Chapter 5
FIVE
T he one-bed thing is less than advisable.
Forced proximity, my ass. I never thought it was realistic until I was trapped in a hotel room with one bed and Marcus Ortega wearing my desire like lipstick.
I mean, it’s pretty great to have him all to myself, close enough to touch, but it’s also a huge burden. I’ve got to keep my hands to myself because what almost happened in the bathroom can’t be allowed to be repeated.
He’s really good at digging beyond my boundaries and bringing walls down where walls need to stay.
Last night, after the oral sex in the bathroom, saved by the miraculous interruption of room service, I sat on the bed and ate while Marcus took a shower. When he finished, he sat at the small desk on the opposite side of the room and ate his own dinner with only the smallest snippets of conversation.
Whenever I tried to ask a question, he mostly grunted.
Whatever assurance he gave me about forming a plan, last night wasn’t the right time to talk about it, apparently.
I thought it was my turn to withdraw, but apparently, after expending too much energy eating me out, Marcus decided he needed a little hermit time of his own.
I memorized every whirl of design on the ceiling and finally fell asleep with his heat seeping into my skin and the memory of his stubble scratching between my legs. Falling asleep wet and aching for cock really isn’t a good look for me.
Or for anyone.
We’ve been dancing around each other this morning, me with my head ducked low to hide from him and Marcus dutifully burying himself in scrolling through the TV guide. Which is totally fine with me.
It’s safer if we keep our distance. We might be stuck together, and my life might be in his hands, but Marcus is not good for me.
On any level.
I grind my teeth together, lost in thought. It’s clear he only wants my body. Those papers were in the works and ready to be signed, no matter what pretty excuses he offers to the contrary. He never wanted to be my guardian when my parents died, and he’s made it painfully clear what he thinks of me.
The stories and articles online aren’t true, and he’ll never let them be true.
Letting him go down on me and creaming all over his tongue can’t happen again. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere for my peace of mind.
Today, he seems to respect my need for distance. Which means he’s probably planning on doing something crazy later.
It’s better not to trust him. Trusting him has gotten me into nothing but trouble, and it’s not like I need any more of the stuff. I manage to get into enough of it on my own.
Room service delivers another cart full of plates for breakfast. Instead of leaving me alone the way I want him to, Marcus joins me at the table with his features set in typical bulldog stubbornness.
“Can I help you?” I turn my nose up at him and, without looking, cut through the center of my egg white omelet with spinach.
No butter and no dairy, as per his instructions. And Marcus takes it very seriously.
He doesn’t touch his bacon as he places his hands flat on the table. “I’m going to lay it all out for you.”
“Oh, you’re finally ready to talk? How generous of you.”
“Everything, from start to finish, Empire,” he continues, ignoring me. “It’s up to you how you want to proceed. Do you understand?”
It’s the voice he uses when he thinks the other person isn’t really paying attention to him. I’ve heard it enough times over the years to be bothered by it, and right now, it makes my skin itchy.
“I’m not a child. This is a long overdue conversation, and you’re damn right. It’s up to me how to proceed.” Keeping a little bit of attitude is like having a security blanket.
We both know I have no real control, but I have to pretend. Otherwise I’ll go out of my mind.
He arches an imperious brow. Waiting for me to agree with him and stop whatever it is I’m doing.
I finally nod, slicing through another section of egg and lifting a forkful to my mouth, even with my stomach flipping in mad circles. “Whatever,” I mutter, biting down hard on the eggs.
The salty taste and soft texture might have been great if we weren’t here right now. If this were a vacation rather than an escape.
“You have to finish the movie,” Marcus starts in a low tone, the words harsh and sudden, like a gun going off. “And I need to ensure its success. The movie is the only thing that matters right now. Stop being a spoiled brat.”
“Yeah, I know, you said yesterday. I’m not brain dead. I remember.”
He furrows his brows together in a harsh line. “Are you going to let me finish? Eat your damn breakfast.”
“I’m the one who deserves to be mad here. Not you,” I bite out, pointing at him with the fork.
We stare each other down, both waiting for the other to settle first, but I’ve learned a thing or two from him. We’ve come too far for me to not. I’m not going to just roll over and show him my belly.
He might have been in charge of me before, but not now, with the legal documents signed and in order. I’m my own person. If he doesn’t start respecting my autonomy, then—
I groan, stabbing the fork through the eggs again. I can’t even come up with a good threat.
“Once the movie wraps, once it does well, you’re free to go off and do your own thing. I won’t stop you. For now, I’m trying to save both of our lives. Listening to me is going to keep you safe.
“The man in charge of the movie is a terrible person. The kind of scum better off wiped from the earth, and unfortunately, he’s got both of us by the balls. We’re not going to be able to make it out of this unless we play the game by his rules, and I’m the one who knows how to navigate it. You don’t. You’ll only make things worse if you try to fight it.”
“Like a choke collar.” The more you struggle, the harder those metal prongs dig into your skin.
I swallow down over a hiccuping sob, and the eggs turn into sawdust in my gut.
“Exactly.” Marcus grimaces and grabs one of the strips of bacon, lifting it to his teeth and ripping it in two pieces.
“Screw you. This is just another ploy. You’re not laying all your cards on the table. You’re telling me the exact same bullshit you’ve already told me.”
Rather than sitting there and listening to him feed me another line, I push up from the table.
He’s never going to be able to come clean, not in any meaningful way.
There are too many secrets, layers and layers of them all pressing down on each other. He probably doesn’t even know the truth anymore because of all the lies. Or worse, he’s started to believe the lies instead of the truth, and he actually thinks he’s telling me everything.
“Do whatever you want. I’m out of here.”
Marcus grabs my hand before I’ve managed to step away from the table. He towers over me, glaring, fury and frustration rolling off him.
“It’s not a ploy. I’m being honest.”
“Growling isn’t going to make me believe you.” My brow ruts into several lines.
A muscle in his jaw ticks, visible beneath his stubble. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. The movie is the most important thing,” he repeats.
“I heard you the first time.”
“Heard me but you don’t listen to a fucking word.” Still keeping hold of my wrist, he drags me over to the side of the bed and the zippered duffel on the floor. Black, the kind of thing dudes keep in their car.
With a flick of his wrist, he’s got the zipper pulled back, the script right there on top of his clothes.
He grabs it, then shoves it against my chest, basically forcing me to take it or let the pages drop and scatter. “You’re doing the movie, and that’s it. I promise I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Just get through this.”
The dark intent in his words takes me right back to the scene we’d filmed after hours, with me naked, no intimacy coordinator on set, and my much older costar staring me down.
“Don’t you get it?” My voice trembles. “I had a really bad experience. If you want to protect me, then keep your word and get me out of the movie.”
I shudder, and Marcus loosens his grip, sliding his thumb over my wrist and my frantic pulse.
“It’s never going to happen again, okay? I’m going to be there with you every step of the way, making sure things go how we need them to go. It’s the best I can do with the new circumstances.”
“Why does it matter to you what I do? You didn’t want me.” The second I say it out loud, my throat constricts and the corners of my eyes burn. “You can get anyone to do this film and execute a better performance than I will.”
I don’t have my parents’ talents. I might be the progeny of true Hollywood royalty, but their star quality never rubbed off on me the way I needed it to.
I didn’t want to do the movie in the first place, and now I’ve been maneuvered into a corner.
“You’re doing it, so stop crying.” Marcus refuses to listen to me.
Nothing has changed there.
Clutching the script to my chest, I wrench my arm, twisting until he’s got no choice but to let me go. I shove the script underneath my purse and head to the bathroom, where I left a pile of my things.
“I don’t have to stay,” I call out, grabbing the dirty clothes off the floor and shoving them into the plastic bag from the closet. “Not with you. And I don’t have to do this movie, no matter how much you glare at me. Your doom and gloom is your problem, Marcus. Keep it that way.”
This time, when I turn back to him, he shoves something new at me. I fumble the pass and catch sight of press photos of my parents. Marcus takes one of the pictures and shoves it right under my nose.
The tears are free. Oh, god, I can’t hold them back. Why am I crying again?
“Sit.”
It’s a command I’m powerless to struggle against.
Not when my legs are jelly and shock travels from the top of my skull to my tailbone. It spreads out like lightning everywhere in between, the hole in the bottom of my gut opening wide enough to swallow me whole.
They look so happy.
Both of them dressed in vintage Gucci, the colors coordinated by their stylists.
Mom’s smiling face was absolutely radiant, her hair done in a simple chignon at the top of her head. Dad glowed with pride, his arm around his wife’s waist, both of them facing the camera and weathering the bright flashing lights.
“Sit at the table, Empire.” Marcus forces me back into my seat. “Do this movie, stop acting like a spoiled brat. Or we’ll both end up like them.”
“You can’t keep using them against me.” Except we both know he can.
They are his weapon to maneuver me in place, to keep me shackled down.
I guess it’s too easy for me to forget. Like I’ve gotten used to the trauma or something. Marcus needs to remind me repeatedly about the crash, about how they were never meant to die, how I’ll be next if I don’t fall in line like a good girl.
Good girl, hell.
I’ll never be on my knees in front of him the way I want. I’ll always be the one struggling to muster up an argument, stubbornly, only to be beaten back.