Hate the Player: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 12

  Okay, what’s that supposed to mean? He doesn’t give me time to question it before moving on.

  Andrew: The script read-through is just that…a read-through. There isn’t any pressure right now.

  I look up at him again, and he shrugs his shoulder.

  Andrew: You’d have to be illiterate to fuck up the read-through.

  Me: Good to know.

  Okay…so, maybe working with him isn’t going to be so bad? Maybe he’s going to drop the whole asshole routine and be nice?

  When another message vibrates my phone, I look down at the screen.

  Andrew: But later today, when we’re shooting the first scene, that’s a whole different story. There will be pressure, and you can fuck that up.

  All hope I had for him not being a narcissistic ass flies straight out the damn window.

  Me: Has anyone ever told you that you’re a self-serving, egotistical, shitbag, jerkface asshole?

  Andrew: I can’t say I’ve ever heard those exact words.

  Me: Well, now you have.

  He meets my eyes and bites his lip. My gaze flees the trap immediately. I will not get lost in fantasies about Andrew Watson’s lips, goddammit.

  Andrew: So, I’m a shitbag jerkface?

  It’s my turn to shrug my shoulders.

  Me: If the shoe fits.

  Andrew: Is shitbag jerkface a size 13?

  Me: What?

  Andrew: I’m a size 13, sweetheart. I’ll only wear the shoe if it doesn’t crunch up my toes. I really hate that.

  No. Don’t do it, I chastise myself. Do not think about what a big shoe size can possibly mean for a man. Do. Not. Do. It.

  Me: Wow. Congratulations on your giant clown feet.

  Andrew: Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.

  Me: It wasn’t a compliment.

  Andrew: I’m pretty sure it was. Sounds like you like a man with big feet. Probably because it means he’s big…in other places.

  I lift my gaze from my phone to narrow my eyes at him, and my hands vibrate with another text.

  Andrew: Like, good fortune and intelligence and fun. Did you think I meant something else, sweetheart?

  Uh-huh…sure that’s what you meant, you bastard.

  I roll my eyes and type out a final message.

  Me: Goodbye, Andrew.

  But, of course, Chatty Cathy has to send me one more message.

  Andrew: All right. I get it. You want to focus. I admire your dedication to your newly found craft. See you in a few hours for our first scene together. Scene 32, I believe it is. Great fucking scene, in my opinion.

  Scene 32? I’m pretty sure I know what scene that is, and I’m praying and hoping and wishing on every-damn-thing that I’m wrong. But when I quickly scan through my script and come to it, I realize I am not wrong. Not wrong at all.

  Scene 32 is like Scene 25, the one I had to read during my audition. The only difference, though, is that this Arizona and Cal passionate kiss scene leads to Scene 33, which is an Arizona and Cal sex scene.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, that can’t be the first scene we’re shooting.

  If Howie wants us to shoot both of those scenes today, I don’t know what I’ll do. I mean, that would be insanity…right? Shooting a kissing scene and a sex scene on my first freaking day?!

  The urge to hyperventilate is strong, and I do my best to get my almost ragged breaths under control.

  Just calm down, Birdie, I mentally coach myself off the ledge. Just take a few breaths and calm down. It’s all going to be okay.

  I choose to tell myself Andrew is just being the annoying prick he is so damn good at being and settle myself back into the first few pages of the script to prepare for the read-through, while the rest of the room around me chats among themselves.

  My knee bounces beneath the table as I scan through page after page of the script.

  Ten or fifteen minutes later, Howie comes striding back into the room.

  “Sorry about that,” he apologizes and sits down. “Now, I want to be done by lunch so everyone can take a long break before we start shooting Scene 32.”

  Brakes screech to a halt inside my head, and my eyes go wide. Oh shit.

  “Any questions before we get started?”

  “Uh…” I can’t stop myself from mumbling aloud, and Howie’s eyes meet mine.

  “Yeah, Birdie?”

  “Which scene did you say we’re shooting today?”

  “Scene 32,” he answers like it’s no big deal. No big deal that my first-ever scene, in my first-ever film, is a crazy-hot, passionate kissing scene that leads to a freaking sex scene.

  A sex scene with Andrew Watson and his size thirteen penis.

  Oh, sweet baby kittens in holiday sweaters.

  I am so tempted to ask him if Scene 32 is all we’re shooting today, but I bite my tongue so hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if it bleeds.

  Andrew’s eyes find mine without permission, and I can smell the gloating rolling off of him from all the way across the room.

  Oh, sweet mother of pearl, please let me make it out of this day alive.

  Andrew

  Another day, another dollar, another brand-new challenge in the form of a tempting little treat standing right in front of me.

  Today is the big day.

  The first day on set with my brand-new costar who has never acted a day in her life.

  Birdie’s fingers fidget nervously at her costume—a simple pair of cutoff jean shorts that show off a delicious amount of her sexy legs, cowgirl boots, and a top that hints at perky, full breasts beneath the flowy fabric—and a rush of déjà vu consumes my mind.

  Birdie and me standing in William Capo’s office, getting ready to run through a scene.

  She was nervous as hell then, and it shouldn’t be a surprise she’s nervous as hell now.

  I can’t blame her, though. On my first big acting gig, I nearly puked when the director yelled “Action!” A twenty-one-year-old nobody who had somehow managed to convince a casting director he was the next big thing. That movie, Hallowed Ground, ended up being my big breakout role and catapulted my career into what it is today.

  It feels like an eternity ago, until now.

  When I see a familiar look in Birdie’s big brown eyes, my chest tightens from my own personal memories of my first film. Truthfully, I don’t know whether I want to rile her up like I did last time or offer some comforting words.

  “You good?” I whisper toward her as everyone around us hustles and bustles to get ready to begin. Howie stands in the corner of the room, discussing camera angles with Paulie and his crew. Serena Koontz yells out a few instructions to Birdie’s hair and makeup team as she sits down in one of the director’s chairs placed a few feet off set. And the lighting department makes their last-minute adjustments based on how the two of us look beneath their lights.

  “What?” Birdie eventually responds, those big eyes of hers looking up into mine. She may be right here, physically standing in front of me, but mentally, she is a million miles away, most likely trying to coach herself into not freaking the fuck out.

  “Are you good?” I repeat, and she blinks a few times before my words finally resonate inside her head.

  “Of course,” she retorts—well, more like snaps back. “Why wouldn’t I be good?”

  Her pendulum shift in emotions makes me grin. No doubt all that nervous energy running through her veins has her on edge. Not to mention, this little Birdie is known for the way her moods can shift from 0 to 60 in one second flat.

  “I don’t know,” I respond quietly as Maureen from hair and makeup pats my nose and forehead with some kind of brush. “I mean, you’re getting ready to film the first scene for your first movie…ever. Most people might feel some anxiety about that, but not you. You’re cool as a cucumber. No worries or fears about fucking anything up. Just straight-up relaxed and ready to go, right?” I question with a little wink.

  She rolls her eyes. “I know what you’re doing.”

/>   I tilt my head to the side, and Maureen huffs out a sigh as she has to adjust her current task of making sure my stage makeup works with the lighting. “And what is it I’m doing, sweetheart?”

  “You’re trying to get me all riled up,” she replies and crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s what you did in my audition. I should probably remind you, it’s why I ended up slapping you.”

  I grin back at her. “Was that also why you kissed me like I was your sole source of oxygen?”

  Those pretty eyes of her narrow. “You wish I’d kissed you like that.”

  “Again,” I add, and she quirks a brow. “I wish you’d kiss me like that again.”

  “Excuse me?” Her jaw drops, and I flash a knowing smirk in her direction.

  “As you know, the kiss between Cal and Arizona that we’re about to film, it leads to the next scene in the film, where they have wild, passionate sex. So, I hope you’ll be able to dig deep, and somehow, find a way to be an actress and make sure Arizona kisses Cal like that again.”

  Her eyes narrow, but just as she is about to open her pretty little lips to spit something back in my direction, Howie grabs our attention.

  “All right, guys. I think we’re all set,” he says and sits down in his director’s chair, right behind the monitor with all the camera angle playbacks. He slips on his headphones and nods toward Paulie.

  “Quiet on set!” one of Howie’s assistants shouts. “Scene 32, Take 1! Action!”

  Silence fills my ears, and the first soft drops of rain begin to fall from above us.

  Dimly lit streetlights speckled between the otherwise darkness show that night is upon us, and Arizona and Cal stand in the middle of an empty alleyway.

  They’ve just finished a show, and Arizona is pissed at Cal for acting like a caveman in front of Jude, the drummer in Arizona’s band. The band Cal put together, and the drummer, who might be one of Cal’s best friends, but has been showing far too much affection for Ari.

  He’s pissed. Annoyed. Fucking losing his mind over how badly he wants her.

  And she’s fighting every urge inside her body that is telling her to give in to her desire for Cal.

  At this point in the film, they’ve been on the road together for three months, playing show after show, riding in tour buses, spending just about every waking moment together. And both of their minds and hearts are at war. A tug-of-war of push and pull, temptation and denial, lust and lies, passion and pain.

  Rain pelts from the fake sky above me, dripping into my hair and clothes, but just as I’m about to dive into the scene, I glance down at the woman standing beside me and I can tell she’s still a nervous little Birdie.

  She’s not ready. She hasn’t built up steam in her fiery engine of confidence…yet.

  Raindrops run down her face and her long lashes blink once, twice, three times, and she digs her teeth into her full bottom lip. Fucking hell. There’s no feisty attitude, no defiance, no fierce words sitting on her tongue, ready to be thrown in my face.

  Aside from her appearance and her costume, she couldn’t be any less Arizona in this moment.

  I turn my back away from the cameras and stare down the alleyway behind us.

  Trying to be discreet, I whisper quietly enough for her ears only, “Just standing there and looking pretty isn’t going to cut it, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes snap to mine.

  “This isn’t a read-through anymore,” I add on in another whisper. “You’re going to have to actually act.”

  “Cut! Cut!” Howie yells, and instantly, the rain is shut off. I turn around to find him standing up from his chair and looking at me in confusion. “What’s going on? I have three minutes of wasted film of you just standing there. You mind, maybe, you know, acting the scene out? Saying a few lines from the script?”

  I smirk. “I think you need to ask my costar that question.”

  Howie’s eyes pull together.

  “She’s too nervous, man,” I explain. “She’s not ready to dive into this scene. If I move forward, we’re going to end up with thirty-seven takes before we even get close to something that resembles what this film should be.”

  “Hey, Andrew,” Howie says. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you just fucking act, and I’ll handle the directing part? Sound good?”

  “Anything for you, bud,” I reply with a wink.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself. “This is why you shouldn’t put your bastard friends in your movie.”

  “I can hear you,” I say through a laugh, and he just flips me the middle finger.

  “Trust me, I wanted you to hear me,” he grumbles and sits back down beside Serena. “Well, I guess since we’ve already taken a short break from filming, let’s play back the footage and see if we need to make any camera or lighting adjustments.”

  I move my eyes away from my asshole best friend/director, and I find Birdie glaring at me.

  “Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure the laser beams you’re shooting out of your eyes and into my face indicate you’re pissed at me.”

  “It shouldn’t be anything new,” she answers through gritted teeth. “I mean, you are the world’s biggest asshole.”

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me for stating the obvious.”

  “The obvious?”

  “You weren’t ready.”

  “I was ready.”

  I snort. “Sweetheart, you were a deer in fucking headlights.”

  “Don’t patronize me with the sweetheart bullshit,” she snaps back. “And I was ready.”

  “If that’s what you call ready, they’re going to have to add about a hundred more months on to our shooting schedule.”

  “God, you’re so freaking irritating. How is it possible for one person to make me feel this much rage?”

  “May I suggest you channel that rage into the reason they’re paying you a boatload of money to be here?”

  “Oh my God,” she mutters and inhales a deep breath. “And, no,” she adds. “You can take your suggestions and shove them straight up your egotistical ass.”

  “Like, all of my suggestions? Or just this suggestion?” I ask, her feisty little attitude only spurring me further into playing the role of instigator. “Because, you know, sometimes I have really good suggestions.”

  Her fists clench at her sides, and her chest moves up and down in fast, frustrated breaths. Damn, she’s mad. If her eyes could set me on fire, she’d go full-on Stephen King Firestarter on my ass right now.

  “All right.” Howie’s voice commands the attention of the room. “Everything is looking good. How about we add some actual lines into the footage, yeah?” he questions, his voice half teasing, half you better fucking act, Andrew, or I will shove my boot up your ass. “Andrew? Birdie? You guys ready?”

  “I’m ready,” I say, and I grin down at Birdie. “You ready, sweetheart?”

  “Yep.” Her response is one word, but the whiplike way in which she yields it toward me says everything I need to know.

  She’s ready. About fucking time.

  “Quiet on set!” Howie’s assistant shouts. “Grass Roots. Scene 32. Take 2. Action!”

  Silence fills my ears, and the rain starts up again.

  I look up toward the sky and then down at my feet, and Arizona takes a few steps away from me before turning around and crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes are fire and ice and everything that makes my chest grow tight with need and want and desire.

  “Somethin’ you need to get off your chest, darlin’?”

  “Are you kidding me right now, Cal?” Ari huffs out an exasperated sigh and tosses her hands into the air. “Get something off my chest? How about, why do you feel the need to bang your fists against your chest like a caveman anytime Jude even whispers a word in my direction?”

  “Jude is an asshole.”

  “He’s your best fucking friend!”

  “He’s a bastard.”

  “No,” sh
e responds, an incredulous laugh escaping her pretty lips. “You’re the bastard, Cal. The biggest bastard I’ve ever met.”

  I step toward her. “The only thing I am is a man going insane.”

  She quirks a brow, and I step even closer, putting the two of us mere inches from each other.

  “You drive me crazy, Ari,” I say, her name growing soft on my lips. “One day, you’re yelling at me, and the next, you’re still yelling at me, fucking slapping me, and then kissing the hell out of me before walking the fuck away.”

  “Pretty sure you’re the one who kissed me the other night, Cal.”

  I shake my head. “Nah, darlin’. That was all you.”

  Her glaring eyes look up into mine. “I hate you.”

  I shake my head again. “You need to stop lying to yourself.”

  “You need to stop acting like you have any say in what I do or who I talk to.”

  “But I do have a say.”

  “Bullshit,” she spits, and I don’t hesitate to wrap one arm around her waist, pulling her tight to my chest and making it so that her perfect lips are only inches from mine.

  “I have a say because you’re mine, Ari. And I don’t want anyone else touching what’s mine.”

  “Fuck you, Cal.” Her breaths turn into erratic pants. “Just because you helped me get into this business doesn’t mean you get to control me.”

  “I’m not talking about the fucking business,” I whisper back, my words a harsh lilt off my lips. “I’m talking about you being mine. My woman. In my goddamn bed. You belong with me, Ari.”

  “I don’t belong with anyone!” she yells directly into my face, but her hands reach up to grip the material of my T-shirt that’s now wet against my back.

  “You belong with me. Just like I belong with you,” I whisper and brush my rain-wet lips gently against hers. “I don’t want any other fucking broad. I want you, darlin’. I want your fire and your glares. I want to see that softness in your eyes, and I want to hear my name on your tongue. I just want you. Stop holding back from this, from us, and let go, Ari. Just fucking let go.”