Chapter 10 Jason
Chapter 10
Mascarpone-and-strawberries-on-toast proper.
Jason
IT’S ANOTHER DAY on the wires, and I’m waiting for the guys on the ground to get their shit together so I can do my part of the scene. To kill time, I twist my body from side to side, crossing the wires so they spin me back the other way. Kayla, hanging beside me in her Ruby costume, sticks out a foot and tries to help, but even with grunts and struggles, she can’t reach.
“Thanks anyway, L’il Bit.”
“Dance with me!” She punches her arms to the choreography of the scene for our season finale, which we’ll be taping tomorrow.
“Work it, work it,” I chant, diving into the arm motions with her.
We bop around for a few minutes until Hannah, the first AD, shouts up to us. “Jason Number Two, Kayla, you’re on.”
Game faces firmly in place, Kayla and I assume our positions. When the take starts, we tap our shoulders to supposedly engage our thrusters. All the CGI will be added later, so instead of life-size puppets being manipulated in front of a green wall, we’ll look like a grown man and a supposed teenager—Kayla’s actually twenty-two—flying through the ravaged badlands of a planet three galaxies away. Max, my rigger, lands me hard so I can crumple on the floor and look injured. Kayla shouts my name as she soars past.
“Leave me behind!” I yell hoarsely. Then I groan and gasp like I imagine I would if I’d really plummeted to a rocky exoplanet’s surface at fifty miles per hour in only a leather jacket and extremely tight pants. Then I flip onto my back and blink a few times before closing my eyes and letting my chin fall heavily to the side.
“Cut!” Hannah says. “All right. Let’s run it again.”
We do a couple more takes until it’s perfect. When Hannah calls the wrap, Jason Ramirez walks over and offers me a hand up.
“Saw your photo shoot in Vanity Fair today.” His perfectly groomed eyebrows rise in what I’m guessing is admiration.
I swim my arms as Max launches me off my feet again. “Is it good?”
“Oh, it’s good!” Sean says, appearing at Ramirez’s shoulder. “ Fifty Shades of Baywatch good. Something going on with you and Hashtag Girl? I didn’t see room for Jesus between the two of you.”
His words dredge up a familiar dread. “Nothing’s going on. She’s cute, but… What exactly are you guys talking about?”
Sean smirks. “Classic string-along then?” He exchanges a glance with Ramirez. “Poor girl.”
“Wait, what?”
I’m trapped in my harness, so I can’t follow them as they walk away, leaving me hanging— literally . “Guys, what are you talking about?” I call after them. They keep walking. I shake my head as I dangle. “What the heck are they talking about?”
Amanda slaps a magazine against my eggplant-colored chest. “See for yourself.”
I shake the magazine open and find our spread. Holy cow, it’s not what I expected at all.
The first two pages are filled with close-ups of Emmy and me practically on top of each other in the pool. In one shot, we’re gazing into each other’s eyes, our lips soft and parted, like we can’t wait to taste each other. In another, her golden eyes are ablaze with the threat of a mermaid siren ready to drag her unsuspecting sailor down to his pleasure-soaked doom, and I look totally game for it. Flipping through the pages, I’m shocked to find every single photo is laden with so much sexual innuendo that, although I was there, and I know what did and didn’t happen, I’m not sure my story would hold up in court. This doesn’t look like an innocent crush at all. Not even close.
But, damn, we look good.
It’s too sexy. Shit! Miles is going to blow a gasket. Not to mention the showrunners. What happened to the cheerleader pictures? I suggested those on purpose to lighten things up. They didn’t use even one.
“Goin’ up,” Max says.
On the jolty ascent, I toss the magazine onto the set piece where I’ll be landing. I roll my neck and shake my hands and arms out. It was only a photo shoot. It’s not like I did anything wrong. Right?
“Sup,” I say to Andrew as I’m lifted beside him ten feet in the air. I tug at the harness digging into my groin. Across the way, Sean is getting hooked into his rig. In this scene, he’ll fly past me, and I’ll duck out of the way just in time. This is one of my favorite parts of the job—the physical stuff. I love the dancing, too—not to mention my castmates and being Hadron. Frankly, I love everything about this gig. Losing my contract would be devastating. Even thinking about it sends cold fingers of dread into my gut.
Tomorrow is the last day of taping for the season. If the network fires me, it could be the very last day I ever come to work here. Not that that’s going to happen. They love me here! I’m good at what I do. And I haven’t given them any reason to decide I’m a terrible influence on the youth of today. Not lately, anyway. Unless you count that photo shoot, which is way hotter than it needed to be. Even my friends think I’m either seducing Emmy or stringing her along.
How about just doing my job? How about acting, which is, hello, what I get paid for? Maybe she’s a good actor, too. Maybe we’re just really good at acting. God, I don’t even know anymore. I should’ve pulled back, damn it! But she’s sexy and fun and I felt… things. I tried not to. I’m a guy, what do you want?
I adjust my harness again because things are getting even more pinchy in there.
What if I am seducing her? No, I don’t think so. But if I’m not seducing her, it must mean I’m stringing her along. No, I don’t think so, either.
I give up. Whatever. Shake it off, Jason Number Two. You’re okay. You’re really a good guy, deep down. Waaaay deep down. Somewhere.
Sean is finally rigged up, and we run the scene. First, Andrew and I fly down and “land” on the mountainside. Then Sean zooms toward us, and I wait until the very last second before lunging away—except I’m so busy trying to figure out if I’m a terrible person or not that I cut it too close. His foot clips me, and I go down hard. When Hannah calls, “Cut,” I’m still curled up, rubbing the ball of fire that is my shoulder.
“You’re supposed to get out of the way, Snack!” Sean calls from his landing spot down below.
I wince and sit up as the pain dulls to a throb. “I’m okay. We can reshoot it.”
Hannah’s dark-rimmed glasses pop out from behind the monitor. “No, I like it. We’ll keep it. You need the medic, Jason?”
“Nope. All good, boss.” I give her a thumbs-up and hang my legs over the green ledge for the long wait until my next scene. Plenty of time for healing. And for worrying. “Hey.” I rub my shoulder as I call down to the closest crew member. “Toss me my phone, will you? Thanks.”
I catch it and thumb it on. I wonder if Emmy has seen the spread yet. She’s been on her California book tour the last week. I haven’t friended her on social media because it’s a bad idea to do that with fans, but she’s at the top of my search list.
Looks like she posted some pool pictures her stylist took during the shoot. They aren’t steamy ones. In fact, we’re laughing and splashing, and I don’t see one fireable offense in the mix.
“Look!” I hold out the phone as Amanda lands beside me on the ledge. “I told you it wasn’t all 9⒈／⒉ Weeks .”
“Mm-hmm.” She lowers herself shoulder to shoulder with me, legs dangling alongside mine.
“If I share these, do you think it will make me look like less of a scoundrel?”
Amanda’s black-lipsticked laugh is a little ugly, and with her Maelstrom makeup on, her words come across as particularly ruthless. “You’d look like less of a scoundrel if Margarita was out of the picture. That’s all I’m going to say.”
I stare at the green all around us, the cast and crew working down below, the hustle and bustle of taping an action TV show—my life. “We haven’t been together in months, and, when she does stay at the house, I sleep in the guest room. I think it’s already over, honestly.”
“What you think doesn’t matter. You need to make it official. And clear. For everyone’s sake.”
My chest tightens. “But Mattie…”
“Mattie will be fine. I promise.”
“She’ll never let me see him.”
“That’s not her call. A judge makes that call, remember? Don’t let her bully you.”
I rub my shoulder some more; it feels like Sean left his toe in there. Amanda’s words leave a bruise behind, too. “We’ve been together so long. I can’t imagine things any other way.”
Amanda pats my knee. “You deserve to be happy, Snack .”
I wilt in mock self-deprecation. “Not you, too.”
“It’s a cute nickname. And there’s someone out there for you. I know it. But you’re not gonna be free until you cut Margarita loose. It’s time.”
“Amanda!” Hannah shouts from below.
“Oop! I’m up. See ya.” She slaps my knee hard before getting to her feet so the crew can launch her across the set like a dark green leather rocket.
Do I really think Margarita would cut me out of our son’s life if I ended things for good? Margarita is a good mother, but I know she enjoys the guilt-free time she gets when Mattie’s with me and not a babysitter. And if I pulled the proverbial bandage off, what would really change for Mattie? Not much, probably. He’s still young. Maybe now is the time for a fresh start. If I can demonstrate a healthy, stable lifestyle, even if Margarita’s not a part of it, there’d be no grounds for cutting my time with him. Maybe I could even get shared custody. Fifty percent of my son’s life could be spent with me. Just the two of us. And with the right person, it could be the three of us.
Maybe Amanda’s right. Maybe I do deserve to be happy.
I swipe back through the photos Emmy posted. My favorite is one where she’s half out of the water, trying to stand up on my shoulders, and I’m dodging her knee with my hair plastered all over my forehead. It’s not a particularly flattering photo of either of us, but I remember really enjoying that moment.
I remember enjoying other moments, too—like the ones they published in the magazine. My gaze flicks over to it, lying ten feet away, face down and looking abused. I scooch to reach it but can’t. I shift my position and reach out with my foot, but it’s still too far. Trying a different tactic, I stand up, run toward it, and reach out, but I’m flung back by the wires and wind up bouncing.
“Going down,” Max says.
“No, wait!”
The wires go slack, but I use the extra purchase to lunge toward the magazine and grab it. Victory!
As I’m lowered down, I flip to the photos again. Maybe they’re not so sexy. Maybe I imagined it. I find the spread.
Nope. They’re pretty sexy.
But we look good together. No denying it. She’s beautiful and sensual, and seeing her in my arms brings back all the memories of that day. The way her muscles fought while she treaded water. Her finger tracing its way down my cheek. How she stole my sandwich and then fed it to me.
I turn the magazine clockwise, hoping it’s less incriminating at that angle. Nope—turning it horizontal makes it even worse. I stifle the smile that bubbles up, too late, because Miles’s pointy-tipped red Corthays suddenly appear inches away from my dangling, black Velcro space boots.
“I see you didn’t listen to a word I said.”
I slap the magazine shut like a teenage boy caught with a Playboy and frown in faux sincerity. “Why, Miles, whatever are you talking about?” The British accent is unintentional.
He shakes his head. “I can’t keep bailing you out, Jason. You’re supposed to be a family guy on a family show.” He gestures to the magazine. “You look like a gigolo.”
“Well, you know,” I hem and haw. “That was the photographer’s idea.”
He snatches the magazine out of my hand and flips through several pages before finding a photo and shoving it in front of my face. “Was it the photographer’s idea to make your celebrity crusher fall in love with you? Look at her!”
I scoff. “She’s not in love with me. She’s actually kind of mad at me, I think.”
“I don’t trust her, either. She might be obsessed with you. There are details in that book—”
“It’s not like I’m hard to research, Miles,” I cut him off, annoyed.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Have you read it?”
“Of course I’ve read it. It’s fine!” It’s only a partial lie. I’ve read about eighty pages or so. But I know Emmy’s not obsessed with me. She’s great.
Miles stabs a finger between Emmy’s bedroom eyes. “This girl is bad news for you. If I were any other director, I’d love the buzz for the movie, but I’m not just any director. I’m your friend. This movie’s a one-off. Lost Star is your bread and butter. You don’t need to be risking that. She’s not worth it. No woman is.”
Poor jaded Miles. I hope I never get like that. “There’s nothing between us, I promise. There’s nothing between me and anybody right now, not even Margarita. I’m ending it with her.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“This time I mean it. Things haven’t been good for a long time, and I need to be able to live my life without everyone thinking I’m a cheating jerk.”
“You are a cheating jerk.”
“I was a cheating jerk. Now I’m just a jerk.”
Miles’s gaze softens. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life, and, for the record, we both know you’re not really a jerk.”
In my mind, I add the word son in front of that sentence. In my mind, I replay it in my dad’s voice. “What’s so wrong with me showing Emmy a good time, anyway?”
Miles’s left eyebrow goes up.
“Not that way. You know what I mean. Would it be better if I blew her off completely? I’m her celebrity crush. What would I look like then? Some arrogant, self-absorbed asshole. She deserves better than that.”
Miles sighs so hard that the ends of his mustache tremble. My words chisel a hole in my own wall, too. Emmy does deserve more than the games I’m playing with her. Flirting with her on The Terica Show , then ignoring her. Acting all hot and cold at the photo shoot. Not that I meant to play games. That was never my intention. But, as usual, my intentions don’t mean shit.
What are my intentions anyway? Maybe to prove that Jason Connor can be a good guy? That I’m not the cad the talking heads make me out to be? That I can be Hadron in real life—the funny, nice one who deserves a funny, nice girlfriend? A girlfriend who feeds him sandwiches and wipes mustard off his face. I was really hoping she’d lick it off her finger.
The grin slides across my face before I can stop it. When Miles sees it, he shakes his head as if I’ve just driven his point home.
“Wait! No, Miles, seriously. I’m gonna end it with Margarita. And then I’m gonna be America’s most honorable celebrity crush. Have a little faith, how ’bout it?” I unleash the charming face and crank that sucker up to ten. Even grumpy, straight men aren’t entirely immune.
“Whatever, Jason,” he grunts, but I can see in his face that I’ve won. “How’s that shoulder?”
I roll it around in its socket. “Solid.”
“Good. You ready for tomorrow?”
“When have I ever not been ready for a huge honking dance number?” Now the million-dollar smile comes out to play. I do the running man in the air since I’m still not actually touching the ground. Finish it with a dab.
Miles grins, and I’m thinking I’ve made a nice fat deposit into our good vibes bank account, when he suddenly sobers. “One more thing, Connor. If you’re going to end it with Margarita, make sure everyone knows it. You’ve got to make it clear you’re unattached before you get involved with anyone else.” He rolls up the magazine and stuffs it in his back pocket. “And for God’s sake, keep it professional with the author. Can you do that?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” I salute as he turns to go. I can do that. Of course I can. The photo shoot and interviews are done, and I don’t think Emmy and I have any more events together until the premiere in December. She’s got a few more book signings, but I don’t need to be there. Easy peasy. It won’t even take any willpower.
As Miles retreats, Sean approaches. He’s already in his street clothes, a baby-blue velour tracksuit. Immediately, he throws a haymaker into my sore shoulder.
“Ouch! What was that for?”
“You’ll live.” Sean looks across all the heads in the room as if he owns the place, as if all of this is his domain. It’s his signature move. It’s really impressive how he does that. “Your crusher girl still in town?”
“Yup,” I reply cheerfully.
“Bring her to the cast party at my house tomorrow, after the final taping.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I said so. That’s an order from High Command.” He flashes his alpha grin, the one that explains why he’s the captain and the rest of us are all button-pushing monkeys.
He drops into fighting stance, and I mirror him, ready to defend. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“If you don’t, I will.” He drops the pretense and pulls out his phone. “What’s her number?”
My plan to avoid Emmy unravels before my eyes. Why does he care so much about her coming? Is he really that annoyed that she picked me over him?
“I’m not giving you her number,” I say in a voice that tries to be authoritative and comes out petulant instead. I don’t have her number anyway, but I don’t tell him that.
Sean looks up from his iPhone. “So you’re bringing her then?”
I can’t let Sean bring Emmy to that party. If anybody’s a cad, he is. Besides, I’m her celebrity crush. That’s my job. And if he brings her, I won’t be able to avoid her anyway, so what’s the difference?
“I’ll invite her.” This time my authoritative tone comes out sounding defeated instead.
“Great!” His mouth grins, though his eyes don’t. “See you tomorrow, Snack.” He delivers another smack to my shoulder. Geez.
“There’s nothing going on between us!” I call after him as he saunters away. “And I’m not stringing her along!”
“Bring her or I will!” He waggles his phone in the air without looking back.
Shit.
Well, first things first. Amanda and Miles are right. I need to end things with Margarita, once and for all. Still dangling on the wires, I pull out my phone and text the mother of my son.
Jason: I need to talk to you. Let’s have dinner. You pick the restaurant.
I pause, delete the last sentence, and then replace it.
Jason: Maple Block Meat Co. on Sepulveda. 7PM.
There. I feel more take-charge already.
Next, I call and make a reservation using my real name. That’ll ensure the paparazzi are there to document it. Get the headline Miles is so concerned about. I feel kind of dirty doing it this way, but Miles is right. If people are going to stop judging me, they need to know I’m freed up. Then I can do things the right way. Although with whom, I don’t know, since Emmy’s on my “no fly” list. She’s not a real candidate anyway, living so far away.
But I’m committed to taking her to Sean’s party at least. I’ll pretend I’m Hugh Jackman taking his celebrity crusher to a party. Professional. Proper. Mascarpone-and-strawberries-on-toast proper.
I can’t text Emmy because I don’t have her phone number, but maybe I can direct message her through one of our social media apps. Except when I do it, I see her DMs are closed. I check out the “contact me” page on her website and find a book tour schedule. According to it, she’s at an indie bookstore in Manhattan Beach right now. What if I surprised her? Just to invite her to the party, nothing more.
My eyes glaze over as I imagine how that might go cinematically. The camera zooms from a wide-angle view of the bookstore to Emmy, seated at her designated book-signing area. She looks up from the table, pen in hand, and sees that it’s me. The close-up camera catches her face breaking into a huge smile as she drops the pen. She steps first onto the chair and then the tabletop. I run up just in time to catch her as she dives off the table and into my arms.
The fantasy summons a wave of feeling that I’m sure isn’t in my best interests to explore. What the heck am I doing?
It’s only a party. Then she’ll fly home. Professional. Proper. Surely I can do that.
I look up and realize I’m the only one still strapped into a harness. The rest of the cast is long gone, and there isn’t a crew member in sight.
“Hey!” I call out. “I’m still here. Hello? Max? Miles? Hello?”