Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
JOSH
Josh parked his BMW beside the spot the director would roll into two hours from now. An ear-popping yawn cracked his jaw as he yanked open the lot’s back door. As first assistant director, it was a point of pride to be the first on set every day. Even before the production coordinator. Even when he got less than four hours of sleep the night before.
Five weeks left of filming, and he needed every minute to make sure they wrapped on schedule. He’d make sure they did.
That’s why he kept getting hired.
And since he wasn’t having breakfast with Cass of the thick thighs and pouty lips, no reason not to be the first on set, as usual.
Morning, beautiful
Dreamed of you last night
Here’s the name of breakfast place I was telling you about in case you want to check it out
Sending good morning texts to a hookup, though? Asking her to spend the night? That was far from usual.
Not as unusual as a hookup wanting to take off right after. He couldn’t blame her. When he hooked up, he preferred to sleep in his own bed, too. Even when his partners wanted him to stick around after. Occasionally he obliged. Had to if he wanted to keep them in rotation. But they knew the drill, and he’d be gone before they woke up.
It was far easier to leave than to kick someone out. Stephen still razzed him, months later, after one crazy ex had banged on his apartment door after midnight. It had been enough to make him swear off bringing women home.
At least until Cass. Didn’t hurt that she was from out of town. Less likely to show up unannounced.
A surprise visit from her would be alright, though. Maybe she’d call him the next time she was in town.
The venti coffee still steaming in his hand would caffeinate him for a couple of hours. Enough time for everyone to trickle onto set. Josh rolled his shoulders under his snug black tee, making the white graphic of Stormtroopers doing Saturday Night Fever -style dance moves ripple over his chest. Digging his fingers into the knots at the base of his neck, he logged onto his laptop and let his email load.
Newest first. He read and filed his emails in batches, delegating, deleting, and firing back responses to a litany of names above him in the food chain. An hour later, the office door creaked open and the film’s production coordinator slunk into the seat beside him, surrounded by a musty miasma.
Josh flared his nostrils. “Jesus. Did you sleep in a bar last night?”
Stephen scratched his armpit, sniffed his fingers, and grimaced. “Might as well have. Feels like I did,” he replied. “Why didn’t you wait for me this morning? We could’ve carpooled.”
“And let you stink up my car? No fucking way.” Delete, forward, flag for reply. Sixty emails after being out of the office for a day? Not bad. “Didn’t hear you come in last night, anyway. ”
“You were busy, from the sounds of it.”
“A gentleman never tells.”
“What do you know about being a gentleman?” Stephen rubbed his hands over his beard, the unkept blonde ends making his chin look an inch longer, and shifted into work mode. “Think we’ll get the shots we need today?”
Nothing short of an earthquake would prevent them from getting the shots today.
And that is not an invitation , he silently whispered to any powers that be. He flicked through the call sheets fresh off the printer. “Take a shower. You’re disgusting.”
“Can’t. My landlord gives me shit when I use too much hot water.”
“I’m not your landlord.”
“Then what do I pay you rent for?”
“You don’t, but if you did, it would all go to my water bill.”
His attention was pulled from Stephen’s bemused shrug with a new flash in his inbox. Fuck, a new email, just as he’d gotten through everything.
This one was different.
LookBACK Films. The script he sent months ago. Long enough for someone to have finally read it after following up with every contact he had. He ground his teeth together and braced himself to open the message.
Dear Mr. Graham, Thank you for your submission; however, we …
Josh bit back an expletive. No need to read any further. He resisted the urge to delete it, instead filing it in the folder labelled What Doesn’t Kill You . At least, he didn’t think twenty rejections in half as many months would kill him.
Might not make him stronger, but it put him in good company.
Everyone got rejected. All the time. Josh Graham was used to rejection. His scripts, anyway. Back in college, he was one of the few people in his film and screen arts program who wanted to be behind the camera, unlike the actors who feigned camaraderie, then backstabbed each other later while they all vied for the same roles.
His friends tried to convince him he belonged in front of the camera. He had the looks for it. It was like his parents had thrown all their features in a bag, shook it up, and built their son with whatever they grabbed first. The thick black hair that looked good, no matter what he did with it, came from his mother. He also got her dimples, but the cheekbones and glacial green eyes came from his father. The lanky, sinuous torso came from his father as well, and while his father would die before being seen unclothed outside of a sauna, Josh’s agent insisted shirtless photos be at the top of his portfolio. More than one modelling agency had tried to recruit him in the past decade, but he wanted to do more than stand around and look pretty.
Or look angry, if any of the feedback he got was any indication.
“You have this whole murderous supermodel thing going for you,” his drama coach had said, fingers fluttering in a circle around his face. “You’re a shoo-in for any villain roles.”
If he wanted people to think he was an asshole, he’d keep doing what he was doing. So, yeah. The bullshit in front of the camera didn’t interest him. He might make an exception for a reimagining of Newsies set as a nineties gangster film, but those roles didn’t come around that often.
Unless …
He whipped out his phone. “Siri, take a note. Screenplay idea Newsies remake meets nineties mafia.” After a beat, he added, “Upcoming actors who dance question mark.”
At least the bullshit behind the camera was better than in front of it. Usually. A few of his screenplays for short films had been optioned, even if nothing had come of it yet. Executive producers were allergic to risk. Oblivion , the film he’d directed, sound-mixed, lit, and everything else, had taken him over a year to make, and he still hadn’t thought it was ready. He’d never have entered it if Stephen hadn’t berated him into submitting it .
And Cass had said she’d liked it, even without knowing he’d directed. She got it, got him , what he was trying to say.
That felt good. Really fucking good.
So, minor success on his shorter works. No bites on any of his feature length screenplays, though.
Yet , he reminded himself. One of these days, the self-gaslighting might turn into an actual positive thought.
Stephen rolled his chair over. “Hear Westy’s in today?”
Of course Josh had heard. If anyone would know when the executive producer would be on set today, it’d be him. Melanie Westwood, latest trophy wife of the film mogul Darren Westwood, had been far more hands-on during production than anyone had expected. Everyone said she was just a purse to fund this movie. They’d groaned when she showed up and started making decisions. Weird, dark ideas, but then those cryptic, esoteric choices had launched tiny indie projects that were barely expected to break even into the deep black. While she hadn’t bagged any major awards yet, it was only a matter of time.
After that, people had shut up about the decisions she made. Josh couldn’t believe he was working with her.
“Yep. One o’clock.” Which meant she’d be here anytime between two and seven tonight.
“Are you going to ask her about it?”
Josh nodded without looking up from his screen, tapping out his reply to the second assistant director’s frantic notes. Because he was nothing if not a masochist. Maybe he could get into Emily’s spanking kink after all.
Fuck, he’d promised to call Emily last night. Well, he hadn’t thought of anyone other than Cass the minute he’d laid eyes on her. Emily would get over it. And if she didn’t, they both had other people they could call when they needed to blow off steam.
Stephen clapped his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “You got this.”
At least one of them had confidence.
Besides a craft services mishap in which no gluten-free sandwiches arrived, causing the lead actor to have a kindergarten-level hissy fit, the day passed incident-free leaving him free to keep vigil for Mrs. Westwood’s arrival.
Near the end of the dinner break, Stephen signalled from across the room and pointed at his cell phone.
Westy’s in the house
Go time.
The grip team was still adjusting the lights for the next scene, so Josh made sure everyone was doing something useful and strode to the entrance she always used.
“Mrs. Westwood, here for the finale shots?” he asked and waved a PA over. “Can we get you anything? Sparkling water? Decaf latte?”
A palanquin to carry you to the director?
She motioned for him to join her brisk pace, heels clicking on the concrete floors. She handed her knee-length jacket to the scurrying PA without breaking stride. “It’s Melanie, Josh. Mrs. Westwood is my mother-in-law.” She scanned the set through narrowed eyes. “Where’s Brynne?”
Hiding from everyone on set . “In her trailer. Visualizing.”
Casting Brynne Sparo had been one of Melanie’s many conditions in bankrolling the tiny film. She was nowhere near the most famous actor he’d worked with, but her diva act put any A-lister to shame. Her breakout role in a historical drama last year had everyone predicting she’d be the next “It” girl. Melanie believed it, and was willing to bet the literal box office that everyone was right. From everything he’d seen, Josh was inclined to agree.
Act the diva, indeed.
“I want to see her when the scene is over.”
“Of course, although it might take a while.” It wasn’t a complicated shot, but who knows how many dozens of takes the director wanted? So that meant they’d have time. Now was as good a time as any. Josh ground his molars and pushed ahead.
“Melanie.” Nope, first name was still weird. “ I wondered if you’d had a chance to look at the script that I sent through last month. Several actors have been making noise about doing grittier films and horror?—”
“Horror isn’t our brand. We’re not LookBACK.”
Fuck . Horror was having a moment and he wanted to ride the wave. The script was good. At least, he’d thought it was. Over a dozen studios disagreed though, and now Melanie, too. That dream was rapidly disappearing in the rearview. Maybe his script was a garbage heap, after all.
“Understood, thanks for looking?—”
“But,” she continued, “I heard you’re working on an adaptation of Sirius Darker ? I didn’t know you had an interest in sci-fi.”
He froze. How would she have heard he was writing that? No one knew what he was working on.
Except for Stephen. That sneaky little shit had been hounding him for months to finish that screenplay. Last time Josh opened the file, he’d stared at the screen for an hour before closing it without writing a word.
“ Sirius Darker was the book that made me a fan of the genre,” he said, trying to weigh how much of his enthusiasm he should show. “I’ve read it a few times.”
Fifty times, but who was counting? No need to tell her he’d cosplayed the lead character at San Diego Comic-Con for the last three years. Or moderated a fan subreddit. Or posted fan art when he was in high school.
She tilted her head up to drill him with her gaze. “Is it a faithful adaptation?”
“Yes,” he said, then added, “with gender-flipped main characters.” The genre didn’t need another female main character getting fridged. The dude could go on ice for once.
“Gender flipped isn’t exactly faithful.”
“The core of the story is the same. ”
“That’ll piss off the fanboys.”
“Something always does.” He bit his tongue, ordering himself not to offer to flip back the gender roles. Keep your fucking mouth shut .
“Alright,” she said finally. “I want it by Friday. I’ll read it on the weekend.”
Josh swallowed a bubble of panic. Sci-fi was not having a moment. The book was too niche. The Sirius Darker fandom had the worst kind of gatekeepers, testing arcane trivia to see if newcomers were worthy enough to be a fan. He’d picked away at the script since university. It was as much a fanfic as a passion project, half done, with no plans on ever sending it out for spec. Getting it done for the weekend? It would be nearly impossible.
He’d do anything to make it happen.
“Absolutely Mrs. W—I mean Melanie. It’ll be in your inbox on Friday.”
Because so what if he already worked fourteen-hour days? Friday was all the way at the other end of the week. Sleep was for assholes, anyway.
A tidy little pile of coke would’ve come in handy right about now.
“You look like shit, bro.”
“Fuck you, too.” The fuzz clouding Josh’s brain made him feel like he was thinking through wool, and a sheen of nausea coated his intestines. He’d gutted his way through fifteen pages, a pot of coffee, and a packet of instant ramen noodles every night for the last week while Stephen crept in and out of the condo like a shadow. But his completed script had hit Melanie’s inbox at a quarter to midnight that Friday, as promised.
He didn’t even consider scrolling through his contacts to unwind, falling into bed, alone, minutes after hitting send and sleeping a decadent six hours before getting back onto set. He barely remembered getting through the day.
“You could have saved us from your sparkling personality until you actually needed to be here,” Stephen said. “Seriously, go sleep in the trailer. I’ll call you when we need you.”
Josh nursed his third venti Americano of the Sunday afternoon—to the mutual displeasure of his blood pressure and stomach lining—and peered at the call sheets through gritty eyes. The crew wouldn’t miss him for an hour. It was a sign of how under slept he was that he considered Stephen’s offer. He was about to head towards the trailer’s relative quiet when his phone buzzed in his pocket and his already skyrocketing blood pressure jumped a few more points.
Only three contacts were selected to break the Do Not Disturb notification ban on his phone: His mother, who never called during the day when she might be with clients; Melanie, who called whenever the hell she felt like it; and Vivian, who only called at the most presciently inconvenient times. He hit accept without bothering to check the caller ID.
If Melanie was calling him already, the script was either really good or he’d really fucked up.
Didn’t matter. The script was a draft. Draft-lite. It was an uninsulated house without windows level of draftiness. If she didn’t like it, he could revise. Honestly, he knew it had been shit when he’d sent it to her. He shouldn’t have told her he could do it in a week. He should scrap it and start from scratch. He could?—
She didn’t even give him a chance to say hi. “You said it was faithful.”
His blood turned to ice. It hadn’t been un faithful. The message was the same. Locations, settings. Even half the line readings. Just not the eighties space race backdrop. Or the melodrama.
Did she want the melodrama? Fuck.
“Mrs. Westwood, I’ve?— ”
“People will lose their shit if we film it like this, and I don’t know how many times I have to remind you to call me Melanie.”
“Melanie, if you have notes, I can get to work on revisions.”
“Absolutely not. It’s genius.”
Josh stood in stunned silence. Melanie was many things. Prone to hyperbole was not one of them.
She liked it.
Be cool . Josh kept his face neutral, like at any moment it would turn into a FaceTime call. “You thinking of optioning it?”
“No. I want it in production. Now. We have some negotiating to do, of course, so now’s the time to tell me if there is anything I need to know about. People you’ve talked to about this. Anything before I can get moving.”
If Stephen could hear what Melanie was saying, he’d be screaming, say it!
He fixed his gaze on the wall in front of him and commanded his lungs to draw breath. He’d never let himself dream about what this could mean. A million things he wanted raced through his mind. Producer credit. Reversion rights if they didn’t end up making the movie. Points on the back end if they did. A say in casting …
“I want to direct.”
A long silence played out on the other end. “Josh,” Melanie’s cautious tone came through, “this is a big deal. I have someone in mind.”
His stomach roiled. If there was one thing he hated, it was negotiating.
“Melanie,” he said in a voice far more confident than he felt, “I know this story better than anyone. I know what it looks like, sounds like. I know what it fucking smells like. I can bring life to this like no one else. And I know what needs to change, and another director might miss it. Casual racism. Gender stereotypes that”— Fit your husband’s generation and not ours , he thought, but said—“modern audiences won’t respond well to.”
Good. Hit her in the target demographics .
He plowed ahead. “If you go with someone else, they’ll turn this into a blockbuster and ruin it. The fans will revolt over that more than a female lead, and you’ll lose the investment.”
That was it. Time to let her think. He gripped his biceps so hard his hand ached.
“I saw Oblivion .”
Josh ground his teeth together and said nothing.
Melanie sucked air through her teeth. “Why do you think it wasn’t the breakout film of the festival?”
A wrenching gripped his stomach. She was right, of course. He couldn’t even handle a short film with a four-figure budget, let alone a major motion picture. He’d be way over his head.
Then Cass’s words from the previous week floated to the front of his brain. The director saw the true essence of the story. They just need a team . She saw his work and believed in him.
“It didn’t break out because I needed help,” Josh said. “With a continuity coordinator, a decent electrical and grip team, and the rest of the crew, we’ve got this. Let me put together the design team and I’ll show you.”
A noisy exhalation buzzed the earpiece. “Fine. You’re directing, but I’m putting together the design team, and I’m going to be breathing down your neck the whole time. Now …”
The rest of her words blended together as he collapsed into his chair, listening numbly as she listed off casting ideas, locations, and a budget that pumped a dose of adrenaline straight into his veins.
Sweet holy hell.
He was directing Sirius Darker .
The week hammering through the script meant nothing had been done. His condo reeked of closed windows and unwashed laundry. He dropped his keys on the slim entryway table and surveyed the piles of dirty dishes. He’d take care of it, but not now. Tonight, he’d let himself relax. Stephen texted he’d be out that night, so he had the place to himself. Catch a new documentary on Netflix. Maybe order in. Or better yet …
He dropped onto his couch and scrolled his contacts. He still owed Emily a text, but he hadn’t seen Jessica in forever. Or maybe Aubrey had broken up with her boyfriend. His brow wrinkled. Did he even like Aubrey?
He switched to his messages, swiping down a few pages for the last message Cass had sent.
I’ll be thinking of you the next time I touch myself xoxo
Had she done it yet? Slide her fingers over her clit with his name on her lips?
His dick pulsed. Jesus, just thinking about her made him hard. It wasn’t too late. He could drop her a line. He lowered the fly of his jeans and stroked himself over his boxer briefs.
Hey beautiful, wyd
I’m not lucky enough you’re back in town, am I?
He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, firming his grip and giving himself a slow pump. The way she’d cupped his balls with a gentle tug when she’d taken him deep in her mouth, teasing him, edging him until he’d had to hold himself back from fucking her face into the wall behind her. How she’d rubbed his cock on her nipples as he came, then those panting whimpers as he licked her clean, her pussy tight and wet around his fingers.
Fuck, she’d taken everything he’d given her. Beyond hot. The phone buzzed beside him on the couch.
Oh hey Sexy Dimples :)
Not in town, but if I was, you’d definitely be getting lucky
I’m just getting out of the shower
Sexy Dimples, hey? He liked that. And it sounded like he caught her at a good time, even if she was just saying that. She was probably in an old tee shirt with her hair up in a towel. Bubbles flashed, and a minute later, his jaw dropped at the photo that popped up on his screen.
Oh, fuck yeah. She had a towel, alright, but that was it, and she wasn’t doing much to hide behind it.
Cass sat on her bed, those wide hazel eyes looking into the camera, her skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower. Her hair hung in dripping ringlets, beads of water running over her sloped shoulders to where she held the towel over her tits, each droplet illuminated by the light diffused around her. Gone were the fiery red lips, now replaced with a dark blush that, if he remembered correctly, were the exact same colour as the tips of her breasts. She’d let the towel fall away from the rest of her body, so her soft belly and hip peeked from behind it, but tantalizingly still hidden. He wanted to reach through the photo and rip the towel off her.
If she was sending him a picture like that, she wanted to play.
Have you touched yourself yet?
I’m touching myself right now
Thinking about what you felt like inside me
Can you show me what I’m missing?
Oh hell, she wanted to play . He twitched against his grip, and pulled his cock free from his boxer briefs, already rock hard, and fisted his length.
Wait. Nothing sexy about straight up dick pics, even solicited ones. More subtle. He angled his leg to show the invitation of his open jeans, and what wasn’t obscured by his hand hid in shadow. He fumbled with the phone to snap a picture and fired it off.
Ping . Another photo, her hand trapped between her thighs, a dust of dark hair visible between her fingers. She’d leaned forward, arms pressing those glorious tits together, her beautiful nipples looking like lollipops waiting to be sucked.
Fuck, that woman was nuclear. He hadn’t been stroking himself for five minutes and he was going to come, but not without her. He fumbled for the FaceTime app, cursing when it went to voicemail.
Fine. Texting it was.
He stared at her photo with half-lidded eyes, imagining his lips teasing her rock-hard peaks. He hadn’t gone down on her that night, like a fucking chump. When he saw her again—if he saw her again—he’d have his tongue on her before he said hello.
“Hey Siri,” he groaned out, “text Cass Spectacular Tits.”
I want to know how sweet your pussy tastes
Come for me baby
I’ll tell you when
Will you think of my mouth on you?
Jesus . He slammed his eyes shut and shoved the thought aside, slowing his hand and thinking about mutual assents and the rainforest. Not that tongue down his length, how she’d managed to suck even with him deep in her throat, and the minutes later when he had come all over her and she’d taken his kiss like she was starving.
What would she look like now, reclined on her bed with her legs spread? Did she pump her fingers inside? Rub her clit with one hand and pinch her nipples with the other? Did she have a favourite toy, one that she’d grip with her voluptuous thighs and shake to pieces when she came?
Fuck, he couldn’t hold back much longer. He squeezed the base where his balls were tight against his body and swallowed hard.
Client negotiations. Billable hours. Legal liabilities.
God, thinking about her body was a liability.
I came for you
I think my neighbours heard me scream your name
Show me your fingers. I want to see them wet
The photo came back, her eyes glassy and lips parted, fingers held up to the camera, glistening.
Oh fuck, she really had come. He rocked into his hand, imagining that little cry she’d let escape when she crested underneath him, the walls of her pussy gripping his cock as she came down from her orgasm, and he convulsed as he spilled himself onto his stomach so hard it hurt.
This woman could turn him on more than anyone he’d ever met, and she didn’t even need to be in the same city. He looked down at the mess on his clothes and let out a lazy chuckle. He had to do laundry, anyway. This made it worth it.
Now I need to take another shower :)
Damn, she was beautiful, her eyes sated and fingers soaked with her cum. Why the fuck hadn’t he put his mouth on her to feel her come on his tongue?He squeezed the base of his cock once more, and a final shudder coursed through him. When he’d fucked her last week, she’d quivered around his cock so long he almost got hard again, seconds after coming twice already that night.
Send me your last name and I’ll book you on a flight tomorrow
And when they were finished in bed, he could bring her to that theatre he’d told her about. A new dark comedy was playing. She’d love it. Or maybe she’d hate it and they could argue about that one, too. The diner he’d suggested they go to for breakfast was down the street. Unless she was one of those weirdos who skipped breakfast. Maybe he’d find out.
A smiley face pinged his phone, then was dry for the rest of the night.