XV CJ
XV
CJ
“No Umbrellas of Cherbourg tonight, OK?” I chide Stuart, Agnes wrapped around my legs in her favorite polka-dot pajamas.
He laughs. “I’ve already got The Muppet Movie queued up.” He kisses me on both cheeks. “Go. You look splendid.”
“You look splendid ,” Agnes mimics, and I laugh, giving her dramatic cheek kisses as I unwind her from my bare shins. I’m wearing a navy minidress I acquired from a vintage dealer who works almost exclusively with stylists and costumers, a perk of industry connections. My hair, restricted to a topknot for the last however many weeks, is down, and the sensation of the waves against my bare shoulders heightens my corporeal awareness in a way that’s entirely unnecessary tonight.
This evening is the wrap party for Gatsby . When you’re in the middle of filming a movie, time stretches out before you in a way that makes it hard to imagine that you’ll ever work on anything else, that you won’t be on this set for the rest of your life. You’re in a bubble, like kids away at summer camp. But eventually, it does end, and everyone returns to their lives.
In my case, I will also return to a one-night stand from five years ago.
I step out of the Uber and immediately sense that the wrap party for Timmy Gray’s Gatsby production is the real deal. These things run the gamut, from a couple of bottles of liquor and a grocery cheese tray cracked open as soon as the director yells “Cut!” for the final time, to tonight’s affair: an open bar at a hot new spot in West Hollywood, with paparazzi stationed outside during all hours of operation. As I make my way in, I notice the things Timmy splurged on—wine from Long Island vineyards, oysters from Oyster Bay, and cocktails featuring green absinthe. As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I scan for Jack. It dawns on me I haven’t seen him off the studio lot since the film went into production. My nerves take hold.
I’d told Jack we needed to keep our distance on set because the temptation to share a look, brush up against each other, or worse had loomed since the moment we’d reencountered one another, and with our mutual attraction made explicit, mere proximity threatened any self-restraint. Once, after a particularly stirring scene where Nick learns the truth about Gatsby’s past, I’d rushed over to congratulate him, and without realizing it, I’d found my hand on the hem of his wool sweater, my lower lip clenched between my teeth. He told me he “liked when I watched,” and I’d nearly unbuckled his belt right there. The sound of a crew member taking a phone call nearby reminded me of where we were. No one saw us, but it was too close for comfort.
After that, we decided to limit our interactions to texting, and that line of communication quickly turned into a steady stream of flirtation. We’d queue up movies at the same time after our days ended, taking turns choosing the feature presentation: Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead for him, Heartburn and Mermaids for me.
Five years, one hookup, two on-set kisses, and now two weeks of texting, and I am uncharacteristically smitten. It’s undeniable. And I’m slightly terrified by how unlike me it feels to carry on this way. What if this thing with Jack was only good for the chase? What if we’ve built it up so much it can’t possibly deliver? The press of a hand on my lower back interrupts my catastrophizing. The sensation of Jack’s breath on my skin accompanies the whispered sound of his voice: “Ready to go whenever you are.”
Immediately, my brain and my body are vibrating. I whip my head around to find him standing next to me but staring straight ahead at the bar. He’s wearing a gray knit polo I want to pull off over his head. He smiles politely at the bartender and holds up two fingers. “Two Clase Azul on the rocks, please.”
I open my mouth to speak, ready to tell him we can leave right now, actually , when I catch sight of Brianna and the rest of the department over his shoulder. If we make our escape, we’ll miss the chance to celebrate what we all created together.
“One hour,” I tell him while mirroring his straight-ahead gaze, like we’re two spies arranging an illicit rendezvous.
I can make out the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“Everyone, thanks for being here!” Timmy is on a microphone, the source of his powers, his Knicks hat, affixed firmly on his head. We all shift our attention toward him for what will be the last time.
“I wanted to say thank you all for your hard work. I’ve believed in this movie ever since I had the idea to make it.” He chuckles, and we join him, now better acquainted with his particular brand of nepo-baby humor.
Jack lifts his arms to clap for Timmy, and when he drops them to his sides again, he grazes my shoulder. It’s the first time that our skin has made contact since the day we kissed in my office. Instead of moving away, I let my arm rest gently against Jack’s.
Timmy is still speaking—“I know what the critics will say”—but it doesn’t hold my attention. Jack catches my eye and bites his lip; I raise a brow back. At that, he rubs his thumb covertly across the top of my wrist, before clasping his hands behind his back.
Not wanting to be outdone, I raise my hand to adjust the strap of my dress but detour at the back of Jack’s neck, fingertips tracing from his hairline to his collar.
He lets out an audible sigh. A few heads turn.
My eyes widen. I cough loudly and dramatically to cover up the sound. I gesture to my drink and feign a motion to suggest tequila made its way down my windpipe. Jack shakes with silent laughter beside me.
“Now, I wanted you all to have something as a token of my appreciation,” Timmy continues, and I force my focus back toward him. “So with some help from the art department—and from our line producers—we found a little room in the budget for these.” Then he holds up one of the sweatshirts we had made: “ The Just OK Gatsby ” written out across the front.
“Let the record reflect that nothing about this was ‘just OK’ for me,” Jack says into my hair.
We slip out of a black car in front of a white two-story split-level, the last property on a dead-end lane. Jack’s fingers find my lower back, and my breathing steadies. I realize I don’t know how to navigate what’s to come and that I’ve gotten a little in my own head about it on the ride over.
His hand moves to find my own, and he intertwines our fingers as he leads me toward the entrance. He doesn’t break his grasp as he unlocks the door or flips the lights or tosses his keys onto the marble island dividing the kitchen and living room. I take in an oak and oxidized steel coffee table I recognize as Arhaus and a sprawling gray-blue sectional.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, bringing my hand to his mouth and brushing his lips along my knuckles.
“Some water would be great.”
As Jack fills two glasses, I take a closer look at the framed pictures lining the bookshelves. A photo of the actor Brent Chase, known mostly for his work top-lining network procedurals, at a party. Another of Brent Chase and his wife, Maria Alvarez, a character actor, at the beach. Brent, Maria, and a few friends in Park City, decked out in bright ski suits.
Jack hands me my drink. I relish the grounding weight of having something to hold. “Did you kill Brent Chase?”
He laughs. “When I needed a place to stay, my agent’s assistant found out from his assistant that he’d be filming his show in New York for a while, so this place was available to rent. I didn’t want a hotel this time.”
“He has great taste.” Stop being nervous. You’ve already had sex with this man.
Jack cocks his head. He takes my hand again and holds it tighter this time, a reassurance, and leads me up the floating staircase.
When we enter the bedroom, it’s like something clicks into place, and my hesitation evaporates. I want Jack. I have wanted Jack for months. I have wanted Jack for years . Now, there’s nothing standing in the way of me having him. At least for the night.
Jack turns toward me, his back to the giant bed with its hotel-white sheets and comforter. He gently brushes a hair out of my eyes as he takes the glass out of my hands and sets it down on the empty nightstand. I shove his shoulders gently, and he falls to a seat, his eyes still locked on mine. I stand between his legs, and his hands make their way along my calves, behind my knees, and up my thighs. My nipples make their presence known from beneath the sleek mesh bra I’d purchased for the occasion, and he leans forward and covers them with his mouth, one then the other, leaving two faint wet spots and an aching want. My jaw goes slack.
“I’m going to make this last as long as I possibly can,” he says in a voice I can barely hear.
Then his hands find the zipper that runs up the left side of my dress, and he yanks it down and pushes it off my shoulders, watching it fall to the floor. He gazes up at me and runs his hands over my breasts, my stomach, my hips. I let him stare and let myself be on display. I am desperate for him to move his hand between my legs, and instead of waiting, I guide it there, needing to ease the pain.
“ Fuck , CJ,” he moans. “Have you been walking around our set soaking wet like this the whole time?” Before I can answer, he leans in to drag his tongue over my clit and plunges two fingers inside of me. I cry out, a whimpering sound I’ve never heard myself make before, and arch into the pressure of Jack’s touch, urging him deeper.
When I can’t take it a second longer, I push him back against the mattress, tugging the polo over his torso and dragging my nails down his ribs as I do.
He smirks at me. “This is not slow.”
“We’ll do slow later,” I say as I crush my lips against his, and I can feel him smile in response. I unbutton his pants and tug them out from under him.
“Condom’s in the pocket, if you’re in such a hurry.”
“Says the man who brought the condom to the party. Did you think we were going to fuck at the bar?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
I climb onto his lap and feel the press of him through my matching mesh underwear. As I start to rock on top of him, he grips my thighs as if to steady me, but I only roll my hips with more fervor in response.
“Cara,” he pants, calling back to the last time we were naked with each other. “I don’t even have my knickers off.”
“Knickers.” I grin and tug at his waistband.
“Please know I wouldn’t normally use the word, but I’m willing to role-play a caricature of myself to humor you.”
I pull his gray underwear off and let myself take him in as I fish for the condom in his pants pocket. I survey the lines of his body that I’d been surreptitiously reacquainting myself with during filming. The curve of his bicep. The ridge of his collarbone. The divot I remembered at the side of his ass. Now that he’s sprawled out in front of me, I can admit to myself that I’ve been undressing him with my eyes over these weeks.
I rip open the foil packet and slide on the condom, the need to have him inside me urgent now. I move my underwear to the side as I settle back on top of him, a high-pitched moan escaping my lips as I do.
“Cara,” he gasps in response, gripping my hip. Cah-ra. I could come from the sound of my name on his lips. “You feel fucking incredible, Cara.”
I draw him into me fully, throwing back my head as if to make room, before pressing the heels of my hands into his upper arms and my teeth into his shoulder as I move my hips. His hand grabs my ass as I move my mouth to his ear, snagging his lobe between my teeth and whispering “Yes, I was.” He turns to look at me quizzically.
“You were what?”
“Yes, I was soaking wet for you at work.”
I watch his pupils darken in response, and he wordlessly grabs my shoulders and flips me over onto my back. His thrusts quicken, and I focus on the movement of our bodies and the glide of his dick inside of me. The heat rising off of us. The faint scent of fancy laundry detergent on the bedding. When my attention lands on Jack’s Cupid’s bow, the affection I feel for him almost overwhelms me. How does this end?
His thumb moves to my clit, and I can’t consider anything but the pleasure of being with him in this way. Of this being worth the wait. I press the pads of my fingers into his triceps as I squeeze myself around him and climax, my entire body pulsing. His hand finds the nape of my neck and presses my face to his as he follows, gasping out my name again— Cah-ra, Cah-ra, Cah-ra.
He stills and settles his head into the crook of my neck. I lie underneath him, his dick still inside me, and listen to our breathing, savoring the hush as we reorient ourselves in reality.
Jack is the first to stir, raising up to look at me and tracing my cheekbone with his finger. “Let’s not wait another five years to do that,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth.
I laugh. “Five minutes?”
“I might need twenty,” he jokes.
I roll off of him so that we’re opposite each other in bed, facing each other.
My body feels boneless, but my brain is still humming from all the stimuli of the evening: Jack at the party, Jack here, Jack inside me. A man who could probably make me come with one hand tied behind his back. Or both. I need to slow down the thoughts before they spin out of control, so I speak again.
“You really didn’t mind leaving early tonight?” I ask.
“Oh, God,” he says trailing a finger down my side. My skin feels cool against Brent Chase’s Egyptian cotton sheets. “You know, all of those parties were fun the first few years, exciting, but now... I don’t really have it in me, to be honest. Sometimes I think that if I were a better actor, I wouldn’t need to do any of it.”
“I—” I only know my brow has crinkled when he reaches up to smooth it. “I felt a little bad dragging you away from it. Because you’re the star, and because it is sort of your job—regardless of how good of an actor you are.”
Jack shifts so we can make eye contact. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I don’t think it’s been twenty minutes yet,” I tease.
“Do you like those parties?”
I smile. “It’s not that I dislike them. Just that I’d rather be on set. Or playing with Agnes, or watching movies with Stuart, or... lying here. In this bed. With you.” I can’t quite look at him as I say that last part. But he tips my chin up to demand that I do.
“I’d rather be here than most places.”
Then he kisses me, hard. It’s the kind of kiss that somehow suggests a different sort of closeness than the sex we just had. I nestle my head into his chest and consider the cocoon he and I have created for ourselves, and I wonder how long it can last.