Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Laurence looks briefly over his shoulder, acknowledges the call with a raised finger, then returns his attention to me. “Meet me later, after we wrap for the day?”
I’ve turned mute, apparently. I nod.
“I’ll be in my trailer.”
I’m still nodding seconds after he’s walked away. People are moving around me. Giving and receiving orders. Doing their jobs. In this moment, I don’t know what mine is. I don’t know what task I’m in the middle of, what I’m supposed to do next.
I’m not sure I know anything anymore.
It’s gone one AM when filming stops for the night. Wilson told me I could clock off a couple of hours ago, so I did, and I’ve been lingering outside the complex like someone on a fucking watchlist ever since. It’s probably too late to visit Laurence’s trailer now. In fact, I doubt he’s even there. At this time of the morning, I expect he’s gone straight to his hotel. That’s what I should do, too. That’s what I’ve been telling myself to do for the past two hours. Somehow, though, I’m still strolling up and down the site in the dead of night, questioning every moment of my existence.
He's been avoiding me, he said. Maybe he’s avoiding me now. What did I do? I start going over our interactions, thinking back to the party, everything I said to him. Could I have offended him by suggesting he’s not normal? Asking about fame, if he’s married… I must have done something.
Heels clacking the concrete warn me I’m no longer alone. Excuses start tumbling through my head in case it’s security wondering why I’m lurking like a predator. I can’t think of one worthy of keeping me out of a jail cell. There’s literally no reason for me to be here out of hours.
“You waited?”
Relief and embarrassment battle for dominance. I’m glad I’m not about to be arrested, but ashamed Laurence will know how desperate I am to see him. “Shouldn’t I have?” I say, facing him. “It’s just…you said…”
I watch a smile appear, see lines pinch the corners of his eyes, but get distracted by the extension of his hand. “I’m glad you did. My trailer’s just up here.” His hand hovers in front of me, as if he wants me to take it. Does he? Should I? I can categorically say that I have never held another man’s hand before, other than to shake. Not my dad’s. Not that of a friend. My son isn’t a man yet, and I’m not sure that would count anyway.
“Are you coming?”
What does it mean if I reach out, if I allow my fingers to mesh with his? Is he making some sort of move here? Am I? Suddenly, I can’t stop thinking about what awaits me inside that trailer. I don’t know what’s expected of me, if anything at all. I’m curious, excited, and terrified in equal measures. I’m sure I shouldn’t go a step further, but I’m incapable of taking one back.
“Yeah…” The word’s barely audible as it leaves my arid mouth. My arm rises slowly, cautiously, and the tips of my fingers brush his before seizing in place.
Laurence does the rest of the work, sliding his palm against mine before connecting us together. My fingers curl instinctively, my thumb sweeping his knuckle, and I start breathing too fast as my chest fills with unfamiliar emotion. His hand, a man’s hand…it’s so different. Bigger than Becca’s. Stronger. Warmer. But not wrong. If anything, I think I’m afraid to let it go.
Chapter Eight
William
I’m led by the hand into, essentially, a motorhome on steroids. I get but a second to register the silver ash panelling and black leather couches before the only thing I can focus on is how cold my hand feels. My fingers don’t move once Laurence lets them go, as if they’re waiting for his touch to return.
“Drink?” he offers, wandering over to one of the high cabinets on the wall. He pulls out a bottle of whisky and simply…carries on living like he’s got no idea he’s just stolen a little piece of my sanity.
“Sure,” I say, even though I’m not a whisky drinker. I’m not a drinker in general, really. The odd can of beer or lager a couple of nights a month is usually my limit. Apparently, I’m setting new limits now.
“No mixer?” I ask when he hands me my glass.
Laurence pulls a sour face. “You don’t ruin a twenty-one-year-old single malt like this with a mixer.” He almost sounds offended as he drops onto the couch and pulls his right ankle onto his knee. Nodding to the spot next to him, he adds, “Take a seat.”
I do. I take a sip of whisky, too. Jesus. Powerful stuff. “Why do you have this when there are dressing rooms inside?”
“Proximity. Saves time when we’re filming on the outdoor sets.”