Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
T he harsh lights overhead can’t compete with my glow.
I’m lit from the inside, and, of course, everyone is going to know. They’ll see the change the same way I see it every time I look at myself in the mirror. My smile is contagious, or so my makeup artist assures me. She rubs my shoulder and grins before moving to put my hair in curlers for the day.
I settle back into the makeup chair with my green tea clenched between my palms and my stomach surging every time I remember what happened.
How Marcus felt inside me, stretching me, molding me to fit him.
“Whatever vitamins you’ve added to your routine, Empire, you’ve got to let me know. Your skin is stunning, and right now, I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something about you.”
“Happiness,” I answer honestly. “That’s it. I had a really great night.” Don’t blush.
“Well, you deserve it.”
I do deserve it, don’t I?
River hates the word. She always says that no one deserves anything, because hard work and a generous spirit will bring good things to you. Deserve is for alcoholics describing their need for a drink.
I’m not sure I believe it anymore. Because I’ve been through enough shit in my life to feel like, yeah, I do deserve this happiness. It’s been a long time coming. Spending the night in his arms, my body rocked with the aftereffects of sex, was a dream come true.
I’m worn and sore and elated.
Spoiled rich girl, right? So many tabloids use the title, even after my parents died. Money buys a shit ton of things but happiness isn’t really up there.
It’s the first day on set where I actually feel like I might do a good job.
The good mood trails me to my mark, all the way through Belinda calling action.
My lines flow seamlessly, and my scene partner gives off the same vibes as a teddy bear. Which is strange because Greg’s body double is a burly man with shoulders that could be used to plow a field.
He’s a honking bear of a dude and about as gay as they come.
Between takes, Wayne’s got me laughing into my fruit plate. Through it all, Marcus is there, slinking along the sidelines and barking out orders. Every time I hear his voice, something hot and wild sizzles in my veins. His grumbled demands aren’t always for me, but they turn my head anyway.
“You did well today,” he murmurs, cornering me near the espresso machine toward the end of our shooting schedule.
“Thank you,” I whisper back, like this is a secret language between us. The rest of the world might as well not exist.
Like a kinky sort of foreplay. Now I know how his voice sounds when he’s calling my name and deep inside me. Those low groans and grunts are an aphrodisiac.
He glares at a boom mic operator. “Keep up the good work, and we’ll be able to wrap quickly.”
“That’s great news. Have you heard anything about Greg?” So far the man’s status has been kept from the majority of the staff, but from the way Marcus and Belinda whisper to each other, they’ve got to know something.
His lips twist in a scowl. “He’ll be fine. Should be back and ready to go with makeup in a few days.”
“Good thing you didn’t hit him hard, then, huh?”
“Oh, I beat the fuck out of him. He’ll learn not to touch his costars inappropriately again.”
Someone calls out his name, and Marcus stares over my head, dipping his chin in a brief acknowledgment.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
That’s for me. Along with the slight swat on my ass no one can see.
A shiver runs through me and heat immediately builds. “I look forward to it,” I whisper.
Damn, I want to kiss him. I want to wrap my legs around him the way I did last night. It’s like he’s created a monster; I’m constantly hungry and horny for him alone.
The more time we spend together, the worse it’s going to get, I’m sure of it.
The following day doesn’t roll as smoothly as the last, but I’m to blame for it. My head isn’t in the game. Or rather, it’s about ten feet across the room, centered on the cock of the man in the black shirt and black pants, wearing a permanent scowl. Marcus watches my every move, and his attention is a presence all its own. I feel him with me even when he’s not there.
“How does our schedule look for the next week?” I ask him over dinner.
He glides a steak knife through the filet mignon, the two of us perched at one end of the massive dining room table, eating the meal he had delivered for us. If he wanted to use the distance to keep me off him, he should have grabbed the opposite chair. As it stands, our knees touch, and he swallows over a smile every time mine bobs.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m always going to want to know.”
“It’s not your concern, Empire. Focus on learning your lines, and let me deal with the bullshit.” He glides his next bite of steak through the rich gravy, and my mouth goes dry when he lifts it to his lips.
Those lips—
“It would help me if you actually let me in,” I reply. “I can help you.”
He furrows his brows together in a solid line. “You have enough to worry about without me adding to it. Focus on what we have to get through, and trust me, will you.”
For some fucked-up reason, I do trust him. He’s always managed to reel me back in, even when I’m mad at him. There’s a lot bubbling under the surface between us, and call it the post-sex haze, but I’m not too worried right now.
I draw my hand to his thigh, and Marcus tenses, staring down like he can see through the table.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a grumble of sound.
“Distracting you. Is it working?”
His growl tells me what I need to know.
“I guess it depends on how hungry you are,” I say with a smile.
He’s starving for me the same way I’m starving for him. With a flash of teeth, Marcus shoves away from the table, stabbing the end of the knife into the heart of his steak, and stands. I jump to my feet too just as he grabs me by the ass and hauls me closer.
Getting bent over the table and fucked from behind for dessert is my new favorite thing. The soreness in my pussy doesn’t matter. All that matters is Marcus finally using his cock the way I need him to.
Every punishing thrust has silverware and plates clinking together. The vase of flowers at the center knocks on its side, cracking the glass. His name is a prayer on my lips even when his cock fills me and his hips send mine slamming into the wood.
He fucks me roughly, and bruises form on my legs, my hips, and my ass from where he grabbed me. Those are the best kinds of bruises. Ones I don’t mind wearing on my skin like accessories.
The next day on set, my core throbs and aches. Every small move I make has me feeling him like he’s branded on my insides. It’s much too easy to fall into a routine over the next few weeks.
We spend our nights fucking, me riding him or him plowing me into the mattress of his bed, although we never sleep in the same room. Bright and early, he drives us to set, then steps back to allow Belinda and the other directors to run the show while he oversees the proceedings.
The routine works. Every day it feels more comfortable.
Until one day it doesn’t.
Until trying to get him to speak to me while we’re on set becomes a task, a chore, instead of something natural. I try to snag his attention, only for him to hold up a finger, to stare sideways and tell me he’ll speak to me later. Only later never comes.
Marcus always seems to be just out of reach.
More often than not, Wayne is there to kind of pick up the slack and show me the ropes. An amiable guy, made safe because we both like the same thing: emotionally unavailable men.
“Oh, honey,” he says grandly, “they’re all the same. Gay or straight, men are men, and when one doesn’t fall into place, it’s time for the next one.”
Things aren’t going to be the same when Greg comes back to the set.
I don’t have to wait long to find out how right I am. He returns the following Thursday, carrying a dark cloud with him.
“Are you ready for this?” I whisper, standing on the X in the setup for Mr. Patterson’s living room.
The same scene Marcus interrupted when he lost his cool.
Which, when I glance around, Marcus is conspicuously absent today. A purposeful choice, or did someone say something and he made himself scarce?
Greg doesn’t look at me for the longest time, but when he does, the familiar spark is missing from his gaze. The one I’d gotten used to seeing. His eye socket is still swollen from where he was repeatedly punched, but the bones weren’t broken, and the bruising has been covered up with prosthetics and a shit ton of makeup.
“I’m a professional, as much as people on this set would like to believe otherwise,” he tells me under his breath. “Yes, I’m ready for this. As long as we both know the parts we’ll play, it will be fine.”
I want to tell him I’m sorry, although I’m not the one who needs to apologize. I’m not responsible for what Marcus chooses to do.
My stomach flips wildly.
It takes a miracle to get us through the scene without interruption, one I guess we’ve been granted.
Stripping out of my bathrobe and standing in front of Greg completely naked isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it felt the first time.
The lines might not be smooth or seamless, but I get them out. The emotion is there. I’m already raw and vulnerable, so nothing is really faked.
In place of Greg’s face, I imagine Marcus.
He should be here for this. Except every time we pause, I search for him and come up empty.
Greg is nothing but professional when he’s got me on his lap. This time.
And this take I know how I’m supposed to feel. I know exactly what kind of emotion I’m supposed to convey here because I’ve lived it.
By the time we wrap, Belinda and the associate directors are on their feet clapping.
“Can someone get them their clothes, for the love of god,” Belinda calls out loudly, laughing. “We did it, people. That’s a wrap on the scene from hell!”
“Like this scene is the Olympics and we just brought home silver,” Greg whispers.
“Not gold?”
“Close enough to count, I’d say.” He holds up his hand, and I slap my palm against it.
Where the hell is Marcus? He’s not outside waiting for me with car when we finally wrap for the day.
Standing in front of the studio doors, I clutch my purse, staring out into the nearly empty parking lot before I shake my head. I’m not some lost little girl. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself to and from the studio without having him around.
My stomach refuses to still, the bubble of anxiety riding higher into my chest. Something isn’t right.
I’m halfway to my trailer when the sleek black town car pulls up. The side door opens, and I catch a flash of movement from the back.
“Come on, get in,” Marcus grunts out.
He’s nothing but a shadow from the far end of the back seat, his posture deceptively at ease.
“Jeez, where did you go to put yourself in such a bad mood?” I slide beside him, and the car takes off before I have the door all the way closed.
Marcus stares intently at his cell.
“What’s the matter? You disappeared on me. Which means you missed one of the best scenes I’ve ever done,” I taunt.
He refuses to break his attention away from the screen. And when I lean over to see what he’s looking at, he angles it away. “I’m busy.”
That’s all I get? Two words?
The terseness of his voice takes me by surprise, and the pit in my stomach deepens. “Too busy,” I counter. “You’ve been ignoring me more and more lately. You’re like a ghost on the set. Is something wrong?”
I wasn’t sure if it was a tactic to keep the others from figuring out we were fucking, but newsflash, they already knew. Everyone does. And if they aren’t one-hundred-percent certain, then they suspect it.
Marcus refuses to look up from whatever he’s doing on his phone. “I can’t always be around to hold your hand.”
That’s all I’m going to get out of him.
Not like this is anything new, either.
The last few days he’s said a handful of words to me and nothing more. Nothing unless he’s between my legs, grunting until he brings us both to orgasm.
“Come on.” I poke him in the side, and it’s like digging my finger against a piece of iron. “I know something else you can hold. I want to feel your hand on me and your fingers sliding—”
He shrugs me away. “Didn’t you hear me say I’m busy? Please. I need to focus.”
Busy .
The gruffness hurts, like an electric prod right against my heart. Fine, if this is the way he wants to play it, then I’ll stay away from him.
I push myself to the opposite seat and draw the seat belt across my chest.
Half of me wonders if it makes any sense to feel this hurt. It’s not like this is new behavior from him. Marcus has always been moody.
Once, he refused to speak to my father for an entire week after they bet on a poker game and Marcus lost. It’s just his way. His asinine, childish way.
The silence is ridiculously heavy, though, and the entire drive home is a lesson in endurance. Especially since this is not the first time he’s been a complete asshole. I thought things would smooth out once we slept together. It’s easy to let ourselves go when there are no barriers. But when we put our clothes on, things take a turn for the worst.
“You’re going to have to work on your tone,” I tell him as I dog him through the house.
“My tone isn’t—” he starts.
“Not my business, I know.” I jog to keep up with him, but he’s always a step ahead. “Because nothing is my business. Except you’re making it that way by being a prick.”
This isn’t the right time to confront him, especially considering my vow to stay away from him. Seems I broke it quickly.
“You might use your words like a weapon, but you can’t talk to me the way you do.”
“And here I thought your problem was because of me not talking to you,” he calls back from down the hall.
I grit my teeth, setting my jaw stubbornly. What a fucking ass. “If I did something wrong, then tell me. Man up and talk to me about it. Nothing is going to change unless you use your words. You talk to me like I’m the child, but in this case, it’s you. A grown-ass child.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why are you acting this way?” I’ve got to take it down a notch. Screaming at him won’t help.
He’s a tornado around the kitchen, slamming the door to the refrigerator and practically swatting the espresso machine across the acres of countertop.
We always did our best talking here in this space.
“I’m not going to fuck you again,” he says, bracing his hands on the countertop. He draws in a heavy breath, his gaze fastened on the backsplash. “Do you hear me, Empire?”
“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?” Indignation has goose bumps erupting along my arms and legs. “You asshole.”
“I know. I’ve never claimed to be anything but an asshole. Now you’re seeing it. And I’m telling you point-blank not to expect sex from me again. It stops today.”
He refuses to turn around and face me. It’s just as well. I know myself, and the second he meets my eyes, I’m gonna start crying. My skin is clammy and tight, the back of my neck prickled by emotions I’d rather not name.
I’m overworked, and no matter how great I feel like I do on set, it doesn’t help now. Not when it’s almost impossible to calm down.
“I must have done something wrong if you’re taking sex off the table. I’ve been through enough.”
He must have come to the same realization as well.
With a sigh, he shifts, and in the darkness, he’s haunted. His eyes are black pits with shadows creasing deeply above his cheeks. “You have. This has nothing to do with you.”
I stiffen when he crosses the room and wraps me up in his arms. His cologne is the bane of my existence and the only thing that calms my soul. I want to hit him; I want to hold him.
The tears are close to the surface and ready to burn their way from my eyes.
“I’m not something you can put on a shelf and ignore until you’re ready to play again.” My voice is muffled by his shirt, and damn me, but I cling to him, grabbing great handfuls between my fingers and clenching tightly.
I should let him go.
I should show him just how angry I am when these horrible emotions are a windstorm inside me.
But I hold on.
And Marcus molds me to him. “I shouldn’t want you. That’s the problem, okay? It’s not you.”
I shouldn’t want him, either. There’s too much shit behind us for a relationship to work. Not like we’ve got one. He tossed me away, and I still trail behind him like a toy on a string, helpless to move on my own.
Then he finally gave me what I wanted, and now I’m even deeper into this hole. Sunken where I can’t really see the light because there’s only Marcus.
Don’t let go of me .
“It’s not you, Empire.” He slowly releases my arms to drag me toward him, and his lips find mine. “I don’t deserve you.”
“I’ll be the judge.” My chest heaves, and I take my time kissing him, memorizing the strong planes of his body, wrapping my arms around his neck and locking them to make sure he doesn’t get away. “Let me decide whether you do or not.”
“I have to give you up.” His dark tone sends me straight to the edge of chaos.
Give me up? Hasn’t he done it already?
I run my hands over his chest. “Touch me.”
I’ll never beg for a man.
“No.”
Yet Marcus smiles, something feral in the gesture, before reaching down to bite my lower lip. I shiver. I can’t stop staring at him, just like there isn’t a damn thing I can do about walking away.
What’s stopping us from being together besides his own fucked-up thoughts?
Hunger flashes in his gaze before he runs his tongue over the lip he just nibbled. My heart lurches into my throat as he slides his tongue deeper into my mouth, tasting me as though he’ll never have the opportunity again.
I’ve got no patience when it comes to him. I’m already reaching down for the buckle on his pants when he stills my hands, running his thumb over the top of my hand.
“You need to stop,” he warns.
“Why?” I lay my hand on the hardness of his cock. “Why do I need to stop when I’m yours?”
He’d said it himself. I belong to him. And with every rough, possessive thrust, he made me believe it.
“You belong to me, so it’s in my right to let you go. I’m bad for you in every single way, Empire.” He whispers into my hair, smoothing the strands, reluctant to release me and all the while telling me he has to.
I don’t understand.
Except, I do.
It’s the same thing he’s said for as long as I can remember. My heart sinks a little more every time he says something out loud, and it’s impossible to ignore the way he hesitates tonight.
The way his touch feels apologetic instead of adoring.
“We can’t be together.”
I shake my head, disbelieving. “No.” Anything but that. I refuse to believe him.
Until he grabs my face and forces me to look at him. Nothing but hard resolve sharpens every plane of his cheekbones, the squareness of his jaw covered in a day’s worth of stubble. His eyes are black and shuttered.
A tremor zips through me.
“We can’t be together. The sooner you realize it, the better it will be for you. I’ll keep you safe, but I’m never fucking you again.”