I sit up fast. So fast my hair flings around my face. Noah looks at me like he’s concerned and wants to say something, but can’t. He’s still stunned into silence and I get it. There’s nothing I can say right now either, other than…
“I have to go.”
I stand up on shaky legs, between my thighs drenched from the orgasm. I hurry to compose myself and before I know what I’m doing, I dart toward the door.
“Alex…” Noah’s voice calls from behind me, and he sounds so worried and sweet that all I want to do in the whole world is turn around, but I can’t.
I just fucked up everything, and now I have to leave.
I whip open his door and jump through it, slamming it shut a little too hard behind me. I race through the hall fast in case he chases me like he always does, but when I reach the front door, I realize that he’s not.
I leave his building and thank my lucky stars there happens to be a cab driving by. I almost dive in front of it, then clamber inside. I’m breathless and on the verge of tears as I give the driver my address, all the while watching Noah’s front door. He doesn’t come out in the time it takes for my cab to drive up his block. And I know he didn’t come out at all.
He’s not chasing me this time. Because this time, I ruined it all. I ruined what we had, and I did something awful and stupid in the process.
The sensational high is already gone and now I’m numb. I squeezed it too hard, and it died.
I manage to hold the tears in until I’m home, securely tucked inside the bedroom of my quiet prison.
And then I crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Eight
Noah
The band of us walk, through the hall and out to the lobby, turning heads all along the way. There are ten people, maybe more, walking in a huddled group, talking and conversing and shaking hands. So many publicists and agents and assistants, it feels like an episode of Entourage.
At last we make it into the massive marble lobby, and everyone sections off.
Today went well. Actually, better than I could have hoped, and I’m ecstatic.
We just had our first official meeting for what will hopefully be the first of many seasons of our brand new project they’ve dubbed Hell Storm.
I like the name. It sounds like something right up my alley, as does the entire plot for the show. I think it may just be the job I’ve been waiting my whole life for. This is it.
The role of a lifetime.
“Hey Noah,” a deep voice with a British accent calls from my right, and I turn. “Would you like to grab a drink?”
I nod with enthusiasm. “You read my mind.”
Andrew and I say a few quick goodbyes to our people, shake some hands, and then leave together, rounding the corner from the giant studio office building and sauntering down the sidewalk.
“There’s a chill spot on the next block,” I tell him and he nods, following my lead.
I just met Andrew James, my new costar, a couple hours ago at the start of the meeting, and I already like him. He’s quiet and uber-professional; serious yet obviously just as amped as I am over our new gig. Not to mention he’s a pretty famous guy - crazy talented - but he manages to remain low key and casual, which I like a lot. In my business, you meet an abundance of people who think they’re God’s gift to the screen, and have egos so inflated you’re tempted to shoot them up with Benadryl.
But I can already tell Andrew’s not like that. He barely even seems to register how famous he is. He just loves acting, and apparently the entire process of production. He’ll be a great front-man for our show.
We step into a quaint little pub I’ve been to a few times and make our ways to the far end of the bar, so as to remain inconspicuous. Since I spend ninety percent of my life wearing a hat and sunglasses, it’s sort of hard for me to disguise my appearance in New York City. But Andrew’s pulling the same game, rocking a worn-out red baseball cap pulled down over his face.
The place isn’t crowded by any means, but it is Saturday. Still, it’s barely pushing four in the afternoon. Not exactly the pub-crawling time of day. Hopefully, we can enjoy a few minutes of uninterrupted conversation and alcohol ingestion. I’m not really in the best mood, despite how awesome the meeting just went.
But I’m trying hard not to think about what’s bothering me right now…
Andrew orders a Macallan and I follow his lead, drumming my fingers repeatedly on the bar out of all the jitteriness I’m currently feeling.
“I think that went well, yes?” He lifts his brow at me. “They’re making some moves already. I’d love to start filming in April.”
“You think the schedule will stick?” I ask as the bartender sets our drinks down.
“I don’t see why not,” he shrugs. “They seem to have everything in order.”
We pick up our glasses and raise them, both of us wearing excited smirks.
“To summer in Georgia,” he says and I laugh softly as we each take our sips.
The scotch goes down smooth, calming my overstimulated mind. Maybe getting crunk at four in the afternoon isn’t what some people call normal, but I need it today, to distract me from the chaos happening inside.
“It’s gonna be hot as balls,” I mutter, gulping more of my drink. “But Savannah should have some pretty boss houses. Southern McMansions and all that.”
Andrew makes a face, his lips twisting down as his eyes fall to the drink in his hands. He’s staring at his wedding band, then spins it methodically on his finger, like a nervous tick.
“You’re married?” I ask, wondering why he’s clammed up all of a sudden.
“Yea…” he sighs, pursing his lips. “My wife’s not exactly thrilled about the prospect of leaving London for months at a time.” He picks up his drink and kills it, nodding at the bartender for a refill.
“Really?” My forehead creases in perplexity. “Why the hell not? I mean sure, being on location can be stressful. But Georgia is nice.”
“I don’t even think it’s just Georgia…” he murmurs, visibly biting the inside of his cheek. “Last time I was on location we fought more than we ever have before… I knew she didn’t want me to take this job, but how could I say no? It’s the role of a lifetime!”
“Right?” I agree with his sentiments of my exact thoughts on the subject. “Do you have kids?”
He nods. “Michael is five and Luciana, the baby, just turned two.” His face instantly lights up as he tugs his phone out of his pocket, swiping furiously. “I’m going to show you pictures, I hope that’s cool.” He peeks at me.
I laugh. “Yea, it’s cool. I don’t have any myself, but kids are pretty dope.”
He’s beaming as he shows me a few pictures on his phone of his kids, who are, by all definitions, completely adorable. I peep his wife in one of them and my eyes dart back up to his face.
“So… the fighting? That’s gotta suck, huh?”
“It’s bloody awful,” he blinks hard. “I don’t understand what the problem is. I was acting when she met me. She knew this was where I saw myself going. And she was always fine with it when they were local jobs… You know, around Europe. But as soon as I began filming in the States suddenly it was a problem. I don’t know… Sometimes I think we’re…” He pauses and gulps. “Never mind. Sorry…”