29. 29
Hayes
Now
F ilming fucking sucks. It’s an all-night shoot, which started as soon as the sun went down, and it’s now well after midnight.
We’re shooting on location at Tank’s Motel and Tavern. We rented out the entire place—the bar, the motel, and the parking lot—to make the video as authentic as possible. That plan seemed good in theory, but it’s been more of a mindfuck than I expected.
For the first half of the shoot, Rowdy, Josh, James, and I spent hours filming the musical performance scenes.
There’s a full stage set up in the parking lot, framed by the neon lights of the city and the taillights on the highway behind us.
We’ve filmed take after take of us performing the song.
I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve played Room 112.
It’s my own damn song, and I’m already sick of hearing it.
After we wrapped the musical performance, the guys left, and we moved inside Tank’s Tavern to shoot the next portion of the music video.
Extras filled the place as Sloane, the actress we hired to play my love interest, and I fake-flirted over drinks at the scarred wooden bar, pretending to get drunk.
Fuck, I wish those really were tequila shots rather than water.
It’s got to be boring as hell watching us film from the sidelines, but each time I glanced her way, Annabelle had a smile on her face. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Annabelle’s smile will falter when we film the next portion of the video.
The part that takes place in the motel room.
Between takes, I flock to Annabelle’s side to reassure myself that she’s handling this alright. If I’m feeling like this is a mindfuck, she must be, too. But each time I check in with her, she swears she’s doing fine.
After a short break, Colt, the director, instructs everyone to head across the parking lot to the motel.
When Annabelle and I walk into the room, I stop. It’s exactly as I remember, all the way down to the ratty rattan headboard and putrid plaid polyester comforter. Not that I expected Tank’s to have a line item for redecorating on their annual budget, but damn, being back here is surreal.
Outside the camera frame, lights are aimed at the bed, and camera equipment clutters the edges of the room. Taped-down cords crisscross the floor. Otherwise, everything is unchanged.
“Oh my God,” Annabelle mutters behind me, her head on a swivel, as she takes it all in .
“I know,” I say, threading my fingers through hers. I tug her into one of the adjacent rooms, where we’ll wait until it’s time to shoot.
Even after all the extras from the tavern scenes have been dismissed, the room is still teeming with people. The film crew, record label execs, security, makeup artists, wardrobe stylists.
And Sloane.
She’s changed out of the outfit she wore for the bar scene and is now clad in only a nude, lacy bra and jeans. A makeup artist brushes some shimmery powder over her cleavage before asking Sloane to slip back into the T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier.
Sloane looks like Annabelle. Younger, slightly longer hair, but similar features. I don’t know what I was thinking when I cast Sloane for the role. Truth is, I really wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get the selection process over with.
But now, I’m stuck in an awkward as fuck situation. Walking into the room and seeing Sloane half-naked fills my gut with dread.
Why didn’t I pick someone with dark hair?
Or red hair? Or someone petite? Or extra curvy?
It would be easier for me to go through the motions and disassociate from the experience if Sloane didn’t resemble Annabelle.
But every feature they share is a reminder that it feels like she's a cheap replacement for the real thing.
It doesn’t matter that it’s acting. It still feels wrong.
A stylist greets me, separating me from Annabelle and steering me toward the corner of the room where hair and makeup are set up.
The woman, wearing an intense look of concentration, pushes me into a chair.
She adjusts the cowboy hat on my head before styling each individual strand of hair that peeks out from beneath it.
As she works, Colt talks, walking me through his vision for the next part of the video, mapping out the upcoming sequence of shots .
Once the cameras roll, Sloane and I stumble into the motel room. I shut the door behind us, pressing her up against it. At first, it’s okay. But like a lobster dropped into water that’s slowly coming to a boil, the heat creeps up. Before I know it, it’s too much. Too hot. Too real.
Standing outside camera range, Colt directs us, telling us what to do and how to act.
“Hayes, shake off the nerves. Loosen up.”
“Run your hand down her side, Hayes. Slide your hand under the bottom hem of her T-shirt and then pull it off.”
“Sloane, take his cowboy hat off and put it on your head. That’s it. Give him a sassy smirk. I love it. Love the energy, Sloane.”
“Nuzzle her neck, make it look like you’re going to kiss her, Hayes.”
“Now run your fingers through his hair.”
With every touch, every article of clothing that is shed, it feels like torture. Like I’m betraying Annabelle. I sigh with relief when Colt finally yells cut. But I know this is only the beginning. From here on out, each scene will only get more intense.
A hairstylist swoops in to adjust my hair, artfully tousling it while someone from wardrobe questions Colt. “What state of undress do you want Hayes in, Colt? Stripped down?”
Colt tilts his head from side to side. “Not yet. I want him rumpled, but not naked.”
“Shirt off? Jeans on but unbuttoned?” the stylist suggests.
“I like that idea,” I chime in, desperate to keep as many barriers between Sloane and me for as long as possible. Especially since I see another person from the wardrobe department instructing Sloane to remove her outerwear, leaving her in only lingerie.
Colt nods. “Yeah, let’s try that.” Calling Sloane over, he preps us for the next scene.
“We’re starting off with some hazy, wide shots before the camera will zoom in, focusing on Hayes lying on the bed.
Half-reclined, lounging against the headboard.
One hand behind your head, one hand on the waistband of your jeans.
” Colt then turns from me to Sloane. “Sloane, I want you to crawl across the bed slowly. When you reach him, hover above Hayes’ lap.
This scene is all about building tension.
Keep it slow, but keep it charged. Got it? ”
We both nod, and Colt calls for quiet on the set. My eyes dart to where Annabelle stands next to Charlotte and several crew members. They’re huddled just outside the open door, standing on the concrete walkway, but she still has a perfect view of the bed.
God, I hate this.
The music starts up, and Sloane moves into position. She bites her lower lip, keeping her eyes at half-mast, like she’s a little drunk and overcome with desire. She sashays across the room as she approaches the bed.
“Cut!” Colt barks. The music stops. The cameras roll back. “Hayes, stop looking around. Your focus is entirely on Sloane.”
So, we start again.
And again.
By the fifth take, I manage to keep my attention off Annabelle and on Sloane as Colt murmurs instructions as filming continues.
“Sloane, move your hand to his chest.”
“Do what feels natural.”
“Hayes, grip the back of her head. Make it look like you’re about to pull her in for a kiss.”
“Sloane, lean forward. Get closer to Hayes.”
“Bring your mouth to her neck.”
“Slip her bra strap off her shoulder.”
We run through it several times as the cameras circle around us, catching the same sequence of events from different angles, until Colt finally yells, “Take five while we set up for the next shot! ”
At this point, I have to lose the jeans. Shit’s about to get real.
Before now, we’d been teasing, barely touching one another.
But that all changes in the next scenes.
After Colt admonished me for finding Annabelle’s eyes while filming, I tried my best to ignore her presence, like the love of my life wasn’t standing there watching me fake intimacy with another woman.
But there’s no way I’ll be able to film the next scenes without worrying about Annabelle’s reaction.
When I asked her to come to the shoot, it was because I wanted full transparency and honesty between us. I didn’t want her to be blindsided by how racy and risqué the music video was.
When I walk up to Annabelle, she’s worrying her lip between her bottom teeth. “Hayes, maybe it’s better if I leave? I’m not helping you by being here.”
Charlotte chirps, “Might not be a bad idea, Hayes. You’re distracted.”
Keeping my gaze on Annabelle, I reply, “Didn’t ask your opinion, Char.”
Charlotte harrumphs, crossing her arms. “No, but you pay me to give it to you unsolicited.”
Grabbing Annabelle’s hand, I drag her into another motel room, shutting the door behind her, so we can talk privately. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull her down next to me.
“I’m sorry, Annabelle. I had the best of intentions bringing you with me tonight, but…” I run my fingers through my hair. “But maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do. I hate forcing you to watch this. If you want to leave, I completely understand.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Do you want me to leave? ”
“No,” I whisper, swiping my thumb over the back of her hand. “As much as it feels like I’m punishing you by asking you to stay and watch this, I still want you here.”
There’s a loud knock on the door. “Hayes! It’s time to get back on set!”
I cup Annabelle’s cheek. “While I want you here, your comfort is more important. If you’d rather leave, that’s okay, baby. This is your decision.”
She breathes out a long exhale before placing her hand atop mine, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze.
“No, you always support me, Hayes. You wipe away tears you didn’t cause.
You let me be weak, let me drop my guard, because you’re strong enough to carry the weight when I can’t.
So, if I can be strong for you now, let me. If you want me here, I’ll stay.”
“Thank you." Pressing my forehead to hers, I stare into the depths of her sunflower eyes. “I love you.”
A second series of knocks interrupts us. Time to get back to work.
I stand, holding out my hand, and together we walk back onto the set.
From her spot in the doorway, Annabelle hovers and watches.
As I shove off my jeans.
As wardrobe slathers coconut oil across my torso so I’ll glisten under the lights like I’ve worked up a sweat.
As someone else works styling gel into my hair, making it look artfully disheveled, like I’ve just been rolling around in bed with a hot piece of ass.
Colt walks over to me and motions for Sloane to join us. Clapping his hands, he gets right to it. “We’re going to pick up where we left off. Sloane, you’re on top of Hayes, but this time, I need you to be more forceful, Hayes. We’re done teasing. Okay? ”
Sloane and I both nod and then we take our positions on the bed. It gets really fucking real when Sloane sits on my lap. With my jeans off, I feel her body heat through my flesh-colored boxer briefs.
Fuck, it feels wrong.
The music cues up, and Colt starts his running commentary again.
“Hayes, hands on Sloane’s hips. Flex your fingers. Really grip her. We need to see the passion.”
“Sloane, rock against him, moving your hips.”
“Throw your head back and shake your hair.”
“Hayes, move in for a kiss. Make it sloppy. Hard and forceful, like we talked about.”
It isn’t just that I’m touching another woman. That’s not what upsets me the most. It’s that this experience, shooting this music video, will forever taint Annabelle’s memories of the night we met.
I can’t let that happen. Those memories are sacred.
“Cut!” I yell. Gently, I push Sloane off my lap. “I’m sorry, Sloane, but I can’t do this. Not with you,” I grunt, standing from the bed.
Hands on her hips, Charlotte approaches me warily. “Hayes, you’ve got to get it together,” she chides. “We only have Tank’s booked for one night. Tonight. We don’t have time to find another actress to play your love interest.”
“I’ll do it.”
Annabelle’s voice rings out, clear as day, across the crowded room.