Page 8 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

I refresh again, and miraculously, the page loads an entire screen of information, students' names listed in a column on the left, with corresponding director and production company names on the right. “Holy fuck! It’s up!”

Winnie leaps from her chair, sending it careening into the fortunately empty table behind her as she comes to my side, gripping my shoulders. “Scroll! Scroll!”

Heart in my throat—because despite the saying about not putting all of your eggs in one basket, all of my proverbial eggs are totally in this basket—I scroll down until I seeParker, Brielle.

Winnie sees my name at the same time, pushing her finger against the screen to track it to the corresponding director and production company.

“Augustus Moore, Crave & Cure Productions,” I read aloud, slowly, attempting to place the name as I do. But I can’t place the name because—“Who the fuck is that?”

Winnie goes back to her chair, excitement drained as she plops down across from me again. “Not Spielberg.”

“I told you it wouldn’t be Spielberg.” Copying his information from the site, I open a new tab in my browser, paste and hit search. “I’m looking him up to–”

The search results load, and the screen is flooded with information, all bearing a variant of the same phrases.

Adult film company. Premier adult film director.

I slam my laptop shut faster than I’ve done anything. “No fucking way,” I murmur, staring at my best friend without even really seeing her. “No,no way.”

“What?” she questions, face pinched in intrigue. “Who is he? What?”

My mouth is dry and sticky, and my head is woozy when I reply, “He’s porn director, and it’s a porno company.”

Winnie’s eyes have never been so wide. “Big Daddy is gonna flip.”

four

I miss you so much it hurts

augustus

The sun rainsover my face, tipped up to the sky. It’s that glorious two hours of the day where the clouds are parted and the sun is out, and ethereal balminess finds you. We’re in between scenes, with the actors taking a lunch break inside. Out on the back dock, my legs dangle from the edge as I sit alone, soaking up as much vitamin D as I can, knowing it’s going to be foggy and rainy shortly, and the sun will be nothing more than a memory.

The subtle warmth feels good, bumps rising up along my arms as cool fades and comfort sinks in. Next to me sits a half-eaten sandwich from the deli nearby, one that Cohen picked up. I’ve taken a few bites, forced of course, because my appetite is spotty.

The days that Lance and I work in cohesion, and even share laughs or smiles, those days are myupdays, where life isn’t a task. Food tastes good, the breeze feels nice, and something as simple as warm socks bring contentment.

The days where Lance only looks at or speaks to me when he absolutely has to, those days are different. Food is flavorless, a means to end the burning in my gut. The breeze chills my bones. And putting on socks drains me of energy.

Behind me, the stage door swings open and closed with a reverberating thud. I blink at the sky, watching as a gauzy cloud drifts over the sun, engulfing the dock in shade. He checks on me, sometimes wordlessly, but today I just don’t want it. “Cohen, I’m–”

“Cohen’s inside,” Lance says. I clamber to my feet, dusting the backs of my thighs as I spin to face him.

Sapphire eyes stare back at me, making my insides twist in the most painful pleasure. He’s fucking gorgeous, and my stomach roils at the dark crescents beneath his eyes. I put them there and I put them under my eyes, too.

I attempt to go to him, but he stops me with a palm out, and a silent shake of his head. With his eyes on the concrete between us, he says, “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat earlier.”

I study his face, and the way his eyes go thoughtful and soft for a moment before dragging up to mine. His gaze hardens, and his brows pull together, leaving all the softness behind as he adds, “Understand that I don’t want things to be like this either. But you know where I stand.”

My stupid fucking mouth opens and closes, but of course there are no words. Because he’s right. I do know where he stands and I can chase him until my feet bleed but the truth of it is, I haven’t changed. Ican’tfucking change.

I run a hand through my hair, my heart racing at our privacy and sheer proximity. No cameras rolling, no call sheet, no actors standing around, no office full of tasks between us.

It’s just us out here, alone with our problems. I memorize his features because I know time with him now—no matter how painful—is scarce. Something to be cherished.

My words come out a whisper, but it’s all I can muster. “I miss you so much it hurts.”

He takes an unsteady step backward, gripping the back of his neck with one strong hand. I always loved his hands. A memory surfaces, Lance’s hands holding my face, his words dusting my lips.You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, he said, and then his hands explored my entire body as I trembled with beautiful disbelief that the smartest, most gorgeous man I’d ever met had somehow felt the same for me.

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