“Hey,” I say from my spot on the couch. “What’s up?”
“I need you to get past whatever fucking mental block you’ve got, man,” Mark huffs as he takes a seat on the couch next to me.
“Sure, let’s ease right into it,” I say, attempting a laugh that sounds as hollow as I feel.
Mark runs a hand through his hair. He’s stressed—of course he is. “Edgelord” is the biggest adult film production since that pirates moviecame out about years ago. That movie had an $8 million budget and a cast of twelve notable adult performers. “Edgelord” has a budget of $14 million and a cast of twenty performers.
Shit, I should also be stressed since Neon Nights is fronting the budget here. But I can’t get past this shit with Sabrina. Her presence on set is more than an irritation; it’s a goddamn nightmare.
“Frank—”
“Mark, call me Corey. Please. When we’re on set, I’m Frank. Here,” I gesture around the lonely trailer, “I’m just Corey.”
“Okay, Corey. I know things are shit with Sabrina—”
“That’s putting it mildly, Mark.” He throws his head back and rolls his eyes as he sighs dramatically. I let him have his moment before I continue. “I’m honestly not trying to be difficult, but we hardly broke up. She left me without an excuse or explanation, and it took me… a long fucking time to mentally get out of the hole she dug for me.”
Mark gives me a sympathetic look, but knowing that background isn’t going to magically fix the vibe on set. “What can I do? Beyond recasting, which we don’t have the budget or time for. What. Can. I. Do?”
Closing my eyes, I mull over my response. I probably need at least ten years of therapy, if I’m being honest, but we don’t have time for that. What’s the quickest solution to the issues I’m having right now?
I groan. “I hate to fucking ask this, but… I’m gonna need the pill.”
The pill. We don’t call it by name, and we don’t describe it, but when a male adult film star asks for “the pill,” it’s borderline humiliating.
Mark lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank fuck,” he says, shaking his head. “I was ready for you to say you quit.”
Glaring at him, I bite out, “I have far more riding on the success of this film than you do,Savage.”
He holds his hands up in defense. “Corey, I know. And I respect the fuck out of that. And I respect you for being able to ask for the help you need.”
“This fucking sucks,” I grumble as I lower my face into my hands.
Mark slaps me on the back as he stands. “It’s not the end of the world, man. It happens to—”
“Don’t you dare fucking finish that sentence.”
“Sure thing. I’ll have Moira drop the… thing off in fifteen minutes. See you on set in thirty.”
The door bangs shut behind him, and I sigh heavily.
“Fuck me.”
My phone buzzes on the couch next to me, and I glance down—a candid picture of Bex I snapped while she was unaware at the hockey game last week. My chest aches at just the sight of her on my screen—her beauty and kindness, so clear to me, even when she’s not smiling directly at the camera.
I swipe to answer the call, knowing that I’m not in the right headspace, and definitely not the mood that Bex deserves. Our call is nowhere near long enough to satisfy my craving for her, especially since we couldn’t video chat. Couldn’t, or I simply wouldn’t, because we have a night shoot tonight, and I didn’t want her questioning why I was in a trailer.
I literally choke when she asks about upcoming movies. Guilt courses through me, and I know—I fucking know—I need to come clean. But, just like that morning we woke up in Vegas together, now just doesn’t feel like the right time. Soon. But not tonight.
There’s a soft knock at the door and I know it’s Moira with “the pill.” Hanging up with her hurts like a bitch, because I can hear the emotion in her voice, the way she sounds strained and broken. I resolve to text her later, after I finish this night’s shoot of shame.
I cross the trailer in two strides and whip the door open, expecting to just grab a cup and some water from Moira, but I’m brushed aside as a tall, ultra-thin woman in a fluffy robe barges past me.
“I’m on break, Rina,” is all I can grit out. I’m worried if I say more, I’ll snap, and we still have a long night of shooting ahead of us.
Sabrina Ryder is a force of nature—when we were together, I would say that in awe of her. Now? She’s still a force of nature, but in the annoying, cram herself down your throat kind of way. Talk over you so she can be the only one speaking. Using the line “I’m just being honest” as an excuse to be a bitch. Looking down at everyone on set who is not a lead, like her.
She stands in front of me, thinner than she was when we were together, her hair dyed a platinum blonde that makes her fake tan pop. Her body is composed of more plastic than anything natural, and despite the endless amounts of botox, I can see the fine lines emerging on her face beneath her heavy film makeup.
