4. Griffin
GRIFFIN
“ S on, this is a mistake, bringing a dog to a photoshoot. It’s unprofessional.”
Dad crosses his arms, his suit’s shoulder pads inching upward. He looks completely out of place inside my hair and makeup tent on the beach as I stand in nothing but swim trunks.
But that’s my father, ever the businessman. Never one to take a day off—at least where I’m concerned. I can’t remember our last conversation that didn’t pertain to my career. At least I still talk to him, unlike my mom, whom I haven’t heard from in months.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep the dog contained, Thomas,” Luke pipes up from the corner of the tent while the makeup artist finishes my spray tan.
The dog sleeps curled on the opposite side of the tent, resting on my gym clothes.
“Besides, it doesn’t appear to be a very difficult job.” Luke looks at his phone and types. “I’ve got a delivery of dog food and supplies headed here now.”
“Perfect. More distractions.” Dad throws his hands in the air.
Speaking of distractions, my mind continues to wander back to the shelter and a particular blonde who seemed completely unfazed by my fame.
It was refreshing. For a brief moment, I almost felt like a normal human being living a perfectly average life.
It didn’t hurt that she was adorable. My gosh, that line about my shirt.
My burst of laughter was the most natural thing I’ve done in weeks.
“Turn.”
I follow Heather’s instructions as she puts last-minute touches in every nook and cranny of my body. And I mean every nook and cranny.
Luke snickers, I narrow my eyes at him.
He looks away. “I didn’t say anything.”
He doesn’t have to. He thinks all the pomp and pageantry of my career is ridiculous.
I’m sure if I came from serving in the military, this job would seem superfluous to me, too.
But it’s the only career I’ve known, and I’m determined to excel at it.
Even if it means being spray-tanned as orange as a Ken doll.
At least I can claim the abs as my own. Evidence that hard work does pay off—even if sometimes my toned build is the only thing getting me ahead in this career.
But that’ll soon change. The world will see my breadth and skills as an actor once I break into film.
Unless all I really am is a pack of abs and a spray tan?
Dad steps in front of me, ignoring whatever the stylist is spraying on my calf muscles. “This shoot may help promote the show, but remember, there are also three brands we’re showcasing. You need to impress them enough to secure future endorsements with them. Got it?”
Just your average father-son pep talk. He rests his hands on my shoulders and gives me a little shake.
“Understood. Dazzle everyone with my photogenic skills. Got it.”
He removes his hands with a pop, sticky from the still-drying spray tan.
He grabs a napkin from the makeup table and wipes his hands.
“Son, this is no time to joke. We are at the precipice of your career. We could elevate from here, or we could sink into the abyss. It’s all on you.
It’s time to focus, not”—he gestures to the dog—“dilly dally in silly philanthropic ideals you don’t have time for. ”
Heather stands beside us, watching us like we’re an entertaining ping-pong match. “Sorry to interrupt. Ready for your oil?”
“Sure.”
Several minutes later, I emerge from the tent shinier than a tube of lip gloss. I’m talking near- Twilight level sparkle. My body oil is so thick, I glow. Look out world, here I come to shine. Literally.
I greet and shake hands with the photographer, Jean Claude, and hope my palms leave him stain-free. “Thank you for having me.”
“Of course, of course. Lovely to meet you.” He ushers me toward a makeshift deck with a wooden railing set on top of the sandy shore.
The beach is behind us, the sun just barely beginning to set.
Large strobe lights and shadow boxes surround the set, as well as massive reflectors.
There’s a good chance someone can see the glimmer of my skin from outer space.
Two assistants adjust the equipment, and makeup artists stand nearby at the ready for touch-ups.
Scarlet emerges from her tent wearing a bright pink bikini. Her naturally tanned skin has been elevated to a new level by the glow from the oily lotion. We look more like walking ads for baby oil as opposed to designer jewelry and swimwear.
“Hey there, handsome."
“Hey, Scar. Seems like I just saw you.” I hold out an arm to keep her stable from the death heels she’s wearing. Because those are always practical at the beach. We step onto the platform together.
With our final season of Malibu Shores releasing in just over a month, our schedules have recently collided more than I care for them to.
I want the show to be a success as much as she does, but the pretend boyfriend/girlfriend thing is becoming uncomfortable, our professional lives blurring too much.
The photographer immediately takes charge, posing us together. Our skin slips and slides against each other. The combined power of our coconut-scented lotion overwhelms my nostrils.
“Did you enjoy being on The Gwen Show ?”
“You mean when you practically mauled me in front of an audience of three hundred people?” I say behind my forced smile.
She smacks my chest—at least, I think she means to—but it just slides right down.
“Oh, don’t be such a prude.”
Interesting that if the tables had been turned, and I had done the same shenanigans to her, it would border on sexual harassment. I wonder how comfortable she’d be in that situation? Then again, she’s never minded my attention.
“This is good, good. Get closer. You’re gazing into one another’s eyes.” This comes from the photographer.
I look into Scarlet’s blue eyes, alight from the softboxes reflecting in them. She dips her chin, her voluminous lips pouting even farther as she looks at me through her lashes.
She curls her long nails into the base of my hair. “How about we go out tonight?”
“Can’t. I’m dog-sitting.”
“You are? Since when?”
“Since today. There’s a dog in my tent.”
Her lips tilt. “Luke can watch the dog.”
He could, but I wouldn’t do that to him. Besides, I’m wholly uninterested in going somewhere with Scarlet tonight. No doubt it’d be some loud, obnoxiously over-crowded club.
“I thought you were supposed to be maintaining your good-girl image? You know, one that doesn’t go out and party anymore.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you were there with me. Then it’d be a date.”
We’d been on numerous “dates” like this. Most of the time, I served as her eye candy and bragging rights to all her friends. None of them knew about the contract, per our NDA. That meant I played right along with her schemes as her doting boyfriend.
“You’ll have to forgive my absence. I’m just not in the mood for more acting tonight. I need a break.”
She tilts her head and studies me. “It’s not always pretending between us.” Her thumb grazes my bicep back and forth.
I scoff, assuming she’s joking.
But her expression remains serious.
Oh.
“I’m not exactly your type.” Meaning that she likes someone who enjoys going out every night and partying.
She lifts her shoulder slightly. “Opposites are good for each other.”
I don’t know how to respond to this.
Jean Claude cuts in, “Griffin, turn, please. Look at the camera. Serious. No smiles. Perfect, perfect. Scarlet, drape onto his shoulder. Yes. Just like that.”
Every few seconds we shift our positions slightly, Scarlet’s surprising words playing on a loop in my mind.
The silence is near deafening. My focus shifts to the dog in my tent, worrying for her well-being and her filthy condition.
She’s probably just as anxious to wash the oil and residue off her as I am.
Do dogs only take baths? Do they take showers? Did Luke order shampoo for her? I want to call out to Luke inside my tent before I forget, but Scarlet’s hand brushes my jaw, and I realize I missed some direction from the photographer.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” I ask Jean.
“You two are in love. You are beautiful together. Like magic. Taste the magic in one another.”
“He wants us to kiss, silly.” Scarlet’s lids lower, and her lips soften, awaiting my move.
Luke pops out of my tent. “I’m going to meet the delivery guy for the dog supplies. The girl’s asleep. I’ll be back in two shakes.” He jogs off without a backward glance.
Scarlet’s hand is more insistent on my jaw, but my focus is torn. I want to check on the dog and make sure she’s okay. Scarlet leans in, brushing her nose against mine.
“Yes, yes. That’s it. Show me the magic.”
Robotically, I lean in, me going left, Scarlet tilting right like we’ve done hundreds of times.
A truck backfires up the street.
The dog shoots out of the tent like a gunshot, ramming into one of the strobe lights and knocking it over.
The collision causes one of the reflectors to tip on its side.
The wind catches it, and it takes off down the beach.
One of the assistants starts chasing it.
The dog tucks tail and runs in the opposite direction.
I hike the railing, jump over, and run after her.
It’s probably half an hour before Luke and I manage to wrangle her.
She’s terrified, panting heavily and trembling, but exhaustion wins over and she allows me to pick her up.
I carry her back to the shoot. The sun is almost set.
The assistants are packing the equipment.
Scarlet is nowhere to be found. And standing in front of my tent is my fuming father, yanking out his Bluetooth earpiece.
“That was a disaster. I told you bringing the dog here was a bad idea.”
I look down at the dog in my arms, panting so heavily that I’m fearful for her heart. We didn’t even discuss her age at the shelter. She could be elderly or have a heart condition.
“Griffin, did you hear me?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll be sure and apologize to the photographer.”
“Don’t bother. He already left. I made apologies for you. You just better hope he got some shots he can work with, or you can forget about those endorsements.”
What concerns me more right now is making sure I’m capable of caring for and surviving a night with this dog. As soon as I get home, just after we’ve both bathed, I’ll be doing some googling on canine heart defect signs.
Ashton tasked me with taking care of this dog. I want to prove I’m more than just some Hollywood actor incapable of picking out his own clothes—even if I’m only proving it to myself.