Between the Lines

Page 26

For the past three days, any time I can get away with it, I’m monopolizing Emma’s time. Her afternoon classes are an annoying interruption, plus now she has assignments to do during the free time that I’d rather she spend with me. We have next Monday off, due in part to it being Labor Day and in part to Adam Richter’s wife having a scheduled C-section that day.
For me, a long weekend means two things. First, Emma’s going home to Sacramento on Saturday, so I already won’t see her for three days. And second, my mom’s first two weeks in rehab, which I’ve consciously refused to think about, are almost up. Dad’s just informed me that I’m leaving for LA Friday night—meaning tomorrow.
“We’re expected to be at a family session with her Saturday morning,” he says.
I feel myself responding emotionally to his dictatorial bearing before I even process the words. And then I process the words. Family. Session. The last thing I want is to talk to another fucking therapist because of Mom. “What,” I say, my voice devoid of inflection.
“Look, I’m sorry if this interrupts your routine partying, but this is your mother, and she should be important enough to give up an hour or so of your customary time-squandering activities. George has you set up for Austin to LA Friday night, and I’m driving us out to Malibu Saturday morning.”
Okay so first, he thinks he’s going to lecture me on making Mom a priority? What about all the dinners he misses? The charity shit she does that he pays no goddamned attention to? He spends evenings and weekends in do-not-disturb-I’m-important-and-working mode, even when he’s home. Now, because she’s in rehab again, he’s going to play the concern card? Really?
I run a hand through my hair, grabbing and pulling it while my jaw clenches. He pushes every goddamned button I have. “Fine. Friday night. Tell George to have a car waiting at LAX.”
“It’s already set up—you know George.”
“Fine,” I say again. I’m done talking to him but for some inane reason can’t seem to just hang the fuck up on him.
“You’ll be in a little late for dinner—” he begins.
“No thanks anyway, Dad. This week is killing me. Just have Immaculada leave me something I can heat up when I get there.”
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow—”
“Right. tomorrow.” I push end, hurl my phone at the bed. It bounces once and off, hitting the thick carpeting. “Goddammit.”
Emma is in tutoring for another few minutes. She’s coming to my room when she’s done. The past few days, we’ve been dancing around the subject of sex. Any time I take a step up and she responds by stepping back, so do I. But I really don’t want to go home without this in the bag. If home and Dad and family sessions weren’t looming, I could keep hold of my patience better. If I hadn’t decided to terminate local hookups, I could just grab Quinton or Tadd and go out, find someone... if, if, if. Gah. I keep telling myself that she’ll be worth the wait. If the chemistry we have so far is any indication, she’ll be more than worth it.
Most of us were in the Gap this morning, where she and I did scenes in which our characters were involved in a heated exchange. I swear we were both so into it we were half pissed, half turned on by the time Richter called cut. While waiting for production to get the lighting repositioned, I angled my head away from the crush of people all standing around. “Come ’ere.”
She followed me, puzzled, as I walked to the opposite side of a ten-foot high partition hung with board shorts on one side and sundresses on the other. “Reid? What—?”
I didn’t let her finish, drawing her into the rainbow of sundresses and kissing her, pushing her up against the makeshift wall, the gauzy cotton at her back like a cushion. When I lifted my head, she blinked, her hands braced on my chest, not exactly pulling me forward, not exactly pushing me away, either. “What was that for?” She was a little breathless.
“That was ‘Have dinner with me tonight.’” I started to lean in again and she put a hand over my mouth, laughing quietly and glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one had discovered us. I guess someone had to care about that, because I sure as shit didn’t.
“We have to be here early again tomorrow. We won’t really have time to go out—”
“Dinner in, then.” Her hand muffled my words, and the careful one-day scruff of beard I have to keep for filming tickled her palm.
“Are you going to behave?” She began to slide her hand away, carefully, like she didn’t trust me. I tried not to smile and failed. When she arched a brow at me with a look of authority, I imagined her with a ruler in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other, wearing glasses, a tight little skirt, high heeled pumps… definitely not helping.
I nodded, holding up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Somehow I can’t imagine you as a Boy Scout.”
I blinked innocently. “Oh—that’s a Boy Scout thing?”
She rolled her eyes and I leaned in and kissed her. “Reid.”
“Emma… my room or yours? Your choice.” I grazed her temple with my lips and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Lots of this.” I kissed her again. “And all clothes stay on.”
She peered at me, lips pursed, and I held up two fingers again, which made her laugh and shove my shoulder. “Okay. Yours.”
Just then we heard the PA, Laura, coming around the corner saying, “They couldn’t have gone far…” I stepped two feet back, yanking my sides from the back pocket of my jeans while pulling Emma from the vertical mattress I’d pressed her into.
When Laura appeared, I was pointing to the middle of the sheet and Emma was looking on. “And that’s your cue to give me the evil eye.”
“Oh! I see,” Emma said, as though we were discussing the script while standing amongst a buttload of sundresses. Out of sight from everyone else. Good thing we’re actors.
Laura spotted us. “There you are. What are you two doing over here? Nobody knew where you went! They’re ready for you.” Emma gave me another little shove when Laura looked away. I mouthed what? with the most angelic expression I could muster.
Mall filming should wrap early tomorrow. A couple of retakes, a few distance and tracking shots, and we’re out. Even still, I’ve got to pack and get to LAX to check in by five. So it’s tonight, or we’re talking next week. Damn.
*** *** ***
Emma
The big screen television is still on, but we’re not exactly paying attention to it.
When I got to his room, he pulled me inside and locked every bolt on the door. “Um…” I said, and he told me he didn’t want housecleaning coming in, but he thought I probably wouldn’t want him to hang the do not disturb tag on the door. Definitely not.
Now, we’re sitting on the floor, our backs to the foot of the bed, and he’s just told me that if the zombie apocalypse ever happens, I’m going to be in deep shit. I pretend to be insulted. “I’m not convinced that my inability to avoid getting my brains eaten on a video game directly correlates to certain death in an actual zombie attack.”
Smiling, he tosses the controllers next to the television and pulls me up from the floor. “Maybe not. But you have to admit, it doesn’t bode well.” We pick our way through the dinner dishes littering the blanket he’d spread on the floor when room service arrived. Very little remains of his butter poached jumbo shrimp or my artichoke cream cheese crepes; nothing remains of the chardonnay. I feel just full enough and pleasantly fuzzy, but not drunk. As we sit on the sofa, though, I’m so aware of him, of every detail, that I’m buzzing hard.
“So. Where were we earlier today, while we were hiding from the film crew…”
His hands run over me, so focused and expert that the existence of clothing makes little difference. We make out on his sofa, kissing and touching until I’m lying flat, melting into the cushions as he stares down, his eyes navy blue in the dim light, his tousled hair hanging over his forehead. “You’re incredible,” he says, his voice soft, face propped on one hand while the other carefully teases from the hollow in my throat, over a breast, triggering a gasp when his fingers graze the nipple, down over my stomach, dipping into my shorts.
He makes no move to unfasten them, but I know what he’s thinking. He knows that I do. He’s a hypnotist, and he doesn’t intend to snap his fingers and count to three, removing me from this trance. “I know what I promised. Clothing on. But you promised nothing, and if you want to, I’d be happy to let you make me a liar.”
The difference between us? He knows exactly what he wants.
“Reid. It’s only been a week.” Five days, actually. Five days of kissing and making out, half our encounters ending in some sort of skirmish of yes and no.
“That long?” I roll my eyes and he laughs. “I’m sorry, Emma. I know I’m being pushy. You’re so adorably irresistible, and I’m just a guy, you know?”
He’s overly fond of that excuse. As though I wouldn’t pull him into his bed right now, if not for that nagging feeling that I need a few more days. If he’s this persistent with every girl he runs across, the majority would have been in his bed five days ago if they were in my position. And that’s what’s bothering me. How many have there been, and how many are waiting in the wings? I need some time alone, to think. And I need Emily.
Reid Alexander wants to sleep with me. And I keep telling him no.
I must be insane.
***
No one checked out of the hotel in Austin, preferring to keep our temporary quarters intact, so I’ve only brought one bag with me on this trip to the home that’s never felt like home.
When my father married Chloe, she moved into our house. Within months, she began pleading for a new place. “We need a home of our own,” she pouted, her arms around his neck as I eavesdropped from the laundry nook off of the hallway to their bedroom. “Let’s move to Los Angeles or San Francisco. Somewhere not so horrible and suburban.” I held my breath. Leaving Sacramento would mean leaving Emily and Grandma.
“Chloe, my job is here,” he answered.
The compromise was a big new house, where the furniture was child-unfriendly and my bedroom was decorated in something Chloe called shabby chic, the walls a mustard-gone-bad color that I hadn’t known existed. I spent weekends with my grandmother as often as possible, where it was acceptable to talk about Mom, and I was permitted to put my feet on the sofa and keep a kitten I named Hector.
One weekend, after Chloe had taken it upon herself to sit me down and deliver the Sex Talk, I stammered through asking Grandma some follow-up questions. I wasn’t sure if she’d know the answers, but I figured she’d had my mom, so she must have had sex at least once in her life. When I repeated some of Chloe’s basic explanations, my grandmother’s usually-composed face turned a mottled purple, and I was afraid I’d just given her a heart attack. But she just took a deep breath and said, “This discussion calls for some cocoa, with plenty of tiny marshmallows.”