The problem is, as a woman, you don’t get taken seriously in this industry if you admit to liking sex. Or even having it. Or, you know, getting turned on to images of your fake husband doing it with a stranger.
The thing is, even after two weeks of cohabitation, I don’t know Zion. At all.
The man in that video? He was an absolutebeast.
I force myself to look at him now, pacing the hardwood floor with all that loose, gilded, tiger-in-the-sun strength, and layer that other person on top of this one. The monster from the video, spreading that woman out, tying her up, making her take the blows he gave her. Making her beg.
I swallow.
He catches my gaze, his eyes go wide, then narrow, compounding that predator thing. I just barely keep from shuddering.
“What? What is it? Are you okay?” His voice is low, concerned. Not a tiger. “Here, sit down.”
See? He’s pulling out the chair, taking care of me. Like he gives a crap.
I ignore it, hating the emotion dripping in to taint my resolve.
This Zion’s hard to stay angry at, though. He’s the man I met on set. So kind. So real. Just a good person, to everyone. Every actor, every crew member and catering person. That kindness, from someone as untouchably famous is rare, and all the brighter for it.
Zion Mason was nothing like I’d expected. I mean, he definitely was the hot, 34-year-old blond charmer with a Texas accent and a smile that people fell for like flies. He also had a bit of a reputation for being a bad boy, but in reality, everyone loved him.
And I was a nobody. Or a pseudo-nobody. I got work. In Hollywood, that’s miraculous. I certainly didn’t expect to getthatjob, which gave me on-screen time with America’s leading man.
Then, at the LA premiere, everything changed.
It was my first big red carpet event. I arrived in this deep, rich scarlet dress that celebrated my curves rather than trying to hide them. It was a little tight around my chest and a little long, but I could handle it for three hours. My hair was this luscious fountain of waves flung over one shoulder, my makeup understated, soft, and flattering. Despite the fact that I teetered on the shoes and nearly tripped on the dress twice, I felt almost like Ibelongedthere. Almost.
I remember stepping out of the limo, gliding past the screaming fans who strained against the barriers surrounding the walkway. I was guided between swaths of photographers and industry people. The excitement crescendoed and I realized why: Zion Mason was up there, larger than life, smiling that devastating smile as the cameras went off, his muscular build caressed by the elegant lines of his tux.
I continued, floating on a euphoric blend of nerves and excitement.
“Twyla! Over here!” a photographer called from the stands. Surprised that anyone knew my name, I paused, turned, and smiled, chin down, eyes in what I hoped was a sultry half-squint.
“More! More!”
It was confusing and loud, the photogs relentless. One man in particular kept saying my name like he knew me. Like I owed him a smile. I pushed the smile and moved on, breathing deep, the bodice tightening. With my first step, I got a little resistance from my dress. I paused, tugged the skirt out, and moved on. With the next step, the toe of my shoe got fully caught in the gauzy underlayer. With every attempt to free it, the snag seemed to get worse, until, in nightmarish slow-motion, I fell.
Even tryingnotto picture it now, I get sweaty. The dress being yanked down, speared by the shoe. My boob popping out the top and flopping down.
I don’t know if I breathed. I don’t think I moved at all. The single clear thought I had when my brain went back online was thatanythingwould be better than this.
Rewind, rewind, rewind, some part of me was screaming, while I scrabbled, one-handed, at my dress, trying to drag it up.
I wanted to die. Sink into the floor. Blend into the red carpet and disappear.
And then, a body bent over mine, big and warm. It surrounded me, covered me, hid me from the crowd.
Zion.
He made quick work of removing his jacket and draping it over my shoulders to shield me from view. With gentle hands, he took the offending shoe off, then the other, and tugged at the dress’s bunched fabric until it was high enough to cover my chest. I unceremoniously stuffed my boob back inside.
Finally, he stood and hefted me up without breaking a sweat, my shoes dangling from one hand. He held me like that, tight to his chest, every part of me covered and properly put together.
The seconds—maybe minutes—that followed went by in a series of chaotic flash-frames: popping lights, yelling, people running around us. Assistants with shocked expressions. The rest of the cast, the director. I hid my face against the soft tux covering Zion’s shockingly wide chest, trying to curl up and die, while part of my brain focused on how unlikely it was that Zion Mason would be the one to save me from my horrifying wardrobe fail. It was baffling that he, of all people, noticed my emergency.
His big arms tightened around me. “You’re good, Twyla,” he said, the words vibrating low and solid under my ear, like a heartbeat. “I got you. I got you.”
He smelled amazing. Like soap, expensive, fragrant, fresh. A hint of some herbal cologne, so bright and lemony in contrast with the LA exhaust and dust and the perfumes of every person out here.
