17
Damian
EXTRAtainmentUpdate!
Is Damian Marshall Out of the Shadows?
A blockbuster film franchise lives and dies by its stars, but one franchise looks like it will try to go it alone, or will at least look different next year. After several weeks of rumors and speculation, it looks like the studio behind theShadow Leaguefranchise is preparing to part ways with its star, Damian Marshall. Although executive producer Cedric Oberman has yet to officially confirm, sources within the studio say Oberman’s and Marshall’s representatives are actively working to find a way to oust the star from his contract. Marshall rose to fame playing vigilante and former mafia son Dex Russo, butShadow Leaguefatigue has hit the box office, with the fourth film in the franchise already falling below the top ten performing movies this week. Whether it can revitalize its track record without Marshall on the marquee remains to be seen.
* * *
My shirt is ruined.The greasy fish stain down the front will never come out. My jeans are maybe salvageable, but the smell that comes off them when I pick them up makes me gag, so those are out too.
Jumping overboard was maybe not my best plan. I knew I could do it. I jumped into colder water while filmingShadow League 2, though that time I had a safety team ready to go with rebreathers and heated blankets instead of one terrified fishing guide. I hope I’ve made it up to him. I can still feel the press of his fingers on my shoulders as he came. He needed the release as much as I did, but I hope we get to do it again soon.
But first, there’s the issue of my clothes, because while it may not be winter all the time up here, I still can’t parade around Jack’s boat naked.
Or can I? He probably wouldn’t mind too much.
We finally find a pair of yellow fisherman’s overalls and rain jacket. I look like I’m on my way to a nautical bachelorette party as the entertainment. If only the world entertainment media could see me now.
“I can’t believe you’re making us fish,” I grumble an hour later.
“We’re sticking to the schedule.” Jack glares at me in a way that has me sweating inside my rubber outfit. “I’ll already have to explain what happened to your clothes. We’re spending a full day on the water, and we’re bringing fish back like we’re supposed to.”
I shudder as too many old memories of days of forced fishing and hunting with my family as a kid bubble to the surface. They never quite break through though, because at the very top of my memories is the feeling of Jack. His hands on me. His mouth. The taste of him on my tongue and the rough sound he made as he came in my hand. He was everything I had hoped for. I want him again already, but he seems determined to play the conscientious fishing guide, and I know we crossed a line regarding his job, so if he wants some space, I’ll give it to him.
“Not like we ever catch anything though,” I say, even as I watch him cast the lines out.
“We’ve had a run of bad luck.” He throws me a cocky grin. “But maybe our luck is turning.”
“Well, I am wearing my lucky overalls.” I smooth my hands over the yellow vinyl.
As it happens, our luck is turning. Within ten minutes, we have a bite, and Jack wastes no time hauling in a solid looking halibut that he dispatches with quick efficiency and throws into the locker. Next, he pulls in a bright orange rockfish with eyes that bulge out of its head. Every time he gets a bite, he offers to let me take the rod, but I’m happy to let him work. He’s so in his element; it’s nice to watch. A couple of years ago, I spent two weeks following a chef at a restaurant in Napa, learning everything she could teach me about fine dining for a part. The movie got shelved in the end, but those two weeks with Chef Alyssa really taught me a lot about the skill of people doing the thing they’re meant to do. Jack’s like that. He’s meant to be here. Outside. Working with his hands. And possibly working alone. I can’t remember the last time any part of my job involved solitude. There’s always someone. Actors, directors, PAs, makeup artists. Someone’s always touching you, talking to you, trying to get you somewhere on time.
“So I don’t know,” Jack says slowly, bringing me out of my head, “if this thing we’re doing here includes talking...”
Speak of the devil.
I give him a smile. “It can involve talking.”
“Well,” he says thoughtfully. He’s reeling in something that looks like it must weigh as much as a German shepherd, but he’s doing it with calm movements when my heart would be racing. “It seemed like there was something on your mind before. When we left the lodge. If you needed to get it off your chest, I’m happy to listen.”
Jesus, I don’t deserve him. I slide up against him, pressing our shoulders together. He’s still got both hands on the reel, but he turns to me, and I kiss him. His lips are soft, and his beard tickles my skin, and part of me wants to tell him to toss the rod overboard so I can have his full attention. But now that he’s brought up the question, my brain starts spinning again about the conversation with Roberta, the script she sent... about basically everything.
Where do I even begin?
I know you think you know me, and I know I had your penis in my mouth, but there’s something I haven’t told you. My name is Damian Marshall. Somehow you don’t know who that is, but everyone else on the planet does, and I’m hiding out because I couldn’t keep it in my pants on set, and now my director is trying to destroy my career and the studio is turning me into their scapegoat to cover their butts. And I wish I could tell you the truth, but you’ll hate the kind of person I am and think we don’t have anything in common.
What a shitshow. I shudder at the questions that will follow. At how the way Jack looks at me will change as he understands who I am, and that I’ve lied.
I have to tell him. If we’re having sex for a few more days before I go back to California, what does it matter if I’m David or Damian? Either way, he’ll never have to see me again.
“Jack, I—”
“Oh Jesus. Look at this,” he says. I peer over the side to see a churning mass of tentacles at the water’s surface.
“Is that an octopus?”
