Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (15 page)

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I appreciate that.”

The conversation ends and we haven’t
really settled anything.

There’s a lot to think about, but I don’t
know if anything’s going to be able to change reality enough for me to have
what I want to have with Emma.

I head back up to Danna’s room and just
watch her sleep for a little while.

My life has gotten so small over the last
ten years or so. It almost collapsed when Jamie died, and when Danna was
diagnosed, well, by that time, I’d already started to go numb.

Being with Emma, it kind of feels like
putting your hands under hot water after you’ve just been in freezing weather
for a couple of hours. It’s the surprising sensation of feeling something after
being anesthetized for so long: Right now, it just hurts. Maybe in time, after
I’ve gotten used to the warmth, it’ll start to feel like something else, but
right now, it just hurts.

Chapter Eleven

The Backslide

Emma

It’s been three weeks since Damian broke
up with me and, as funny as it might sound, I’m still not sure where I stand
with him.

The breakup itself was a clear enough signal,
but let’s just say there have been a few peculiarities to the situation that
have kept the question alive.

“Good morning,” Damian says and gives me a
kiss on the forehead.

Yeah, like him being naked in my bed after
spending the night.

“You know,” I tell him, “one of these
days, you’re going to have to make an honest woman out of me.”

“I think it might be a little soon to talk
about marriage,” he says.

“I’m not talking about marriage. I’m just
saying that we’re technically still broken up,” I tell him. “Really, I don’t
think I’m so much a dishonest woman as I am a confused woman.”

I reach under the covers and slide my hand
down his body, between his legs.

“See?” I ask. “This sort of thing doesn’t
usually happen with exes, so are we fuck buddies, are we in a relationship,
what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t had my
coffee yet.”

“You know,” I tell him. “I could be pretty
pissed off that you broke up with me.”

“I didn’t break up with you,” he says.
“Wait—yeah, I did. I really need that coffee.”

“Yeah,” I tell him, “you do.”

He’s still looking at me, though.

“You don’t expect me to make it for you,
do you?” I ask.

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the
world,” he says.

“So, what,” I laugh, “every time you want
me to do something, you’re not going to bother asking, you’re just going to
give me the puppy dog eyes?”

“If it works,” he says. “If not, I’ve got
backup plans.”

“Get your own coffee,” I tell him and
throw the covers over my head.

He’s still not moving.

I don’t really care whether or not he has
coffee, but having been presented with the expectation of hot coffee in a pot,
I’m starting to crave a cup myself.

I pull the covers back down and he’s just
lying there, staring at me.

“What?” I ask. “I already told you I’m not
making you coffee right now.”

“I just think you’re pretty, that’s all,”
he says.

Pretty’s not a bad thing to be called, but
it is a strange option considering all the alternatives.

“Thanks?” I ask.

“Seriously,” he says. “You could be a
movie star or something.”

“You haven’t seen
Battle for the Nexus
, have you?” I ask.

He laughs. “I can’t say that I have,” he
answers.

“I played Morgan Salazar, the sexy former
Marine commander who succumbs to greed, lust for power, and the sheer
temptations that come with wearing silk overcoats with nothing recognizable as
a top underneath,” I tell him. “If that didn’t make me a movie star, I don’t
know what possibly could.”

“It actually wasn’t that bad,” he says.

I turn my head to look at him.

“You actually saw that?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I’ve seen all your
movies.”

“I’m sorry,” I answer. “I don’t know why
that’s my go-to response when someone tells me they’ve seen all my movies.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit of a strange one,” he
says. “Anyway, I really liked that speech you gave when you went from being
Morgan Salazar to the Mistress of Temptation. It was very moving.”

“Yeah, I remember that scene. I believe I
was talking to a group of half-man, half-assorted-sea-creatures at the time,” I
tell him. “How inspiring could that possibly have been for you?”

“It was pretty good,” he says. “Solid
inflection, didn’t overact on the more dramatic lines. I was really impressed.”

“Why would you even watch a movie like
that?” I ask. “I haven’t even seen the completed version, and I was at the
premiere. Of course, the premiere was held at a
Bennigan’s
off of I-5, and I spent most of my time hiding out in the bathroom.”

“You’re really that ashamed of your films?”
he asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think I was
at the time, but now that I’m starting to claw my way out of the absurdity of
the low budget scene, it doesn’t really seem that bad. They were terrible
movies, but they got me here.”

“That’s what led you to my bed, huh?” he
asks.

“No,” I tell him and give him a playful
punch in the chest. “That’s what led me to the world of legitimate film.”

“Where’s that?” Damian asks. “From what
I’ve seen, legitimate films are like static on a radio: They’re always there,
but nobody’s quite sure where they come from.”

“You tried really hard there, didn’t you?”
I ask and, in a mocking voice, I add, “
‘Legitimate
films are like static,
myeh
.”

He opens his palms and looks up to the
ceiling, saying, “She wonders why I broke up with her. Can you believe it?”

“Oh, fuck off and make me some coffee,
will you?” I ask.

“Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a better
idea.”

He smiles at me and turns his body toward
me. I look into his eyes and say, “That’s your hand on my tit.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It seems like a better
idea than coffee to me.”

“Your hand on my tit?” I ask.

“Why do you call them that?” he asks. “I
thought most women hated that term?”

“What’s the difference?” I ask. “Am I talking
about different things when I call it a boob instead of a breast or a tit
instead of a mammary or a love pillow instead of a quivering alabaster orb?”

“Dude,” he says, “you just blew my mind.”

“Dude?” I ask. “So, are you going to just
keep your hand there awhile or—”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah?” I ask. “You’re just going to leave
it sitting there motionless like a dried up octopus with three limbs missing?”

“That paints a bit of a picture,” he says,
“but I was thinking about starting with the hand on your alabaster orb and
maybe, you know, seeing where things go from there.”

“Are you starting to think that maybe we
should just stop talking?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers and he leans over me to
kiss my lips.

With one arm under my pillow and his other
hand massaging my “tit,” Damian kisses my mouth and my jaw on his way to nibble
on my ear.

His hand moves from my breast down between
my legs and he parts my legs with his fingers, his hand moving over my core.
I’m running my hands down his back as he gets me so wet, his fingers soft, but
commanding.

I move my hands across his body and in
between his legs to find him already hard and throbbing in my hand, and as I
tug softly, he moves one, two fingers inside me.

My body’s churning with lust and, I’m not
going to lie, a bit of confusion. This beautiful man massaging my g-spot still
hasn’t reversed the break up.

In practical terms, that doesn’t mean
much, but it’s a level of uncertainty that I’d just as soon do without.

“What are we, Damian?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” he asks before kissing
my breasts.

I’m a bit distracted at the moment, and I
don’t really feel like explaining. “What are we?” I repeat.

He looks up at me, his fingers still
inside, but still now. “You’re really into the labels, aren’t you?” he asks.

“It’s not so much that I care for labels,”
I tell him. “I just want to know if this is going to end any day now, or if
you’re looking to make it a more permanent thing.”

“Can’t we just,” he says and his fingers
are moving again, “enjoy each other and worry about the rest of it later?”

I can certainly think of better times to
have this conversation, but it’s getting in the way of my “enjoyment,” so I
persist. “Someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, what do I say?” I ask. “I
think we can make it that simple.”

“It’s not really my place to answer that
question for you,” he says.

“Clumsy,” I tell him. “If someone asks you
if you have a girlfriend, what do you say?” I ask.

His fingers stop again and he slides them
out of me. “Nobody’s really asked,” he says.

“Hey, Damian, do you have a girlfriend?” I
ask.

“Now that was clumsy,” he says.

“If you don’t want to be in a
relationship,” I tell him, “that’s fine. Really, I’m enjoying myself and if sex
is all we’re going to have, I’m okay with that. But it would be good to know
where I stand, or at least a general idea.”

He sighs and rolls onto his back.

“It’s complicated,” he says.

“Why’s it complicated?” I ask. “It’s a
pretty simple question.”

“It’s not just about what I want,” he
says. “It’s about whether or not my life is currently suited to accommodate a
serious relationship.”

“You’ve had a little time to think about
it, though,” I tell him. “Seriously, there’s no wrong answer here.”

Who am I kidding? Of course there’s a
wrong answer.

“Danna has relapsing remitting multiple
sclerosis,” he says. “I’ve been taking care of her for the last few years, even
before she moved in and she just had an episode. Apart from my professional
concerns like finding a temporary agent that’s not going to screw me over and
trying to keep my mind in the moment at work rather than worrying about her,
she’s my sister and she’s not doing so well. I think that has to come first,
doesn’t it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “That should definitely
come first. But does taking care of her mean that you can’t have a life of your
own, too? I’m not trying to take you away from her at all. I’m just asking
where you see me in your life.”

I’m starting to feel like I’m nagging him,
and I don’t like that feeling.

Maybe it would be simpler if I just shut
up and went with it. Sooner or later, it’ll be clear exactly what we’re doing
and in the meantime, I am enjoying myself.

Still, I wouldn’t be this persistent—it
wouldn’t even be this strong on my mind if I weren’t already emotionally
involved to the point where I really do need an answer if we’re going to keep
going.

Maybe it would just be simpler if we just
called the whole thing off.

“I’m going to go make some coffee,” he
says.

“All right,” I tell him. “Make a full pot,
will you?”

“Always do,” he says.

That seems a bit wasteful.

He’s out of bed and out of the room.

Well, that didn’t go the way I hoped it
would.

I know what I’m doing right now. I’m
pushing a wedge between us because I’m freaked out about actually getting close
to him.

I think I would have been happy if he’d
said we’re in a relationship, but with the uncertainty having gone on for weeks
now, if he’s going to keep hedging his bets, I’m going to keep pushing him
away.

That’s only fair, I think.

I get up and cocoon myself in my bathrobe.
Damian is in the kitchen pouring water into the coffeemaker, and for a moment, it
almost looks like a traditional, domestic scene.

I shudder.

“What are you doing today?” I ask.

“I’m working,” he says. “What are you
doing today?”

“I’ve only got a couple of scenes today,
so I’ve got a radio interview scheduled for later,” I tell him.

“Fun,” he says. “Fuck it up.”

“Why would you think I would I fuck it
up?” I ask, ready to turn a bit of tension into a full-blown argument.

“Whoa,” he says, turning around with his
hands up. “It’s the same thing as telling someone to break a leg before they go
onstage. I forgot that I haven’t said that to you before.”

He’s suitably penitent that I let it go.

I actually kind of like that, telling a
person to fuck it up before they have some kind of performance to give, and
make no mistake: Radio interviews are performances.

“All right,” I tell him. “You’re
forgiven—but watch it.”

“All right,” he says, laughing, “all
right.”

Things aren’t perfect. His mind is
elsewhere a lot of the time, though his reasoning for that is sound enough. I
don’t know if we’re friends or fuck buddies or lovers or on our way to a big
wedding one day, but all in all, I’m happy with the way things are and so I
ask, “How’s the coffee coming?”

*
                   
*
                   
*

On the set, I’m starting to notice
something odd.

When I come around a corner or out of a
room, everyone seems to be staring at me, and as much as I’d love to chalk it
up to the world-class performances I’ve been giving, day after day, almost
without rest and yet always with perfect poise and all that, but I’m not that
ego-blinded.