Page 52 of Fool's Gold

More often than not, Wayne is there to kind of pick up the slack and show me the ropes. An amiable guy, made safe because we both like the same thing: emotionally unavailable men.

“Oh, honey,” he says grandly, “they’re all the same. Gay or straight, men are men, and when one doesn’t fall into place, it’s time for the next one.”

Things aren’t going to be the same when Greg comes back to the set.

I don’t have to wait long to find out how right I am. He returns the following Thursday, carrying a dark cloud with him.

“Are you ready for this?” I whisper, standing on the X in the setup for Mr. Patterson’s living room.

The same scene Marcus interrupted when he lost his cool.

Which, when I glance around, Marcus is conspicuously absent today. A purposeful choice, or did someone say something and he made himself scarce?

Greg doesn’t look at me for the longest time, but when he does, the familiar spark is missing from his gaze. The one I’d gotten used to seeing. His eye socket is still swollen from where he was repeatedly punched, but the bones weren’t broken, and the bruising has been covered up with prosthetics and a shit ton of makeup.

“I’m a professional, as much as people on this set would like to believe otherwise,” he tells me under his breath. “Yes, I’m ready for this. As long as we both know the parts we’ll play, it will be fine.”

I want to tell him I’m sorry, although I’m not the one who needs to apologize. I’m not responsible for what Marcus chooses to do.

My stomach flips wildly.

It takes a miracle to get us through the scene without interruption, one I guess we’ve been granted.

Stripping out of my bathrobe and standing in front of Greg completely naked isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it felt the first time.

The lines might not be smooth or seamless, but I get them out. The emotion is there. I’m already raw and vulnerable, so nothing is really faked.

In place of Greg’s face, I imagine Marcus.

He should be here for this. Except every time we pause, I search for him and come up empty.

Greg is nothing but professional when he’s got me on his lap. This time.

And this take I know how I’m supposed to feel. I know exactly what kind of emotion I’m supposed to convey here because I’ve lived it.

By the time we wrap, Belinda and the associate directors are on their feet clapping.

“Can someone get them their clothes, for the love of god,” Belinda calls out loudly, laughing. “We did it, people. That’s a wrap on the scene from hell!”

“Like this scene is the Olympics and we just brought home silver,” Greg whispers.

“Not gold?”

“Close enough to count, I’d say.” He holds up his hand, and I slap my palm against it.

Where the hell is Marcus? He’s not outside waiting for me with car when we finally wrap for the day.

Standing in front of the studio doors, I clutch my purse, staring out into the nearly empty parking lot before I shake my head. I’m not some lost little girl. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself to and from the studio without having him around.

My stomach refuses to still, the bubble of anxiety riding higher into my chest. Something isn’t right.

I’m halfway to my trailer when the sleek black town car pulls up. The side door opens, and I catch a flash of movement from the back.

“Come on, get in,” Marcus grunts out.

He’s nothing but a shadow from the far end of the back seat, his posture deceptively at ease.

“Jeez, where did you go to put yourself in such a bad mood?” I slide beside him, and the car takes off before I have the door all the way closed.

---