I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s two forty-five and I’m caught up with my work for the moment. I think of Rogan’s last words to me when he left me at my door after lunch. He had a hungry look on his face that made me ache to feel his skin against mine.
“Come to the set if you get a chance. You . . . inspire me.”
He reached out and brushed his thumb over my bottom lip, like he couldn’t not touch me anymore. He did it so quickly that I couldn’t complain, and then he was gone. My lip felt warm and tingly for at least half an hour after he left.
I don’t know why he wants me to come and watch him, but I’m inclined to go, mainly because I want to see him. A few minutes this morning and an hour at lunch isn’t enough. It seems the more I see of him, the more I want to see of him.
Throwing caution and my over-thinking ways to the wind, I lock the drawer with my purse inside and head to the other end of the complex, to the stage where Rogan is filming. I sneak in without much notice. Whether because I’ve perfected being unobtrusive or because I’m as unnoticeable as a wallflower, I don’t know, but no one seems to be attuned to me, especially not the way Rogan is.
I’m standing along the back wall, watching the part of the scene that followed what Rogan and I rehearsed. I could only assume that there would be a steam after it. I mean, the dialogue seemed to be leading up to it, but also because it’s a cable show. Liberties are taken to add some naughtier material. I knew this. I just never knew what it might feel like to watch Rogan.
He’s saying his lines a little more stiffly than he did with me, but I cease to notice when he leans in and kisses Rayelle. God, it’s like someone stabbed me in the chest with a broadsword. I have to look away for a few seconds to collect myself and remind my heart that this is all for show. It’s fiction. Make-believe.
I drag my eyes back to the actors. They are separated now, still in character, and when Rogan’s eyes sweep out as he gestures, they stutter, flying back to meet mine before he continues on. His hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was enough to cause Tony, the director, to cut the take and reshoot it.
I see Rogan’s jaw flex, but then his eyes are on mine again, heated and a little possessive. He and Rayelle take their places again for yet another take. I watch, even though I dread what’s to come.
This time, Rogan says his lines much more smoothly, much more convincingly, but he also dives into his kiss with Rayelle much more . . . enthusiastically, too. As hard as it is to wait, I don’t leave until the take is over. I’m not surprised when Tony commends them on it. They certainly had me convinced.
I don’t wait for Rogan’s eyes to find me again before I make my exit. I’m not sure I want to see them darkened with desire. Especially after kissing someone as beautiful as Rayelle.
My feet feel heavy as I make my way back to my little place of peace in the makeup and entertainment world. I’m almost glad when a tech brings in an extra for a retouch on makeup. It’s fairly involved, what with their being blood and some torn tissue written into the scene. It takes up a nice chunk of my afternoon, keeping me from replaying Rogan’s scene over and over in my head.
It’s as I’m cleaning my station, preparing to leave for the day, that one of the set assistants gives a swift knock on the door frame and moves inside just long enough to hand me a folded note. “Mr. Rogan asked me to bring this to you.”
The note is short, simple and to the point.
Don’t leave yet. Wait for me.
—R
It’s written in a slanted, masculine scrawl that somehow suits him. And it makes my stomach clench against a little pinch of hurt. I caution myself not to make too much of what I saw, repeating the mantra, It was contrived, it was contrived, it was contrived. But for some reason, that doesn’t ease the vaguely nauseous feeling swimming in my gut.
The assistant smiles politely and takes off without another word. I fold the note and stick it in my pocket, turning back toward my daily cleanup duties. And I wait.
Time ticks slowly on. Absently, I listen to the sounds of everyone else leaving for the day as I continue cleaning, anything to keep my hands busy. I glance up at the clock, then out into the darkened hallway. I don’t know how much longer I should wait, or if maybe he forgot about me.
Another pang registers in my chest at the thought.
I turn back to my furious scrubbing and I block out sound and thought and feeling as much as I can as I concentrate. That’s why I don’t hear Rogan until the snap of the door shutting startles me.
I turn around to find him approaching me much as I imagine a starving lion might approach his prey—quickly, savagely and with purpose.