Page 7 of All That Glitters

He’s all I’ve got, besides a couple of good friends and a PA who hasn’t reached out to me in the last week, like I'm some kind of a lost cause and she’s got more important clients to worry about.

The kicker? She’s right; she does have more important clients.

When I hear nothing, I step out of the glass shower and grab the soft, fluffy towel waiting for me on the gold rack.

Then, inevitably, comes, “Put on the clothes I laid out for you! On the bed. Move your ass.”

Water sluices down my legs and pools around my feet. “Stop picking out clothes for me, Marcus! I know how to dress myself,” I yell back.

“Then you better do it.”

This time, his voice is right next to the bathroom door, and I can’t move, too confused to put one foot in front of the other. His tone has shifted from annoyed and mildly pissed off to…nice. Cordial, even, which is so out of the realm of possibility for Marcus. I’ve known him too long to think of him as a nice guy.

Which means this appointment really must mean something to him.

Why can’t I remember what it is?

I steel my shoulders and walk into the bedroom with the towel knotted between my breasts, my hair dripping. He really did lay out an entire outfit on the bed, from my dress to my shoes and—I flush, embarrassment warming me from the inside out. My panties. Marcus picked out a lacy bra and thong ensemble, both skimpy enough that the lines of the fabric won’t be visible through the dress.

Which means he rifled through my underwear drawer, where I keep my vibrators.

My cheeks pinken further, and my heart starts to thud a little louder.

Please, God. He better not have seen my toys.

“What’s all this?” I ask loudly, too confused and not enough fight left in me right now.

I finger the dress, an emerald green wrap made of silk. A throat clears, and I whirl around, clutching the towel to me.

Marcus stands by the door like a literal black cloud. He’s already dressed, with his arms crossed over his chest, the seams of his suit jacket strained. “It’s obvious,” he replies. “Your clothes.”

I huff out a breath. “I mean, can you remind me where we’re going that I need to wear a dress?” My eyes roll on their own. “Obviously.”

“It’s a reading for a movie part.” He says it without looking over at me, something much more interesting about the tip of his shoe than any movement I make.

I stiffen, half of my next inhale catching in the back of my throat, my blood starting to thicken, moving sluggishly. A reading? He knows…he knows how I feel about those. No wonder he can’t look at me, not when I remember—we remember–what happened last time.

“Get dressed.” He barks out the demand before turning and slamming the door behind him.

Alone in the room, I still can’t breathe. There’s something wrong with me.

The last reading I’d gone to hadn’t been mine. Mom had wanted the part desperately bad, enough to agree to bring me along when I whined, even at seventeen, about how badly I’d wanted to be there, just the two of us.

The room was packed, filled with other hopefuls. Some of them took one look at Olivia Stone and audibly gulped, clutching their monologues to their beating hearts and probably praying for strength. Others sneered down their nose, utterly convinced they had a real shot against her.

No one compared to my mother when it came to truly getting in the head of her character.

I sat beside her with utter confidence she’d get the part, if only because she was my mom and she wanted it. She ran her hands through my hair and told me this would be my world soon. She didn’t care in the least when I rested my head against her shoulder, or when I flirted with several of the teen boys trying out for the chance to be her son.

Mom got the part.

She always got what she wanted, but she never let the notoriety go to her head, not for a second.

Things changed.

Death changed people more than anything else in this world.

Marcus knows all of this, and he’s still pushing me to go out there, leaving me clothes like a kid playing dress up with a doll. I drop down on the bed, thinking about balling the dress in my hand and throwing an honest-to-God tantrum, just like he accused me of doing.

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