2. Griffin
GRIFFIN
I feel like I’m dressed for an audition for the Chippendales rather than a talk show interview promoting the final season of Malibu Shores . My shirt is too tight and unbuttoned almost to my navel.
“My pants are so snug, I’m afraid I’m going to rip them when I sit down.” I rotate in the backstage dressing room, observing my reflection in the mirror.
Luke, my cousin-turned-temporary-PA, is standing behind me in the corner, snickering.
I whirl toward him. “Don’t you dare say a single word.”
He raises his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He bites his lips, trying—and failing—to withhold his laughter.
“No one is going to care about my skills as an actor if I’m some stuffed peacock in a woman’s shirt.”
Thomas Ford, my dad and agent, is looking at his phone despite standing right in front of me. “Son, don’t be silly. It’s a man’s shirt. And you’re playing a role—the young stud from Malibu Shores .” He glances up. Opens his mouth, blinks, and closes it.
“See! Even you think I look ridiculous. I’m not wearing this.” I’d be better off wearing my red swim trunks from the show. At least then I’d feel more in character. I start unbuttoning the measly three remaining buttons.
Dad steps forward. “You are. It’s all part of what you signed up for.”
This is supposed to be me—the real me, not my character on the show.
“I agreed to fake-date Scarlet to help her image and promote the show. I didn’t agree to be paraded on stage like some piece of meat to be ogled.
” At one point in my career, after years of being too scrawny, I would have loved to have women look at me the way they do now, but I’m ready for something less superficial.
Dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. You love the attention.”
What I’d love is to have recognition for my skills as an actor and to have my father actually appreciate them. He’s been my agent for almost two decades, and I can count on a single hand the number of times he’s given me positive input.
“You have an image to sell. And that image is of a young, hot, happy Hollywood couple.” He slips his phone into his pocket. “Need I remind you, you have a lot hinging on this contract.”
Yes, a guaranteed role in Wesley Rhodes’s—Scarlet, my co-star’s father’s—next film.
It’s my chance to finally cross over into film rather than another mediocre TV series.
I’m fully aware of the benefit of this arrangement every single time I’m with Scarlet.
I just wish my personal life felt like my own.
A knock comes on the dressing room door. “Five minutes, Griffin.”
Despite feeling unprepared to lie to everyone in America, I holler back, “Got it. Thanks.”
My father comes beside me and claps me on the back, pushing me toward the door. “This’ll pay off when it’s all over. You’ll see.”
Ten minutes into the interview, I’m already questioning the validity of my father’s promise.
“How about you take your shirt off and give us a little teaser?” Gwen nestles deeper into her plush hostess chair and raises a Mornings with Gwen logoed mug.
She’s referring to the slow-motion intro to Malibu Shores where characters run into the water to save lives. I stand slowly, smiling toward the audience. My eyes catch on my father’s.
“Be a good sport,” he mouths.
Gwen whistles. She’s loving this as much as Scarlet, who cheers along with the crowd.
An assistant comes on stage and hands me a rescue tube.
Not wanting to disappoint the fans, I lift it in the air and give my most dazzling smile.
“I don’t know if they can handle it, Gwen,” Scarlet taunts from the cushioned couch.
Shouts, catcalls, and whistles resound across the audience as I strut to the center of the stage.
Just play the role, Griffin.
I smirk toward the elevated seating across the stage, though I’m unable to distinguish any faces beyond the bright lights. The cheers become impossibly louder as I hold out my hands, lifting the rescue tube like The Gladiator and spin around. “Is this what you want?”
From me? Is this all I am to you? is what I want to ask.
The honing of my physique is partially why I obtained the role of a hot teenage lifeguard.
I’m grateful for the stability it brought to my career in the last decade.
But now, at twenty-eight, I’m ready to be recognized for something else besides magazine articles featuring double-spreads of me shirtless.
The women’s resounding cheers sting, but the beaming smile on my father’s face spurs me forward.
It’s all part of the Hollywood game—sell myself to elevate my career. This keeps my father happy, which means keeping him close to me. So, I step into character and lift the corner of my shirt, revealing another sliver of skin, before dropping the hem.
The mostly female audience moans.
It’s comical, really, their overabundance of enthusiasm. A good portion of my skin is already on display, from my pecs to my navel. What’s another small section?
I laugh and tsk my finger back and forth, simultaneously reveling in their rapture and disappointing myself for stooping so low to play this game.
My dad stands next to the cameraman and gives me two thumbs up. At least I’m making him proud. For the moment.
Red fingernails clasp onto my bare forearm where the cuff of my sleeve is rolled up.
Scarlet presses her chest against my back.
“Now, honey, don’t get them all worked up.
You’ve got to save some of that yummy goodness for the show.
” Her hand works its way over my abdomen, finger-walking up my torso until she circles my pectoral with a single nail.
The crowd hoots and hollers. The women are beside themselves. Scarlet toys with the crowd, torturing them with her ability to touch me so liberally, playing her part well.
I grasp her hand and squeeze it. A warning. Enough. Too far.
Her body slides around mine.
I stretch my neck to glimpse her face.
She’s well-versed in my silent signals from our years of acting together on Malibu Shores. And yet, she completely bypasses my silent plea and cups my cheek with her hand, pulling me sideways and planting a kiss on my mouth.
A staged kiss is nothing like a real kiss. It’s awkward and rehearsed. Nothing close to authentic.
This kiss? This is something akin to that. Except it wasn’t part of our agreement prior to the show. This feels like she’s probing, trying to find answers. She’s knocking, but that door is firmly closed on my end.
“Well, ladies, there you have it. Scarlet Rhodes is officially marking her territory on and off screen,” Gwen chuckles behind us. The audience’s cheers resume to a new, wild volume.
I guess the kiss sold our fake relationship. So, there’s that, at least.
I look at Scarlet, asking with my eyes, “What the heck was that?”
But we’re both miked, so instead of answering, she avoids my gaze and rests her head on my shoulder, squeezing my arm like a boa constrictor, and faces the crowd.
The absolute only reason I go along with this charade is because we’re recording in front of a live audience, and my career is on the line. If, at any moment, the media sees through our sham, my film contract becomes void.
We move back to the couch and stick to our prearranged questions promoting our final season of Malibu Shores. Unfortunately, that also means the awkward, invasive questions about our romantic relationship. It’s what I agreed to, but it doesn’t make deceit any easier.
“Judging from that very public display of affection, things look like they’re heating up between you two. Does this mean you’re getting serious?” Gwen leans forward like she’s hitting on some super secretive, juicy gossip.
News flash, lady, it’s absolutely everywhere. Our PR team made sure of it.
Scarlet leans into me, pressing her shoulder into mine, leaving almost a whole cushion on our loveseat. She casually places a hand on my thigh. I swallow hard, trying not to react. Be a professional, Griffin.
“Oh, our relationship has been a looooong time coming. Isn’t that right, Griff?
” Scarlet purrs in my ear. “We’ve become quite close over the last ten years.
We practically grew up together.” Her blue eyes pierce into mine, and I catch a millisecond of vulnerability in them.
Sometimes I forget the mending of her promiscuous reputation is what spurred this arrangement to begin with.
Latching herself to Hollywood’s Golden Boy is supposed to restore her image.
Despite our predicament, she is my friend first and foremost.
“Pretty much. We’ve been on set together since we were sixteen.” Awkwardly enough, I had my first kiss with Scarlet on set too, but that particular piece of gossip doesn’t need to become public knowledge.
“Wow. So how long has this thing”—Gwen gestures between the two of us—"been going on?”
For most of my growing up years, Scarlet scared the crap out of me with her overly forward personality.
Scarlet flips her long, dark waves behind her bare shoulder. She crosses her legs, and her short black dress inches higher up her thighs as she angles toward me. She smiles. “This...development has been more recent, but I think we’ve always known there’s a certain spark between us.”
I smile in agreement. “You could say that. How could any man resist Scarlet Rhodes?” What am I even saying? I’m flying blind. I perform much better with a script.
She squeezes my thigh. “Aw. Honey, you’re so sweet.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. A man would have to be blind not to acknowledge Scarlet’s attractiveness.
She’s stunning, with icy blue eyes framed by long, jet-black hair.
Her full, pouty lips draw the eye, but the sharp angles of her cheekbones and pointed chin match the abrasiveness of her personality.
Scarlet is a woman who gets what she wants, when she wants it, and she isn’t afraid to go after it.
Gwen’s gaze darts to Scarlet’s thigh grasp by arching her eyebrow.