Sweet Cheeks(8)

The criticism I deserve. The tantrum I don’t.

The irony is Tessa knows exactly where I was. On top of her. Beneath her. In her. All night long.

And if she throws a tantrum then what happened between us last night will come out somehow. She runs at the mouth when angry and that won’t bode well since I’m trying to keep a low public profile. Because even though this is a closed set, someone will talk. Talk leads to tabloids. Tabloids lead to snooping. And in my current situation, snooping leads to disaster.

And as much as I’m taking the fall for all of the other shit going on—the tabloid accusations of cheating—I’d rather keep them to just that: accusations, instead of verified facts.

Besides I fucked up. The thing with Tessa wasn’t on the agenda. We were running our lines for today. This sex scene . . . and one thing led to another.

Not that I’m complaining because Tessa Gravestone equals spank-bank material for most men.

But when I look down at her where she lies on the bed, perfect tits uncovered and on display—because her theory is if she bought them, then people should see them—I just sigh and shake my head. Another apology on my lips.

And as much as I’d like to convince myself it was the great sex with her last night and wanting to do it again right now that has me forgetting my lines like a first year SAG card holder, it’s not.

It’s not the stress of keeping what happened with her under wraps or what’s going on in the tabloids with Jenna or anything else.

It’s fucking Ryder. I don’t talk to the guy for over eight months and then all of a sudden we talk twice in one week. But it wasn’t plans we made to meet up when I finally head home for the first time in forever that have me screwing up my lines. It was his damn text.

His simple request. The mention of the one person we both had an unspoken agreement never to bring up: Saylor.

And fuck if I’ll admit that just seeing her name is the reason my concentration has been shot to hell.

“Hayes?” It’s the director’s voice.

“Yeah?” I look up, my mind pulled immediately from long, tanned legs dangling from the dock, warm summer nights making out in the tree house we’d long since outgrown, and seeing my name on the back of my letterman jacket as she walked up the sidewalk to her front door.

Every person on the set is staring at me. Time is money. And I’m sitting here wasting it, thinking about way back when. Another life I escaped from but suddenly feel like I’m being sucked back into.

All because of a simple damn name.

“Sorry. I got distracted.”

Tessa puffs her chest out—pink nipples on display—thinking she’s the cause of my distraction. I fight the roll of my eyes. Bite back telling her she’s not that great if for nothing more than to knock down that ego of hers that grows bigger every day.

“Are you undistracted now?” the director asks. Chuckles filter through the room as the grips and cameramen assume it’s my dick distracting me. Understandably. I bet a few of theirs are flying half-mast too at the sight of Tessa.

She smiles smugly as I shift off her and back to my original blocking for the start of the scene. “Yeah. Let’s take it from the last mark. I’ll nail it this time.”

At least I earn some chuckles with that one.

The hours roll together. Take after take. Line after line. All on repeat until deemed perfect by the acclaimed director, Andy Westin. The main reason I begged, borrowed, and stole just to get the role. So I could get the monumental chance to work with him. Learn from him.

I throw everything into my character. Tell myself to block the noise out. Ignore all thoughts of Saylor. And get through the first part of the day and its expedited filming schedule sped up for my own benefit.

When we break for lunch at four in the afternoon, I grab a quick bite at craft services and head back to my trailer for some downtime.

My cell on the dinette greets me as I enter. The text on it still lingering on my mind. The woman it pertains to even more so.

Wanting to catch a quick snooze during the ninety-minute break till next call, I lie down on the couch, feet on one armrest and my head on the other. I run the next scene through my head. The lines I know like the back of my hand. The ones I definitely can’t fuck up next go-round.

. . . Saylor . . .

The emotion and intonation I need to inflect in each word of the script.

. . . the seventeen-year-old girl I left behind . . .

The facial expressions I’ll need to emulate to convey my character’s inner turmoil.

. . . sweet smiles, soft lips, my teenage world . . .

The physical actions required to show a man in conflict as he makes love to the woman he suspects had a hand in murdering his father and yet he can’t help but love.