Bootycall 2 Read online

  “Shit, I knew that. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, Gemma.”

  “You are not an idiot. It’s really ok,” she says kindly. “What did you want to know?”

  I sigh. “How did you handle it? I mean…for research purposes. Just so that I can get some ideas for that scene.”

  She looks up as she thinks about the question, and I realize I’m hanging on her answer like it’s the most important thing I’ll ever hear. Because I can’t go back to what I felt, what I went through. I need another way into this scene right now. Reliving my own pain, my own memories, is too hard. I’d be throwing myself back into that black hole with no bottom.

  “Well…” she begins, “when I lost my mother it hit me pretty hard. I was only twelve. I couldn’t handle it, so I didn’t. I just went numb. Didn’t talk about it. Didn’t think about it. Changed the subject whenever it was brought up. Just…ignored it, as if maybe not acknowledging it would mean it wasn’t actually true.”

  She’s looking at me like maybe I won’t understand, but the truth is, I empathize completely. Gemma’s been through the same thing as me. I nod. “Yeah. I get that.”

  “Then, when I was about twenty, living away from home on my own, I was in a laundromat one night. Just doing laundry, you know. And as I was pulling my clothes out of the dryer, folding them up, I…totally lost it.”

  Her voice hitches and I reach out and cover her hand with mine. I worry I’ve pushed Gemma too hard, but she smiles through the pain of her memory and keeps going.

  “I started crying – harder than I’d ever cried before. My entire body shaking. I couldn’t control myself, it felt like my soul was just pouring out of me in tears and shakes. I didn’t even know why at first, but after a while I realized. They had this detergent in the laundromat, the same one my mother used to use. It just broke me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. It feels useless saying it, but I mean it. Gemma turns her searching gaze toward me. I don’t know what she’s trying to find in my eyes—maybe someone she can trust, a true friend, someone who won’t judge—but I don’t look away.

  She goes on, “For months I was a complete mess, just thinking about her, missing her, feeling all that pain that I had refused to feel at the time. I thought I would hurt every day for the rest of my life. Until I realized I couldn’t live like that. So I drove out of state to visit her grave, and spoke to her finally.”

  “Wow.” I grip her hand even tighter. Gemma’s strength, her determination, the fight in her that just won’t quit—I’m in awe of this woman.

  Gemma nods, solemnly. “I mean, you never really get over that kind of thing, but if you don’t make the effort to live your life, really live it to the fullest, then it just gets worse.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say, grabbing the beer again absent-mindedly, running my fingers around the lip of the bottle. I’ve spent all these years hiding behind parties and alcohol and women, like a child. Like a coward. Yet in just five minutes, Gemma’s made me realize that I’ve been living my life all wrong, hiding from reality instead of dealing with my damage.

  Gemma stands up to leave.

  “Anyway, I’ll give you a few minutes before you have to get back to set.”

  I raise my bottle as she opens the trailer door.

  “Hey Gemma,” I say, calling her back just before she steps through the door. “Thank you. For sharing that. You are…so brave.”

  She shrugs and smiles again, a million rays of beauty washing over me once again.

  “It probably helped me more than it did you, but whatever. You’re welcome.”

  She leaves, closing the door behind her, and leaving a dimness in the trailer that I always seem to notice once she’s been here and gone.

  It’s been five years. Five years and I’ve not cried once. Five years and I’ve not told anybody who didn’t already know about it. I’ve dodged and weaved, deflected and shielded, like a perpetual lion tamer, like a boxer who knows he’s weaker than his opponent. It’s tiring, running from your demons. There’s only so long you can delay the fight you know you’ll lose.

  Maybe Gemma’s right. Maybe it’s time I opened Pandora’s box and faced the pain.

  I hear the shouts of the crew getting back into position, and pour the beer out into the sink before leaving the trailer. I walk onto the sound stage and take my place behind the door.

  “Where’s Dylan?” I hear Chris call. “Oh, already? Good to see you back. Ok let’s do this. Keep an eye on that light please. Marks, everyone. Roll sound. And…action.”

  I open the door, and it feels easy now, walking into the room.

  “John. John, are you awake? Hey. We gotta get out of here. They’re coming.”

  I pull aside the covers and see his body. Cal’s body. Still and lifeless on the bathroom floor. Beyond the police cordon, the flashing red and blue lights. The sight spreads around me, devouring me, pressing the pain and the guilt and the shame into me with a million needles. Pulling my guts out, hammering me into the floor.

  He’s dead. Gone. Forever.

  And it’s all my fault.

  Chapter 4

  Gemma

  “Smells good, Dad,” I say, leaning over and sniffing at the heavy aroma of barbecuing meat.

  “Nearly done. Pass me that sauce please, would you?”

  I grab the bottle and hand it to him with a smile before turning back to the onions I’m dicing on the chopping board.

  “So how’s work?” he says, as he prods and pushes the burgers and wings around. “You still chasing after that crazy Irishman? You can do better.”

  “Dad!” I shriek, feeling my cheeks go red.

  “What? You told me yourself that he’s nothing but trouble. There’s plenty of fish.”

  I look down at the chopping board and let a few moments pass before raising my head with a smile.

  “Actually, he’s…he’s pretty cool.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, smiling more at the thought than at my father. “We talked things over and now it’s going pretty well. He’s been behaving perfectly, and honestly…he’s an amazing actor. I mean, really good. People were crying on set today, over his scene. He’s just…so intense. Kind of a crazy genius or something. I’ve never really met anybody like him.”

  He pauses a little before answering, and I wonder if he picked up on my unintentionally enthusiastic tone, my gushy babbling.

  “So you think this movie’s going to be a hit?”

  I nod as I toss some of the onions in a bowl and hand them to him.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Things are looking up then. I’m glad for you, Gemma. I want you to love your work. And it seems like you haven’t loved it in a while, you know?”

  “I know.” He’s right. This is the first project I’ve been excited about in a long time. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Now all you need is to get out there and find yourself a nice young man to share all your abundant joy with,” he says, hiding his smile with a long sip of beer.

  “Haha. How about I get out there and find you a nice old lady instead?”

  He chuckles softly, and throws the onions onto the grill.

  His laugh seems to hang in the air, echoing around in our unspoken thoughts, until the sound of the doorbell breaks our individual reflections.

  “I’ll get it,” he says, wiping his hands on his barbecue-spattered jeans.

  “No,” I say, quickly putting the knife down. “You keep your eye on those sausages.”

  I step past him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, then make my way towards the door.

  My smile drops when I see who’s waiting behind the door, then returns again with more than a little surprise.

  “Dylan! What are you doing here?”

  It’s been less than a few hours since I saw him at work this morning, but in even that short time I’ve forgotten how damned sexy he is. Maybe it’s seeing him here, on my father’s doorstep, rather than in the weird unre
ality of the set. His chiseled jawline and animalistic grace stands out enough there; here, in the sleepy suburb that my father lives in, he looks like a space alien from a porn planet. All hard, masculine edges and knowing, penetrating eyes; like every sexual fantasy I’ve ever had distilled into bitable, lickable, suckable form.

  “Hey,” he says, and I close my eyes for just a second, in order to savor his accent, before realizing just how crazy I’m being. “You’re still my babysitter, right?”

  I shake off the weird question. “Um…yes?”

  “I’ve know we both got the afternoon off, but I was pretty bored. I figured part of a babysitter’s duty is to keep things entertaining.”

  “So you just decided to visit me while I was having dinner at my father’s house?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  I shoot a suspicious glare at him.

  “This is the one time during the shoot where we don’t have to be in each other’s pockets – and you decided to visit me? How did you find out where my dad lives? And how did you know I would be here?”

  Dylan smiles.

  “I followed you.”

  My jaw drops. Dylan chuckles.

  “Come on! You just love thinking the worst about me, don’t you? But actually,” he says, fishing in his pockets, “you left your parking pass on set, so I thought I’d drop it off. The production office told me where you live, but I didn’t know this was your dad’s place.”

  I take the card from him and find myself smiling softly at the gesture.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be at my new place, so I’m using my dad’s address for mail at the moment. But thank you for bringing it by. I woulda been screwed trying to get on the lot tomorrow.”

  Dylan nods and shuffles gently on the doorstep, angling for an invitation with his dimpled smirk and fluttering eyes. “So…I guess I should go, then?”

  I’m about to tell Dylan yes, that this is completely out of the ordinary, not a good time, that I’ll call him when I’m done, and every other clichéd excuse I can give, when my dad shouts from the hallway.

  “Who is it? Oh!” I turn around and see him standing behind me. “Dylan Marlowe! Nice to meet you! I wasn’t expecting you to drop by.”

  They shake hands vigorously, my dad smiling happily, and Dylan giving his best ‘old-fashioned good-boy’ smile.

  “I was just stopping by to drop something off for Gemma, so if it’s a bad time then—”

  “Not at all. Come on in! We were just about to eat. Grab yourself a plate.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Within minutes we’re sitting outside in the yard with full plates. My father has a grin as wide as his face, and Dylan has made himself very comfortable.

  “These wings are fucking amazing,” he says, still chewing.

  “Thanks,” my dad says, winking at me. He takes a small bite of his burger. “My daughter tells me the movie’s turning out pretty nicely so far.”

  “Yeah, it’s going well. Thanks to Gemma.”

  I shake my head when Dylan winks at me.

  “I’m not really doing that much,” I say. “Just keeping an eye on things.”

  “Don’t believe her,” Dylan says, his mischievous dimples out on display, “she’s on top of everything. She’s only supposed to be watching me, but I’ll tell you this – she’s the first person people look for when they need something.”

  I try to hide my upcoming blushes by focusing on my plate.

  “That’s my girl,” my dad says.

  I glance at Dylan, who’s chewing his food with a big smile on his face.

  “Gemma told me you used to build sets, which is one of the toughest jobs in the business. I salute you.”

  Dad shrugs, but I can tell he’s pleased at the compliment. “Yeah. It’s different now, I imagine. They do everything with computers. I got out at the right time.”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t miss it, Dad.”

  He chuckles gently. “I’m just saying you can’t beat something real.”

  “I agree,” Dylan says. “It’s not just about slapping flats together. You need an artist’s eye, a real imagination, and then a lot of elbow grease to make it all happen.”

  “Of course you do,” I say, swapping a furtive glance with Dylan quickly – but not quick enough to hide it from my father, who shifts in his seat when he notices the way Dylan and I play off each other.

  We settle into a peaceful enjoyment of the good food, the mild sun, and the smell of freshly mown grass. In the distance, birds chirp in a neighbor’s apple tree, and the cool air covers us in a lazy haze of contentment.

  “So,” my dad says, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, “you single, Dylan?”

  “Dad!” I protest, completely mortified.

  “What? Simple question.”

  “I’m single at the moment,” Dylan says, his eyes flicking between my dad’s smirk and my frown.

  “How come? Handsome guy like you, movie star. Still sowing your wild oats?”

  “Dad!”

  My dad raises his eyebrows in mock-innocence as Dylan laughs.

  “You don’t have to answer that, Dylan,” I say.

  “I’m just…pretty particular,” he says, turning his head towards me.

  Dad nods approvingly. “Not easily impressed, huh? I can think of someone else like that,” he says, looking at me.

  “Are we all done?” I say, breaking the uncomfortable tone. “I’m going to clear this mess up.” I stand and start stacking the plates.

  “Here, I’ll help,” my dad says.

  “No, it’s ok. I’ll do it,” Dylan interjects. “The least I can do to say thanks for the food.”

  My dad shrugs, and flashes a quick look of appreciation towards me.

  “I’ll go off to the garage then, leave you two alone to talk business. I’ve been meaning to replace my spark plugs for weeks now, and I’d like to do it before I visit your mother tomorrow.”

  “Ok, Dad, see you in a bit,” I say, as he turns and leaves me alone with Dylan.

  Dylan starts collecting the plates and bringing them into the kitchen, and I follow behind him with the condiments and napkins and other things.

  He clears his throat, hesitant. “I thought your mother was…”

  “Dead? She is,” I say briskly, busily packing stuff away. I hope he’ll drop the subject.

  Dylan starts scraping the chicken bones and scraps into the garbage and for some reason it makes me smile. He’s obviously done it before, but I doubt it was anytime recently.

  “So your dad’s visiting the grave, then?”

  “Yep,” I say. “He goes to see her a few times a month. He talks, she listens. You know.” My voice is terse. Just because I’ve moved forward doesn’t mean it isn’t still painful seeing my dad’s grief, and knowing we’ll never get my mom back.

  “Do you ever go with him?” Dylan asks, setting the plates in the sink and turning on the faucet.

  “Sometimes,” I say, closing the fridge, and hopefully this topic of conversation. He watches me for a moment and I try to arrange my face in a neutral expression. “You gonna wash those dishes?”

  Dylan tosses a towel over my face. “Only if you dry.”

  I pull it off and scowl, but his cheeky smile breaks it like a disarming judo move, and I find myself smiling back. I swat him with the towel and he grabs it, pulling me towards him. For a moment we don’t move, our eyes locked, and all my tangled thoughts suddenly feel a million miles away.

  The way he’s looking at me right now brings a rush of memories flooding into my brain, of all the naughty things he did to me that first night we spent together, how he made me feel like I’d never used my body the right way before. And with all the tension that’s been building up between us since then, I can’t help thinking I need another taste.

  He drops the towel and grabs my shoulders, his hands soapy and wet. Before I can protest, he puts his lips to mine and works his magic with that tongue,
stroking it against mine, deep and insistent. As he kisses me with a fervor I’ve long desired, I feel sparks ricocheting right to my pussy. There’s only one thing I want right now. But I can’t fuck him here, and I shouldn’t fuck him at all.

  “My dad is in the next room,” I whisper, pulling back.

  “Your dad’s a very cool guy,” he says, trailing his fingers down my arm. But he gets what I’m saying and turns back toward the dishes, scrubbing away like a pro. “Just know I’m not done with you yet, Ms. Clarke.”

  I need to cool down. All I can think about his hands on me, his tongue licking me in all the right places. He’s turned me into a sex crazed animal. But I need to keep everything under control, no matter what. I can’t show my hand as long as we are working together. And even then—who knows how Dylan will feel about me after the shoot’s over?

  “Let’s get these dishes done,” I say, trying to push my conflicted thoughts away. “We have an early call tomorrow.”

  He groans at my schoolteacher tone, but hands me a dish to dry. I lean over to pick the towel up from the floor and catch his eyes sliding away from my cleavage as I stand back up. Not so unaffected after all, it seems.

  “My dad didn’t whip out the shotgun,” I tell him. “So I guess you’re doing pretty good. For now.”

  Dylan laughs. “I can see where you get your sense of humor from.”

  “He’s awesome,” I say, taking the cup he hands me, before sighing. “Too awesome to be on his own.”

  “He seems to be alright.”

  “Yeah, he does. But sometimes I just get the feeling that he’d be happier if he had someone. He’s had a hard time since my mom passed, but you just saw how much he loves company, and hanging out with people. It’d be nice if he got out more, spent time with somebody besides his doting daughter.”

  Dylan looks at me for a moment, the wheels in his head turning. “So I’m guessing that script you’re working on is about…”

  I shrug. “Kinda.”

  Dylan nods.

  “I’m sure he’d be out there if he really wanted someone.”

  “Maybe,” I say, feeling melancholic. “I keep nudging him but I worry he’s afraid. That maybe he doesn’t want to be hurt again; to lose someone again.”