Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
S tress replaces laughter in my life. I can’t really remember what it felt like to live without the weight, dogging me no matter where I go.
At home, on set, things are strained.
It’s not just Marcus, either. Although he makes everything worse. Just when I’ve gotten used to him making things better. Where I found safety in his arms, there’s nothing now but a wild sense of anxiety.
My dates with Jacob are a respite, but those are few and far between as weeks shift into months.
Almost like the thought of Jacob conjures the devil instead, Marcus crowds me in the corner of the set. Feet separate us, and his scent and presence smother me.
“How are you feeling?” he mutters loudly enough for me to hear.
I blink, my heart fluttering in my throat. “I’m fine.”
We’re as cordial as strangers, even when I remember how he tastes. He’s stopped pushing me away, but he’s distant, formal. These interactions are the actual worst.
“I know the schedule is harsh, but we wrap today,” he continues in the business-as-usual tone I’ve come to expect. Today he’s traded his usual black-on-black suit for a casual linen blazer and the most professional pair of jeans I’ve ever seen. “Then it’s just a couple more weeks. A few parties, a few red carpets, and you’ll be free to take on your next project.”
“Yes.”
What else is there to say? The words are all there, piling up on one another, but none of them make it out.
I tug at the shirt, a tight little tank top designed with Alicia in mind and not me.
My phone buzzes from my shorts pocket, and I jump, the vibration even louder than normal. Marcus hears, too, and he narrows his dark eyes into threatening slits.
“You stow your phone in your trailer,” he warns. “I don’t want to see you bring it to set again. It’s a distraction.”
“The cell won’t be a problem.” My nose automatically lifts in the air, and I have to force it downward inch by inch.
Marcus doesn’t ask who’s texting me, and there’s no way in hell I’m supplying the information.
We both know who it is. Even if he’s never seen the texts, he suspects, at least according to the social media threads I’ve been tagged in multiple times. Marcus Ortega, my manager, has given his blessing to the relationship between me and Jacob, although he requests that the press respect my privacy .
How about he respects me by not endorsing the lies? There’s no relationship. A friendship, sure, but nothing more. Jacob keeps texting me, and I’m trying to stay open to things with him, but—
“Well?” Marcus arches a black eyebrow into his hairline.
“I’m going, I’m going.” I hustle off the set toward my trailer.
“Be back in two minutes. No more,” Marcus calls after me.
The devil take me because even with all this new shit crashing down on my head, I only want Marcus. I’ll happily burn in those flames for another night with him because I didn’t realize the last one would be the last.
Swallowing hard, I force the thoughts down into the black pit inside me, hoping I’ll be able to convince myself the opposite is true. I want Jacob. Not rekindling.
I hustle out of the darkness of the studio into the blinding light of day with the countdown trailing me. With shaking fingers, I pry the phone from my ludicrously tight shorts, my high heels clicking away.
I want to see you again. Are you free tomorrow night for dinner?
Jacob accompanies the text with a winking emoji. I like to think the ghost of the smile on my face is because I’m actually interested in having dinner with Jacob. He’s normal. With him, I’m normal again, not this twisted freak who wants the pain of the wrong man.
“I have a feeling our shoot today is going to be a breeze,” Belinda says the moment I step back inside the soundstage. “The focus here will be less on physical chemistry and more on the emotionality of the dialogue.” She rubs her hands together in anticipation.
The reminder is for me as I bounce from side to side on the balls of my feet. The climax of Alicia and Mr. Patterson’s interactions before things go downhill. I’ve been running the lines at home for days leading up to this moment.
I’ll be fine. The others don’t know it, but I do.
It’s going to be easy to channel the heartbreak of the decline and easier to channel the fear. Tears already sting my eyes, ready to fall free at the right moment. I slick my tongue over my dry lips, no matter how many layers of gloss the makeup crew has painted on.
“Empire.” Hearing my name on his lips is torturous. “Remember to build the inflection toward the middle of the argument.”
I square off across from Greg and ignore Marcus. “Yeah, I got it, thanks.”
Every day is the same.
Pushed, prodded, molded into the star he’s always wanted me to be. Molded right into my mother’s shoes. He always loved her more than me, wanted her when he knew he couldn’t have her, and as the filming reaches its end day, I realize it more than I ever have before.
Marcus stares me down with a critical eye on our five-minute break before filming this final scene again. From head to toe and everywhere in between, but any hint of the lust he used to reserve for me has disappeared.
Somewhere over the last two weeks, and in between his brutally punishing schedule, we all rallied, and his desire for me breathed its final breaths.
The final scene, but one of the first from the script. It’s been ages since I read it from cover to cover. Exhaustion makes it hard to move my arms and legs, makes it even harder to remember my lines.
The more we film, the easier I’ve grasped the dialogue, like the words write themselves inside my mouth, and I need only the light and Belinda’s directions to set them free.
“One more fuck up, and I’ll have us run this scene ten more times to get it right,” Marcus calls out.
It’s not for the others, though; it’s for me.
One of the only things he gives me anymore: constructive criticism.
He’s been spending most nights in his apartment, leaving me in the big house with only the men he hired as silent bodyguards. Which is fine. Whatever threats he once said forced us into hiding must not be an issue anymore if he’s comfortable leaving.
I square my shoulders.
Please, let this be the last time.
I want a break, but I refuse to ask for one and have him taunt me for being weak. If there’s only one more scene to get through before I’m free from him, then I’ll do it, even when the distance is slowly killing me.
Belinda taps her fingers on her knees, staring at the scene in front of her, and I do my best to focus.
The end is so close I can taste it. Then I’ll be out of this cage, able to do whatever I want, and far away from Marcus and the hold he has over me. With time and space, it might not hurt so bad, although I’m guessing the ache will always be there.
“Okay, guys, no more fuckups, as our producer stated.” Belinda accompanies the statement with a grin that shows she’s at the limit of what she can tolerate.
Marcus has been a pain in everyone’s asses.
The scene is a blur of action and words.
I’m not even in my body. I’m somewhere else, lost in my thoughts, going on autopilot. But it must have been enough.
I must have done something right because the sudden thunder of applause brings me back to myself. Marcus stands beside the rest of the directors with his hands slowly beating together, his gaze fixated on something just past me.
“That’s a wrap, folks!” Belinda sinks in her seat. “That’s a goddamn wrap.”
Greg makes a hasty exit the second he’s able to, probably to peel off the oppressive prosthetics he’s had to don when the makeup department insisted they couldn’t cover the bruises without it showing poorly on film.
Marcus disappears soon after, spinning around and stalking into the shadows like he somehow belongs to them.
It’s stupid to follow him. Stupid to confront him about everything and demand answers.
I guess I’m stupid.
My heart beats its way out of my chest and up into my throat when he disappears inside the small office he claimed for himself on set. But he doesn’t close the door, which is basically an open invitation to follow.
“Hey.” I raise my voice to make sure he hears me.
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop, only makes his way around to the side of the desk.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Congratulations are in order, Miss Stone,” he replies softly. “You’ve just completed your first major motion picture. If you’d like me to make reservations for you to go out with the rest of the cast to celebrate, then I’ll do so. It’s well deserved.”
The smooth tone and seamless facade are a lie.
“Fuck your professionalism. You weren’t so concerned about me when you ordered the crew to shoot for twenty hours a day,” I counter.
Miss Stone. Not baby, not sweetheart, not even my first name. Definitely not Em . I swallow over the shock of it and the ice that follows.
“I’ve done nothing but what’s in the best interests of you and the others.” His insistence makes me sicker. “Even though I’m sure you don’t believe me. Anyway, it’s over now.”
“You were a monster, and you treated us like crap.” Emotion bubbles up and threatens to erupt and burn both of us. “I highly doubt anyone will want to work with you again after this.”
“Then it’s a problem I’ll encounter when it comes up.” He’s perfectly polite. “Now, is there a point to your intrusion?”
I want to scratch his eyes out.
I want to kiss him.
I’ve taken a step toward him before I can stop myself. Barely legal, and my life has already taken more twists and turns than so many others. It seems like years since Marcus touched me, and suddenly the time has become an insurmountable abyss.
I’ve been verbally abused, hurt, and degraded.
Now he wants to act like it’s all part of his job? Like it’s for my benefit?
“Look at me, Marcus. Really look at me.”
He finally lifts his gaze to mine and blinks, staring through me rather than seeing me. It’s worse than a physical slap.
My hands clench into fists, and my body practically vibrates with the need to lash out. Where has it gotten me, though? Absolutely nowhere. I’ve raged against him, I’ve cried, and it’s like beating my hands against a brick wall. I think the wall might have more emotions than Marcus.
So why do I want him so badly?
What possibly draws me to him when he’s giving me nothing? He’s taking from me, causing distress—
I stop the tantrum before it comes out, breathing in and counting in my head. “I want you to see this.” I’d forgotten about the bag I hauled to the office, the one kept just off set with the script from Jacob.
Breaking eye contact, I grab the pages and hand it out to Marcus.
He stares at it for the longest time. Hesitant when I’ve never known him to be, like the pages will somehow reach out and snap off the tips of his fingers if he touches them.
“This is the next movie I want to do.”
I’m still unsure whether I want him to continue to represent me; breaking that contract might throw him over the edge. But the idea of seeing him all the time, talking to him, having him manage my future projects, and being subjected to his presence…how much more torture can a person go through?
“I wanted to show it to you,” I continue.
Relief relaxes his features. “A work thing. Got it.”
I jolt backward, invisible electric prods straightening my spine. He’s… What? Happy that I only came in here for work? Rather than an actual what-the-fuck-are-you-doing conversation?
“Read it if you want.” I can’t bring myself to take the script back from him. “I’m doing it with or without your blessing.”
I’ve got to get out of here. As far away from him, this set, these people as possible.
Where am I going to go?
There’s nowhere I can run where he won’t find me. It’s true.
Do I even want him to find me anymore?
Feeling like I’ve been flayed, I spin out of the office, wanting to disappear. Hoping it’s possible. Knowing it’s not.