Off Screen

by Josephine Traynor

  It kills me that someone found out my secret. There’s always been that small part of me that fears I might have matched them up. Kit assures me that he doesn’t have romantic feelings for her but says she’s a nice person. That is, until I’m mentioned. Fearing he was going to Hell for his part of the shitty game, he thought he’d repent by taking her on another date when she asked. Assuring me he was a perfect gentleman, he said he did everything to try to let her down gently. It would seem, with Riley’s texts, the message is not getting through. Riley has never struck me as the kind of girl you said no to.

  “It’s been nearly a month. I thought she was getting the hint when I evaded her requests to catch up three times, saying I had plans. Now it’s just cruel. We have to stop this,” he says.

  Part of me doesn’t want to lose this connection with her. Kit has been very forthcoming with information about Riley, and I’d never been able to find out those details on my own. I’ve grabbed any little kernel of knowledge about her and committed it to memory. She loves horse riding but doesn’t get to do it nearly enough due to shooting obligations. She really wants to act in the theatre. She’s been trying to find a loophole to get out of her contract with me and she’s the president of the Harrison Harvey Hate fan club. I’d been wondering why that page was able to get so much insight. Her favourite perfume is vanilla, and it does smell heavenly on her. Her agent, Lydia, hates my agent, Dominic, with a passion. There are times when I hate him, too.

  A loud bang at my dressing room door brings my attention back to the present, and I ask Kit for just a little more time.

  “No. I’m breaking it off. It’s not right to leave her thinking that I have feelings for her in return.”

  Reaching for the door, I look into the hallway to see the back of her. She flips me off before reaching the exit door. The things I’d like to do to that finger.

  “Uh-oh,” Dominic says. “Just got a message from the network head. You have a meeting with him.”

  “See when it’s scheduled for and if I can fit him in.”

  “Now. They are calling you to the office right now. Seems they got wind of what’s happened here this afternoon.”

  Shit. This isn’t going to be good.

  Three

  Riley

  Flipping him off gave me such an unhealthy satisfaction. It helps heal the hurt that I’ll never get a kiss like that first one. I’m surprised my nose doesn’t grow every time I say he’s a shit kisser. His kisses make me weak at the knees. I’m about to open the door to my car when Lydia calls me. I’m tempted to let it ring out, but she might have an update about a new job.

  “Riley. Where are you?” Lydia rushes out. “We have a meeting with the big boss.”

  “In the car park. Is the meeting now? Where are you?”

  “It’s a meeting regarding you and Harrison. I’m already here. You have five minutes to get here.”

  We must have been thinking the same thing, because we spoke the same words at the same time. “We need to get there first.”

  The door to our stage shuts with a bang, and there stands Harrison in all his six-foot gloriousness. Even though his eyes are covered by his dark sunglasses, I sense his gaze on me. I feel like I’m stuck in space, and he steps slowly in my direction. Damn his sexy swagger. I feel shit about myself yet again, and he stops and points his keys at his car.

  The Porsche. So pretentious. My little Toyota pales in comparison parked next to it. My car makes a pathetic beeping sound as I unlock it. I look back to him—he’s still staring at me.

  He lifts his glasses, and his narrowed eyes tell me he knows about the meeting. It’s radiating off him. We are at an impasse. I’m waiting for him to make the first move, even though I want to beat him.

  We hold the standoff until someone comes out of the stage door, and the sound of it shutting hard echoes like a gunshot to propel us into action.

  Harrison lunges for the handle on his car and scrambles to get inside. The cool, composed Harrison is gone, only to be replaced by the desperate and competitive Harrison. I don’t look back while I do the same. My butt hits the seat, and my feet are on the pedals when I slide the key into the ignition. Foregoing my seatbelt, I just want to get ahead of him. Just need to get to the gate first. There’s nowhere on the lot to get around another car, so if you get stuck behind, that’s where you stay. My plan is faultless until I turn the key and nothing happens. I turn it again, and the engine doesn’t even groan, and Harrison peels out of his space. First again.

  Shit. Shit. Shit, I curse as I abandon the car and set off on foot through the lot. There are about fifteen sound stages where other shows are filmed. We film in stage fifteen. I need to get past number one. The joke being that Harrison and I bicker so much that they put the brats as far away from the studio as possible. I normally go for a ten-kilometre run, but even sprinting, I can’t outrun Harrison’s Porsche. The only thing on my side is that all cars are directed out of the lot for the safety of the staff.

  As if the gods are shining on me, a golf buggy is stationed outside sound stage number thirteen. I pick up the pace, and my bag jingles as I run towards the buggy. I send a breathless prayer to have the keys in there and give a fist pump when I turn the key to bring it to life. I careen through the lot—what I wouldn’t give for a horn. Dodging other buggies and people, I call out like a madwoman. My trip would be faster if it weren’t for the damned speed humps. They do their purpose. Hit one of those too hard, and I’ll become airborne. These buggies are good for getting from A to B, but they are seriously lacking in safety features. My long hair whips in my face and, at times, I struggle to have clear vision, hence the shrieking for people to look out. Thank God I only have to go in a straight line. Carts like this can’t handle any turning at speed. Lydia and I may have been racing through the lot one day to find that out.

  The last speed hump is coming up, and I know there’s space to keep two wheels on the ground and I hope my weight will anchor the buggy. Committing my speed, I hold on, and just as the tyre hits the speed hump, the cart lifts abruptly, causing the roof to touch the building I’m trying to get past. As if giving the cart a shove, I let out a gasp when all four tyres retouch the ground.

  The low rumble of the Porsche sounds closer, and I glance to the right. A red streak is hurtling down the road like a freight train. I know I can make it. I just have to get across first to be ahead of him. If he cuts me off, I know his long legs will get him up and in the building before I can even get out of the cart. My foot is on the floor. I’m maxed out and I know Harrison is not going the speed limit of twenty an hour. I know I can beat him. I have to. I’m taking a stupid gamble just to prove a point.

  I lean forward in the seat like it will make a difference. This is no getaway car, and he’s no train, but that’s what it feels like. I clear the small dip, and my butt actually leaves the seat. Taking my attention off the road ahead of me could be my end, so I keep my gaze fixed and I hear his car bearing down on me. Tapping my foot on the brake, I take a bigger risk by letting one hand off the wheel to feel for my bag and make sure it’s secured close to my body as I take a leap. I manage to clear the cart that continues to make its way to the bushes ahead. I take the stairs two at a time and pump my arms to keep the forward motion. The only thing I can hear is my own steps matching with his. Shit. All that epicness overshadowed by his long legs.

  “Gotta be faster than that, Riley,” he says, and I feel him looming behind me.

  I lunge for the door just as he gets a hand on it and I notice how dirty his hands are and I get the waft of grease. That’s why my car wouldn’t start.

  I yank on the door, and it catches his foot and slams shut. I yank on the door again and hope that it hits him, but it doesn’t. He’s moved. I don’t even realise my elbow has shot out to block him when I push myself through the door first. I’m almost through when his arms snakes around my middle and I’m airborne. The room spins, and I’m back outside. He sets me down, and I twist and g
rab hold of the bag off his shoulder. He makes no effort to stop me from taking it, and I toss it with all my might towards the bushes being pushed down by the golf cart that seems to be locked into ‘go’ mode.

  “You won’t want to get rid of that bag,” he says, pressing his back to the door I’m prepared to scratch his eyes out to get through. “Your spark plugs are in there.”

  He takes that split second that I’m stunned into silence to slip inside, and that’s when I hear it.

  The lock.

  He’s locked me out.

  Beaming as he waves through the glass, Harrison turns his back on me to talk to the receptionist who preens herself on his approach. He is not lacking for attention. It makes me feel sick to my stomach when I see a girl hanging off him. He catches me staring, and I only hope he doesn’t see that I wish it was me on his arm. Harrison is deep in conversation with the receptionist when I knock on the glass. Harrison doesn’t even bother to turn around while the receptionist balks when she sees me. I give her my best ‘come and open the fucking door’ glare I can manage, watching as Harrison waves her away and struts on over. We maintain each other’s stare, and I know I will not be the one to look away first. He stops before me, and my body betrays me. God damn, he’s sexy. The jeans, the white shirt. The sunglasses hanging from his lip. The shaggy, wild, windblown sandy-blond hair. He’s my walking nightmare.

  “Open the door.”

  He leans forward and cups his ear. “Go blow your whore?” He pulls back abruptly, acting like he misheard me.

  “You heard me.”

  The fingers I love to feel running through my hair unlock the door, and he pushes it open.

  “What? No ding-dong, gutter-mouth calling?”

  My shoulder manages to connect with his wall-like body as I shove past him, and I’m thankful for keeping my gasp of pain silent. Crossing the floor, I don’t even give the receptionist another glance as I head to the elevator. Holding down the button until the doors open, I turn abruptly to press it again to close the doors. They are just about shut when a hand shoots through and pushes them open. Sweet Fanny Adams, one day I’m going to kill him.

  He comes in and sidles up against the back wall, and just as I’m reaching for the button to close the doors, Mr Dixon, the producer of Restless Times, joins us. Even though we bring the worst out in each other, we know when it’s time to be professional.

  “Hello, Mr Dixon,” I say, and the door seals us all in.

  We only have to go two levels, but in that time, a stench like nothing else manages to fill the space. I glance back to see a very uncomfortable Mr Dixon making a face at Harrison who is sharing the joke with him.

  “Have you been eating dairy again?” Harrison asks me.

  That fucker has dropped his guts, and I’m getting the blame for it.

  “You know how you react to dairy,” he says.

  “That was not me,” I seethe. “That was not me, Mr Dixon.”

  His beet-red face has me also gagging to hold my breath. I take it back. I’m the one who knows how to be professional. Dirty bastard. The doors open, and Mr Dixon doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s gasping for fresh air.

  “You really are a bastard,” I say.

  “So you keep telling me.”

  Leaving him behind, I make my way to the boardroom where I see Lydia, Dominic, Allan, the show’s producers, and Mr Dixon I can overhear saying “Keep the diary away from her.” Beside him is a woman I’ve never seen before, and she’s watching me like a hawk while her pen scratches on the pad before her.

  I take a seat next to Lydia, who’s sitting directly opposite Dominic while I’ll be opposite Harrison. Fitting. He just goes against any suggestion I make out of spite. Speaking of the devil, Harrison pushes the door open and bungs on his ‘good boy’ act.

  “Sorry I’m late, everyone. Got held up outside for a bit. Can I get anyone a drink?”

  Oh bleurgh. The guy could be a con artist. He’s got this arse suck act down pat. The only issue is Dixon’s falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. Or should I say, stinker with his dirty butt burps.

  The woman’s writing has moved from fast to frantic. I’m about to ask about her when I can’t let my little dig get away from me first.

  “Harrison, so nice of you to offer to get us drinks, but no, we are all fine.” I wouldn’t trust a drink prepared by him. Not worried about the date rape drug, more likely to have his spit in my drink.

  The head of the network comes in, and everyone takes a seat and shuts up.

  “Right, let’s cut to the chase. Harrison. Riley. The viewers love you. Your crew and colleagues do not.”

  Say what now?

  “We think you two are a liability. Either you sort your issues out now, or we will be writing you both out of the series.”

  Ding ding ding. Here’s my lucky break.

  “And before you get too excited to end your contract, how’s it going to look for you when the network boss sacks you? You can kiss your acting career goodbye.”

  Well shit, he has a point.

  “This behaviour has to stop.” Dominic knocks elbows with Harrison and points at me.

  Just as he looks up, I extend my middle finger and wipe my eye. The good ol’ eye swipe. Can’t be accused of being blatantly rude. Dominic huffs and looks pissed off while Harrison simply gives me one of his heartbreaking smiles. That hurts more than my flip off because he seems genuine.

  “So what we are planning is this. The writers have written your engagement scene. You will be shooting on location for a fortnight. We have arranged for a couple’s therapist to be with you to sort out your shit so we can all get on with the job of making good television. And while we are talking about her, we might as well introduce her. This is Clara.”

  My brain tuned out the moment she was introduced. I have no desire to be psychoanalysed by a quack and I have even less desire to reveal anything about myself to Harrison. When Clara finishes talking and making googly eyes at Harrison, like every female does, I take my chance to raise the subject of scripts.

  “Sir, if I may suggest—”

  More pen scratching. The way that woman can keep up is impressive. Unnerving but impressive.

  “No, you may not. I already know what you’re thinking. You want the scripts changed? Want your character to be more evolved?”

  Clapping my hands in front of me, I nod. “Yes. God, yes. Her primary role can’t be to just lie underneath him.”

  Harrison, of course, has to pipe up and take a stance that’s completely opposite mine. “Well, let’s not forget. I’m the major character.”

  It’s my turn to huff as my gaze meets his eyes. “And Jordan’s has taken on an entity just as strong as yours.” The glare in his stare makes me smile. “This isn’t the Declan show.” And hearing that makes me smile bigger.

  “It should be,” he retaliates with his comment aimed squarely at me.

  “But it’s not, and people would be bored of watching that within a week.”

  The network boss throws his hands in the air then brings them down hard on the table. “This is what we are talking about. The bickering between you two is killing this show. The inappropriate comments, the underhandedness—”

  “And let’s not forget the physical threats like this afternoon,” Dominic throws in while nodding furiously in my direction.

  “What about the damaging of property?” I ask, and that little nugget catches the network boss unaware.

  “Don’t think that I’m not on to what your role in all of this is, Harrison. I know this isn’t a one-sided thing. It’s admirable to a point that you give as good as you get, but I’m telling you both, it has to stop. Take the next fortnight to go on location, sort your issues out. If you do,” Dixon says as he looks to me, “you’ll get your chance to talk to the writers.” He turns to Harrison. “If you don’t, we will tag on a car scene where the characters are killed off along with your careers. We want to continue holding the number one spot fo
r as long as the viewers want to keep watching. This is coming from a ‘I don’t want dead bodies on my lot’ perspective. The choice is in your hands. Tell me now if you want us to write the car crash scene, and we’ll make it happen.”

  For the first time that I’ve ever seen, Harrison appears nervous. This has been his dream. He’s set for as long as he wants with a job like this. The only two sounds in the whole room are the tick of the clock and the scratch of the pen. Being sacked by the network will be the nail in my acting coffin. I turn my head to Lydia while I feel Harrison’s gaze on me. She doesn’t have to say a word, I already know what she’s thinking.

  Letting out a deep breath, I sit a little higher in the seat before locking eyes with him again. Another first: he actually looks like he’s pleading.

  “When would we start?” I ask, and he lets out a deep breath.

  “You will start on Monday. I want you two there on Sunday. Go home, pack your bags, and say goodbye for a fortnight,” he says. “At least. We have a cabin for you to share.”

  “What?” For a second, the deal is off the table. “Not only do I have to do couple’s therapy with him to sort out his issues, I have to share a cabin with him?” As I turn to Lydia, I’m sure I see a grin form on Harrison’s face. “Tell me this can’t happen. This can’t happen. I cannot bear to be in the same room with him. How can you make me live with him?”

  The boss smiles while others in the room stifle their laughs. “No, Riley. The therapists think it would be best if you were to live together. That might help sort the issues between you quicker.”

  They have got to be fucking kidding.

  “You’ll each get a room in the cabin,” he says.

  “This is highly inappropriate. I have a boyfriend—”

  “Not according to Soap Readers Weekly,” Dominic calls out, but I keep talking over the top of him.

  “Harrison would undoubtedly like privacy with his hand,” I start, but Lydia’s fingers wrapping around my forearm stops me talking.