17. Grey
Chapter 17
Grey
M onday through Thursday of the following week is full of long filming days, all running between twelve and fourteen hours long. By Thursday evening when Jack finally cuts for the last time, Aspen and I are both dead tired. I’m personally so exhausted I’m almost ready to forfeit the ten million for my bed at this point. But we trudge our way to the tent where our PR teams are waiting to deliver this week’s date assignment to us anyway.
“Can’t we just go home together and sleep together for our date? Like, literally just sleep?” Aspen asks, voicing my thoughts.
“God, I wish,” I agree.
“Long week?” one of Aspen’s PR women asks as we approach.
“We look that bad?” she asks. Both of us have taken off our filming makeup to let our skin breathe a little. It’s been trapped under there for over thirteen hours today alone.
“You’re going to need some concealer before tonight’s game. Both of you,” she says, glancing at me too. Thanks, lady.
“Game?” Aspen asks.
“Thursday Night Football. We got you two into the studio’s box for the night.”
She groans. “Football games last forever.”
“Yeah, seriously. Can’t we just grab dinner or something? Or, Aspen suggested we go home together tonight. That would be good, right?”
The PR teams look like we just committed sacrilege—these goddamn Americans and their “football.”
“People would kill for these tickets,” a PR woman from my team responds. “Do you even know how much they cost?”
“How about we give you guys the money so you can keep the tickets and then Grey and I can go home together for our date—it’s a win-win,” Aspen says.
I have to admit, I’m impressed. She’s clever.
“Not a chance,” her foul-tempered PR woman responds. “Besides, your relationship is way too fresh to be going home together. Remember, we need to ease the public into this.”
I scowl. “We’re leaving at half-time.”
The woman narrows her eyes at me appraisingly. The other PR women look from each other to her, like she’s the one who gets the final say.
“Fine,” Aspen’s PR woman finally agrees.
“Great. See you later then,” I say, snagging the tickets from her hand.
“Not so fast. You guys have to change.”
“Are you serious?” Aspen whines.
“Yes, I’m serious. And I was serious about the eye-bags too. Your outfits and a makeup artist each are waiting for you at the doors of your respective trailers.”
“I think we can manage concealer by ourselves,” I reply.
“Just to be sure,” she sneers.
I bite my tongue and head back toward my trailer, Aspen following suit.
Forty-five minutes later, Aspen and I meet up at her sky blue Bronco and she drives us to the game. We might even be late, given how long our outfits, hair, and makeup took. It’s like we’re about to begin shooting again, and I guess in a way we are. This is all an act, after all.
My team took about fifteen minutes on my makeup—which was not just concealer, they also put a tinted-lotion-thing all over my face and gelled my brows—and fifteen more on my hair. I changed into the relaxed jeans and blue polo shirt in a minute or two, leaving me with about ten or fifteen minutes waiting for Aspen’s team to finish up with her.
And, God, does she look good.
She’s in white heeled boots, a white figure-hugging mini-dress, and a pin advertising the team’s mascot. Her hair is in a tied high ponytail with a blue bow, the exact same hue as my shirt. Her makeup is glowy and natural-ish; although, a decade in the business tells me it’s not natural at all. That and her lack of dark circles.
“Why do I have to wear heels,” she grumbles, as we walk toward her car. “It’s not fair, you’re in jeans and a t-shirt and I’m in a mini-dress and heels.”
“Want to swap?”
“Actually, yeah,” she replies, dead serious.
“On second thought, I think that dress would be a wardrobe malfunction on me anyway. It’s short and tight on you and you’re like half my size. I think I’d rip it.”
Aspen starts the car and veers out of her parking spot.
“I’m so tired,” she complains.
“I am too. Want to stop for coffee?”
“I don’t really drink coffee.”
“How are you managing these days without coffee?”
“It’s a struggle.”
“One coffee won’t hurt.”
She sighs like she’s on the verge of giving in. “We’re already running late, and it would look even worse if we walked in with coffee cups.”
“Come on, live a little. I’ll take the fall for the coffee if they ask. They don’t have any right being mad anyway, if you ask me. I’m Grey Aldridge and you’re Aspen Jordan and we won’t let any studio tell us what to do, much less after they’ve made us work fifty hours this week and it’s not even Friday yet. I want a goddamn coffee.”
Aspen takes her eyes off the road for a fraction of a second to glance at me.
“What? Am I wrong?”
“No,” she replies, changing lanes until we’re in the left one, where I know a coffee chain stands just past this intersection.
Two minutes later, we’re greeted through the intercom by: “Good evening, what can we get started for you?”
“Order anything you want, darling, it’s on me,” I tell Aspen loudly enough for the woman to hear. Hey, we’re supposed to be dating, and the lady might recognize one of us when we pull around.
“In that case, I’ll have one of everything,” Aspen bites back.
“Excuse me? One of everything?” the voice crackles through the intercom.
“Oh!” Aspen gasps. “Sorry, no. I was just joking. My boyfriend, he’s being dramatic. Bless him, but he hardly has two cents to rub together. Much less enough for the entire menu.”
There’s silence over the other end of the intercom.
“But, I mean, I have the money, of course. I’ll be paying,” Aspen continues.
“What can I get started for you?” the woman on the other end of the intercom asks, clearly exasperated by us.
“A small, blonde nonfat latte with cinnamon, please,” Aspen orders.
“That’s a weirdly specific order for someone who doesn’t drink coffee,” I comment.
“I didn’t say I haven’t drank coffee before,” Aspen retorts. “Just that I don’t drink it now.”
“Is that all for you?” the woman asks impatiently.
“Also a large iced coffee, please.”
“Any milk or sugar in that?”
“Some sugar would be great, thanks.”
“Pull around,” she answers.
We’re the only car in the line, so we pull right up to the window. The wonders of getting coffee at 7 p.m., I guess.
“Cash or card?” the woman at the window asks.
“Card, please,” Aspen answers, holding out her black card.
“Casual, Jordan,” I whisper to her as the unaware woman swipes her card.
“It’s the only card I have. You should have paid.”
“You told me not to,” I argue.
“Here you go,” the woman says, handing us our drinks and Aspen’s card. “Have a nice night.”
“Thank you, you too,” we say in unison as I take the plastic off my paper straw and Aspen gently pulls the car forward.
The lady nods and closes the window.
“She didn’t recognize us,” I comment.
“Or if she did, she didn’t care,” Aspen adds.
“Good. She shouldn’t.”
“True dat,” she says as she takes a sip of her coffee, waiting for a break in traffic so she can pull back out onto the main street.
“‘True dat?’”
She laughs. “I’m tired, okay? Give me a break.”
I laugh too. “True dat,” I agree.
Once we start, we can’t stop, and our sleep deprivation makes us delirious with laughter, feeding off each other. By the time we finally regain control over ourselves, we’ve missed our chance to pull out of the parking lot and have to wait for the next stop light cycle for a break in the traffic.
Well worth it, though. I think we both needed that.