Hot Set (Art of Love #2)

15. Alex

Chapter fifteen

Alex

B ioncia left early, which wasn’t usual for her, but shortly after I showed up, she finalized puking her guts out in the bathroom. Not that I minded covering for Bioncia. She worked herself into the ground, like the rest of us, with the exception maybe of Seth. Seth had a bizarre way of making people like him no matter how much he should have pissed them off. If I hadn’t been around, though—

If I hadn’t been there, Brandon would’ve hired someone else, and everything would’ve been fine. It was self-centered of me to think like I was the glue holding the production together. And I’d left jobs before. But those were different. It wasn’t hard to let go of perpetually understaffed retail jobs where you just knew how quickly you’d be replaced.

As I closed up my case, I faintly heard Brandon behind me, climbing a ladder. It was just the two of us; I realized. We’d just been filming a couple of extras, and they’d already left. My mind careened into a half-dozen fantasies where I just told Brandon how I felt. But it was pointless. I was leaving.

Even if there was guilt, I had to go. It would be foolish to stay when I had gotten my dream job . And no one here would blame me for leaving. No, everyone would tell me that I ought to go, follow my dream and not abandon it for a crush and an independent film project.

Brandon let loose a string of curses. I turned my head and looked up at him. “Did you need—”

There was the sound of something metallic followed by cold and red. I felt like I’d been doused in a bucket of ice water, and when I looked down at myself, I was covered in fake blood. Brandon’s gasp seemed disproportionately loud. “Oh, my God,” he said.

I wiped my face across my partially stained sleeve and blinked up at him. Brandon remained frozen on his ladder, looking almost comically apologetic. My eyes landed on the bucket before him, dripping with fake blood. He’d dumped a bucket of fake blood on me. It was something so outlandish and strange that I honestly couldn’t think about how to react. All I knew was that we’d just reenacted the climactic scene from Stephen King’s Carrie, and that was probably far funnier than it should’ve been. For a few seconds, we stared at one another. Then, Brandon burst into laughter, laughter that shouldn’t have sounded so alluring, considering he’d just drenched me in fake blood.

“I get it, Brandon,” I said, “You want me gone. You don’t have to cover me in blood. I can take a hint.”

Brandon was suddenly in motion, moving quickly down the ladder. “I am so sorry,” he said, “Really, really sorry.”

“At least, you didn’t hit me in the head,” I quipped. “Then, I’d have a concussion, too.”

Brandon shook his head. “I can pay to have your clothes laundered,” he said.

As if off-the-rack Wal-Mart clothes were really worth the money it would take to have them professionally laundered. They’d probably fall apart at the seams, anyway.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll just go home and throw them in the washer by themselves. That’ll probably get it all out.”

Or it’d stain the inside of the washer, and my mother would kill me.

“But don’t you drive over here?” Brandon asked.

I shrugged. “So?”

“So, you’ll get that all over the upholstery,” Brandon said. “And then, I’d feel really awful. I mean, I already feel awful, but I’d feel even worse .”

“Well, I can’t walk home.”

And I couldn’t imagine going on public transit and making a mess, rashly assuming they’d even let me on. It was at least midnight.

Brandon frowned. “Why don’t you come to my apartment, then?” he asked. “I’m close enough that we could walk there. You can take a shower, and we’ll throw your clothes in the wash.”

My mind flashed to what had happened the last time I’d gone to Brandon’s house, something which Brandon didn’t even seem to consider. Maybe what we’d done really hadn’t been that big of a deal, and I was obsessing over it more than I ought to.

“Sounds good,” I admitted. “Not like there are other choices.”

Besides, if I walked into my mom’s house like this, she’d have a heart attack. Especially if I got fake blood over all her tile floor. Brandon didn’t seem really concerned about it, but maybe that was because he wouldn’t personally be stuck trying to scrub any blood away. Not that my mom would either. If I got fake blood on her tiles, I’d have rubbed my fingers raw trying to get it off.

“That would be great, actually,” I said.

Brandon grabbed a towel from nearby and carefully handed it to me, avoiding spreading the mess, like it was some kind of peace offering. I wiped my face, but had a feeling I wasn’t making the problem much better.

“We’re probably going to get stopped by the cops,” Brandon said.

“Probably,” I said. “You should feel bad. The police department could be spending valuable time chasing criminals, and instead, they’ll be chasing us down.”

I dropped the now-red towel onto my make-up case to deal with later. Brandon looked like he desperately wanted to smile and was trying his absolute hardest not to. I followed him out, and we walked along the sidewalk in a sort of companionable silence. I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye, studying his features. It wasn’t fair for him to be so attractive…and single. I wondered now, what would’ve happened if I’d been able to rewind time. If I could return to the moment when we’d met and had taken him up on his offer.

“So,” Brandon said finally, “You’ll have to let us all know how things are going in D.C.”

“You’ll have to let me know when the movie is finished,” I said. “I could come to the premiere.”

“Of course, you will,” Brandon said, shooting me a smile. “You worked hard on it. You should be there, so you can see all your hard work pay off.”

I nodded, but my stomach twisted. Would I really be able to do that? Being near Brandon made everything strange. I couldn’t untangle my feelings. Of course, by the time this was all finished, I might already be in D.C. It would be easy to find an excuse, then; a reason not to go.

We walked into the apartment building from the back. It was silent and soft in the early morning light. I grimaced as I realized I was leaving bloodied prints all over the place. “They’re going to think I killed someone,” I said.

Brandon laughed. “I’ll call and tell the staff about it,” he said. “They always have someone on-call. I’m sure they’ll find this hilarious. I mean, anyone would.”

Not if they had to clean it up.

We walked into the gilded elevator, and Brandon failed to stifle his laugh. “It’s not funny,” he said. “I mean, it is, but—”

I wrinkled my nose at him and put on the best frown I could. But Brandon’s laughter was infectious, and I smiled back anyway. We landed on his floor and walked into his apartment, my prints red and wet on the tiles.

“Do you remember where the bathroom is?” Brandon asked, flipping on lights as he went.

“I don’t,” I replied.

He nodded and pointed down a hall. “I’ll call and tell the staff not to call the cops,” he said, “And I’ll grab you some clean clothes for after you shower.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”

I went to the bathroom, following along the wall. I hadn’t realized before how strange and minimalist Brandon’s apartment was. That didn’t really seem to match his personality at all. I’d have expected something more cluttered, bohemian maybe.

His bathroom was the most spacious I’d ever been in and uncomfortably minimalist. The tile was white. The walls were white. And I was tracking fake blood all over them, so much despite my best efforts, it was beginning to genuinely look like murder. Brandon could let me leave the mess, and we’d just film a scene here.

God, his tiles probably cost more money than I would ever make in my life. I was struck by the sudden fear that they’d be stained, and that fake blood would never come out. As I pulled my clothes off and climbed into his shower, I carefully set them all in a corner, trying to minimize contact with the floor. Then, I slipped behind the shower curtain. Brandon’s shower was spotless and clean, so much so it was kind of eerie. Like a magazine shower rather than a shower that someone actually used .

I sat and let the water fall over me. As I scrubbed myself clean, I grimaced any time a spattering of fake blood fell upon the curtains. This stuff came off your skin without any difficulty, but I wasn’t sure if it would come out of the shower curtain or the porcelain so easily.

And when the fake blood was all scrubbed free, I still remained in the shower for a few minutes, watching as the water fell over my skin. There was something strange and intimate about being in someone else’s shower. Especially Brandon ’s shower.

There was a knock on the door, and I jumped. Seconds later, the door opened. “Hey, I brought clothes,” Brandon said.

“Thank you,” I said.

An electric spark shot through me at the thought of wearing his clothes, and my face warmed. I didn’t dare look at Brandon from behind the shower curtain, worried he might see. I hadn’t anticipated turning into a blushing damsel from some medieval romance or something. Being in love was weird . And uncomfortable. And wonderful.

“You know,” Brandon said. “It’s almost one in the morning. You could just stay the night.”

My heart quickened. That made sense. If I wanted to go home, I’d have to walk back to the set, get my car, and then drive home. Staying with Brandon made sense. It wasn’t like he was a serial killer or something. He was nice. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn’t Brandon I was worried about. Maybe it was me .

“Sure,” I said. “I might take you up on that.”

“Cool,” he replied.

The door creaked, and I knew he’d left. I turned off the water, dryly noting that it still hadn’t turned cold. Brandon’s apartment building must have a killer water heater. I stepped out and found Brandon’s clean clothes thrown haphazardly on the expansive sink. Mine were gone, a pile of half-dried fake blood the only evidence that they’d been there at all.

As I toweled myself off, nothing felt quite real. It was as if being in Brandon’s space, in his presence, stirred up dozens of half-understood things. What if I didn’t join the FBI? What if I just stayed here? I could pursue Brandon, then. Maybe.

All this hinged on knowing whether or not Brandon was in love with me, and I had no way of knowing that, unless I asked. And if he didn’t, that would hurt and make my remaining time around him awkward. But if he was —

What then?

I pulled on the pajamas he’d offered.

What, then?

There were too many unresolved questions involving loving him. The FBI, at least, was safe. That was a job. A good job. The best job I’d ever been offered and probably ever would be offered. I would be a complete fool to turn it down. But was I a fool for turning down Brandon, if even he cared enough to actually be turned down?

I drummed my fingers on his sink. “I don’t want to go,” I said slowly, letting the words unfold in the air.

It was as if, by saying them, I could make my feelings more concrete, real. And maybe I’d hoped that if they were real, I’d have a better grasp on them. But of course, that was stupid and did nothing at all. I sighed, no closer to figuring it all out but more conflicted than ever.