Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
I hadn’t thought to question the plant-based mince’s presence in the trolley at Tesco. I’d just assumed my wife had gone on another unnecessary diet. “The wine helped, I think.”
“Probably,” she agrees. “Lucy’s besotted, isn’t she. It was adorable watching them. Reminded me of myself at that age. When I couldn’t take my eyes off you. When just looking at you made my insides feel like they were melting. Oh, I remember just overhearing your name would make the teeny hairs on my neck stand up. Honestly, it still does. It’s such a magical time for her.”
Her hand takes mine beneath the quilt. Our fingers interlock. I squeeze because she does, but I feel…surprised. She’s never told me I made her feel that way before. Not those specific words. She’s told me how much she loves me. I know how important I am to her, that we’re ‘made for each other’, and that our life is ‘a dream’. I feel those things, too. But the melting? The staring and the little hairs prickling…I’ve never felt that. Not about Becca.
The surprise quickly morphs into guilt.
Loving Becca isn’t in doubt, but loving her the way she loves me, the way she deserves…I’m not sure I’m capable of it.
Before I can process what’s happening, Becca is straddling me. She kisses my jaw, my neck, my chest.
“Becca…” I whisper in weak protest. I don’t want to do this. I shouldn’t do this.
“Come on, babe.” She’s nibbling at my ear, while her hand reaches between our bodies and takes hold of my cock. “Why don’t you go back to that dream you had this morning, huh?”
What? I stop breathing, while my heart couldn’t possibly beat any faster.
“You were so hard,” she breathes, giggling softly. “I heard you moaning in your sleep. Was she good?”
Oh, dear God… I swell instantly between her fingers at the memory, and I know I’m about to fuck my wife while picturing Laurence Cole. I can’t stop it. I’m telling myself to roll to the side, make an excuse, yet my hips are thrusting, pushing my dick in and out of her grip.
“Christ…” Laurence…
What a bastard.
This week has been crazy. The only time spent off my feet has been while I’ve slept. Even meals have consisted of foods that can be hastily stuffed into my mouth while moving from one place to another. There’s some sort of bug sweeping through the set. It’s not fussy with who it attacks, so far taking out members of cast and crew alike for up to four days. It’s thrown the entire production into bedlam.
Food poisoning has been ruled out so the crafties can start breathing again. Wilson, my boss, told me the medical team said it’s simply a run-of-the-mill virus causing gastroenteritis. I’m thankful it’s avoided me so far, and fingers crossed it stays that way.
I don’t think Laurence can say the same. At least, I assume that’s why I haven’t seen him around. It’s a huge complex, and I haven’t exactly searched for him. Not specifically. Scanning the surroundings of every area I walk with the hope of seeing his face doesn’t count as actively seeking him out, or so I keep telling myself. Not that it would matter. I’m planning to keep my distance. The peculiar buzz I feel around him is no more than a delayed teenage fantasy. He’s a movie star. A crush. And it’s every bit as pathetic and far-fetched as it sounds.
“Hey, Walker!”
I turn in the direction my name came from. Wilson’s beckoning with his hand, while also jogging towards me from props storage. I meet him halfway.
“I need you to stay on this weekend,” he begins, words shaky as he regains his breath. “With Khalid and Turner out shitting through the eye of a needle, I need all hands on deck.”
It’s not a complete surprise, but my stomach still reels from the jab of disappointment. Becca and I were supposed to take Ben go-karting on Sunday, with Becca’s friend Gill, Gill’s husband, and their kids. “Sure. Not a problem,” I tell my boss. My family will understand. It’s work. Unavoidable. I’ll call Becca later, as soon as I get five minutes.
“Fantastic. Now take a couple of guys to the staging area in Studio 10 and set up the lights ready for this afternoon’s shoot.”
“Got it. Cheers, boss.”
This has turned out to be one of my favourite parts of the job. Operating the lights feels less like work and more like an education, of sorts. The industry lingo is becoming a second language at a surprisingly swift rate, and it took next to no time to familiarise myself with film-related equipment thanks to a great gaffer and brilliant team, yet it feels like a place where I’ll never stop discovering. I could handle the mechanics of it all in my sleep, but taking direction on where to focus light, seeing how certain tones heighten an actor’s emotions, or simple shadows can transform the entire ambiance of the scene, makes me feel like I’m involved in something special. Something powerful and creative.