Double Take: A Leading Man Romance (2 page)

My glasses fog from the temperature change once we’re back inside the house, and I take them off to clean them on the edge of my shirt. He’s back on set with a minute to spare. At least I did my job.

Karen comes up to me with a wary look and levies an accusation. “I told you to stay with the camera.”

“Rob told me to get the talent, Karen.”

Brett is a few feet ahead of me, and snaps his finger once as though he’s realizing something. We both look at him, but he simply gives Karen a half-smile and steals away, presumably to find Rob.

Karen melts on the spot. She’s as smug as he is.

It’s predictable, really. She’s one of several women on set who have bowed to the altar of Brett Buckhurst, some of them literally, and there’s no telling how many people he’ll plow through by the time filming is done.

To be fair, it’s been a week so far and Karen is the first incident, but now he’s on a roll. It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure.

I hear the rigger, Nate, and the director of photography, Keith, merrily declare,
Heyyy!
from the room next to us, and I can only imagine that Brett is being greeted for his conquest. He’s playing into this “bad boy” narrative they have of him. If he wanted to dilute the public’s image of him, he’s failing. Part of me is glad to hear him crash and burn.

Karen gives me a job taking coffee orders, and I bite my tongue as I write hers down. Flat white, two packets of Splenda. I head to the next room reluctantly where our lead actress has the makeup artist hovering around her. Brett waits his turn. He’s being pressed for details.
How was it? You nailed her, right? Carpet match the drapes?

But oddly enough, he doesn’t answer the questions. I’m surprised when he turns to them, an edge in his tone, and says, “Guys, I’m working.” I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to shut them down with dignity.

I linger in the doorway to watch the exchange, assuming that my position is unseen. Most of the cast and crew don’t notice me unless I’m delivering caffeine, and even then, it’s questionable.

Keith leans in further. “Got it, man. We’ll talk later.”

“No.” Brett seems firmer this time. He’s warning them. “If you’re so curious about how I fuck, I’ll sign a DVD and send it to you.”

To be honest, I’m impressed. He doesn’t have to defend Karen’s honor. She probably wouldn’t want him to in the first place. I make my entrance to infiltrate the tension in the room with a single word. “Coffee?”

Our actress is a green tea, sweetened. Keith and Nate lick their wounds and turn me down. It’s Brett who surprises me. “No, I’m good, Kylie.”

The worst person on set, the one with the loosest morals, and the only one who knows my name. I fumble with my pen a little. He’s thrown me. I forgive myself for being surprised; it’s probably some Jedi mind trick he learned in the business.
Know all the women. Screw them when you need something
.

But he smiles, and it’s almost charming, as he adds, “Thanks for making sure I was on time.”

“It takes a village,” I hear myself say, and I’m already questioning what the hell I mean by that, other than spouting out random sayings to make myself seem witty. I’m idiotic at the moment, and my cheeks are burning red, so I leave quickly to hunt down the rest of the crew.

I find Rob in one of the bedrooms and I find my footing again. He’s alone, pacing the length of it, and I can see the wheels in his head turning. I’m pretty sure a stampede could come through the room and Rob wouldn’t flinch at all.

But he notices me. Somehow, within all of his reverie, he notices me. My heart skips a beat. I’m not sure how, because he doesn’t even look up, but he does reach back and wave his hand as though he’s beckoning me over. “Hey, kid, come here for a second.”

I’m clutching a notepad with a dozen coffee orders on it, but his voice could find me in a minefield. I go, thumb rubbing over what I’ve written, suddenly nervous. I say nothing. I’m afraid to interrupt his creative flow.

He turns his head towards me a little without actually making eye contact, as though he’s trying to be polite but too far into his own thoughts to actually follow through on it. “Get on the bed.”

I freeze. My face blanches. My pussy gives a single throb. “Sorry?”

“Get on the bed. I need to see something.”

My eyes dart to the door quickly, then back to the bed, as I’m given the impression that no one says no to him. I’m not going to be the first. He has a process. I’m the one, at the moment, who can help him. I click my pen closed as I crawl onto the bed
and look
back at him awkwardly. I’m no model, definitely no porn star, and I don’t know how to present myself. “Like this?”

Rob is taking me in, his eyes swallowing my body, but he’s seeing me through a keen director’s gaze. I’m aware of this. It does nothing to quell the need inside of me.

“Up a little higher, on your back, but push up on your elbows.”

I crawl as he directs, the mandala designs on the duvet giving way under my palms and knees. I try to move slowly, even try to throw in a little sensual flare as I make my limbs elongate like a leopard, but my commitment to holding onto the pen and the notepad prevent any real sexiness. I roll over as he directs, pushing up on my elbows, and I watch him for signs that I’m doing the right thing.

I receive one in the form of a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He steps forward to the edge of the bed and leans in, and my breath catches as I wonder if he’s going to join me. I imagine him shrugging off his jacket and crawling between my legs, pushing them apart with his own. I picture his weight on me as he lays over me, and the scratch of his stubble along my neck when he kisses me. He reaches out, and I am helplessly caught and ruthlessly desperate for him.

But he takes the notepad and the pen and rises again, giving them a hapless toss behind him. The scene reverts; Rob’s eyes take in the image of me without seeing the girl herself, and I’m caught wanting more again.

I clear my throat as though I can banish all torrid thoughts from my mind. “Brett’s back on set.”

“Mmhm.” But Rob’s not listening. Not really. He’s reading my form, and he raises a hand, motioning with it. “Part your legs a little. Knees up a bit, and part your legs.”

I am breathless again. He has an intoxicating presence, and I’ve felt it for as long as I’ve been in the same room with him. I’ve watched dozens of interviews and an hour long Q&A from Sundance, and now, I’m his framed muse. My stomach clenches in wanting, and I can’t tell if it’s for food or for him.

He says, “Good. Good, kid… like that,” and I’m delirious. Rob’s head tilts as he considers my position, then his lips press together in something of a smile. “That is so fucking sexy. Exactly what I want.”

My mouth goes dry as he offers me a hand to help me scoot out of bed. I know he’s talking about the image as a whole. He’s seeing the final product in his mind. He’s positioning his actress for the shot, not me for his devious purposes, but I can’t help the fact that I’m trembling when my palm slips into his.

He notices. Of course he notices. He’s successful because he sees everything. He sees every flicker in everyone’s eyes. The placement of every prop. He sees nerves and victories and frustration, and he levies them, or smoothes them over. But what he can’t see now is my motivation. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry if I freaked you out, kid. I didn’t mean to be inappropriate.”

I want to scream.
No! That’s not why I’m shaking! Just take me. Just throw me down and take me
. Instead, I manage, “No, it wasn’t… anything. I’m cold. Sorry. It’s like… thirteen degrees in here or something…”

Rob seems to accept the answer, and he bends to pick up my notepad and pen, handing them back to me. Our fingers brush as I take them. “Don’t worry about it.” He extends an arm towards the door as if to say
after you
, and I start out, digging my tail between my legs. I pass him, and he adds, “If you’re going for a coffee run, I’d love a double shot.”

It’s in my contract. I’m not allowed to film another porn scene until the indie film is over. That doesn’t sit well with Lori anymore. She’s been on the phone all day fielding questions from directors, and now she’s over it. I’m across from her in her office, and her nostrils are flared.

“Kinked Up is going to go under because of your attempt at being Brad Pitt.”

I’m relaxed in my chair and I sink lower, my fingers lacing, hands resting on my stomach. “Brad Pitt would fucking kill to be me.”

If her look could kill me, I’d be struck down in a second. “Insert whoever you want in the analogy, Brett. This isn’t a joke. This
is my livelihood.
I pay my rent and feed my dogs with the booking fees you bring in.” She’s worried about losing me. I get it. I’m the guy women get off to.
Female friendly
, they call me, even when I’m rough enough to leave bruised thighs.

“You’ve got me for three more years.” I mention this, hoping she’ll get off the topic for a little while. I doubt it. Lori already knows that I’m doing everything in my power to break my contract without incurring one hell of a lawsuit for the breach. “I’m allowed a vacation every now and then. Rob’s got this, alright? I’ll be marketable to new audience. Or something.”

The truth is, I don’t care. Maybe that’s irresponsible of me to say, but I’m not doing this for my marketability. I’m doing this to escape. I’m doing this because I woke up one morning and realized that I was thirty-four years old and the object of fantasy, not the object of someone’s affection.

And all the women who’d want to fuck me weren’t exactly the kind of women I’d want to have children with in the first place.

I’m getting impatient now, and the sigh I heave makes it obvious. Lori sets her jaw at the noise. “Are you a five-year-old now?”

“No,” I say as I rise. “I’m late.”

Lori looks floored as she taps her phone, the clock lighting up over the wallpaper of a pug in a tutu. “You’ve got half an hour to get there.”

“Yeah, well.” I’m already halfway out the door, and I close it behind me as I finish. “If I’m not early…”

I arrive at the house with ten minutes to spare. I have some leftover tuna and squash in a Tupperware which I carry with me to the makeup tent. I’m settling into a chair, a hair assistant buzzing around me, when I see the girl in the glasses -- Kylie -- scuttle after Rob.

She’s a totally different girl than I saw the other day, the one who bluntly pointed out my liaison and cattle-prodded me to set. I know the look she has; she’s got it bad. I watch her as I stab a piece of tuna with a plastic fork, but I just push it around the Tupperware. I’m intrigued, amused, and I can’t look away.

Rob is oblivious to it all, but he’s pretty much oblivious to everything around him except the mirror. He’s the stereotype of every indie film director: he’s got his head up his own ass, and thinks he’s making
the next
Ben Hur
. The movie he’s making now stars a porn star, and even
I
think some of the dialogue sucks. It’s two people in a house, talking about relationship problems, and occasionally fucking. It’s pretentious, but he thinks it’s high art. I’m not surprised he doesn’t notice the fly buzzing around his head, willing to drop to her knees.

Kylie is precocious. My eyes don’t leave her as she flips open a notebook she’s carrying and shows it to Rob. He glances at it, but dismisses her to turn his attention to the director of photography.

Kylie, I can already tell, is too good for this place.

She obviously has the tenacity to be on her own film set. Given that she navigates the crew so well, chances are she has the intel to do it, too. I have her sized up within moments, but as soon as I get comfortable, she surprises me.

Rob abandons her completely just before I’m informed that I’m done in the chair, and I’m on my feet immediately, drawn across the lawn to her. With Rob gone, she seems to settle into herself again and sees me coming. She waits, but I can tell she’s already thinking of a way out.

It’s cute.

“You need something?” she asks, and her eyebrows are lifted expectantly. It’s her job to run errands for anyone who asks, so she’s programmed to offer. I want to tell her to stop being everyone’s bitch, but it’s kind of her job description.

“I’m fine.” I glance sideways, squinting towards Rob’s back. “He’s looking dreamy today, don’t you think?”

Kylie’s face is red immediately, and she’s on the defensive. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” We both know that she does, but she’s trying to stay professional. I can respect that.

“You want tuna?” I hold out the Tupperware towards her in offering, and her expression turns to one of disgust. I somehow stifle my laugh. “No, I get it.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “You hate me.”

I see relief pass over her features, like it was the elephant in the room and I finally shot it between the eyes.

“I don’t get why you’re here. No.”

“Have you seen any of my work?”

Kylie seems flabbergasted. “Your… porn? What? No. Fucking… disgusting and degrading.
No.
”

I’m not hurt. I’ve heard much worse from much less interesting people. In fact, I’m almost amused. “It’s just sex,” I tell her casually. “And it’s just porn. There’s nothing wrong with watching it.”

“It’s not my thing.” She spits the words like they taste bad in her mouth, and I realize she’s already made up her mind about me.

“I’m here,” I start, going back to her prior statement, “to change things for myself. How old are you? Twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Right. I’m thirty-four. Look at you. Look at everything you’re doing right now. I was younger than you are now when I got into porn, and I’ve been doing the same thing ever since.”

That seems to make things worse for her because she snaps, “I get coffee for a living.”

“Yeah,” I say, my eyes darting around the set. “But you can balance eighteen cups at a time somehow, and remember what goes where. Badass.”

Kylie cracks a small smile at that, even though she tries not to let it out. I see the expression from my periphery.