Page 67 of Whiskey Splash

“Or Esme.”

“Ms. Noel it is,” he says, clicking some buttons on his radio, and waiting for the two PA’s to be out of earshot. “Would you like me to introduce you to the crew differently?”

I shake my head, dismayed. “Honestly, Tam, it’s not like Desmond and I are …” I open my hands as if to say whatever we are is as elusive and undefined as the air in my hands. “I have no clue what you’d even tell them my relationship to Mr. Pike is.”

Tam’s eyes flick behind me just as I feel two big arms wrap around my shoulders and the heat of breath is at my ear.

“You could try telling them you’re the reason I can’t get any sleep at night,” Desmond growls in my ear and my whole body turns to liquid. I don’t know if he said that loud enough for Tam to hear, but Tam’s a professional, and polite enough to start fiddling with his walkie-talkie like it’s far more interesting than anything going on in front of him.

I untangle myself from Desmond and turn around to face him, my body flushing with the fact that I’m clearly not Tam’s old friend from college if his boss is going to wrap his arms around me like that. Not to mention, looking at me with the devious glimmer in his eyes that slip over me like a hot caress.

I tear myself from his gaze, taking in his costume. He’s wearing a tattered camo shirt and jeans, both covered in burn marks and charring. A bloody scrape runs down his cheek, oozing a crimson color that makes me cringe. It’s makeup, of course, making him look beat up from a fight, but it’s surprisingly realistic.

I step back and orient myself, peeking around us quickly at all the people who are busy doing their jobs.

“Hello, Mr. Pike,” I say formally, sticking my hand out to shake his. “I’m Esme, Tam’s old friend from college, we went to—” I kick Tam in the leg to get him to fill in the blank.

“UCLA,” Tam says without a beat, clearly listening and not actually using his walkie-talkie. He looks up at his boss sheepishly.

“UCLA,” I repeat, as Desmond narrows his eyes and takes my hand, playing along with the charade. “We were both studying—” I kick Tam again.

“Accounting,” Tam says quickly.

“Accounting,” I repeat.

“With a minor in French,” Tam adds at the end.

“Right, that one was all him,” I say, trying to let go of Desmond’s hand, but he keeps gripping me. “It’s lovely to meet you Mr.—”

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know me,” Desmond says, not letting go of my hand, even though the normal length of a handshake has clearly subsided.

“Ok, then please tell me who I’m supposed to tell all your co-workers I am?” I say, gripping him back. He steps in closer, pushing all the air out from between us.

“Esme, you don’t have to tell them anything,” he says softly, his eyes falling to my mouth and the pulse of heat between us making my arms shiver.

But I lift my head and stare right back at him, standing in that raw heat and attraction.

“You realize that’s not how this works, Desmond,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “Youhave the luxury of not having to tell anyone anything. And that’s because no one is going to ask you who I am.”

His eyes narrow, not following, and I motion to Tam behind me.

“But they will ask Tam, and they will ask me,” I say. “And sure, I can be elusive and not say anything concrete. But trust me, that only sends one message for them to hear.” His grip tightens on my hand. “Cause that’s the difference between being the hot-shot movie star who’s allowed to be whoever he wants to be, and that no-name lavender-haired girl who’s got one story written on her back. You’re absolutely right, I’m going to be pegged as the girl who keeps you from sleeping at night, except not for the reason you were implying.”

Desmond lets go of my hand, the playfulness dropping out of him. “Shit.” His whole face drops, taking in what I’ve just said. “Shit, I didn’t think about any of that.”

“Cause you don’t have to,” I say too sharply and his shoulders deflate. “Look, it’s fine,” I say. “This is all part of the double-standard of being born female. I’ll be okay.”

But a shadow casts over his eyes. “No, really, it isn’t,” he says, looking up at me like he really fucked this up. I grab his arm and step closer to him.

“Desmond, I want to be here,” I clarify. “This is really exciting and fun. I’ve never been on a movie set before, and it’s really awesome to get to see what you do. I’m flattered you wanted to show it to me. I just…” I lower my eyes before looking around tentatively at all the people busily doing their jobs around us. “I don’t want everyone to think, well, what people naturally like to think when a pretty girl shows up next to your side. All right?”

He doesn’t look convinced, a crease etching itself into his forehead, and more than anything I want to cup his face and run my thumb across his lips so he realizes it’s not him I don’t want. That I love that he’s asked me here to see his work, that he wanted to share this. I want him to know that I’ve also got a thousand fluttering wings in my stomach at the idea of defining what we are as something that has clear edges when we aren’t there yet. I want whatever we are to have the space to naturally figure itself out, but without the labels and the judgments and the eyes of everyone around us.

“So, Ms. Noel, I mean, Esme—” Tam says, correcting himself and stepping up next to us. “Esme is a really good friend from college,” he says, gingerly taking my hand off Desmond’s arm to alleviate any suspicion should anyone be watching. “She is incredibly good at accrued expense reports. Dean’s list, that Esme.”

Desmond looks from Tam to me to make sure I’m okay with this whole charade and I smile softly.

“Expense reports, boring I know,” I say, playing along. “But you give me an Excel spreadsheet and I am a kid in a candy store.” Desmond smiles softly at the joke. “All those ones and zeros, and phew!” I mock fan myself. “I mean, what more could a girl want?”

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