Hot Set (Art of Love #2)

13. Brandon

Chapter thirteen

Brandon

I scowled at my finger, wiping away the dot of blood from the tip. I guess I wasn’t going to be a master tailor any time soon. Judging by the haphazard row of stitches I’d made to repair the torn seam of a skirt, something which—I knew, logically—should’ve been a simple fix, I probably wasn’t even going to be an amateur tailor anytime soon. I was beneath amateur, if there was such a thing. But everyone else was busy, and wardrobe had been shorthanded for nearly a week. Only makeup seemed to have their act together, although that might change if Alex left. And he might. Today, he wasn’t on set. Instead, he’d gone to his second interview with the FBI. He’d insisted he could still come in after it was completed, but I’d insisted he take a break.

Alex had ended up working on this film nearly as much as I was, meaning he was definitely due for a break. He was supposed to be a spare make-up artist, someone to make Bioncia’s life easier. I’d never imagined Alex having to pull this much weight.

I paused, thinking of Alex’s face while he did make-up, the way he tilted his head just a bit and parted his lips just a little. Even in the harsh lights of the studio, Alex’s face looked soft, picturesque, like a romantic painting I might’ve spied in one of Mark’s art history textbooks. I shook my head and forced my eyes back to the dress. I needed to be working, rather than spending my time thinking of Alex.

I tried to tell myself my thoughts were scattered because I’d been keeping so many odd hours. Movie production seemed to be a twenty-four-seven kind of job, which I hadn’t anticipated. But there was something appealing about working like that; sporadically. And there was something about the unpredictability of movies that, while stressful, was an adventure.

With a sigh, I smoothed over the velvet and silk gown and held the fabric up to the stage lights, ensuring that I couldn’t see any holes or spaces between the stitches. There weren’t any. At least, that was something. Thank God for small victories.

Oh God, I dropped the needle. With a dawning sense of dread, I scanned the tile floor, trying to find a tell-tale shine of silver metal. It was nowhere to be found. Swearing to myself, I slipped off the stool and crouched near the ground, squinting at the floor. A pair of bare feet slapped by. My head snapped up, and there was Seth, grinning.

“I know I’m great, but you don’t have to kneel,” Seth said, smirking, “unless you are compelled. You would not be the first, y’know.”

“Where are your shoes?” I asked.

Seth shrugged. “It’s raining. I’m not walking around all day with my shoes soaking wet,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, you’re probably going to get a needle in your foot,” I replied. “I dropped one.”

Seth jumped back. “You’re not serious,” he said. “This is a joke.”

“Yeah, it’s a joke. I always crouch before assholes like you… No, there is one here somewhere,” I replied.

Seth glared and crouched, too, his eyes roving over the floor as if it was hostile territory. “If it ends up in my foot, I’m suing,” Seth said matter-of-factly. “Just so you know.”

I snorted. “Oh, please,” I said. “I’ll have your people talk to my people, then countersue you into the Stone Age. You bragged you broke your leg and walked three blocks to the ER without bitching. Now, you’re telling me all it takes to freeze you in your tracks is a measly little needle?”

“Careful, Brandon,” Seth said. “I can go home, y’know.”

I rolled my eyes and moved my hand over the tile. “You give me a migraine, and I don’t even get migraines.”

“So, here’s what we do,” Seth said conspiratorially. “We both move away from this spot and pretend that we don’t know anything about a needle. Eventually, someone will find it—”

“In their foot, Moron!”

Seth arched an eyebrow. “And? Better them than us,” he replied, shrugging. “Just saying.”

“Until we’re sued,” I said, “like I will sue you, Moron.”

“Like anyone would bother with something like that,” Seth said, smirking.

I didn’t bother to point out that Seth had just said he’d sue me if he ended up with a needle in his foot. More than likely, he was aware of the absurdity of what he’d said. Sometimes, it seemed like Seth thrived on being as absurd as possible. I was ninety percent sure most of what he said was for shock value.

“Come on,” Seth continued. “You need some bad karma to balance out all the good stuff you do.”

“How does that work?” I asked.

“It just does,” Seth replied flippantly. “You don’t want to be boring, Brandon.”

I frowned and sat back on my heels. “Is that how I come across? Boring?”

Seth sighed and stretched, like a cat who’d spent all day lounging in the sun. With a smirk, he rocked back on his heels. “Not boring,” Seth said. “I mean, I’m sure you have some appeal. Probably your looks. And your money.”

“Wow,” I said. “What a compliment. You’re a real giver.”

“I know.” Seth paused and looked over my shoulder. “Don’t look now, but your dad is here.”

“You aren’t serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Seth said, climbing to his feet. “Speaking of which, want me to distract him with a fake heart attack?”

I slowly looked over my shoulder, praying to whatever god might listen, that Seth was just playing a terrible joke. But no, it was my father. He still wore a suit, a bad sign. It meant he’d just come from work and would likely be in an even worse mood than usual. I snapped my head back to Seth. “As tempting as that idea is, we both know you’d overact,” I said.

Really, I just hoped my father didn't end up finding the lost needle with his foot. Except I doubt it would pierce his high-end cordovan shoes.

With a sigh, I straightened and draped the repaired dress over one arm. Although I didn’t look at him, I heard Seth shifting behind me doing God knew what. I gave my father a small wave, although he clearly didn’t need it. He took his time walking to me, though, his sharp eyes taking in everything. It really wasn’t fair that, even as an adult, my father still managed to make me feel like a misbehaving child.

And although I’d known my father’s presence would be something of an inevitability, especially after Mark had mentioned his visit, I’d still irrationally hoped that he’d stay far away. It seemed that was definitely not the case.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, and failing.

Part of me, whether I wanted to admit it or not, recognized that this visit was probably deserved. I had made a habit of flitting from hobby to hobby, at my father’s expense. I wasn’t so proud that I couldn’t admit that. And I knew not everyone had a wealthy family who could fund that kind of behavior, but I also felt cheated, as if I somehow still hadn’t managed to find myself even after trying so many different things. And didn’t everyone deserve the opportunity to figure out who they were?

“Brandon,” he said, his eyes drifting around us. “This is interesting. It looks quite different from the last time I visited.”

He shot me a pointed look, and I frowned. “You visited set?” I asked. “When did that happen?”

He narrowed his eyes. “When you were in Virginia,” he said.

I feigned recognition. There was a bit of guilt for lying, even though it was ultimately harmless. And really, how could I possibly justify knowing that my own father had come to see me, and I’d just ignored him? No, at this point, there really weren’t many options except for continuing to lie.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

It was just a little, white lie anyway. Just to bide a bit of time.

My father sighed. “Mark didn’t tell you?” he asked.

I shook my head and shrugged. “He must have forgotten. I mean, he was busy that week.”

I glanced behind me, looking for Seth to back up my story, but he seemed to have slipped away when I wasn’t looking. Not that I could really blame him. A confrontation between my father and me probably wasn’t something anyone wanted to be around for. At best, it was uncomfortable.

It was difficult to say if my father believed me. While he often came across as aggressive in business and, I suspected, condescending without meaning to be, he had an enviable poker face. “Well, it’s a good thing I came by… again ,” he said pointedly.

“Yeah,” I replied.

He could’ve called ahead. I wondered if this surprise visit was because he was worried that I might make up an excuse to not be around when he arrived. “So, did you want to walk around the set?” I asked, tactfully stepping in the path of where I’d dropped the needle.

“Actually, I wanted to talk about you,” he said.

“Me?” I ran a hand through my hair and managed to stifle the nervous laugh that desperately wanted to spring forth.

“It might have escaped your notice, but it’s time for the yearly charity gala once again. So quick, I know.”

As if anything about the company’s yearly charity galas was quick . They were always obnoxiously long events, and sure, they were always fine initially . But my tolerance level for corporate events was…about a New York minute. They were so insincere and ingenuine, and while I loved my father, I’d always felt like company charity events were more about posturing than charity.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to go,” I said.

My father pinched the bridge of his nose, as he usually did when I frustrated him. But really, he should have already known I just didn’t care at all for business, even the family business. It probably was clear to him, and he just couldn’t bring himself to admit it. And maybe I shouldn’t complain. Maybe I should go along and follow the family business, but while I didn’t know exactly what I did want to do with myself, I did know that I absolutely hated the thought of someday having my father’s position as CEO of a telecommunications company, of all things.

“Brandon, you realize—”

“I know it’s important,” I replied, “But I’m busy here. I have to be around to do things, and we’re really about to wrap things up. I have to be around.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I said, “We’re making quicker progress. I mean, I’m going to stick this out. I actually like making films, and there’s a learning curve. But I’m beginning to think I’m good at it.”

Surely, that was worth something, wasn’t it?

“I’d anticipated this passion project of yours taking far less time and costing far less money than it has,” my father replied.

“So did I,” I admitted, “But I’ve stuck with it, haven’t I?”

Stuck with it longer than any other passion project or job I’d had.

“It’s better than nude modeling, right?” I asked.

Usually, bringing that up was a sure-fire way of getting my father to relent, at least a little. But today, he only looked at me, stony-faced.

“Part of learning to run a business is in knowing when to cut your losses,” he said. “You don’t want to keep throwing money into something that isn’t going to make money. That’s just bad business. At some point, you have to realize when you are stuck in a money pit, and cut your losses.”

This was a different argument. Usually, the complaint was that my attention was too fickle.

“Sure,” I said, “But it’s not a business. It’s a—”

“Passion project? For God’s sake, Brandon! Is your goal in life to be a starving artist?” he asked. “You’re well on your way.”

“No,” I replied, “But even successful artists have to start somewhere , and I’ve learned a lot from this experience. I’ve also been working with incredibly talented people.”

Like Bioncia and Seth. Celeste and Scott. Alex. And so many others who have put in so much time and energy to make this happen. Of all my passion projects and previous pursuits, this has been the first one that has other people depending on its success. I may never be a businessman, but I grasped a kernel of that responsibility. These people are depending on their checks hitting their bank accounts and having set schedules. They are depending on me to keep things running until we are finished.

“And I’m happy for you,” my father said with a sigh, “But we need to wrap this up.”

“I know, but I don’t know exactly when —”

“I’ll take an estimate.”

An estimate? He really expected this now ? I stared at him blankly, as I genuinely tried to think of a reasonable estimate. There was a lot to be finished, but we were getting there. We were making progress, and progress was becoming easier to make every day. With every scene and every cut. “Maybe a few months,” I said, almost absentmindedly.

Because my thoughts had already turned away from estimates and time. I imagined a bleak world that wasn’t filled with this chaos, a world that wasn’t constant problems needing solved, and that sounded so dreary and miserable. Films were something I could imagine myself doing. Over and over. Maybe for the rest of my life.

“Fine. But even if you aren’t done by then, I will be,” my father said. “This is ridiculous.”

“All right,” I said.

A few months seemed doable, and I knew my father was being fair. More than fair. His money was responsible for all this, and we had gone over budget and over time. And yet it seemed so ridiculous that, just as I’d discovered something I really loved, I had no idea how to pursue it. There was no way my father would agree to fund something else like this, which meant that—if I wanted to pursue filmmaking—I would have to figure out a way to do it without his help. And I had no idea how to even attempt something like that.