Page 43 of Hot Set

We walked into the apartment building from the back. It was silent and soft in the early morning light. I grimaced as I realized I was leaving bloodied prints all over the place. “They’re going to think I killed someone,” I said.

Brandon laughed. “I’ll call and tell the staff about it,” he said. “They always have someone on-call. I’m sure they’ll find this hilarious. I mean, anyone would.”

Not if they had to clean it up.

We walked into the gilded elevator, and Brandon failed to stifle his laugh. “It’s not funny,” he said. “I mean, it is, but—”

I wrinkled my nose at him and put on the best frown I could. But Brandon’s laughter was infectious, and I smiled back anyway. We landed on his floor and walked into his apartment, my prints red and wet on the tiles.

“Do you remember where the bathroom is?” Brandon asked, flipping on lights as he went.

“I don’t,” I replied.

He nodded and pointed down a hall. “I’ll call and tell the staff not to call the cops,” he said, “And I’ll grab you some clean clothes for after you shower.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”

I went to the bathroom, following along the wall. I hadn’t realized before how strange andminimalistBrandon’s apartment was. That didn’t really seem to match his personality at all. I’d have expected something more cluttered, bohemian maybe.

His bathroom was the most spacious I’d ever been in and uncomfortably minimalist. The tile was white. The walls were white. And I was tracking fake blood all over them, so much despite my best efforts, it was beginning to genuinely look like murder. Brandon could let me leave the mess, and we’d just film a scene here.

God, his tiles probably cost more money than I would ever make in my life. I was struck by the sudden fear that they’d be stained, and that fake blood would never come out. As I pulled my clothes off and climbed into his shower, I carefully set them all in a corner, trying to minimize contact with the floor.Then, I slipped behind the shower curtain. Brandon’s shower was spotless and clean, so much so it was kind of eerie. Like a magazine shower rather than a shower that someone actuallyused.

I sat and let the water fall over me. As I scrubbed myself clean, I grimaced any time a spattering of fake blood fell upon the curtains. This stuff came off your skin without any difficulty, but I wasn’t sure if it would come out of the shower curtain or the porcelain so easily.

And when the fake blood was all scrubbed free, I still remained in the shower for a few minutes, watching as the water fell over my skin. There was something strange and intimate about being in someone else’s shower. EspeciallyBrandon’s shower.

There was a knock on the door, and I jumped. Seconds later, the door opened. “Hey, I brought clothes,” Brandon said.

“Thank you,” I said.

An electric spark shot through me at the thought of wearing his clothes, and my face warmed. I didn’t dare look at Brandon from behind the shower curtain, worried he might see. I hadn’t anticipated turning into a blushing damsel from some medieval romance or something. Being in love wasweird. And uncomfortable. And wonderful.

“You know,” Brandon said. “It’s almost one in the morning. You could just stay the night.”

My heart quickened. That made sense. If I wanted to go home, I’d have to walk back to the set, get my car, and then drive home. Staying with Brandon made sense. It wasn’t like he was a serial killer or something. He was nice. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe it wasn’t Brandon I was worried about. Maybe it wasme.

“Sure,” I said. “I might take you up on that.”

“Cool,” he replied.

The door creaked, and I knew he’d left. I turned off the water, dryly noting that itstillhadn’t turned cold. Brandon’s apartment building must have akillerwater heater. I stepped out and found Brandon’s clean clothes thrown haphazardly on the expansive sink. Mine were gone, a pile of half-dried fake blood the only evidence that they’d been there at all.

As I toweled myself off, nothing felt quite real. It was as if being in Brandon’s space, in his presence, stirred up dozens of half-understood things. What if I didn’t join the FBI? What if I juststayedhere? Icouldpursue Brandon, then. Maybe.

All this hinged on knowing whether or not Brandon was in love with me, and I had no way of knowing that, unless I asked. And if he didn’t, that would hurt and make my remaining time around him awkward. But if hewas—

What then?

I pulled on the pajamas he’d offered.

What, then?

There were too many unresolved questions involving loving him. The FBI, at least, was safe. That was a job. A good job. The best job I’d ever been offered and probably everwouldbe offered. I would be a complete fool to turn it down. But was I a fool for turning down Brandon, if even he cared enough to actually be turned down?

I drummed my fingers on his sink. “I don’t want to go,” I said slowly, letting the words unfold in the air.

It was as if, by saying them, I could make my feelings more concrete, real. And maybe I’d hoped that if they were real, I’d have a better grasp on them. But of course, that was stupid and did nothing at all. I sighed, no closer to figuring it all out but more conflicted than ever.

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