“Oh, I will.”
She slips past me, biting down on her bottom lip as she ogles me from the backside. It’s fucking embarrassing. I damn near blush, as ridiculous as it is, watching as her assistant steers her to wardrobe so we're not late to start today.
“Hey," I call out. "You should know that Jazz is telling everyone—”
“That we’re married? I know.” Serena rolls her eyes and laughs it off. “Apparently, we made the cover of Chronicles again.”
“Yeah, apparently,” I say as she goes inside the trailer, heading onto set once she’s gone.
It’s a long day. Take after take after take. I’m sweaty from running and tired from standing, my head pounding from the loud bangs and booms, the pyrotechnics rocking the neighborhood. There's a breech of security around mid-afternoon, a woman slipping past the barrier after the shots move to the exterior, but they catch her.
I try to not think about it. Try to not think about any of them. I try to not think about her when I feel eyes watching me, but it's hard pushing her from my mind. We're filming a sequence where Maryanne, the love of Breezeo’s life, had been kidnapped. Serena's tied up with a bomb about to go off, and it's my job to save her from imminent death.
I do it, and I do it well, pouring my soul into every moment. It's nearing the end of the story, even though we're still at the beginning of filming. It takes everything out of me, because endings are hard. Endings are fucking impossible... especially endings that remind me of a girl I'm trying damn hard not to think about.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we wrap for the day, my shoulders slumping as I run a hand through my hair. I try to walk away when Serena throws herself at me. The sun is setting, darkness creeping in, but the shuttering flash of cameras lights up the area as she jumps into my arms.
“That was amazing!” she says. “Like... wow. You acted your ass off, Johnny! You made me believe every word!”
She kisses me before I can respond, more camera flashes going off. It’s just a peck, but I imagine some paparazzo will be making a pretty penny on those pictures tonight. I can see it now. Caption: Johnny fucks Serena in front of everyone!
She pulls away when Cliff approaches.
“Great job, you two,” he says, his voice devoid of excitement, his gaze fixed on his Blackberry as usual. “They're going to stick to the current schedule, so you'll be back here in the morning, Johnny.”
“You, too, Serena,” her assistant says.
“Sounds great to me.” Serena grins as she backs away, her gaze lingering on me. “Get changed, Johnny. We’re celebrating!”
“Don’t stay out too late,” Cliff calls out. “Car will pick you both up tomorrow at six sharp!”
Serena makes a face at him but doesn’t argue, heading for the lingering crowd to greet everyone again.
“You did good, moody prick,” Cliff jokes, smacking me on the back. “Go get out of the suit. I know it has to be uncomfortable.”
I do just that, changing into my jeans and plain white t-shirt, putting my hat on. With filming done for the night, security has gone lax, the crowd moving closer onto set… close enough that some of them surround me when I step out of the trailer. Shit.
Cameras flash, a barrage of questions pelting me. “Johnny, can I have a picture?” “An autograph, Johnny?” “Can I have a hug?” Those I don’t mind, and I would do it all damn day long if it weren’t for the others. The vultures.
“How long have you and Serena been together?” “Is it true you two got married?” “What’s your father up to these days?” “Have you forgiven him?” “Have you seen him?” “When was the last time you even went home to visit?”
I hate the personal questions and never answer them. I hate the prying. I hate the rumors. I hate it all and for good reason—there are too many skeletons in my closet, too many secrets I’ve been concealing. Too many things I can’t let them taint in a world so pure that I’m no longer welcome in it.
Serena appears at my side, ready to go. She smiles, playing it up for the cameras, charming everyone as she answers what she can, answering what I won’t.
We have dinner at some exclusive private club in the Upper Eastside. Serena, having started her career modeling here in Manhattan, always seems to know everybody everywhere she goes. Some of her friends are hanging out, laughing and chatting, socialites and trust-fund assholes, sharing bottles of vintage wine and doing a few lines.
Cocaine.
As soon as the white powder surfaces, I’m making my excuse to go. These people used to be my people, too. Friends. But Serena's the only one who seems to be concerned about my hasty exit. She grabs my hand, trying to stop me when I stand, her green eyes eerily dark. “Please? Stay! Celebrate! We never get to hang out anymore like this.”
“I would... you know I would… if I could,” I say, nudging her chin as she stares up at me. “Don’t party too hard, okay?”
I leave before she can try to stop me again, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact. Instead of taking the awaiting limo and heading straight back to the hotel, I stroll a few blocks, slipping into a small bar. It’s quiet, not very busy despite it being Friday night. I find an empty stool along the edge of the bar as the bartender approaches.
It doesn’t take long, just a few seconds, before recognition happens, his eyes widening, but he doesn’t announce my presence.
“What can I get for you?” he asks, not calling me by name.
“Whatever’s on tap.”
He pours me a beer. I don’t ask what it is. I sit in silence after he slides it in front of me, wrapping my hands around the cold glass. I can smell it. It’s cheap. Not the cheapest shit, but still… cheap. My mouth waters, and I can damn near taste the golden liquid, my tongue tingling from anticipation as I stare at it.
“Something wrong?” the bartender asks after a few minutes, motioning to the beer I’m not drinking. “Would you like something different instead?”
“No, it’s fine. I just… I haven’t had a drink in a while.”
“How long?”
“Twelve months.”
It’s been a long year—longer since I touched anything harder. I’m stuck between steps eight and nine of AA, between admitting I’ve wronged people and making up for what I’ve done. You see, there’s a catch to those steps, one nobody mentions until you get there. It isn’t so cut and dry. There’s a bit of fine print to making amends that says ‘except when doing so would cause further harm’.
“So, I know it’s none of my business,” the bartender says, “but twelve months is one hell of a streak. You sure you want to ruin that?”
“No,” I admit. “Not sure about much these days.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything else. The beer in my hand is snatched away and replaced with Coke.