Between the Lines
Not that he needs to know that.
He leans closer and kisses me, withdrawing with a grimace and leaning back against the mound of pillows. He must have commandeered every pillow on this floor.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine as long as I don’t move at all.” He takes my hand and pulls me closer, so that I’m kissing him. “Mmm, better.” His blue eyes open and he lifts a hand to my face, fingers coaxing me forward, into another kiss. “Much better.”
Chapter 35
REID
I move back to the hotel to recuperate while everyone else continues filming around the scenes I’m supposed to be in, leaving me bored as hell. I’ve never had to sit out before—no illnesses, no injuries. Dad would be shocked to know I’m losing it over not being able to work.
Everyone drops in occasionally to hang out, and Emma keeps me company whenever she’s free, which isn’t often on filming and class days. Having her near naturally results in us getting physical, but there’s only so far I can go without pain. For days now, we’ve been kissing and touching for one or two hours straight. Emma is leaving my room more breathless after these restrained makeouts than she ever has.
Today I went on location to watch her film a scene. My leaving the hotel room caused Andrew so much stress that we thought his head would explode. He threatened to call my doctor, my father and George. I glared at him and suggested a cigarette break. He spun on his heel and stomped from the room.
Emma has been anxious about this scene, which includes Leslie and Tim, both Oscar contenders, as well as Jenna, the perpetually self-confident fifteen-year-old. The majority of primary dialogue is Emma’s, though, and the timing has to be perfect for all of them. They get the scene done in only two takes plus some set-ups. Richter, ecstatic, lets all of them go for the day, leaving Emma feeling a little smug. Of course I’ve witnessed her acting ability firsthand, but observing from the sidelines is different. Filming a scene, you pay the most attention to your own performance; everyone else’s performance is secondary. Today, I had nothing to do but watch her.
In the car back to the hotel, I raise the privacy glass between us and the driver, settle her legs across my lap carefully, stroke my fingers over her knee, teasing under the edge of her skirt. Her eyes are heavy as she waits for what I’ll do next. “You’re a natural, you know,” I say. Her brows rise and she colors deeply. I laugh, squeezing her leg lightly and kissing along her jaw. “A natural at that, too, and I’ll convince you of it soon. But I mean—you’re a natural on film.”
She scowls and I run my finger over the spot between her eyebrows. “Don’t do that, you’ll get a frown crease.”
“What do you mean—‘natural on film’?”
Why this observation would insult her is beyond me. “Your stepmother told me you’d wanted to do theatre at one time, not film. I can relate—I did some community theatre when I was a preteen. It was fun. But we’re both naturals on film, that’s all I’m saying.” The scowl increases at mention of her stepmother. I’ll have to remember not to bring her up again.
“I did want to do theatre; I do want to do theatre. But if it has to be film, I’d prefer something more serious than, you know, what we’re doing now.”
“Serious, like, limited run, indie stuff?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Except in extremely rare cases, independent films make little to no money, and hardly anyone sees them. They’re the film version of literary fiction. “Why would you want that, when you can do something that will be wide-released into hundreds of theaters across the country and across the world, will make you crazy famous, sell a ton of DVDs in a few months, and when all is said and done will earn you a ton of money?”
“So, crazy famous and disgustingly rich is worth more than doing something that might have a social impact or garner critical acclaim.”
“Hell, yeah. It’s not like we’re doing p**n .” She blanches and I laugh. Oops. “God, you should see your face.”
“Yep, I’m a riot.”
“Look, I get what you’re saying, I’m just happy doing what I’m doing, that’s all.” I pull her closer and kiss her. She hesitates for a moment and then sighs, kissing me back. My hand inches up her thigh under the skirt until my fingers graze her hip.
The car comes to a stop in front of the hotel and Emma scrambles to pull herself out of my arms before the door opens. Bob and Jeff are waiting, as are a few photographers and fans. I wave and smile, giving her the chance to smooth her skirt back over her legs. I tuck her arm through mine as we walk into the hotel, people calling, “Reid! Emma! We love you!”
Independent films my ass. Who wouldn’t want this?
*** *** ***
Emma
I’ve sort of neglected studying for the SAT until tonight, when Emily mentions it right after she tells me the latest rumors—about myself.
We agreed a couple of weeks ago that Emily will check fansites and inform me on a need-to-know basis only. Before she took over researching the dirt about me, I occasionally read through it. Bad. Idea. For instance, some fansite declared that I’m the most unattractive star in Hollywood and I have no right dating someone as “hot and delicious” as Reid.
Definitely not need-to-know. Emily is my first line of defense.
“There’s a photo of you and Graham running… And several sites are arguing whether or not he’s coming between you and Reid. One suggested that you guys go for runs right after you roll out of bed… together.”