into the S&M thing. Which was great for Kinked Up, because I was down for it.”
“You’re down for anything though.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A hopeful statement, but she’s trying to build up stories to get off to later. I’ve seen this kind of thing a million times.
“Almost anything. I’ve got my limits, but everyone’s got to have a line drawn somewhere.”
She stabs some lettuce and studies it before she asks, “And Hanna?” She pushes the fork into her mouth and looks at me again, but my thoughts are elsewhere once more. I tap my phone to make it light up in case I’ve missed a call or text under the thumping of Blue Oyster Cult in this pub. Nothing.
My head is getting fuzzy and my chest warm from the scotch, but it doesn’t seem to do anything to quell that feeling inside of me that is begging for Kylie to call, or for Rob to tell me that he’s home and not with her anymore. I think about calling her again, but I’m already feeling desperate and helpless. The last thing I need to do is show it.
Melanie notices, though, and uses her straw to push around the ice in her glass. “Who’s the girl?”
“No one,” I mutter under my breath, as though that will make any real difference in hiding what I’m feeling. I’m as bare-ass naked as fucking baby here. I’ve never been a good enough actor to hide my emotions; there’s only adding onto them and hoping it works for the scene. Luckily, in porn, there’s usually just one steadfast emotion: horny.
Melanie knows she’s hit the nail on the head because she gets excited and shifts forward in her seat, grabbing my phone. I watch her with bemusement as she lights it up and slides the image over to the unlock screen. “What’s your passcode?”
“Guess.”
“No, seriously, what is it?”
“No, seriously, I’m not telling you my passcode.”
She pulls out her own phone, opens up a search engine, and types something in. My picture shows up on the screen and I add, “It’s not my birthday.”
“Shhhh.” She types it in anyway, and it gives her an error message. She’s just starting to pout when it sounds with a beep, and she leaps to life again, squealing. “It’s from Kylie. She’s the one who passed out today, right?”
I betray myself completely. In an instant, I’m out of my chair, leaning forward. I snatch the phone from her hand before she can react. Her mouth drops open and she scoffs once in mock offense.
“Rude,” she says. “Never come between a man and his girlfriend.”
“She’s not my...” I mumble, and unlock my phone with my thumbprint -- God forbid she see my actual password.
The text is longer than I expect.
Thanks for your message & for explaining you got my number for the contact sheet. Would have been weird. :) I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a few days. Maybe tomorrow depending on how I feel. I can’t stay away for too long. I had a little to eat and it helped, and I’ve been downing Gatorade. Electrolytes for the win! Means a lot that you reached out. Thank you again.
I write her back immediately.
Glad you’re feeling better. I heard Rob took good care of you.
My thumbs are poised over the keypad as I see a bubble pop up, indicating she’s typing. I’ve never been this anxious for a response before. A couple of seconds later, she sends me back a text.
Yeah, he’s still over so I better go. Just wanted you to know I was okay. Thanks again, BB, and I’ll see you on set.
I’m stuck somewhere among amusement from the nickname, relief that she’s okay, and complete and utter jealousy that he’s there when I’m not. I consider my response for a few long moments, before I finally type in my response.
It’s BS, unfortunately. Brett Steinberg. Buckhurst is the street I grew up on.
Melanie is ordering another vodka cranberry when Kylie responds.
Oh my god. You’re an actual porn archetype.
I shoot back a text, almost immediately.
Get some rest, beautiful. You deserve it.
I lock my phone and stuff it into my pocket so I’m not tempted to look at it again. I’m a grown fucking man, and I’m better than petty jealousy and stupid text messages.
I fully turn my attention to the woman in front of me, and I smile. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
Chapter Twelv
e: Brett
Melanie is completely fucking trashed. I had to carry her bag and her shoes out to the Uber, and halfway carry her. She somehow manages to type her address into the app, and we’re off. I’m not always one for chivalry, but I need to make sure this woman gets home safely.
Except once we’re in the backseat, she’s all over me.
I’m tipsy, but she’s hammered. My reflexes are slow, but hers are reemerging at that golden hour of inebriation. “Whassit like?” she’s slurring, and her hand is suddenly at my thigh.
“Dunno,” I say, not caring what she’s talking about. I pluck her hand from my leg, give it a quick kiss to still her, and put it back on her side of the car.
The driver is catching glances from his rearview mirror. I can tell he recognizes me. I keep my eyes on his through the mirror, like one animal challenging another, and he finally looks away.
Melanie scoots closer and lays her head against my shoulder, looking up at me. She pushes my hair back and her fingers stay in it, twirling.
“Yessyoo do. Mmtalking ‘bout… fucking… like, fucking cameras.” She giggles. “Onnit. Like, on cameras.”
My shoulders stiffen and I sit up a little higher, trying to make it uncomfortable for her without an outright refusal. “It’s like acting. You do it every day.”
“Yeah…” Our driver weaves and dodges through traffic and the swerve of it sends her forehead into my neck. She leaves it there. “Sounsfun.”
“It’s a blast. Here.” I press her upper arm so she’s forced to sit up. “Up.”
“You… you wanna kiss me?” Melanie rubs her eyes, and though she still smells like vanilla, there’s a distinct vodka aroma that permeates her breath. No. I don’t want to kiss her.
“I’ve already kissed you,” I say, and cross my arms tightly, turning towards the window to block her from me completely. “On set today.”