When I arrive in the office Jorge and Chris are already engrossed in conversation. “Glad you could finally make it.” Chris says in a good-natured teasing tone and I’m about to apologize for being forty minutes late until I realize I’m still holding my kale and fruit smoothie. “Take a seat.” Chris says ushering me from behind his repurposed vintage off-color black leather desk to take a seat next to Jorge. Chris starts to preamble about show chemistry and the importance of “being a family” but I’m too distracted by Jorge’s glistening biceps as he patiently nods along gulping down another one of his muscle shakes. “Do you think this is something you’d be able to work around Cassidy?” Jorge smiles at me with a boyish nervousness and before I get a chance to verbalise my response I can feel my cheeks flush in self-conscious embarrassment, “Eh, it depends.” I say hoping Chris will reiterate whatever it is he’s seeking approval for.
“What about Ricki?” Jorge says.
“I had a chat with Ricki earlier and he’s totally cool with the situ,” Chris says pausing to read an emotion I’m supposed to be expressing, “I mean he’s a professional and understands the whole thing is just an act, like a Kim Kardashian sex-tape or Miley meltdown.”
“Will there be extensive filming required? Because I’ve the fight coming up next weekend and I’m still 13lbs off my target weight.”
“Totally Jorge, look the last thing I want to do is stand in the way of anyone’s destiny. I’m meeting Ricki later to go over the deets but I reckon we’ll have everything shot tomorrow. We’ll start-off early do some script read-throughs with Ricki and then film the kiss later. Action sequences take a bit longer to setup so we’ll get those out of the way first. Obviously, I don’t want to unduly antagonize Ricki so we’ll film your scenes separately.
Suddenly the conversion stops and I desperately seek to fill the void before my frenzied heartbeat engulfs the room, “Sure,” I say a little too emphatically, “I mean as long as Ricki’s okay with everything.”
I drive back on the highway knowing it’ll be jammed at this time to make the most out of my dreamy front-seat accessory, as Jorge nonchalantly laps up the sun in his tight white wife-beater vest. “Is everything okay? You seem kind of quiet.”
“I’m good thanks C,” He says with the flick of his tongue making him sound like a sexy Spanish waiter, “I was gonna jog back to the house y’know get in shape.”
“But you’re already like totally ripped.” I say shamelessly devouring him in the front mirror under the cloak of my Ray-Bans, thinking about how he’ll feel tomorrow pressed up against my body.
“So what age did you move to the States?” I say which finally brings an animated smile.
“I’ve lived in Wilmington all my life. You ever been?”
“I wish. I haven’t left LA since my last catalogue shoot in New Year a couple of years ago. Maybe you can take me some time?” The question hanging in the air for what seems like an eternity while he stares at me intently.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” and I’m about to place my hand on the inside of his thigh to let him know how serious until he informs me it’s less than twenty minutes away causing me to abruptly divert, seeking refuge in the nearest switch I can find which of course happens to be the fucking wipers, “Sorry just a bit of blind spot.” and I watch as the wipers squeal their emphysemic wheeze across my crystal clear windscreen…Weeeeeeee….weeeeeee….WEEEEEEEEEE….they painfully scream and it’s only now I remember Ricki removed the fluid in his quest to fix the fucking radio and I can feel the sweat building across my hairline, stomping across my forehead like an army of ants, aggressively swarming and multiplying by the second and my entire body is supercharged with a manic energy it can’t contain, process or distribute evenly causing random parts of my body to twitch and tingle…
“Are you okay C?”
“I’m a little dehydrated is all.” I say before asking him what exactly Wilmington is famous for hoping he’ll autopilot the conversation long enough to allow me regain my composure.
“The flashing neon Don sign and the world’s largest Jack-o’-lantern.” He says with a crooked smile belying a sense of deflated pride and for the next twenty minutes we sit in abject silence until he tells me to take a right and the highway becomes dirt road and we head for the hills. He issues no further instruction but I know what to do and I drive until we reach a secluded hilltop and I haven’t even removed the key from the ignition before he’s on top of me; grabbing, straining, pulling, releasing – united in our secret shame and open desire as our tongues meet in an aggressive swirling tenderness. It’s only when we first come up for air I notice the curious hint of challenge in his eyes as we take turns alternating between the submissive and the dominate; sucking on his bottom lip while he holds my wrists behind my back, pulling tufts of his hair while he tenderly circles the outline of my nipples – simultaneously teasing while holding nothing back.
On the way back the night floats by in a dreamy breeze, nicely mediating my euphoric glow. We don’t bother to talk with everything worth saying left expressed on the hilltop until upon approaching the house Jorge blurts out that his Dad is an illegal immigrant and that he’s worried about the upcoming election.
“I’m sure they won’t actually build a wall.” I say and he snidely remarks that of course they won’t – they’ll subcontract Mexicans to do it.