by Cat Cavaleri
“Maybe I should hire you to whip me into shape for my next movie.”
“You want me to put you to work, do you?” she murmurs. Her warm breath mingles with mine: an intimate, irresistible sensation. I close my eyes and reach for her.
My mouth grazes hers, softly at first, then boldly. I thread my fingers through the thick lushness of her hair, drawing her to me. Her breasts crush against my chest as I slip my hands down her back, to the hem of her work shirt where I can feel the heat of her bare skin.
“Ouch!” I wince, pulling away.
“What?”
“The hay is so prickly,” I laugh ruefully, rubbing my upper arm, then my neck. “Whoever coined the phrase, ‘a roll in the hay’ must have been into some kinky S&M stuff.”
She giggles and presses her lips to the pricked spots on my bicep, then my throat.
“In my experience, if you’re randy enough, it’s like lying in a pile of feathers.”
“In Operation Pale Rider, I had to jump off a moving truck into a pile of hay,” I say, drawing her to me again. “The prop hay they used was as soft as feathers.”
I lean down to kiss her again.
But before my lips meet hers, a loud jangling sound comes from her pocket.
“Damn,” she murmurs.
She gently extricates herself from my arms and pulls out a battered cell phone.
“Hi Dad. Yes, he’s here. I don’t know. Do you want me to ask him? No, I don’t think he’d mind. Should I ask him or not? Look—I’m just going to ask him.”
She covers the phone with her hand and says, “My dad wants to invite you for dinner. He says he doesn’t want to impose, and you don’t have to, and it’s up to you. But trust me, he wants you to say yes. He really wants you to say yes.”
“Then my answer would have to be,” I touch my lips lightly to her earlobe and whisper, “Yes.”
When we arrive at the ranch house, Missy’s father, Hank, greets me with a firm handshake and the reply, “Yup,” when I note that I recognize him from the set. He lays out the old-fashioned farm table in the neat kitchen with a spread of green beans, roasted new potatoes, and pot roast.
“Elk,” he pronounces, pointing at the sizzling, savory meat.
And then, he says nothing for twenty solid minutes.
We eat dinner in silence. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s soft, relaxed. Comfortable. Back in L.A., everyone talks over each other, trying to outdo, outsay, outclass one another without listening to a word anyone else says. I feel at ease in this gentle quiet.
At home.
At last, without looking up from his plate, Hank clears his throat. I turn to him expectantly. Slowly, as if he were making a casual observation about the weather, he remarks, “I’ve seen Strike Force Omicron.”
I feel a smile pulling the corners of my mouth up. I try to hide it, but I can’t. I glance at Missy and see that she’s doing the same.
“Is that right?” I reply.
“Dad knows who you are,” Missy says. “Even if nobody else in town does.”
“Verna knows,” Hank counters. “She’s seen Agent’s Code of Honor. Bought it for her two Christmases back.”
“Well,” I say. “Tell Verna that if she, or anyone else, wants an autograph, I’d be happy to oblige.”
Hank shrugs and says nothing, his gaze fixed on his plate. After a long silence, he says, “Pass the potatoes.”
Missy hands him the plate and winks at me.
“Thank you,” she mouths.
“Any time,” I mouth back.
The two of us share a smile that makes me want to stay here forever.
I feel like this is where I belong.
5
Missy
“We’ve got an open bed for you just down the hall,” Dad tells Connor as he leads him from the living room to my bedroom. “You got an early day tomorrow: no sense fighting the sandman.”
“You sure?” Connor yawns, asleep on his feet. “I can call D’Angelo’s assistant to come get me.”
“Nah, nah, it’s past ten. Those Hollywood boys’d get lost down a dozen dirt tracks trying to find this place.”
“I don’t want to put you out.”
Dad flaps his hand dismissively.
“It’s all yours,” he says, opening my door for him.
Well, well, Dad, I think. How open-minded of you. But just as I’m fixing to follow Connor into my room, my father hisses at me under his breath so our guest won’t hear, “You sleep on the couch tonight, Missy.”
“Thanks,” Connor yawns again. “Good night.”
As soon as my door closes, I hiss back at Dad, “Gee, you’re such a gentleman! You couldn’t have given up your bed?”
“You’re young and spry. A night on the sofa’ll do your back good,” he replies. “Sleep tight, kid.”
And his bedroom door closes, too.
I drift into the living room and plop down on my bunk for the night. The couch wheezes in protest. I prop my feet up on the coffee table—something Dad hates—and pull out my phone.
Time to google our supposedly famous visitor.
The IMDb page for Connor Larson features a very sexy photo of him wearing a tuxedo at some awards ceremony. I learn that he was born in Michigan, he’s twenty-eight, and he’s not married. Then I start to feel like a creep for poking around his private life online when I could just ask.
I scroll through the list of his movies and TV appearances. It’s long, spanning two decades. The most recent jump out at me: Agent’s Code of Honor, The Gunfighter and the Spy, Strike Force Omicron, Cold Steel Vengeance, and, scheduled to come out next year, The Designated Assassin. I rise, cross the room, and shuffle through the shelf of DVDs Dad has collected over the years. I pull out seven starring Connor and study the cases. Each of them sports an image of him looking grim and resolute. Or grim and vengeful. Or just plain grim. He’s wearing military fatigues, or a torn tank top, or is shirtless altogether, with mud or blood artistically slashed across one flexed arm. On two of them, he’s hefting a ridiculously tricked-out machine gun. And on one, he’s leaping from an exploding building.
I slip the DVDs back onto their shelf. I’ve never watched any of these movies with Dad. Dick flicks aren’t my thing. I suppose I could pop one into the practically vintage DVD player and find out what I’ve been missing. Instead, I perch on the sofa and open the YouTube app on my phone.
The first hit I get is “Connor Larson’s most BADASS moments!”
“Sure, why not?” I murmur, and for the next six minutes and twenty-three seconds, I watch Connor snarl, “I’m back. And you’ll never see the light of day again, Bernardo,” roundhouse punch three guys at once, and fling himself out of a helicopter in mid-flight to land on a running motorcycle.
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Why Dad likes this stuff is beyond me.
I scroll around, yawn, and figure I ought to go find the spare set of sheets and make up the couch, when a video titled “Sexiest Connor Larson scenes of all time - HOT HOT HOT!” catches my eye.
My finger hovers over it.
I shouldn’t—
I’ve already started it.
For four minutes and fifty-six blissful seconds, Connor slowly peels off his shirt, revealing a glistening, bare chest as raindrops inch their way down his perfect six-pack. And strides through a fancy hotel room wearing only a thin towel that threatens to slip off his hips. And rolls out of bed in slow motion, gun in hand, entirely naked from behind.
Well, I’m never going to be able to sleep now.
I click around some more, watch a few cookie-cutter action scenes that feature him and big-name stars I’ve seen in better movies, and yawn again.
Just when I’m about to close the app and go to bed, I hear him say a phrase that stops me cold.
A memory from years and years ago floods my mind.
I replay the video and listen to him say the phrase again.
My god…
I do know who he is.
A wave of nostalgia washes over me. For a long time, I can’t move, can’t think, can only remember and feel.
At last, in a daze, I set my phone down on the coffee table and rise. I walk through the dark house automatically, open the door to my room, and step inside. Unconscious of what I’m doing, I slip off my jeans and shirt, and climb into bed.
A man is sleeping there.
I snap back to the present, fully awake now.
In the moonlight that streams through my window, I gaze down at Connor. At his muscular arm curved under my pillow, at his naked chest gently rising and falling, at the hard shape of his body beneath the sheet.
I should leave at once and go sleep on the couch.
But I’m bone-tired, the couch is as uncomfortable as a pile of old lumber, and the chance to sleep next to a man I’m powerfully attracted to is appealing. It’s been a long time.
I grab my other pillow and chuck it at the foot of the bed. I swivel around and position myself head-to-feet with Connor, like my friends and I used to do at sleepovers when we were kids.
The nearness of him and the sound of his soft breathing is sensuous, relaxing, and right. Slowly, I fall into a deep sleep as the phrase from the video and the precious memory it invokes echo in my dreams.
6
Connor
It’s still dark out when I awaken to find a pair of bare feet lying just inches from my face.
The nails are painted a delicate pink, the toes are shapely, the skin is soft and supple. I lift my head from the pillow and feel every cell in my body come alive as I discover Missy lying next to me.
My eyes trace her body, half-hidden under a crocheted blanket. Tentatively I cup her left foot and press my lips to the smooth bend of her arch. She stirs, sighing with pleasure in her sleep. I lean down to kiss her right foot, to lift the blanket and discover her ankles, her knees, her thighs, when I hear a light tap on the door.
I yank my hand away and quickly slip out of bed. I crack the door open. Hank is standing in the hall.
“Director’s got us for a five-thirty call,” he says. “It’s going on five. Scoot to the kitchen and have yourself a decent breakfast before we leave.”
“Okay, I’ll just be a minute,” I reply, trying to keep my voice down without seeming like I’m keeping my voice down.
“Missy must’ve headed over to Verna’s to take care of the morning chores,” he continues. “I’ll save her a plate in the fridge.”
He leaves. I close the door.
Reluctantly, I pull my clothes on. I hesitate, then bend down over Missy. Gently, lightly, so as not to wake her, I kiss her cheek. She smiles in her sleep. Before I can talk myself into doing more, I force myself to step out of the room.
Breakfast is just as silent as dinner was. On the ride into town in Hank’s old Ford F-250, he and I say nothing. We pass two ranches, just visible in the pale light of predawn. Then Hank speaks.
“I’ve seen Operation Pale Rider.”
“One of my personal favorites,” I say.
“The Gunfighter and the Spy is your best.”
“That was my big break.”
Hank nods.
We say no more until the little town comes into view. Then Hank clears his throat.
“Couch wasn’t slept on. Did you and my girl get up to anything last night?”
“No, sir,” I reply.
From the corner of my eye, I see Hank shake his head slightly. “Well,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure whether I’m proud of you or disappointed, son.”
Missy arrives on set—arrives at the café, I mean—dressed in her ranch clothes twenty minutes before shooting is scheduled to begin. There’s a sly smile dancing in her eyes and at the corners of her lips, though she’s clearly trying to conceal it.
“What?” I ask, and I find myself unable to suppress an answering smile.
“I know who you are,” she announces.
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Who am I?”
“You’re…” she sticks out her thumb, waggles it from side to side, and croons, “Hamburgerific!”
My mind goes blank, then a visceral memory—“Do it again, Connor! Smile bigger this time! Right into the camera! Smile, kid!”—rockets through my brain.
I groan in horror.
“How did you find that?” I demand.
She grins.
“YouTube. But I’d seen it about a hundred times, I just forgot. They showed that commercial all the time when I was little. My mom and I used to say, ‘I’m hamburgerific!’ whenever we had Hamburger Helper for dinner. She thought you were an absolute cutie.”
Missy laughs. I can’t help laughing, too, though my face is burning in embarrassment.
“You got me—I am hamburgerific,” I admit. “But here’s the question: are you tunatastic?”
She cocks her head quizzically.
“Tuna Helper?” I say. “I guess they didn’t air that ad around here.”
“Tuna is the inferior of the Helper culinary canon,” she quips. “Only North Dakotans eat it.”
We laugh, then I lean back in the booth and rub my hand over my chin.
“I haven’t thought about that commercial in years,” I say. “That was one of my first acting jobs. I’ve been working since I was seven years old.”
“Me too.”
Her smile fades and a wistful softness fills her eyes.
“I’ve been working since my mom died,” she says.
A swift, sharp sympathy causes my chest to clench. I don’t know what to say.
“That must have been…very hard.”
“Yeah. It was. She was sick for a long time…” she lowers her eyes and inhales shakily. “Most of my memories of her make me sad.”
I reach out and take her hand. I squeeze it. She squeezes back.
“I’m glad I was part of a happy memory of her,” I say.
“So am I.”
Missy gives her head a little shake and forces a smile.
“I guess I’d better go get into that itchy costume.”
“Don’t bother,” a tense voice behind us replies.
The scent of ginger precedes the director as he strides across the café toward our booth.
“What’s going on, D?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he halts and turns so he can address the entire crew at once.
“Listen up, everyone. We have a significant problem with the Panavision Genesis. Two problems, actually.”
He nods at the director of photography, who steps out from behind the rig holding the heavy, and very expensive, camera we’ve been using to shoot the scene.
“Last night, we discovered condensation trapped in the lens. Possibly picked up in transit. We’re in the process of attempting to desiccate it manually, but it’s not going well. We’re having a replacement flown in from L.A. Also…” the director of photography pauses and glances uneasily at D’Angelo, who is rolling a Ginger Chew between his thumb and index finger.
“Also, something’s gone wrong with the sensor,” he adds in a low voice.
“Jesus,” mutters the gaffer, as a general groan erupts from the crew.
“I found a clean room facility on the University of Wyoming campus where I think I can fix it,” the director of photography continues. “D’Angelo, myself, Anya, and Javier are going to drive down to Cheyenne, pick up the lens, then head over to the university.”
“How long do you think this’ll take to fix?” one of the sound engineers calls out.
“It’s going to be an all-nighter. If we’re lucky,” the director of photography replies.
“And we will be,” D’Angelo interjects. “We’ll pick things up back here tomorrow morning, bright and early. Until then, do me a favor and beg your various higher powers that we pull this out of the fire.”
With that, he shoves the ginger candy into his mouth, jerks his head at the director of photography, and exits with three of the crew in tow.
Missy watches them go, then turns to me.
“So, we’re done for the day?” she asks.
“Looks like it.”
“Is this normal? Losing a whole day of work just because something goes wrong?”
I nod.
“Shutdowns like this are how I became an expert accordion player.”
“What?” she giggles. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope, I’m serious. I learned how to play on the set of Cold Steel Vengeance. It was just supposed to be a brief comic relief bit, but my co-star was a huge prima donna—every single day he’d show up hours late, get in a fight with the director, and then storm off to sulk in his trailer. And the actress who played the villain was sick a lot. She had chronic migraines, tried to power through, but sometimes she just couldn’t hack it. Every time we got shut down, I’d practice with this old accordion teacher they brought in from Northern Minnesota.”
“That’s…wow,” she says.
“I got really good. I even went out one night and played in the Ginza subway station—we were shooting in Tokyo. It was fun, until…” I snap my mouth shut and try to smile nonchalantly, but I can’t.
“Until what?”
“Until I got recognized. Then it was screaming fans, autographs, selfies, videos, paparazzi. The mob. I never played in public again.”
The two of us are quiet for a moment. Then Missy shrugs.
“Well, we’ve got plenty of time on our hands now. Did you bring your accordion?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t have one anymore.”
“Too bad,” she replies. “It would be the highlight of my life to see America’s favorite action star rocking out on an accordion.”
She glances over her shoulder at Hank. He’s busily unplugging the steam machine the crew rigged to the grill, assembling his cooking utensils, and tossing the rubber fried egg props aside.
“Looks like Dad’s planning to open for business. Probably going to feed the whole crew.”
“I bet they’ll appreciate that. He’s a great cook.”
She purses her lips, as if engaged in a private debate.
“If you don’t have anything else to do,” she ventures. “Would you like to come with me to Verna’s place to check on her? Maybe do a few chores?”