"I'm afraid I'm out of time for romance." Again, Danielle motions to the bed.
Her voice is easy to read. She's irritated he's late.
I offer Danielle a smile. I try to direct it towards Mal, but the moment my eyes connect with his, my cheeks flush.
My chest too.
Fuck, I'm hot.
It's too early in the morning for me to feel this hot.
He's moving closer.
Closer.
Three feet now.
He extends his hand. "Malcolm Strong."
Somehow, I shake. "Lacey Waltz." I bite my lip to keep from adding details. I love Dangerous Noise is the only acceptable compliment. I've been picking apart your lyrics for years and I regularly fuck myself thinking of you is far, far beyond an acceptable level of gushing.
Somehow, I pull my hand back to my side. It seems impossible that my brain is doing anything with the way it's filling with familiar fantasies: Mal throwing me on that bed, pulling off his t-shirt, ripping off my jeans, planting his face between my legs, and groaning against my skin the way he groans through my stereo.
Ahem. "I hate to disappoint, but I'm Danielle's assistant."
He nods, an I understand kind of nod. But he's still looking at me like he wants me in that bed.
God, I want to
be in that bed with him, his hard, sweaty body on top of mine.
Snap out of it, Lacey. You are not currently masturbating. You are at work. You are not losing this job because you're in love with Mal's persona. You know better than to buy into image. You're here to help craft his image.
Danielle's voice pulls me back to reality. "Where is your leading lady?"
She's not hiding the irritation in her voice anymore. Rock stars can pull diva shit—Mal is the lead singer and frontman of Dangerous Noise. He's the face of the band. He's irreplaceable.
The music video doesn't happen without him.
The video vixen is just another pretty model. She's one of thousands. Tens of thousands even.
"She's in makeup." I pull my cell from my pocket. My hands are slick with sweat. I can barely keep my phone in my palms. "I'll get an ETA."
Danielle taps her pen against her clipboard. "We need to move into a studio with space for a makeup room. This happens too often." She turns to Mal with a barely apologetic smile. "We're usually on location." Again, she motions to the bed. She does it in a this is the third time I've suggested you hop onto that bed. Are you dense or just difficult? kind of way. "We can get the solo stuff first."
A hint of regret flares in Mal's eyes. He looks back to Danielle. "Sure."
He moves onto the bed in an impossibly sensual manner. How can one person be this sexy? It defies logic.
Danielle goes to the camera, and I take my place behind her, waiting for instruction.
This is as it should be. The hot musician is posing. The brilliant director is taking in the light in the room. And I'm here, learning everything I can from her as I tend to her beck and call.
Only, Mal is still looking at me like he wants me in that bed.
He's not exactly wrong, creatively.
His image is pure tortured bad boy. He's someone who fucks because he hurts, not because he loves pussy and fake tits. The actress on her way is a former Playboy model. She's undeniably beautiful, but she's firmly in the cheap groupie type—as directors, it's our job to sort actors into types.