CHAPTER 19
REID
Walt Riggs, an LA friend and front man of a band, is in Austin for a gig tomorrow night. I’m exhausted as hell after filming a twelve-hour day, but I don’t have any scenes tomorrow, so I told Walt we could hang out tonight. I pick him up from the airport in the limo, and Bob insists on going along. The man takes his bodyguarding duties seriously.
While we’re waiting outside the arrival gate, Bob and I are playing Call of Duty. I’ve gotten used to playing Tadd and Quinton, so I think nothing of shooting Bob’s guy in the head after a campaign. We do it all the time. Bob, however, is unfamiliar. His mouth drops open and he just looks at me. “What the hell, man?”
“Er, sorry, Bob. Didn’t know you’d have an issue.”
“We’re partners. We just kicked ass together, Semper Fi and shit, and you shot me. That’s just wrong, man. That’s just so wrong.” He shakes his head, crestfallen. Jesus. Note to self: don’t play Call of Duty with Bob.
Walt comes out then, his jagged punk emo hair hanging in his eyes, leather bands wrapping both wrists, fitted t-shirt, jeans tight to his ankles. He’s always dressed like this, caught constant crap about it from his jock older brothers and dad until recently, when all of a sudden he’s a rock star. His bag is slung over one shoulder, along with his guitar case. I hit the button to lower the opaque window, calling his name as he’s glancing around. He sees me and smiles, sauntering over as the driver exits to take his stuff. People crane their necks to look at him as he hands it over.
He’s unlikely to be recognized by many people at this stage, but he will be, and soon. Rolling Stone sent someone to do an interview and photo spread with his band a week or so ago. In addition to his half Irish, half Korean looks—pale skin, coal black hair and piercing green eyes—the boy has serious vocal talent.
“Hey, man. Nice.” He appraises the limo as I push the door open and he gets in, shoving the hair out of his eyes.
“Better get used to it.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” He glances at Bob, immediately thrusting a hand out. “Hey, I’m Walt.”
Bob gives him the bone-crushing shake I know from experience and barks, “Bob.” Walt doesn’t even flinch.
“Groovy.” He looks at me. “So what are we doing, man? I’m totally wired, but I need a shower. That flight was a bitch—the air wasn’t working right or something. It was like hell in the sky.” He stops, pulls out his boarding pass and scribbles something on the back of it—my best guess is lyrics.
I check the time on my phone. It’s a little after eight. “We can drop you at your hotel, come back at like ten?”
“Brilliant.”
When Bob and I get back to my hotel, Bob says the car will be ready at 9:40. He lumbers off the elevator, less effusive than usual, and turns left towards his room. I probably should’ve apologized again for killing his Call of Duty guy. I shake my head, turning right to go down the hall to my room, and look up just in time to see Graham going into Brooke’s room. They are so hooking up.
Emma’s room is a few down from Brooke’s, and since I know where Graham is—and therefore where he isn’t—I think about inviting her to go out with Walt and me. But she had a more demanding day than I did—more scenes, which equaled more retakes due to flukes like the A/C not keeping up with the temperature in that house and everyone looking shiny. Plus she has to film tomorrow and would need to be back in early.
I’m a patient guy. Okay, that’s bullshit… but I can be patient with good reason. The concert tomorrow night will be perfect for testing Emma’s and my off-screen chemistry. I’d already planned to invite the whole group. Brooke is a total music beast, especially little-known but growing hotter breakout bands like Walt’s. She’ll definitely be there, and will no doubt keep Graham’s attention, leaving Emma to me. I pass Emma’s room, having a couple of vodka shots in my room to loosen up instead.
*** *** ***
Emma
After the day’s filming, I was too tired to think clearly, let alone do any more than change into boxers and a t-shirt, order a bowl of fruit from room service, take a few bites, and collapse. Thank God my parents decided to entertain themselves tonight.
I could have sworn Graham was going to kiss me this morning, and I wanted him to, but instead, he turned away. Or ran away, more like. Because of Brooke? And then I went on set and Reid was attentive and flirting with me all day, but I’m not sure he wants more than a fling. I don’t think that’s what I want.
I fell asleep way too early, thoughts of Reid and Graham swirling through my head, and wake at 10 p.m. to the thrashing images of a Nirvana video on the TV—Come as You are. I’ve been sleeping for two hours, and I can tell I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep for another couple of hours, at least. I putter around the room, restless, eat some peanuts from the mini-bar, brush my teeth, watch a few videos, do some sit-ups.
Finally I grab my room key, open my door and peek into the hallway. No one’s out. I pad down to Graham’s door and knock softly, wait twenty or thirty seconds and knock again, a little harder. Nothing. As I turn to go back to my room, I hear a door open farther down the hall. I glance back and see Graham, leaving Brooke’s room. Craaaap. Practically running to my room, I jam the card into the lock and for once it immediately blinks green and I’m in, shutting the door behind me. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.
A minute later Graham knocks at my door; I know it’s him without looking. I chew my thumbnail, deliberating. He maybe almost kissed me this morning, and he just came out of Brooke’s room. But we’re friends, and nothing actually happened this morning, and it’s silly to refuse to talk to him because he was in her room.
I take a deep breath and open the door, employing every acting skill I possess to fix a pleasant expression on my face. His arms are propped on either side of the doorframe, his lanky, muscular body filling up the space. I’m aware of nothing but how casually sexy he is: barefoot, in jeans and a white t-shirt.
“Hey.” His dark eyes search my face. “Did you need something? I just… thought maybe you were knocking on my door just now…”
“Oh, no. I mean, no, I don’t really need anything, and yeah, I knocked on your door, but it’s cool. I’m just bored. I fell asleep for a while, and now I’m awake and kinda wired…” Shut up, Emma. “and… uh… that’s all.”
“Bored, huh? What did you have in mind?”
I try to push away the answers that crowd in, most notably come in and finish what you started this morning.
“I don’t know. I was just thinking maybe you were still up, or something…”
“Well, you were right.” He smiles, stretching against the door frame, hands gripping the top, his shirt teasing up and displaying a sliver of skin. “So. Can I come in?”
“Oh,” I back into the room, “Sure. I’m sorry. Jeez. I guess I’m still a little fuzzy from the late nap.”
He walks past me and drops into one of the chairs and I sit on the bed, folding my legs under me. “Do you wanna watch something?” he asks, tilting his head towards the television. “Or… I could interrogate you, find out all your secrets.”
My bed is unmade, covers and pillows askew, the only light in the room coming from one small lamp and flashing MTV images. From a lifetime of reading scene settings, I know this setting is the definition of intimate. “You already know more than a lot of people know about me,” I say. “I’m relatively boring.”
“Mmm, I don’t think that’s true. And I don’t even know the basic stuff. Like, how old are you?” He leans forward in the chair, elbows on knees.
“Well, that’s certainly a stimulating topic. I’m seventeen, for another two months and…” I count in my head “…three weeks.”
“So, eighteen in less than three months.”
“Yeah… is that surprising?”
“Well, you look as though you could be younger than that, but you seem older, more mature. It isn’t surprising; I just wasn’t sure.”
“So how old are you? Twenty?”
“Yep, since June. How’d you know?”
I am not telling him that I Internet stalked him. “Well, you seem younger than that, very immature, in fact, but you look older…” I laugh at the shocked look on his face, and then he growls and starts out of the chair. Backing farther onto the bed, I shake my head, still laughing. “Noooo…”
“So I look like an immature old guy, is that what you’re saying?” One corner of his mouth turns up as he puts a knee on the bed, following me.
“Positively decrepit.” I hold my hands out in what’s clearly simulated protection as he advances. I’m almost to the other side of the bed when he grabs both of my hands in one of his, sweeping his opposite arm around my waist and pulling me towards him. In two seconds, I’m flat on my back and he’s on his knees next to me.
He releases one wrist long enough to catch it with his other hand, and he flattens my hands to the bed on either side of my head. His eyes are black in the low light of the room. “Do you surrender?”
My heart is pounding, and I’m tingling from head to toe. “Surrender to what?” I whisper, my chest rising and falling, my eyes locked on his.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “A kiss.”
Images flash through my mind: the sincerity of his concern when I told him about losing my mother. The feel of him sitting next to me this morning, soaked through and touching my face. The jolt of seeing him exiting Brooke’s room a few minutes ago. None of this adds up, or makes sense, and I want to care about that, but I can’t find the will to resist—not just him, but my own desire, or curiosity, or something. I don’t care what. I want that kiss.
He loosens his hold, starts to draw back because I haven’t answered.
“Yes,” I breathe, and he freezes.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He trails his fingers over the side of my face, temple to neck, tracing a path, neck to waist. His right hand moves palm to palm with my left, intertwines our fingers as he lowers his head, and then his mouth is moving over mine, softly, carefully. I squeeze the hand holding mine and shift closer to him, clutching his shirt in my free hand, and he deepens the kiss, stretching out next to me, one knee hooked over my thigh. The hand at my waist progresses down over my hip, moving over my bare leg to the sensitive spot behind my knee. His hand is warm on my skin, drawing my leg over his until we’re tangled together in the middle of the bed, his opposite shoulder under my head, his arm encircling me. His tongue traces my lips softly, parting them, thrusting inside. I moan, opening my mouth and pressing as close to him as I can get.
Too soon, he pulls away, both of us panting, sucking air as though we’ve been underwater. Teasing his fingers through my hair, he pushes a strand behind my ear, and I close my eyes as he cradles my head in his hand, the pad of his thumb stroking my cheek and jaw. Our heartbeats slow as we lie there, hardly moving, for several minutes.
“I’d better go.” His voice is low and rough, full of what he doesn’t say.
I open my eyes to stare into his, wanting to protest, but no coherent words come. His eyes are so dark there is no color to them at all, just guarded depths, full of thoughts and motivations I can’t decipher.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, extracting himself slowly from my legs and hands. He leans over me, kissing my forehead, turning and padding from the room without a backward glance. I lie motionless except for the in and out of my breath, the beat of my heart, the pulse through my veins. Almost convinced I’ve dreamed the entire interlude, I fall asleep, and do dream it. Over and over.