Page 68 of Whiskey Splash

Tam raises a hand to his ear, listening for a second before stepping to the side and addressing Desmond. “Mr. Pike, they’re calling you to set. They’re ready to block the scene with you.”

I smile and once again offer him my hand. “It was lovely to meet you,” I say, as he takes it and squeezes my palm as if to say he’s sorry. “I don’t want to keep you from your job.” I pat the director’s chair beside me. “I’ll be right here with Tam on the sidelines.” He holds my hand a little too long, and I can hear voices on Tam’s headset requesting Desmond.

“Mr. Pike,” Tam says, gesturing to the people on the beach. “If you’d follow me this way, sir.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say softly, and something in his eyes doesn’t want to leave my side. But I nod to Tam and the people waiting. “There’s a beach to save from a Jell-O bleeding space alien.”

“Radiation monster,” he corrects.

“Same thing,” I toss back and his lip quirks, squeezing my hand one last time before he follows Tam to the center of the beach where the swarm of crew swallow him up for the rest of the morning.

Chapter Seventeen

It’s almost sunset and I’m texting Arie the umpteenth exploding Jell-O monster image. I’ve seen Desmond fly off a crane hooked to wires, motorcycles do wheelies down the beach and collide, Jell-O ooze out of a rubber tentacle, and a guy run into the water in a raging ball of flames. Tam explained to me that every time that stunt-man is set on fire, he makes some ridiculous amount of money, like three-thousand dollars. I suppose that makes sense if you’re going to deliberately allow someone to douse you in kerosene and light a match.

It’s been an exhilarating day, even though I’ve probably said a total of three more sentences to Desmond since the morning. None the less, it’s still one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that I get to cross off my bucket list.

Tam hands me a piece of paper and points back to basecamp. “We’re wrapping for the night. If you’ll just come with me, the producers want me to have you sign this before you leave.”

“What is it?” I ask, flipping over the paper and trying to read as I follow him toward the trucks where the crew is loading up their gear. Tam leads us toward the line of Star Wagons on the left, opening up one of the doors for me to climb in. Desmond’s trailer, I imagine.

“It’s an NDA,” Tam says, as I walk up the steps into the small RV-style coach.

The inside is decked out with nice cabinets and a leather couch, there’s a kitchen and several televisions, and off to the left what looks like a small bedroom. It’s not the kind of trailer you take camping unless you go glamping in style.

“Non-disclosure statement,” Tam explains. “Basically, it says you won’t share anything you saw today online or with the tabloids. It’s fine that you took pictures with your phone. We simply ask that you don’t post them on the internet. Spoilers, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, of course,” I say, taking a seat on the couch and scanning the document. Tam puts a glass of sparkling water on the coffee table and tells me to take my time.

“I’ve got a few things to clean up,” he says, walking down the steps. “Relax. Watch TV.” He points to the amenities. “I’ll be back in a little while to pick that up.”

“You bet.” I nod, skimming the fine print and taking a drink. I read all the pages, like a nerd, before signing the document and putting it back down on the coffee table. Then, I get up and stroll through the empty space, not sure what else to do with myself. I check out the fridge, which is stocked with protein shakes, sparkling water, and fruit. I snag a strawberry as I open cabinets to find dishes and snacks, the normal suspects.

I finish the strawberry and toss the stem, deciding to peek through the other side of the trailer where there’s a small bathroom with a stand-up shower. It’s simple and masculine, nothing fancy.

The bedroom matches the uncluttered décor with simple dark sheets on a full-size bed that literally takes up the whole crowded compartment. The bedroom is more of a closet, with a rim of tinted windows spilling grey light onto the starched sheets. It reminds me of a bunk in a boat house or train car, where the bed is raised to waist height and you can’t even walk around the mattress because it butts up against the walls. Basically, there’s about one step into the room before you have to crawl up onto the mattress like a kid into a tree fort. But I’m sure it beats sleeping on the couch.

“The bed’s not nearly as cozy as your comforter behemoth from yesterday, huh? But definitely effective.”

I startle, completely spooked by the voice behind me and spin around to see Desmond filling up the tiny hallway that leads to the bedroom door. I didn’t even hear him come in.

“Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” I gasp, hand on my chest, noticing he’s changed back into his normal clothes of a t-shirt and jeans. He’s washed off all his scrapes and bruises and there’s no bloody gash across his face anymore. No more lieutenant-commander-monster-slayer.

Just regular, beautiful Desmond.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, a soft smile matching his tone.

He doesn’t move, silence filling the lack of space between us as I stand awkwardly in his trailer bedroom. The back of my knees graze against the bed, even though I’m technically standing in the doorway. And Desmond, he’s too large for the tiny hallway, his broad shoulders filling up the whole space, stealing every breath, and I know I can’t slip past him without sliding my whole body against him.

Heat bleats in the air, palpable from the fact that we haven’t been alone with one another all day, and the layout of this trailer seems determined to force us on top of one another. I haven’t had a chance to really think about that text message I saw on Tam’s phone this morning, but now that he’s inches from me, the underlying meaning feels serious and heavy.I don’t want to mess it up with this one.

“Um, hi,” I say softly, to break the tension, and I notice his hands gripping the railings in the hall, like he needs them to stay in place, instead of launching himself at me. My pulse pounds at the shallow of our breathing.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says finally, and I realize, by no intention of his own, he’s cornered me. The only real space is behind me, meaning I could move backwards if I wanted, but that would be onto his bed. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like my—”

“You didn’t,” I say quickly, stepping forward and putting a hand on his cheek, touching his face softly like I wanted to this morning. “It wasn’t you. It was the situation,” I clarify, stepping out into the hall with him and brushing my thumb over his lip. His amber gaze is tentative, not sure he trusts what I’ve said. “I get that defining us…”

The word is heavy, trapped in between our bodies, where there’s no space. His eyes light on mine, dark and curious, the temperature between us a delicate fire. I cup the other side of his face and the shape of his jaw is elegant and perfect beneath my fingers.

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