Chapter 46 Verity
FORTY-SIX
Verity
“Where are you going?” I mumble, struggling to pry my eyes open.
Monk sits on the side of my bed, only the lean line of his back, the cut of his biceps, discernible in the dim light of dawn.
He looks over his shoulder, and my eyes adjust enough to make out his smile.
“If we don’t want to get caught,” he says, leaning back to hover over me, his forearms on either side of my head, “I better get out of here and back to my own cottage.”
He kisses my forehead, but when he lifts to leave, I wrap my hand around his nape and pull him down for a kiss.
I’m too self-conscious about morning breath to deepen it much, but just his mouth resting on mine and his low, pleased hum vibrating against my lips are enough.
Ever since I shared my bipolar diagnosis two days ago, something has shifted between us; drawn us closer.
It feels like I was holding back a piece of myself, along with the complete truth.
Once I gave that to him, so much more has followed.
There’s a deeper intimacy born of renewed trust blossoming between us.
“I don’t care,” I whisper when the kiss ends. “If they find out, I mean.”
He sits up and turns on the bedside lamp. I squint at the sudden brightness, but meet his stare in the light with a clear heart and my mind settled.
“You sure ’bout that?” Monk asks, taking my hand and linking our fingers on the sheet.
“I don’t wanna take out an ad.” I shrug with a shy smile. “Like I’m not saying flaunt it, but if someone realizes we’re together, then—”
“Say that part again.” He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckle.
At first I’m not sure what he means, but then I catch on and repeat with a smile.
“We’re together.”
“Damn right we are. I’m tired of sneaking around.”
“I’m not saying we go all PDA on set, either. I don’t want to draw attention or be the subject of gossip, but I am getting sick of hiding shit.”
I’ve tucked away, shadowed all the parts of myself associated with my diagnosis, and it’s left me on edge so much. The fear of discovery. The doubt of acceptance. The threat of losing the things that feed my soul and give me a sense of purpose: my career and my stories.
“It’s up to you,” Monk says. “We can ease into it on your terms. I don’t have anything to prove, though I will be glad when Chris knows to keep off my grass.”
“Your grass!” A laugh bursts past my lips and I drag myself up and rest my back on the headboard. “That didn’t take long. Possessive already, huh?”
“As if that’s new.” He rolls his eyes and stands, grabbing his jeans from the floor. “Haven’t I always been? I can dial it down if it bothers you. Maybe a little. I could try.”
I give him an I know you look.
“Okay, probably not much,” he concedes with a shrug.
“I can handle it.”
He drags last night’s T-shirt over his chest and says dryly, “You say that now.”
I roll out of bed and pad barefoot behind him to the front door of the cottage.
“What do you have today?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. My camisole and underwear are little defense against the chill of early-morning ocean air.
“Technically, I could head back to LA.” He grabs his shoes where he left them by the door and slips them on. “The riviera scenes I needed here are done. All the other music is studio stuff we’ll do when we get back to LA.”
“Oh.” I must not hide my disappointment because he clasps my nape and offers a wry grin.
“But I’ll stick around another few days and work from here while I can,” he says. “My girl is here and I don’t want to leave her.”
I tip up on my toes to kiss him lightly. “She’d like that.”
“What about you?” His palms spread over the curve of my hips and he tugs me close. “What’s your day look like?”
“I’ll be in video village with Canon for a few scenes. I’m really just a safety net at this point. We only have maybe another week here before heading back to LA. Should be smooth sailing.”
“You probably just jinxed it,” he says with a laugh. “I have some work to do on this album I’m helping with. I may have to go to New York in the next couple of weeks. Hop in the studio.”
“Then we need to make the most of our time.”
“You could come with me.” He nuzzles the sensitive skin behind my ear, sending a tiny jolt of pleasure through me. “And see Mel and Tessa in New York.”
“I’ll think about it.” I stroke circles on his back. “I’m close on this script, so I may lock away once we’re back home to get as much done as I can. I’ll never finish the first draft if I’m in New York with them.”
“The offer stands.” He drops one last kiss on my rumpled hair, a mess, since I fell asleep without twisting it or putting on a bonnet. “See you later.”
Later doesn’t come until the final scene of the day.
I’m in the tent watching, seated a few feet from Canon, when Monk walks in.
We share a quick smile and he takes the seat beside me.
He drapes his wrist across the arm of the chair and discreetly hooks our pinkies, aiming a smile that holds so much affection, anyone looking at us together would guess our secret.
“Fuck!” Canon shouts, tossing his headset down and dashing out of the tent at top speed.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, searching the tent for clues I missed while Monk and I were distracted.
“It’s Neevah,” Jill says, hurrying past us to follow Canon.
I glance up to one of the monitors that previews the action on set.
A group of people huddles around someone on the ground.
Canon comes into view, pushing through the small crowd to kneel beside Neevah, panic and terror etched on his face.
I’ve never seen him look this way, this stricken by anything.
Those of us still in the tent watch with what feels like a collectively held breath, waiting for any movement from the prone figure on the ground and the desperate man bent over her.
As soon as Neevah opens her eyes, Canon lifts her in his arms and walks swiftly out of view.
Monk and I leave the tent, standing at the edge of the crowd to stay out of the way, but close enough to see what’s happening. I reach for his hand, and our fingers tangle, squeeze. Jill walks over a few minutes later, her face lined with anxiety.
“Where’d they go?” Monk asks. “Is Neevah okay?”
“Canon and Takira are driving her to the hospital,” Jill replies, running a hand through her hair. “That girl’s been in almost every scene. Who could blame her body for finally giving out?”
Recalling the lines of fatigue etched around Neevah’s mouth and the shadows under her eyes that makeup could only do so much to camouflage the other day, I hope that’s all it is.