Page 15 of Shatter

I slowly press my foot out until it makes contact with Harrison's. He jerks his foot away and lifts his head, frowning at me. I chase it. I drag my manicured toes up his calf, noticing the scars there, up to his knee. He's just far enough away that if I were to drag my foot to where I want it, I'd give us away.

He grabs my foot, but instead of pushing me away like I expect, he looks to make sure no one's noticed us, and moves my foot to rest on top of his knee. If we're playing chess, I want to know what his next move is. He begins kneading the bottom of my foot, and I almost moan out loud. I close my eyes, though, and relish the massage.

My feet are sore from skiing all day, and his strong fingers feel amazing.

But I didn't get the answer to my question.

So I open my eyes and lock with his deep brown ones and mouth, 'Are you hard?'

His eyes drop to my lips before scanning our company again and dipping his chin in a subtle nod. I grin.

His frown deepens, and he nods his head towards Parker.

I roll my eyes. I'll get him alone later and explain everything.

His frown softens.

Parker takes this moment to reach over and pull me onto his lap, pulling my foot out of Harrison's hands. I grit my teeth in annoyance.

How about asking me if I want to sit on your lap, Parky-Poo? That familiar feeling of being a plaything - of being a doll for everyone else to pose and manipulate - builds within my chest, hot and itchy.

I dig my nails into my palms to get some relief. I want my mechanical pencil that I keep in my purse. It's just sharp enough with a small amount of lead exposed to cut when I drag it back and forth, but doesn't raise alarms like a razor or blade would if someone found it in my purse. It's just a pencil.

The hot tub will wash away the makeup that I put on my cuts earlier, but I'll be able to get a towel around myself to hide them once it's time to get out.

You know who's not hard? Parker.

Harrison sits up a little straighter in the tub, concern and confusion written all over his face. He raises an eyebrow in question. I reply with a subtle shake of my head. Not here. Later.

He dips his head again. How one person can read me so well that we can have an entire conversation silently, I have no idea.

"It was a long flight," he says, standing and stepping out of the tub. The steam billowing off of him in the cold Colorado air completes the warrior-God look, and I realize the anger simmers, just looking at him. That's the effect this man has on me.

"I'm going to hop in the shower and hit the sack. Thanks for dinner and... thanks for inviting me," he says, the second half directly to me. "Goodnight."

I stand, quickly wrapping the towel around me. "Yeah. I'm not feeling so good. I think I'll go lie down. Night, Mom. Night, Chris."

"You're not feeling good? Want me to come with you?" Parker asks.

Panicked, I think on my feet.

"Actually, would it be terrible if I asked you to run to town to get that ginger ale and crackers I like?" I rest my hand on my stomach like it's upset and pout down at Parker. "Town" is really only ten minutes down a paved switch-back, but ten minutes down, shopping takes ten minutes, and ten minutes back up should buy me half an hour. And he knows what kind of crackers I like because we both got a stomach virus on set when we were nineteen and spent close to a week on bedrest together - sharing a bed so we didn't contaminate anyone else.

"No, not at all," he replies, standing and drying himself off, too.

"You're not pregnant, are you?"

I swear a metaphorical needle scratches an invisible record. The silence is suddenly deafening, four pairs of eyes staring at me in varying degrees of alarm, confusion and accusation.

I hope my mother doesn't hear the tone in her own voice, because it comes out angry and bitter.

Harrison pauses by the sliding back door, tense and brooding. Oh, God. Does he think he's knocked me up?

I roll my eyes. "Of course not, mother. The birth control that you insisted on makes sure of that."

Pregnancy would ruin our schedule of filming and interviews, and she knows it. I know it. Parker knows it. The fucking mailman knows it.

Harrison escapes inside, and Parker and I follow just behind, Parker with a hand on my lower back. I know he's trying to be a good boyfriend, but I need him to get the fuck out of here so I can talk to the man I really want to date.