25. Chapter 25
Mal
“C ome on, baby, give it to me!”
My eyes widen as Alex, bent over a fake bar top, takes a pounding from behind. Cas, the new performer Jerome hired, holds his hips tight, their bodies smacking together on each hard thrust. I close the set door quietly behind me, staying out of the way as the pair finish their scene.
Alex doesn’t notice me, but Nathaniel, Jerome’s right-hand man and the assistant producer here, does.
He’s overseeing the shoot, tablet in hand, customary argyle sweater in place, and when his head swings my way, I uptick my chin in greeting.
He nods and goes back to work, keeping his eye on the screens broadcasting the camera angles.
It feels like ages since I was the one in Alex’s shoes.
Or Cas’s, for that matter. I always held a versatile role here on set.
It’s only been a month and a half since I started staying at Henrik’s, but it feels like longer.
Categorically, life isn’t that much different. But in a few significant ways, it is.
I palm the small pill bottle in my pocket, the evidence of one of those changes.
I met with my psychiatrist, Delilah, this week.
She squeezed my appointment in quickly and was ecstatic to see me, and I left her office with three additional therapy sessions in my phone’s calendar and a new prescription for Zoloft.
Which means, as soon as I work up the courage to swallow one of the pills burning a hole inside my pocket, I’ll be one step further on my journey toward better mental health.
I’ve been desperate for this. Needing it badly.
So why am I so afraid?
After a couple minutes of waiting in the wings, watching Alex—or rather Tink at the moment—and Cas go at it, I slink out of the room. I’ll find my friend when he’s done.
In the meantime, I head to the break room, saying hello to Raylin, our cosmetologist, as she passes by.
Grabbing a cold, bottled tea, I take a seat and pull the pills from my pocket.
I roll the pill bottle around in my hand, weighing it, wondering how something so light can relieve something so heavy inside of me.
Wondering why I’m hesitating.
“Mal? Hey.”
Looking up, I find Dixon watching me curiously. The door swings shut behind him, and he walks over, taking a seat next to me. His bulky frame makes the couch groan slightly.
“Hey, Dixon.”
“Everything okay?” he asks, his arm spreading out along the back of the couch.
“Yeah,” I reply, holding up the bottle he clearly caught me appraising. “Anxiety meds.”
He nods, pursing his lips. “Are they working?”
“Haven’t taken any yet,” I admit. “I just picked them up before coming here.”
“Ah.” Dixon kicks his foot up on the coffee table in front of us.
I’ve always loved this room. The plush couches, the snacks and drinks, the tastefully cropped stills of the performers, like a dirty version of family photographs on the wall.
It feels like a home, in a way. Or, at least, the closest thing I’ve had to a home since moving to Las Vegas, Henrik’s penthouse aside.
My apartment before that never felt like mine, and Dixon’s place was, well, Dixon’s.
“When you and Niko finally got together, was it weird fucking other people?” I ask, curious about their boundaries. Dixon and Niko met here on set, but it took a couple months before they became boyfriends. Yet still, they have sex with other guys. It’s part of the job.
Dixon’s situation isn’t my own. There’s a good chance Henrik won’t want more with me when all is said and done.
But if he did, then what? Surely, I would continue to work.
I wouldn’t expect to live off Henrik’s wealth.
Would he even be okay with me coming back to work here? Would he still want me if I did?
“It wasn’t weird,” Dixon says, shaking his head. “I was worried I’d be jealous, but what we do here is different than what Niko and I do together. It’s easy to separate the job from our relationship.”
I nod. I’m not sure it’d be so easy for Henrik. He’s definitely the possessive type. Should that bother me? Because it doesn’t, apart from the fact that it leaves me concerned about job prospects.
Although I’m thinking as if Henrik is truly my boyfriend, when that’s not the case. Chances are, it will never be an issue for us because in a few months’ time, or even sooner, we’ll be done.
I hope not. I hope I can convince Henrik to give us a shot. But would that mean giving up all the pieces from my life before? Would that even be an issue for me?
There’s plenty I’d be glad to part with.
All those demons from my past I’ve been running from.
I became a new person because of them, first by necessity and then by choice.
I left so many things back in Iowa when I moved forward, hopping from place to place, time and time again.
I even adopted a new name, all too glad to slip into a life that wasn’t mine.
I did my best to leave my past behind me.
But in that time, I also gained. I gained friends here at Elite 8 Studios. Friends who still don’t know my whole story. I gained a job that, although not my dream, has worked for me for many years. I gained a sense of belonging, and things were starting to look up. Until my mom’s dementia.
Am I ready to say goodbye to this part of my life and move on once again?
I’m not sure what I see when I look forward—I’ve always been so focused on surviving the now—but thanks to Henrik, the path is smoothing out in front of me.
There are meds in my hands. Therapy appointments on the books.
Enough money in my bank account that I can no longer rationalize away paying off my credit card debt.
And plenty of zeros left over to help with my mom’s care for the foreseeable future.
I could likely afford my own place now, assuming I’m still careful with my money.
The balance won’t last forever, but it will last a while.
But more than that, I have something that’s been absent from my life for far too long.
I have hope.
The wheel isn’t spinning. I’m on solid ground for the first time in a long time, and I can finally just…breathe.
“Dixon,” I pipe up. “I know I thanked you before, but I need to do it again. I haven’t been the best friend, but you were there for me when I really needed it. And I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.”
“Mal,” he says softly, squeezing my knee. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m just glad you’re doing okay. You are, right? Everything with Henrik, with your mom, it’s going okay?”
I spin the bottle in my hand. “Henrik’s been great. My mom—”
“There you are, Curls,” Alex says, practically skipping into the room, freshly showered and slightly flushed.
I give the man a smile. “Heya, Blondie. So nice of you to invite me to a private viewing earlier.”
Alex laughs, plopping down in a chair next to us and folding his legs up in front of him. “I thought we’d be done by then, I swear. I didn’t see you stop by. Enjoy the show?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“A-plus for enthusiasm.”
Alex titters.
“Hey,” I say, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “There’s something I wanted to tell you guys.”
Alex tilts his head. “What’s that, boo?”
“Could we, uh, get Niko on the phone?” I ask.
Dixon’s brow furrows, but he grabs his phone and calls his boyfriend.
I look from Alex’s curious gaze to Dixon’s soft, compassionate one.
Both of these men, so very different, but who’ve been there for me for years.
And when Niko’s voice pipes over the speakerphone, I think about how he integrated so quickly into our little group, supporting me without asking anything in return.
I don’t feel right lying to them anymore, even by omission. I want to give something back. Or maybe give something I should’ve offered up a long time ago.
I only pray they’re not pissed at me.
“I’m not from California,” I blurt, eyes pinging between Alex, Dixon, and the phone, afraid of missing a single reaction even as I dread what I’ll see or hear.
“I’ve never even been to the beach. I’ve never surfed.
Never been in the ocean. I kind of hate the sand.
I grew up in a perfectly ordinary landlocked suburb in Iowa.
I didn’t mean to lie, I swear. But this guy”—I wave my hand down my body for emphasis—“isn’t me. I’m not Malibu.”
“Mal,” Alex says softly, leaning forward. “You’re still you.”
I shake my head vehemently, frustration making my voice tight.
“That’s the thing. I’m not this person you all think I am.
And I’m sorry. I should’ve said something right away, but I never expected to last here.
I thought I’d stay a short while and then move on to something else, like I’d been doing ever since I left home.
But then years went by, and I ended up caring for you all way more than I expected, and then I was stuck.
And I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you all to hate me. ”
When I fall silent, waiting to hear what they’ll say, my heart is hammering, and my hands are clammy.
But Dixon’s voice is calm when he speaks from my right. “We could never hate you, Mal.”
I look between him and Alex, both of my friends gazing at me with sympathy in their eyes.
They look a little confused, which I get, but there’s no anger there.
No hurt, and something in me snaps. Because they should be hurt.
They should be angry. They shouldn’t be leaning forward like they’re about to comfort me when that’s the last thing I deserve.