“Fuck.” Dammit. “Sorry, guys. My bad,” I groan, holding up my hands to peer beyond the stage lights. “I swear I know the words to my own song.”
“No biggie,” my director says from the darkness. “It’s been a long night. It happens to the best of us.”
No need to stroke my ego. I’m fucking up and I know it.
“Let’s take a break from this scene,” he says, his voice coming closer until I can see his shadowed face. “We’ll give your voice a rest and move to the fight scene. That way we can get Jennifer wrapped and off set and then move back to this part.” He motions to the actress.
“Sounds good.”
And before I have a chance to unhook my guitar strap from around my neck, the whole room begins to shift their focus to the right where a mock backstage area has been created for the fight scene. Fucking Hollywood, man.
The place where something can be made of nothing. A set. A scene. Even a rock star. I’m living proof of that.
I hand my guitar to the assistant they’ve assigned to me, all five foot nothing of her doe eyes and trembling hands, and head for my bottle of water just offstage. My first swig has me wishing it were something stronger. I need something to take the fucking edge off.
And why is that, Jennings?
Why do you keep fucking up? Why is your head so far up your ass you can’t remember the words you wrote?
I search the darkness beyond the stage again and come up empty. It’s probably for the better. Seeing her will just fuck with my concentration even more.
Goddamn Bristol Matthews.
To say this would be the last place I’d think to see her would be a lie. I’d expect to see her here. Just not as a bullshit gofer, whatever the fuck position she has.
And yet I look along the walls for her again.
Fuck this.
“I need something else,” I say to my assistant. A little something never hurts. “Something stronger.”
The poor kid’s eyes grow wide as if she can’t believe I’m asking for alcohol. Definite newbie. Alcohol has nothing on some of the shit I’ve seen asked for—and provided—on set. Onstage. Anywhere, really.
“Um, is that allowed?” she asks.
“My stage. My rules.” I wink. “A greyhound, please. Whoever has the alcohol will know what’s in it.” She just stands there and stares at me.
“You’re serious.”
“I am.” I smirk and she remains standing there. “Pretty please.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Vincent. I mean Jennings, I mean—”
“Vince is fine.”
It’s going to be a long fucking night if her sputtering is any indication.
But she does her job and she does it well, because the drink is in my hand within minutes. It’s stiff as hell. Just the way I like it.
“Any questions?” the director asks as he tries to focus my distracted attention on the storyboard in front of me.
It looks like a graphic novel with each square illustrated, depicting what’s in the next scene of the music video. It’s nothing creatively groundbreaking in terms of music videos—hell, music videos are dying in a sense—but they are a necessity for publicity’s sake.
And no matter how many I’ve done, it’s still pretty fucking cool to get to make them.
“Got it. Pretend to argue. Throw my glass against the wall. Jennifer takes a swing at me, and then I pin her against the wall. Kiss her breathless.” I nod and take a sip, my smirk lopsided. “You know, just like I do with every woman I meet backstage.” My joke draws some laughs, but when I glance back to the storyboard again, something strikes me.
Similar scenario but without the fight.
The last time I saw Bristol, this was how it started. Me. Her. Against the wall in the hotel hallway. Breathless. Desperate.
How it ended was even fucking better.
Christ. I haven’t thought about that in years. Scratch that. I have. Off and on. When I write songs. When I see someone who looks like her. When I have an off night, drink a few too many beers and curse why what is, is.
Hell, that night between us was supposed to be closure, but all it did was open wounds. Wounds I then tried to seal shut with superglue, never to be opened again.
Until now.
Until I saw her standing there staring at McMann, and it all came rushing back.
Fucking hell.
Was it the same for her after that night? Is it the same for her seeing me now?
It’s not like you’d know, Jennings, since you blocked her number from your cell after that night.
Christ.
I take another long sip of my drink and ready myself for this next scene.
Not like it’s a hardship kissing another woman for the sake of a video. Or for any reason, really.
But as we go through the drills—wide shot, close-up shot, detail shot—take after take, kiss after intense kiss, it’s Bristol who’s on my mind. It’s Bristol who is fucking up my concentration.
Is she watching?
Is she jealous?
Is she wishing she were the one I’m kissing?
Mature. Real fucking mature.
Then again, there’s no goddamn law that says I have to be.
Jennifer’s fingernails rake down my back as her tongue dances with mine. And as much as there are lights and people watching, it’s hard not to be turned on by the feel of her body against mine. By the unprofessional hum of her approval against my chest. By the heat of her pussy on my thigh where it’s pressed between her legs.
She’s sending all the signals that she’d be willing to continue where we leave off after we’re both wrapped from the set.
Another time maybe.
Another place.
Somewhere where Bristol isn’t, perhaps.
But why? It’s not like knowing she exists has prevented me from living my life over the years. I’ve kissed a whole hell of a lot of women. I’ve fucked more than I can count. All without giving a thought to how it would make Bristol feel.
I’m a rock star. That’s just how it goes.
So why in the fuck is it bugging me now?
“Can you get into it a little more, Vince?” the director asks.
“If I get any more into it, I’ll be inside her,” I say, garnering a laugh from the crew and the clenching of her thigh against mine.
“Right. Yes.” Clearly, I’m not selling it by the director’s comments. “Put your hand on her breast. Yes. Like that. Fist your other in her hair. Good.” He hums in approval and then I assume he speaks to the director of photography. “Zoom in on her hand twisted in his shirt. Then on his knee between her thighs. Then on their mouths as they move. Yes. Perfect. Believable. Sexy as hell.”
We keep going. Making out in a roomful of people—not like that’s new to me—but not typically with cameras and bright lights documenting each slip of the tongue.
Is Bristol still an incredible kisser?
Is her taste still as addictive as I remember?
“Cut,” the director yells out.
We untangle ourselves from each other, and when I look up, I lock eyes with Bristol where she stands a few feet over the director’s shoulder.
Seeing her hits me like a sucker punch, even more than when she turned around earlier today.
She doesn’t get to look at me like that. Not with the hurt. Not with the pain. Not with those big brown eyes judging me for doing my job. Those eyes that used to own me.
She’s the past. The one who let me walk away. The one who agreed to one incredible night.
She’s the one who . . . just stormed out of this sound stage.
Shit.
Damn.
Fuck.
Why do you care, Vince?
I run a hand through my hair and down the rest of my current drink. “I need a fucking minute,” I mutter to anyone in earshot, knowing they won’t say a word. They’re here because of me. Perks of being the star.
A low chuckle hums across the room. They’re assuming I’ve got a hard-on that I need to calm down.
They can think whatever the fuck they want. It’s not like I’ve ever cared one way or another, and I sure as hell don’t now as I casually make my way toward the exit doors Bristol just pushed through.
McMann steps in my way. “Everything okay? Need me to take care of something for you?”
I hold up my cell. “Need to make a quick call.” It’s the only explanation I give.
“Not a problem,” he says as I move past him. “Oh, and if you need anything, I’ve assigned our junior associate Bristol to you. She can take care of whatever your needs happen to be.”
I’ve got a whole lot of needs when it comes to her, Xav. You might not want to say that.
“Ten-four,” I say and keep moving right on out the door.
