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She chortled, taking a sip of that woodsy crap before countering with, “This has medicinal value.”
For the moment, I couldn’t determine whether she really meant it or if she was fucking with me. I hoped it was the latter and parried with, “These particular fungi do not have the kinds of properties we are looking for. Oh, and if they did, you know I get tested regularly and could get kicked out of a job, right? You’d have to take care of me.”
She grinned, her eyes twinkling as if an idea had just sifted into the forefront of her brain. “Perfect, I think you’ll make an excellent househusband.”
Sure, she was mocking me, but I didn’t care. Hearing her refer to me as a husband made me giddy, even if she was poking fun, looking for a reaction. Flipping her onto her back, I crawled on top of her. “Your natural woody-enhancer is obviously working, OR it could be that I’m in bed with a hot-ass chick.” I grit out, lightly sinking my teeth into the groove between her neck and upper traps.
She laughed, trying to push it off, and said, “It’s supposed to decrease your appetite.”
I flexed my pelvis against her and snarled playfully, “It didn’t work.”
As I pushed my cock into her, she whispered, “Don’t come inside me.”
I was not expecting that, so I grunted as I slid into her more, “Huh?”
“Jake, I won’t have a lot on. I’m, well, I’m shooting an intimate scene today,” she stammered out in a way that sounded way too much like a pre-confession.
Oh fuck. I have to picture anything but that. I’m the one fucking her right now. Remember the shower, remember the Driskill. “Okay,” I muttered without much oomph.
My head might have been in question, but my cock surely was not. Her low, continuous husky moans were driving me crazy, and my cock promptly responded. I started to pound her, almost to make the point that she was mine. After a few minutes, she erupted in an orgasm, which triggered mine. I pulled out just in time, spraying cum from her tits down to her belly button. I flopped onto the mattress, regaining my breath as she scurried into the shower.
She walked out wrapped in a towel just as I’d finished the woodsy shit she’d given me. Then I figured out why this stuff decreases your appetite—it makes your mouth taste like you just gargled with manure. They say all the people moving from California to Texas were changing the place; I’ll take the Love is Love mindset, but damn, I hope they forget to bring this fungi crap with them.
She gave me another breakdown of the area around her apartment, including the quickest way to the jogging path, the grocery store, and the best place to order lunch. I got her to agree to me bringing her food later in the afternoon, so she gave me the security information and instructions on how to get into the studio lot, letting me know that she should have a break around three.
After she left, I put on my running gear, thinking I’d find some breakfast along the way, maybe some steak and eggs, to balance out the lack of consuming any real food over the past twenty-four hours. I was about to exit her room when I noticed a thick binder on her desk.
I knew I shouldn’t open that fucking thing, but I couldn’t help myself. I am the guy who asks the next question you shouldn’t ask. The problem was I had the self-control of a raccoon looking at a shiny object. As I cracked open the screenplay, I sensed the same trepidation as Dante entering the first circle of hell, fearing there was more to this than I wanted or needed to know.
Halfway through the script, I grabbed my gnawing gut. I looked at the clock, saw that it was noon, and realized that she had left a bit before nine. I’d been reading this damn sex-laden script for more than two hours, picturing the love of my life as Anabelle, the psycho, multiple-personality, sweet Georgia girl, who scraped her way into the psyche of multiple men using her body and her evil mind so that she could obliterate their lives.
Shit, Rakell wasn’t just on camera with one guy and naked in a few scenes, as she had alluded to when she’d vaguely skimmed over the plot of this script, saying she wasn’t allowed to reveal more because they had her sign a specific NDA. She was on screen in many scenes with different guys. This wasn’t just “some” sex; it was the movie's core theme. In some movies, if you removed the sex scenes, there would still be a story arc. In this movie, if you removed the sex scenes, you’d have a waitress in a diner delivering coffee repeatedly. The general gist of this movie is that all men fall easily. We cannot withstand the adoration mixed with the sexual promise that targets our white knight complex. Few of us XYs could resist the sweet temptation that was Annabelle with the Georgia accent.
“FUCK,” I yelled as I swiped the binder off the desk. I plunked my head down and repeated, “FUCK” over and over again. Realizing that I had to meet Rakell for lunch at the studio, I stopped banging my head, hoping I hadn’t already left a mark, then rose to get in the shower. As I went to pick up the binder to put it back so that she wouldn’t notice that I’d read it, the pages were open to somewhere in the second half of the script, and I noticed a mention of the “restaurant bathroom,” so I HAD to read that part. Oh fuck, another guy, taking her from behind in a fancy restaurant bathroom while the patrons listened, pulling her hair, talking possessively to her. I couldn’t take much more of this, so I set it back on the desk precisely where I’d found it and jumped in the shower.
The Uber dropped me off at the proper studio gate to access her trailer. When I got to her trailer, it was locked, which would have been fine, but I’d ‘slightly’ over-shopped and was carrying enough food for, probably, the entire cast. Sitting on the steps, my mind raced with the thought, Is some man in that studio touching her body right now? I’d become so used to taking on the role of the re-assurer…don’t worry, I’m not doing whatever…now I was the one needing reassurance. Wow, this didn’t feel good at all. Wasn’t it only ten days ago that I’d felt compelled to explain to Rakell that the picture of me on Insta flanked by two cheerleaders was innocent? It had been cropped, and there were many more folks in the picture, but when one of the team cheerleaders posted it, it looked like just me and two women. Is this what our life is going to be going forward?
Before I could answer my own question, I was interrupted by the visual of two bodies emerging from the building in front of me. Rakell, wearing nothing but a robe and flip-flops, and some Julio Iglesias Jr.-looking guy, also only in a robe, his hand on the small of her back, looking down at her salaciously. His hooded gaze was just under the bar for being seen as lascivious—you know the point, just below the trigger for being called out, but evident to anyone watching. They nodded to each other, then he said something, looking over her shoulder toward me. She whipped around with a false grin in an obvious, thin attempt to assuage my reaction to what I had just observed.
She forced a smile as she approached and offered, “Hi, sorry we ran over the expected time. Some of these scenes take longer…”
I cut her off. “I bet.”
I followed her into the trailer and started setting down containers on the small table.
She walked past me mumbling, “I should change.”
“Hold up,” I spat, my teeth gritting together, my tone betraying more angst than intended.
“Yeah, Jake?” There was a tightness creeping up her neck to her jaw, as if she were readying herself for my verbal assault.
Don’t be THAT guy, Jake. I rocked back on my heels and said, “Aren’t you supposed to go back on set?”
“No, they shot the scene three times and think they got what they wanted. I’m done for the day.”
“Is that what you wore during filming?” My eyes crisscrossed the oversized white robe draping from her body before locking on her green eyes. The look on her face reminded me of a small child trying to decide if the truth would get them in more trouble or if they could get away with a small lie.
She replied, “Not exactly.”
