It’s even harder this time, though.
I’m dragged back to reality when Jazz says, “So, I read something scandalous the other day.”
“One of those kinky whips and chains books?”
She laughs. “Not this time. No, I picked up a copy of Hollywood Chronicles…”
I groan, closing my eyes and leaning my head back, covering my face with my hands when she says that. I’m fucking up whatever progress she’s made in making me look human again, but I’d rather rip my own balls off and juggle them like a trained monkey than even acknowledge that piece of shit tabloid exists. They’ve been the bane of my existence for far too long, insisting on putting my face on the cover all the time.
“Why do you hate me, Jazz?” I mutter. “Please tell me you didn’t give those assholes your money.”
“What? Pfft, of course not,” she says with a laugh, snatching my hands away from my face to get back to work. “I said I picked it up, not that I bought it. I was in the checkout line at the store.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it said, I don’t want to know…”
“It said you and Miss Markson got married.”
I groan again. “I just said I didn’t want to know.”
“Well, I told you anyway,” she says. “So, what do you think about that?”
“I think you shouldn’t waste your brain cells on trashy tabloids. You’re better off sticking to the kinky books.”
She shoots me a look but drops the subject. I know what she’s asking. She's hinting around, trying to get me to spill what's been happening in my life since we filmed the last movie. She wants to know if there’s any truth to that story, but I’m not in the mood to get into it.
Once the makeup is done, I switch over to hair, before I bid Jazz goodbye and head to the wardrobe trailer to get my costume on. My stunt-double is there, already rocking the slick light blue and white suit.
I slip mine on—or well, I get shoved into it like they’re stuffing fucking sausage into its casing, the material showing every goddamn ripple, so they poke and prod and tape down and tuck. Mesh, and chrome, and layers of foam, covered in tweaked flexible material made to look like simple spandex without, you know, being spandex.
It’s as uncomfortable as you’re imagining.
“Congratulations, buddy,” my stunt-double says, slapping me on the back. “Heard you got hitched! Lucky man.”
I cringe. “Who told you that?”
“Jasmine.”
Jazz.
I’m going to strangle that woman.
It takes damn near thirty minutes to get me situated in the suit, to get my junk looking right and my muscles padded up, since I’m nowhere near superhero strong. I walk out when I’m done, running right into Serena with her assistant at her heels.
“Well, well, well,” Serena says, grinning, as she looks me over. “It’s good to see you back in that suit.”
I glance down at myself, stretching to try to loosen up the material. “I look ridiculous.”
She laughs. “You do not. You should wear it all the time. I’m talking all day, every day—even at night.”
“Keep dreaming, Ser.”
“Oh, I will.”
She slips past me, biting down on her bottom lip as she ogles me from the backside. It’s fucking embarrassing. I damn near blush, as ridiculous as it is, watching as her assistant steers her to wardrobe so we're not late to start today.
“Hey," I call out. "You should know that Jazz is telling everyone—”
“That we’re married? I know.” Serena rolls her eyes and laughs it off. “Apparently, we made the cover of Chronicles again.”
“Yeah, apparently,” I say as she goes inside the trailer, heading onto set once she’s gone.
It’s a long day. Take after take after take. I’m sweaty from running and tired from standing, my head pounding from the loud bangs and booms, the pyrotechnics rocking the neighborhood. There's a breech of security around mid-afternoon, a woman slipping past the barrier after the shots move to the exterior, but they catch her.
I try to not think about it. Try to not think about any of them. I try to not think about her when I feel eyes watching me, but it's hard pushing her from my mind. We're filming a sequence where Maryanne, the love of Breezeo’s life, had been kidnapped. Serena's tied up with a bomb about to go off, and it's my job to save her from imminent death.
I do it, and I do it well, pouring my soul into every moment. It's nearing the end of the story, even though we're still at the beginning of filming. It takes everything out of me, because endings are hard. Endings are fucking impossible... especially endings that remind me of a girl I'm trying damn hard not to think about.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we wrap for the day, my shoulders slumping as I run a hand through my hair. I try to walk away when Serena throws herself at me. The sun is setting, darkness creeping in, but the shuttering flash of cameras lights up the area as she jumps into my arms.
“That was amazing!” she says. “Like... wow. You acted your ass off, Johnny! You made me believe every word!”
She kisses me before I can respond, more camera flashes going off. It’s just a peck, but I imagine some paparazzo will be making a pretty penny on those pictures tonight. I can see it now. Caption: Johnny fucks Serena in front of everyone!
She pulls away when Cliff approaches.
“Great job, you two,” he says, his voice devoid of excitement, his gaze fixed on his Blackberry as usual. “They're going to stick to the current schedule, so you'll be back here in the morning, Johnny.”
“You, too, Serena,” her assistant says.
“Sounds great to me.” Serena grins as she backs away, her gaze lingering on me. “Get changed, Johnny. We’re celebrating!”
“Don’t stay out too late,” Cliff calls out. “Car will pick you both up tomorrow at six sharp!”
Serena makes a face at him but doesn’t argue, heading for the lingering crowd to greet everyone again.
“You did good, moody prick,” Cliff jokes, smacking me on the back. “Go get out of the suit. I know it has to be uncomfortable.”
I do just that, changing into my jeans and plain white t-shirt, putting my hat on. With filming done for the night, security has gone lax, the crowd moving closer onto set… close enough that some of them surround me when I step out of the trailer. Shit.
Cameras flash, a barrage of questions pelting me. “Johnny, can I have a picture?” “An autograph, Johnny?” “Can I have a hug?” Those I don’t mind, and I would do it all damn day long if it weren’t for the others. The vultures.
“How long have you and Serena been together?” “Is it true you two got married?” “What’s your father up to these days?” “Have you forgiven him?” “Have you seen him?” “When was the last time you even went home to visit?”
I hate the personal questions and never answer them. I hate the prying. I hate the rumors. I hate it all and for good reason—there are too many skeletons in my closet, too many secrets I’ve been concealing. Too many things I can’t let them taint in a world so pure that I’m no longer welcome in it.
Serena appears at my side, ready to go. She smiles, playing it up for the cameras, charming everyone as she answers what she can, answering what I won’t.
We have dinner at some exclusive private club in the Upper Eastside. Serena, having started her career modeling here in Manhattan, always seems to know everybody everywhere she goes. Some of her friends are hanging out, laughing and chatting, socialites and trust-fund assholes, sharing bottles of vintage wine and doing a few lines.
Cocaine.
As soon as the white powder surfaces, I’m making my excuse to go. These people used to be my people, too. Friends. But Serena's the only one who seems to be concerned about my hasty exit. She grabs my hand, trying to stop me when I stand, her green eyes eerily dark. “Please? Stay! Celebrate! We never get to hang out anymore like this.”
“I would... you know I would… if I could,” I say, nudging her chin as she stares up at me. “Don’t party too hard, okay?”