Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As Jory walked to set, he silently crowed over Cali’s blazing orgasm. She ran so hot, sensitive to his every touch, blowing bright and fast, as though he’d only just taken the edge off. He bet he could have coaxed two more out of her without even dropping his pants. And even though he was left hard and wanting, he was oh so satisfied with where he had taken her. Even if she was furious after the result.
He laughed outright, remembering her outrage when he walked away. Letting her think he’d regained the upper hand in the game that was the push and pull between them was intensely gratifying. He would have a spring in his step if his suddenly restrictive khakis would allow it. He’d have to settle for a smirk over his devious plan to knock her off balance, which had started with agreeing to all her ideas about the day’s shoot. He knew she would take his acquiescence as a personal slight. She needed the spark of conflict between them as much as he did, the spark that made their blood boil. And if that conflict led to a liaison in the back sets, who was he to deny them?
What he hadn’t considered was her concern over losing his voice. How she felt it was a crime he put himself away. Cali was a feisty, talented director who genuinely found value in differing opinions. He felt seen. Which made him … fluttery.
No, not fluttery. Triumphant over a battle won.
He should have known his victory wouldn’t last long.
As the afternoon went on, he realized he’d made a gross miscalculation. Cali was a hand talker who created the shapes and landscapes of her ideas with her body. Now she used those expressive limbs as weapons of subversion and torment, launching a silent campaign engineered to drive him out of his mind with want. When she illustrated her vision for the lighting grid, she brushed the heel of her hand up his arm. When she gestured toward set, she grazed a finger across his ribs. When she scooched by to give an actor some direction, she managed to—God knew how—drift her knuckles along the ridge of the erection he was growing desperate to hide.
If he hadn’t been rendered mindless by the constant contact, he would’ve been in awe of her dexterity. Never once did her furtive teasing appear suspect to others or call her integrity into question—each touch a whispered promise meant only for him.
Then the actual whispers started.
“Can you come in a little tighter, a little harder on the tail end?”
Jory blinked as the soft air from her words brushed past his ear. They were sitting side-by-side at the monitors. When he risked a glance at her, she sat innocently reading her script. He had no idea what she was talking about. His mind was fried with lust, and he filled with dread when she turned her hooded hazel eyes to him in expectation of an answer.
Jory swallowed. “Pardon me?”
Half the crew had gathered around the monitors to check their own work—Makeup, Continuity, the art director. No one seemed to notice the fire-hot woman terrorizing him.
She regarded him with that heavy-lidded gaze and slowed down her speech, as though speaking to someone who couldn’t form sentences, which wasn’t far off. “Can you come in a little tighter, a little harder, on the tail end?” Jory swallowed again. “Of the scene,” she clarified, watching him with lazy curiosity.
“Sure, I can do that.” Jory shifted his shoulders in his suddenly abrasive T-shirt.
“Start off slow, of course, and then when the climax comes, really hammer it.”
“Got it,” Jory squeaked. He actually squeaked.
Cali’s mouth kicked up at the ends. “Thanks.” She turned back to her script with the easy grace of a satisfied cat.
Jory scrubbed a hand down his face. He had to get out of her space, or he wouldn’t survive the day. But when he tried to leave, she grasped his arm. Blowing out a breath, he was about to cry uncle, only to be struck dumb by the concern in her eyes.
“And take this.” A protein bar glinted at him from her hand. Jory could feel his face crinkle like the bar’s cellophane wrapper.
“You need to eat,” she said, standing up and placing the bar in his hand with a lingering touch. “It’s cherry,” she breathed, patting his shoulder and sauntering to set. He couldn’t help watching her heart-shaped ass swing from side to side as she went. He winced. His cock was going to fall off from a case of blue balls.
Someone cleared their throat beside him. Loudly.
Jory was up and out of his chair like a shot, focusing on the monitor, to cover the fact he’d just been ogling the director’s butt. He glanced back to see Michael with his arms across his formidable chest. “You good there, bra?”
Jory waved a nonchalant hand in the hope that it would waft away the suspicion in Michael’s eyes. “Yeah, great. Was just checking the shot.”
“I saw what you were checking,” he accused.
Guilt bubbled up despite the fact he hadn’t done anything wrong. Or had he? He was so mixed up in the fervor stew Cali concocted, he couldn’t remember. He was a good guy—he was fairly sure about that. He diverted his attention to the set where Alison stood in mirror image of Michael, crossed arms and condemnation clouding her face. Did everyone know what was happening? He was a good guy!
Michael smacked Jory in the chest with a plastic case. Jory looked down and saw the film cartridge he’d dropped off with Michael a few weeks ago. “Sorry to say,” Michael growled out, “but this Super 8 is too old-school for us to develop. Has to go to New York or LA. Not that it seems to be on your mind at the moment.”
Jory took the case. “Um … thanks. Yeah. I mean, no . I’m just a bit … distracted.”
“You keeping it clean, my friend?” Michael poked two fingers into Jory’s deltoid.
“Ow!” Jory would’ve found Michael’s protectiveness of Cali endearing if he wasn’t genuinely worried about the guy decking him. “Yes! Yes. Kind of.”
The two men glanced over at Cali, who was now on set, animatedly talking to the actors. Michael rumbled, “I like her stuff.”
“Me too.”
Cali reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone. Her easy air changed to one of dread as she took in the screen. She answered the call in hushed tones Jory strained to hear. “Hi, Mom. Oh … No … Don’t worry. I paid that one, Mom. You don’t have to worry about … Yes, I went through your bank … Yes, with Theresa … She is very nice. Listen … Listen … Have you talked to Patsy?”
Jory could feel her tension from across the set and had the unprecedented urge to catch her eye to see if she was alright. He crushed the impulse, knowing their game had nothing to do with deeper feelings, which was how it needed to stay. He turned back to Michael, who had a look of dawning understanding on his face. “Oh, shit. Okay.”
Jory frowned. “ ‘Oh, shit, okay,’ what ?”
“You like her.”
“What? No!” Somehow they’d moved into middle school territory. He cleared his throat. “No.”
“You like her, like her.” Michael’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “If you want, I could put a good word in for you.”
“I can handle myself, thanks.”
“You can be kind of an asshole,” Michael said skeptically.
“Shut up, man.”
For the first time probably ever, Jory was happy to see Paolo bound up to him. “You’re directing me again. I like your style, and I don’t want to get mixed up with the haters.” Paolo sent a sneer at Cali.
Jory’s happiness turned to indignation. He pointed a finger at Paolo. “You and I need to talk.”
“Yeah, man. What are you thinking for me?” Paolo rubbed his hands together.
“You’re directing now?” Michael’s eyebrows bunched together.
Jory put his hands on his hips. “No.”
Paolo nodded. “Yeah.”
Jory shot Paolo a glare.
“What? You’re amazing,” Paolo said.
“No. I’m not amazing. We need to talk.”
“You’re not amazing?” Michael innocently inquired.
“I am not … oh, shut up .” Jory searched out Cali as Paolo explained to Michael just how amazing Jory was.
Cali had moved away from set, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, lids squeezed shut. “You haven’t heard from her at all? Since when? Oh. I’m sure it’s fine … Right … I gotta go … As soon as I’m done here … Okay. Bye. Love you. Love you. Bye. Bye.”
Cali hung up and stared into the middle distance. Blinking, she slid the phone into her back pocket, shuttered her gaze, and walked onto set with a sense of purpose that seemed to be pulled from the ground.
Paolo wrapped an arm around Jory’s shoulders. “This guy’s been giving me just what I need.”
“I haven’t been giving you anything.”
Paolo shrugged. “That’s exactly what I need.”
Suddenly a female voice lilted above the flats, cutting through the chattering crew. “I know Cali’s around here. She’ll vouch for me. Cali? Cali!”
A petite blond woman barreled around the corner of the set, followed by a harried PA trying to stop her. The woman wedged herself between Michael and Paolo, full of a too-bright energy, tone unreasonably loud. “Hi. Have you seen Cali?”
Cali froze at the sound, the whole set going quiet as she turned to take in the newcomer. “Patsy?”
Cali dragged Patsy outside into the Atlanta heat as she scanned her sister’s bedraggled state. Dressed in formless black layers, Patsy lit a cigarette, the sudden flare highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the wrong kind of shiny hair that needed a wash. Patsy leaned against the outside wall of the studio as though it would keep her up.
“You look like shit.” It came out more like a motherly scolding than an actual observation. Cali was furious. She had enough on her plate without having to deal with her sister.
Patsy sighed out the smoke with relief. “If by shit you mean stylistically waiflike, then you are correct.”
“I’m not in the mood for your charming self-destructive mode.”
“But it goes so well with the surroundings.”
The skies were darkening for the daily thundershower. Every day in the summer, Atlanta had an afternoon storm that no one seemed to take note of. Violent and majestic, these thunderstorms did little to assuage the constant humidity, and everything to build the Southern Gothic vibe of entrapment. Patsy always managed to appear ethereal, even in all black and dangling a cigarette out of her mouth like a trucker. A wispy, Twiggy-like beauty with blond hair and blue eyes, she could definitely pass for a Tennessee Williams heroine teetering on the edge of madness.
She was obviously breaking apart now, her hand shaking as she pulled the cigarette from her mouth. According to Cali’s calculations, Patsy and—what was this one’s name? Carl? Carter? Colin—Colin should’ve had another four weeks before the inevitable breakup. This one came early, for fucks sake, and given that Patsy was on the studio’s doorstep, it was bad.
“What happened?” Cali tried to sound empathetic but obviously failed.
Patsy put a hand to her chest in mock effrontery. “Can’t a girl visit her sister? I wanted to see you in action.”
Irritation flared in the way only a sister could produce. “You drove fifteen hundred kilometers from Toronto to Atlanta to watch me work?”
Patsy paused. “It is a bit dramatic, isn’t it?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Patsy breathed out a plume of smoke, and they both watched it curl away, slow and heavy like the air around them.
“What happened?” Cali tried again.
“Colin’s a douche.”
“I assumed,” Cali said bitterly.
“Wow, you’re really mad.” Patsy had the audacity to look hurt.
Cali put out her hand, fingers splayed, and Patsy gave her the cigarette. Cali took a long deep drag, relishing the burn in her lungs and the damage she was doing to them. Cali had briefly flirted with smoking in her twenties, but it never took, keeping her firmly in the realm of social smoker. And of course she smoked when her sister had one of her meltdowns. “It’s been a hard gig.”
“Oh really, why?” Patsy snatched at the segue like a lifebuoy in the middle of the ocean.
“No.” Cali pinned her with a glare. “No evasions. Why are you here?”
Patsy grabbed the smoke back and took a deep drag, her bottom lip trembling. “We had a connection, Colin and me. We met at the rare editions library, where we both wanted the same text of Sapphic poetry.” Patsy usually started these diatribes with dialogue steeped in the language of romance novels. Reading them was a secret pastime of hers she hid from the rest of the Classics Department. But there was something different in her tone this time. Something hopeless.
“What does he do?”
Patsy studied her shoes. “He’s a new prof in the department. Just arrived.”
“Oh God, Patsy, no.” Cali hung her head.
“Yeah. Then he took me up to his cottage in Muskoka.”
“So, he has money.”
“Yeah, but not how you think. It’s the family cottage.”
“Old money.”
Patsy paused for effect. “His wife’s family cottage.”
“Oh, Pats,” Cali gasped. “That asshole. That classless asshole.”
“It gets worse.” Patsy peered up at her, tears brimming. Patsy never cried. “Colin might have been my superior on the translation contract. And I might have quit because I couldn’t stand being in the same room with him, let alone huddling over ancient texts and debating over the various translations for ‘oral pleasure.’ ”
Patsy’s work had been the only thing keeping her fragile sister’s world together. Translating was an all-encompassing endeavor that required time and diligence. If that was gone, Patsy would have nothing to distract her from her broken heart. Not to mention, there was the money. Always the money.
Patsy grimaced. “I know, I know. I didn’t think it would be a problem but … it was.” She lit another cigarette with the dregs of the last one.
“Patsy! We need that money for rent! I don’t know—” Cali swallowed the sentence. She couldn’t add her own concerns about losing this director’s gig to Patsy’s worries. “You know all my money’s tied up with Mom.”
“I’ll get a job. A regular job.”
“You can’t get a regular job when you’re working on your PhD.”
Pasty winced. “Um … well …”
“What?”
“I dropped out of the program.”
“You dropped out of the program? You’re about to present!” Years of Patsy’s life studying, years of Cali taking terrible jobs so her brilliant sister could realize her dream.
“Colin was also on the board.” Patsy glanced away. “It became a whole ethical mess.”
Rain started to fall. Thunder rumbled and trees blew. Cali and Patsy were gathered under an awning that was doing nothing to keep them dry, and as the water seeped through her clothes Cali began to realize the hopelessness of her situation. She would have to support them both again. She would have to make The Demon work, no matter what.
The door to the studio nudged open, and a PA stuck her head out, her eyes taking in Patsy’s seedy vibe and then shifting to Cali. “We’re going in five.”
Cali blankly nodded, and the door closed, leaving them to the storm.
Cali blew out a weary breath and took Patsy’s now soggy cigarette. Cali inhaled and focused on the head rush, putting a hand on the wall to steady herself. This was a lot. “I have one more scene to shoot. You wait in the production offices, then I’ll take you home.”
Cali took another deep drag, then handed the cigarette back to Patsy, who sucked in the last hit and butted it out. Patsy’s shoulders were slumped, her posture defeated. Even at her lowest, Patsy had always exuded an imperial air, as though her presence among mortals was due to a sudden whim to go slumming. Now her inner light was snuffed out, and that absence, above all else, terrified Cali the most.
Patsy rifled through her pockets and pulled out a silver gum packet. She popped out one of the small white rectangles. “Take this. You can’t have people thinking you smoke like your fuckup sister.”
Cali gave her a tremulous smile. Patsy did her best to watch out for Cali, even if it was just with gum.
Cali opened up the door and went inside, Patsy following. Both were silent as they wound their way through the sets and into the production hallways. She showed Patsy into her barely furnished office. “Stay in here. Stream some shows or something on my laptop, but don’t move. I’ll send someone in with chips and pop.”
“Salt and vinegar please,” Patsy whined.
“They put sugar in the salt and vinegar chips here.”
“What?” She gasped in mortification.
“I know. I know. I’ll send something good.”
As she walked back to set, Cali tried to recall what she had been doing before Patsy’s manic entrance. An echo of excitement ran through her as she remembered baiting Jory. How delighted she’d been to witness him flushed and clumsy as she continued his torment. How his shots had somehow kicked up a notch, sparkling in their execution, as if they were allowed to shine through when his mind was occupied with something else.
All that had to stop, of course. Cali would have to do everything by the book to make sure she kept this job so she could turn it into steady work. Which probably meant giving up any artistic notions as well. Just tow the party line as Jory had told her in the first place.
An hour and a half later, Cali was shivering through the last shot of the day—the “martini”—so called because the next shot would come out of a glass. She could use some of that liquid warmth right now, seeing as her clothes were still wet from standing outside with Patsy in the rain.
As though her mind had conjured it, a cup gently edged into her field of vision. Not quite the glass of booze in Cali’s mind, but good enough because it contained some kind of steaming brown, creamy, liquid goodness. Best of all, it was held by that oh so familiar hand attached to a muscled forearm that led to broad shoulders and ended at a corded neck. Gentle waves of sandy-blond hair framed blue eyes soft with … what was that? Kindness? Empathy? Whatever the expression, it made her want to dissolve into tears and fold into the warm body bringing her this simple cup.
Cali pointed. “What’s that?”
“Hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate?”
“You got caught in the storm. You looked wet. And then you looked cold.”
Cali had to focus on the cup. Her eyes were going to glass over and potentially leak. She didn’t know the last time someone had taken the time to take care of her. To give her something without any strings attached. She hardened her racing heart. The tears were a result of the stress she was under, not his thoughtfulness, she reasoned. The hot chocolate simply made her feel nostalgic, not cherished. She gingerly wrapped her hand around the cup, grazing his fingers as he took them away to slide them into his pockets.
“But it’s ninety degrees outside. And it’s summer,” she told the hot chocolate. “How did you even get this?”
Jory shrugged. “I asked the caterers to make it. Told them it was for you, and they scrambled to find what they could. They love you, by the way. Or at least they love feeding you. They had to melt some chocolate into the milk ’cause they didn’t have any mix, but maybe that’s better—more legit. You strike me as a legit hot chocolate kind of person.”
Against her better judgment, Cali peered up, the leaking a serious threat now. “I am. I am that kind of person.”
Jory nodded. They stared at each other, unable or uninterested in looking away.
Rebellion rose up in her. Why couldn’t she have something with Jory? Her sister did it all the time, not to mention their mother. Cali never indulged in something potentially bad for her, ever. Always responsible, always the one making sure everyone was safe, secure. Couldn’t she find some calm in the storm with this man, even just for a little while? She was strong, unlike her family. She could keep it in check.
Jory cleared his throat and gestured to the cup. “Have to keep you warm and functioning. Can’t let you dissolve into pneumonia.”
“Even though this is the martini shot,” she noted.
Jory’s mouth quirked with mischief. “Well, there might be some vodka in your hot chocolate.”
The warmth from the cup seeping into her fingers spread to her chest. She mustered up her best coquette. “How scandalous, Mr. Blair.”
“Indeed.”
Jory lingered a moment longer, his smile turning tender, her own probably taking on goofy proportions.
Dan bellowed out, “Martini shot! Ready for camera!”
Then a second, higher-pitched, and much more slurred voice mimicked, “Ready for camera!”
Cali frowned in sync with Jory.
Oh God. Patsy.
“Places! Places! The show must go on! Save some of that martini for me!” Patsy started singing “There’s No Business Like Show Business” at the top of her lungs.
Jory blew out a breath. “Sounds like someone else found the vodka.”
The warmth in Cali’s chest fled. “I have to get her out of here. She’ll sing the whole song.”
Frantically they searched, but while the sound of Patsy’s Broadway tune grew closer, the intricate maze of the sets kept her hidden.
As Cali ran onto the set where they were shooting, she heard Dan muse, “She’s pretty good.”
Paolo turned to Jory, curiosity crossing his features. “Is this episode a musical?” he asked.
Then, a crack snapped through the set as a flat toppled over to land right on top of him.
In place of the flat stood Patsy, half-empty bottle in hand, full of a sorority girl’s confidence. “Oopsy!”
Sighing in defeat, Dan clicked his walkie. “Medic.”