Of course I am. And, based on his answer, I’m betting Pop did, indeed, help pay for this movie. Yet another investment into controlling the rich and powerful of Los Angeles. I decide I don’t want to know any more. I’ll just play the pretty arm candy and get it over with as quickly as possible.
Near the red carpet but not actually on it, Carmine stops to introduce me to the film’s assistant producer. They chat for a time while I pay little attention. I try to appear starry-eyed, like I’m taking in all the celebrities, the outrageous dresses, the handsome men and blindingly beautiful women. Right now, though, I’m numb to it.
When the producer moves away, I’m gracious enough, giving him a nod and a smile. But Carmine’s hand on my arm squeezes tight. Tight enough to hurt.
“What?” I keep my tone to a stage whisper. I don’t want to escalate the situation.
“Don’t just stand around like an idiot. We’re here to make a good impression.”
“You seemed to be holding up your end of the conversation just fine.”
His hand clenches tighter. I wince. “Don’t you talk smart to me. And get that look off your face. Smile.”
“What am I supposed to smile about?”
He gives me a direct look. “The fact I’m not slapping that attitude right out of you?”
I bite my tongue and summon a vague smile. His fingers tighten to the point I know he’ll leave bruises, but then he eases off again, as if he was just emphasizing his point. His face relaxes into a smile of his own, showing bright teeth as he nods at a passing starlet. I vaguely recognize her from a movie I recently went to. Alone.
“Now,” says Carmine, “I’m going to talk to a few more people, and I want you to be charming, got it?”
“Sure. Charming.”
And I do my best. I can still feel Carmine’s fingerprints throbbing on my arm. I try to follow his lead, adding comments here and there to his conversation with another behind-the-scenes person from the film. Another producer, I think, though I missed part of the introduction. I was concentrating too hard on smiling.
Still, when we move on, Carmine looks none too pleased. “Straighten up your act, Jess.”
“What? I did what you wanted me to.”
“You look like you’re hating every minute of it. These people don’t like that. You have to act like you’re happy to see them. And dammit, Jess, act like you’re happy to be with me, for God’s sake.”
But I’m not. Not one bit. I tap my front teeth closed, hard, before those words can make it out of me. I swallow, compose myself, then say carefully, “But of course I’m happy to be with you, Carmine. We haven’t been out in a while. This is nice.”
Anything to get that look off his face. The look that tells me if he had half a chance, he’d backhand me. The same look Pop used to give my mom before he asked me and Sophie to leave the room so they could “talk.”
My stomach’s in knots by now, and it’s all I can do to keep from crying. But by the time we talk to Carmine’s next “friend,” I’ve got the smile back on my face. It’s self-preservation, and I’ll keep it on until I get home if I have to.
#
The movie’s okay. Not my favorite—the script is more than a little insipid and I have a feeling the lead actor was cast more for potential box-office draw than because of any kind of acting ability or chemistry with the lead actress.
The worst part, though, is Carmine. He drapes an arm across my shoulders as soon as we sit down, and then when the theater goes dark, he scoots a little closer. His hand dangles over my shoulder so his fingers can just brush my breast, and he takes advantage of that. I try to move away, then I try to shift positions, but he keeps adjusting to compensate. And whenever I move too much, the person on my other side gives me a look. I don’t want to attract attention, so I try to ignore Carmine. It’s not the easiest thing in the world.
Then he leans over and starts mumbling in my ear. “C’mon, baby. We’re going to be married. Don’t tell me you want to wait.” All while stroking my breast, trying to shift enough that he can trace a finger over my nipple. I shoot him a glare, and he just grins. “Fiancée,” he whispers. “I like the sound of it. Don’t you?”
But then his seat neighbor gives him a look, and he backs off. It’s a relief. I manage to mostly avoid interacting with him for the rest of the movie, although he doesn’t move his hand.
After the movie I put on an uncomfortable face. “Maybe we could just go home?” I suggest. “I’ve got a hell of a headache.”