Chapter 10
Ten
ALERIC
The first pull of smoke into my lungs made them ache. It was a reminder of why I needed to quit—why this one vice was a shitty one at best. But the habit itself was soothing. I turned the cigarette case in my left hand, clicking my nails on the top with every pass.
I would have given a limb or two to have Charls still alive right now. I wasn’t sure he’d have any real advice to give me. The modern cinema would probably confuse the shit out of him, and he was probably turning over in his grave at the thought of streaming television.
And it was strange to miss a man I’d only met for a collection of hours, who gave me a single gift that he probably forgot about the moment he handed it off. But it was my little world right then. He was the only part of my past that didn’t make it feel like my soul was trying to claw its way out of my body to avoid feeling all the hurt from back then.
“They didn’t write a no-smoking clause into your contract?”
I whipped my head to the side and narrowed my eyes at the man standing a few feet from me. He looked vaguely familiar, and it took me a second to realize who he was. Otis Quinn—a new actor who had been discovered the way so many new actors were these days: from some viral video.
He seemed like a decent guy—he’d been a carpenter or a plumber or something before getting snatched up by a studio to star in a handful of straight-to-streaming romances. I wondered if fame and the illusion of money had gotten to his head yet.
“Did they write one into yours?”
“My management did.” He sauntered over—a sway in his hips that I recognized as a kind of come-hither gesture—and he flopped down next to me. The delivery bay was high enough off the ground it terrified me, but at this point, I was almost praying for an accident that took me out. A couple of broken legs meant not seeing Camillo for a while.
We’d been filming for two days, and I hadn’t seen a single wink of the prince on set, but I knew that wasn’t going to last forever. And if I thought it was awkward before, God only knew what it was going to be like now that he’d had my tongue in his mouth.
Otis made grabby hands at me, and I passed the cigarette over to him almost on autopilot. He took a drag and sighed. “Fuck. I need new management.”
“Trust me, you don’t. My old manager got me hooked when I was eleven.”
He blinked at me. “Holy shit. You’re not joking, are you?”
Pulling a face, I shook my head as I took the smoke back and flicked the ash from the tip. “Nope. Cigarettes at first—to see if the nicotine would work in keeping me calm. Also compliant. The more I wanted it, the more they could use it as a bribery tool.”
“Do I want to know how bad it got?”
I grinned down at my feet. “So. Filming today, are we?”
He took my change in subject with grace. “Our meet cute.” He smiled, and I spied dimples in each cheek. Yeah, it was no wonder he went viral. “You not get the script?”
“No, I did.” And I’d read it. I’d read it so many times my eyes started to blur in my attempt to fill my mind with anything other than Camillo. Of course, that was a ridiculous idea, considering I was reading the story of him. “Sorry. It’s been a weird couple of days.”
He smiled at me, sweeter than I probably deserved. “I get it. This is all weird for me. I feel like I should be used to it by now.”
I laughed. “Trust me, it doesn’t get easier. It’s always surreal and confusing. At least, it was for me. I never could understand why people were so interested in me, you know? I was just this…this fucking goblin who memorized lines on a paper. They expected so much glamour.”
He snorted and shook his head. “I still get calls from old clients. The other day, I did a job for this old lady—she’s turning eighty-nine. Totally blind, hasn’t watched TV since it was in black and white. She has no idea who I am except Otis, the guy who unclogs her shitter.”
“That sounds amazing,” I told him, and I hoped he believed me because it was true. Fuck, what I would have given for at least some semblance of normal in my life. But my parents had dragged me into this before I was really able to form sentences on my own, and the claws of the industry had never let me go, even when I was broke and jobless.
“I like the money, but I miss how simple things were,” Otis said. “It feels like nothing I do will ever be the way it was. Like, will I ever meet someone authentically?”
“Yes,” I told him. I met Camillo authentically when he yelled at me for smoking. The thought made me smile a little. “But once they know, it doesn’t stay that way.”
“They—the dickheads with the cell phone cameras?”
“And the people with social media who will analyze every move you make and try to figure out whether or not your life is falling apart. And the people who are in love with a character you play and will dedicate whole social media pages to hating your partners and find ways to actually reach them and harass them.” The bitterness in my voice was heavy.
“They did that to you?”
I snorted. “Oh, God no. I was underground during my formative dating years. I guess that was the only good thing that came from my breakdown.”
He looked at me sideways. I knew he wanted to ask, and I appreciated when he didn’t. “So do I lean in or lean out?”
“Not a clue. If you figure out the answer to that, let me know.”
His smile was a little softer and a little sadder. God, I hoped I wasn’t going to break him. He didn’t need to be like me. He could make this work if he wanted it badly enough.
“Anyway, I was sent out here to get you,” he said, slapping his palms on his thighs. “The prince wanted to go over a couple of things before we start.”
Fuck. Fuck. He was here, and he was looking for me. I took a deep breath. “One more for the road?” When Otis looked hesitant, I leaned over and elbowed him. “Indulge me. No one else does anymore.”
He rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah, alright. Just don’t tell.”
I made a zipper motion across my lips. “Not a word. And I think you might be my new best friend.”
He brightened and leaned in toward me too. “I think I might like that.”
It was odd, but hell, I did too.
Even absorbed as I was in the scene, I could feel Camillo hovering behind the set. His presence was heavy, dark, and looming. He was shadowed behind a wall of prop boxes and the B-roll camera, but as I came around the desk, I caught a glimpse of him, and we were forced to cut when I lost all semblance of the character.
We reset and began to shoot again, and this time, I allowed myself to acknowledge the presence of him as I was becoming him. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of this scene was rooted in reality. I knew there had been a Raul—though the book acknowledged that wasn’t his real name.
In the show, he was a bicycle messenger. In Camillo’s version, he was the personal assistant to the Prep and Pop magazine’s editor in chief, and he’d only mentioned that the guy was his first after his accident.
There had been no details—not even a hint of how it had gone apart from they’d met, slept together, and then never spoke again. There was a story there, but I was too afraid to ask.
I could only assume the writers had gotten some of it right because so far, Camillo didn’t seem to have any real objections. So I went through the scene, and I wondered: Was this at all real?
Had there been the longing looks across the room? Was there a moment where Camillo rolled away from the desk and watched Raul stumble back, realizing who he was talking to? Was there the awkward moment of silence where Camillo was doubting himself and Raul was plotting to be the first man to fuck the disabled prince?
Otis was amazing, which gave the scene so much weight. I could feel our chemistry, and we finished twenty minutes earlier than expected. I assumed we’d be moved on to something else, but we were released for the day instead, and that was the moment I began scanning the room for sight of Camillo…but he was gone without giving me the notes Otis said he’d wanted to deliver.
I was almost desperate to know if this was going to be the new normal. If it was so fucked-up that no matter how many times we vowed to pretend like it never happened, he would avoid my presence unless he absolutely had to speak with me.
And fuck, would that even happen, or would I just get a pile of handwritten Post-its with all my faults in a neat, bullet-point list?
I needed to be on set for the next two hours in case they needed me for reshoots, so I swung by craft services because the last thing in the world I could handle right then was a blood sugar crash. The sight of food made my stomach roll, but I grabbed a couple of croissants, then headed for the corridor, hoping to duck into my trailer before anyone noticed me.
I spied Otis heading out at the same time as me, and I ducked behind a pile of shipping boxes that had been haphazardly left next to the exit door. I felt like shit about avoiding him—my mood wasn’t his fault—but he was the first person who’d been kind to me on set.
I didn’t want him to think I was the spoiled monster the press liked to make me out to be, and my spiral wasn’t doing me any favors right then.
The moment the path to my trailer was cleared, I made a run for it. In the distance, I saw Camillo’s guard, so I knew he was nearby, but the ramp wasn’t in front of my door anymore, so I hiked the four stairs in one and a half steps, then slammed the door behind me.
And as I attempted to take in a heaving breath, I realized there was someone on my couch, and I proceeded to choke on a scream. It came out some sort of weird dying rhino noise, which sent the man himself—the second-born royal fucking prince who seemed to have manifested into my goddamn space—into a laughing fit.
“Shit,” he gasped, holding himself upright by the arm of the couch. “Shit.” His face was pink.
“Please don’t pass out,” I begged, taking three frantic steps toward him.
He had both hands up in surrender. “I won’t. I’m not—God,” he said through giggles, “what is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me ? You snuck in here—and how, by the way? What were you trying to do? Scare the shit out of me?”
His smile turned a little sharp as his laughter faded. “No, but I don’t get to sneak up on people very often, so that kind of felt good.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
His smile brightened, likely because very few people were bold enough to say fuck you to a prince.
“Seriously, why are you here?”
At that, he sobered, and his brows flew up. “To do my job?”
“Your job is to correct me on set.” My irritation was rushing up my spine. I didn’t want to look at his infuriating, gorgeous, ridiculous face. His little smirk made me want to smack him. Or…maybe fall to my knees and kiss him. My head was split directly in two over the matter. “You don’t get to pretend like I don’t exist on set and then creep into my trailer like a—wait. How did you get in here? There was no ramp.”
“Yeah, I thought that was shitty of you.” His tone was flat now, and I could tell he was hurt.
My stomach twisted. “I didn’t ask them to move it. It was gone when I got in this morning.”
His expression said he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe me, and I told myself I didn’t care. It wasn’t my job to convince him.
After a moment, he sighed and settled back against the cushions. “Cillian carried me.”
I blinked at him.
“My guard,” he clarified. When I still didn’t know who the fuck he meant, he rolled his eyes. “You met him the other night.”
My face immediately flushed at the memory, and I cleared my throat. Cillian, the attractive older man who looked like he wanted to set me on fire. Right. Then I realized what he said. “He carried you? Like what? Piggyback?” The thought sent me into a fit of giggles, picturing the very prim, fussy, posh prince being piggybacked into my trailer.
“Are you five?” he snapped.
“Sorry, sorry. Seriously though. How?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I’m supposed to be you, asshole.” My irritation was back in full force, and I walked over, dropping into the empty chair across from him. Kicking my feet up on the table, I crossed my arms over my chest and squeezed until I felt a little better. “I’m going to assume at some point, I’ll be carried on set.”
“I—well.” He stopped and stretched his lips into a thin, straight line. “I suppose you’d call it bridal carry. And please don’t start laughing again. It’s not like I have a lot of options. If I had more core strength, I could probably lift myself, but I don’t.”
That was the moment I realized he was probably mocked a lot behind his back for the accommodations he needed to get places that were entirely inaccessible to him, and I felt like shit for giggling. “Sorry. I know it’s not funny. It’s just…”
“What?” His eyes were blazing again.
I licked my lips. “You’re just so uptight. It’s hard to imagine you relaxing in someone’s arms.”
He blinked like he’d been slapped. “That’s—oh.”
“What?”
For a moment, I didn’t think he was going to answer me. “It wasn’t what I expected you to say.” There was something soft in his expression, and though it didn’t last, I was going to hoard the memory of it forever.
“So,” I said after a beat of silence, “what did I do wrong today?”
He blinked at me, then cleared his throat. “Nothing.”
Leaning over my thighs, I met his gaze. “Just tell me.”
Camillo bit his lip, his gaze darting down toward his feet. “You and—ah. What did they name him? Raul, right?”
“The actor’s name is Otis,” I told him.
His gaze snapped back to me. “Are you two—have you two—is it dating? Are you an item?”
“An item ?” I fought back another laugh. When was the last time anyone had used that phrase? “Uh, no. We met literally today while I was having a smoke.” He pulled a face, and I scoffed. “Yes, yes, bad for the environment, killing my lungs, et cetera.”
He was entirely unimpressed with me. “It would suck to die halfway through season one.”
I wasn’t going to rise to that bait. He was trying to change the subject. “Otis and I are not dating. Nor are we fucking. Would that be a problem for you if we were though?” That was the question I wanted him to answer because why would he care? He made it very clear he didn’t give a shit about me.
Camillo cleared his throat again. “You can fuck whoever you want. My concern is that you two have too much chemistry.”
I blinked, then burst into laughter. “Sorry, but… why is that a concern? That’s what people want, Your Highness. I understand you’re new to the business, but?—”
“What if the audience likes him?” His words shut me up quickly. It wasn’t what he said, though, but the way he said it. Shattered. Devastated. “What if they like him so much they decide to write him back into the show?”
I shifted to the edge of the chair and let my hands hang between my legs. “What happened with Raul? The real Raul.”
Camillo’s ears burned red. “He wasn’t very kind.”
“You weren’t forthcoming about that in your book.”
His gaze shifted back to mine. “You read that chapter?”
“I read all the chapters,” I reminded him. “I actually do know how to read.”
“I—right. Yes. I wasn’t implying—” He stopped abruptly and took a long moment of tense silence. Grabbing his legs, he heaved them up onto the cushion and began adjusting his position.
I could tell it wasn’t for comfort though. The expression he was trying to hide and the tension in his body betrayed his attempt at being casual. I knew it too intimately to miss the signs: he was teetering on the verge of pain. He was stuck in his trauma. Trapped by memories he’d tried to bury because they hurt too much to think about.
Those were the thoughts that crept through the walls people like us built, manifesting in nightmares we couldn’t control.
And now, he had to decide if he wanted to watch those play out in real time for the sake of authenticity or if he wanted to let a shitty man like the real Raul watch it and pat himself on the back for being less of a monster than he truly was.
“The real story is embarrassing,” Camillo eventually said. He glanced at the door, then back at me. “This cannot leave this room. Only one other person knows about this, so if it gets out, I’ll know it’s you.”
I nodded, then stopped because I didn’t trust that the room was safe. “Are you allowed to ditch your guards?”
He stared. “Ditch my guards?”
“Go for a drink at mine,” I said.
“Aleric, listen. I’m trying to get along with you, but?—”
“I’m not trying to fuck you,” I said, throwing up my hands. “But if there are things you’d like me to know so I can make this whole thing bearable for you, it might be better to tell them to me where we’re sure there aren’t any ears around.”
Realization dawned on him. “Do you think anyone knows, ah, what we did?”
“One PA who wants to keep his job and your guard,” I told him honestly.
He paled a bit. “Ah.”
“I’m an expert at denial. They won’t get anything out of me. But I don’t trust anyone in this industry, so if this information is so important that you left it out of your own autobiography, this might not be the best place to say it out loud.”
He sat completely still except for a few spasms in his legs. Then he shoved them back to the floor. “Where do you live?”
“High Street and Seventh.”
He wrinkled his nose, which meant he knew the area. “Ah.”
“My parents didn’t invest money the way they were supposed to,” I told him. The humiliation was keenly sharp, made worse by the way he looked guilty because he knew he was judging me.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.”
“Actually, it isn’t. The elevator’s broken, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to carry you.” How long before I stopped making these mistakes with him?
Instead of getting angry, his lips softened. Not quite into a smile, but it was better than his sneer. “I know a place.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I decided right there that if this was all of Prince Camillo I was going to be allowed to have outside of our contracted jobs, then I was going to take it. My heart was battered, bruised, and rejected, but in spite of the pain, it was also still the most foolish part of me.
And I didn’t see that changing anytime soon.