Yesterday’s rehearsal was brutal. It didn’t help that Wes was there watching, growling, sending daggers toward Anton every time he rolled his body against mine and placed his hands on my hips. The role of seductress in this video was to entice the man, make him bleed with desire for her. Now secure in my own skin, Wes’s love gave me the confidence I needed to get past another man’s touch. Simply put, I was on fire. Scalding hot and burning bright. Maria was beside herself, and that happiness continued through each step as we filmed.
“Yes, yes, cut!” The cameras stopped rolling. Anton’s hands were digging in my hips, his face near my belly in a very suggestive pose. He popped back as if he wasn’t just rolling his nose from my knee, up a stocking-clad thigh pushing the tiny dress up with his teeth. Yet when they called cut, it was done. Poof. Back to chill, friendly Anton who made a point to keep his distance. That plan worked because the fear of his touch, the anxiety I’d felt most of the month had dissipated, having mostly worked its way out.
Maria was right. Talking to Gin by phone, and going over it with Wes—two people that knew me in a way the others didn’t—helped get me through. I figured out that it wasn’t just about the touch from another man that triggered the response. Guilt drove the flashbacks, the anxiety, the niggling fear that crept into my experience with Anton. In the end, I had to accept that I’d made the right call. When it came down to it, saving everyone else with the decision I’d made, essentially saved myself. I could never have lived with the knowledge that those I cared for and thousands of people in need would have also suffered the consequences.
I walked off the set to the area where the stylist was. She held up the last outfit. This was going to be the test of all tests. A designer that Anton knew made the garment—if you could call it that. Essentially, finely woven pieces of fabric were tacked together in a patchwork that made it easy to tear. The makeup artist and costume designer fussed over me while Wes stood to the side and held his tongue. As a man who made movies and dealt with actors every day, you’d think he’d be a lot more considerate and accepting of the fact that I was playing a character and not think too much about it. Totally wrong. He kept quiet, a solid, respectful professional in the industry but I knew it cost him. The tight way he held his frame, the thin line of lips, the way his eyes flicked from naked pieces of my flesh to where Anton had been touching them. All these were signs that Wes was barely handling it.
“You know you can go back to the hotel. We’ll shoot the last scene, and we can have dinner with everybody,” I tried once again to get him to leave not really wanting it.
Wes shook his head. “Sweetheart, I’m here. Just do your job and we’ll take it from there.”
His tone was flat holding no emotion. I tried a different tactic. “I’m really glad you’ve stayed. Made it easier.” I blinked away the sensation of tears.
He came to me, lifted up my chin, leaned forward and kissed me lightly. The makeup artist behind me groaned and cursed. I smiled against Wes’s mouth. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
Finally he grinned and waggled those brows. “I like getting you into trouble. I’m sure there are all kinds of ways we can get into more of it.”
Snickering, I pushed him back, sent an apologetic glance to the makeup artist and blew Wes a kiss. Wes licked his lips and petted the plump bottom one with his thumb. I loved that. So damn sexy.
“Pay attention, hermana. The final scene is a doozy. You ready for it?”
Wes would lose his mind when he watched what was planned for the finale. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I confirmed but wanted to add, for a woman who was about to be naked in front of room filled with dancers, crew, Anton and my man. Briefly, I considered telling Wes what was going to happen in the scene, but decided against it. If we could get it done in one shot, the entire thing would play out organically, and he’d have no choice but to deal with it.
Everyone knew that it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. This was absolutely one of those times.
The stylist walked me to the new stage, hemming and hawing over the pieces of fabric, glitter, and jewels. When I say jewels, I mean those bedazzled rhinestones with the flat bottoms and the multicolored tops. The tips of my breasts were covered in gemstones that were glued in a way that the nipple and areola were covered but the fleshy globe was enhanced. A tiny thong, again made of sparkly gems, and a line of diamonds around each hip covered my hairless sex. Another thing Wes didn’t know about yet, as we’d done that horrific part in the private bathroom while he had lunch. All of that was hidden beneath the slip of fabric that really couldn’t be called a dress. Especially since I knew it was going to be ripped to smithereens in a couple of seconds once those cameras started rolling.