A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (12 page)

I pull my shirt on and give myself a neck rub.
I can do this. I
can
do this.

Someone knocks on my trailer door and I force myself into action. The sooner we start this, the sooner it’ll be over.

The set is Jess’s living room with the windows shaded to give the impression that it’s nighttime, and there are lit candles everywhere. Because that’s totally what
I
do in the evenings—light a bunch of candles all over my apartment before inviting over a guy who annoys me to death.

Obviously, my character doesn’t know her own mind.

I take my place in front of the front door and wait while the rest of the crew gets ready to shoot this scene.
Just do it, just do it, just do it,
I think. The force field I always imagine around the set is long gone. I’m not in a safe space. I’m under a microscope.

When the director says, “Action,” I open the door to reveal Kevin in a suit—or what’s left over of one. His jacket and tie are gone and his collar is unbuttoned, which I guess is supposed to look all scruffy and sexy. I just don’t think of people who consider themselves much older and more mature than I am as sexy.

“So what’s the word?” he asks.

“I sent it in.”

“What, the book?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I turn and walk to my next mark in the center of the living room.

“What about the edits I had for you?”

“What about them?”

“Did you incorporate any of them?”

“I didn’t think any of them were necessary.”

“Not necessary?” He heaves an exasperated sigh. “Jess, can you please take one
look
at the edits I suggest? I am, after all, an
editor.”
He moves in, doing a very convincing impression of a guy who wants to strangle me on the spot.

Which doesn’t work for me, so I just substitute Devon and his smirking, irreverent tone. That doesn’t work either. I can’t hold the image. “I didn’t hire you.”

“Yeah, but your publisher did, and that’s who you work for.”

“I work for
myself
. And
you
work for
me
.
I
write the words. You just rearrange them.”

“Hey,” Kevin says, holding up his hands to call time, “let’s not do this to each other.”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Quit. I don’t need you.”

For a moment, we just glare at each other. Then Kevin reaches out, grabs my arm, and pulls me in for a kiss.

Now, I always knew, intellectually, that kisses were skin to skin, but that doesn’t prepare me for the shock of feeling such delicate skin pressed against someone else’s. My shoulders go tense. Kevin guides me with a firm hand, though, pulling my shirt up over my head. Then we sink down, out of the shot.

“Cut. Good,” says the director.

Kevin tosses my shirt at me as if I left it on his floor and he’s disgusted to have to pick it up. I pull it on over my head at once.

“Let’s do that again. Lizzie, don’t resist quite so much. Remember, you’re getting into this too. It’s not all his idea.”

At least Kevin doesn’t glare at me. He just turns his back and goes to his starting mark.

We run the scene again, and this time, I try to relax as he grabs me, but no dice.

“Again,” says the director.

The third time yields the same result, as does the fourth. Kevin gets more and more disgusted with every take, shaking his head each time he goes back to his starting mark.

I’ve got to make this end. The next take, when he grabs me, I run my fingers aggressively through his hair, messing it up.

“Yes!” says the director.

Kevin shoves me away from him and smooths back his hair.

The crew springs into action to set up the next shot. The director arranges me on the floor, on my knees, and Kevin facing me. I have to keep my shirt off. Kevin doesn’t look me up and down, which I appreciate even if it’s because he doesn’t think I’m all that. This is fine by me.

The camera sets up, the marker clicks, and the director says, “Action. Okay, kiss and hold it.”

Kevin mooshes his face against mine once more and I’m overwhelmed with the scent of his cologne. It isn’t a strong scent; it’s just way stronger than I’d ever have reason to smell under normal circumstances.

“Lizzie, tilt your head away from me a little. Good. Okay, now neck a little.”

Again, Kevin takes the lead, pressing me close and kissing me over and over.

He’s not doing anything inappropriate. It’s for the scene, but it’s icky all the same. My acting coach says that love scenes are like having to give a complete stranger a full-body massage. It just feels like too much, too close.

“All right, sink down.”

At least with the instructions, I don’t have to think too hard. Kevin pushes me down, and again, this is just for the scene and there’s nothing real about it, but it’s a dominance move. I have to submit as he guides me to the floor. I guess I’m supposed to just surrender or something. I have no idea.

“Tilt your head back, Lizzie. Kevin, get some kisses on her neck there.”

I thought my mouth was sensitive. My neck is something else altogether. The first kiss feels like an electric shock, an overwhelming sense that no one should touch me there that way. I bite my lip hard and resolve to just get through the scene.
Please
, I think,
don’t go any lower than that.

“All good,” says the director. “Now we’re going to focus on your hands, Lizzie. I want a shot of you digging your nails into his back.”

O-kaaaay
, I think. I put my arms around him and adjust my grip accordingly. Kevin’s expression remains impassive. Our faces aren’t in this shot, and we’re just two actors doing our job.

“Now stroke his spine.”

I do, but not hard enough. I tickle him and he squirms away from me.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Just try that again.”

Kevin gives me a look that says, “Amateur.”

I force myself to ignore it and run my fingers more firmly down his back.

“Okay, good,” says the director. “Last shot will be from directly above, and we’ll pull out and rotate the camera slowly. Let’s go back to having you kiss her neck, and Lizzie, just tilt your head back, bite your lip, and shut your eyes.”

I do what I’m told, and then this scene is
finally
over. I get up, put my shirt on, and move off the set.

“Kevin, you’re up,” says the director.

I get out my sides and sit down in my cloth chair to read my lines to my costar while the camera shoots just his half of the conversation.

When it’s my turn, Kevin takes off for his trailer, which means I need to play off one of the crew reading the lines, which isn’t necessarily a problem. It’s just rude of him. If we’re going to star on this show together long term, we need to try to get along.

I step up to my mark and do my half of the conversation, having no trouble whatsoever talking like I’m angry.

“Excellent,” says the director. “All right. That’s this scene done.”

Thank goodness. As I walk back to my trailer, I have the feeling that I’ve been slimed everywhere Kevin kissed me.
Cooties
, I think. I’m still so immature I think that boys have cooties. All except for one, at least.

That evening, I burst through the gym doors even though I know I shouldn’t be here. Kyra would kill me. I should have gone home, but once Devon either turns out to not be here or acts like his usual charming self, I’ll turn around and leave.

That familiar grasp on my arm and tug in the direction of the broom closet lets me know that he’s found me, and although I shouldn’t be, I’m relieved. My safe space is now this closet, it would seem.

As soon as we’re inside and the door is closed, his hands are on my shoulders and he faces me, his hair tousled and his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

I look straight into his hazel eyes. He doesn’t sneer at me or turn away in disgust, and his touch feels natural, not invasive.

“What happened to you?” He looks me over.

I reach up and lay my hand flat against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Again, no skin crawlies. If anything, touching him seems to negate the ickiness left over from Kevin.

His eyebrow twitches as he looks me over again.

I step forward and slide my arms around his waist. He smells like aftershave and musk and sweat; scents I can’t pick up unless I’m this close. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. This should be terrifying, but it isn’t. It’s exhilarating.

“Lizzie,” he says.

I nuzzle his cheek, feeling the rough stubble against the tip of my nose.
Now
I get how Jess was supposed to feel for that scene I just filmed. I desperately want to be kissed right now.

He lets out a sigh and brings his hand up to cup my jaw. His touch is gentle, and his skin is softer than I’d expect on someone who lifts weights as much as he does.

I grasp his hand and turn my head to kiss his palm, feeling the lines in his skin against my lips. His muscles stiffen and I sense him about to shove me away, so I shut my eyes and wait for the inevitable.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then his hand slides down over my shoulder. I let my arm drop as he strokes down the length of it to interlace his fingers with mine. His other hand grasps my waist and he shuts his eyes, his brow furrowed as he hesitates, probably to argue with himself over whether this is a good idea. I already know it’s not. His forehead touches mine, and I bite my lip.

With a deep breath, I inhale the scent of him again.

He takes a step forward and presses me a step back, so that I’m against the door, and his kiss, when it comes, is so gentle that I barely feel it save for the rush of adrenaline. He breaks it off almost immediately, and when I open my eyes, his gaze locks with mine.

I shut my eyes again and lean in. He meets me halfway and, this time, holds the kiss until I run out of air and stars swim in my vision. I slide my hand back up his chest.

His next kiss is bolder, and I press myself against him as he grasps the fabric of my shirt like he wants to tear it off.

We lower ourselves until we’re kneeling, and then he twists so that he sits with his back to the door and guides me so that I straddle his legs, kissing me all the while as if he can’t stop himself.

Only when his fingers slide under the hem of my shirt do I squirm, but he moves his hand at once and leans after me so that our kiss doesn’t break off.

With Kevin, this felt all wrong. Now it feels exactly right. I don’t worry about whether or not I know what I’m doing. I just do what I feel. His strong arms encircle me and I’m secure, like we’re in our own corner of the universe where no one else can see or intrude.

I kiss him until my lips are sore and my knees ache against the tile. His hands rub and knead my back, teasing out all the tension and stress until I’m like putty in his arms.

I pause and lean against him, breathing like I’ve just had a workout.

“Lizzie,” he whispers.

I shut my eyes. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to come back to reality where I’m making out with a guy who’ll just add me as another notch in his belt. I don’t want to have to pretend I don’t like him and don’t want to be with him. Why can’t I have what so many other people get—a moment after the first kiss to be overjoyed that it happened?

Devon traces my cheekbone with his thumb and heaves a sigh that sounds an awful lot like regret. When try to pull away, though, he holds on. “Hey,” he whispers, nuzzling my nose with his and gently kissing me again. “Lizzie. Lizzie Warner.”

His hand strokes the length of my hair, and he pulls me down so that I rest against his chest while he leans his head back against the door and breathes heavy, rasping breaths.

I want nothing more than to stay and let him hold me, but the longer I let this go on, the more it’ll hurt in the end. I pull back.

“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice still soft.

I sniffle. “I needed practice.”

His hands stop caressing my back. “Okay…”

“For my job,” I say. I push away from him and get to my feet.

I expect him to get up too, but for a moment, he sits with his eyes shut, wincing like he’s in pain. When he does get to his feet, he looks at me warily, as if unsure whether or not I’m about to backhand him across the face.