“Goodnight, Dawson.”
Hiccup.“Night.”
CHAPTER16
Brinley
Blood and gore—one of my favorite makeup assignments. I’ve taken at least a dozen courses on the physical body and how it responds to trauma. Gross, I know, but necessary for my line of work.
I take note of the supplies they brought in, pleased with some; disappointed with others. The network must be sponsoring SLAP products exclusively. SLAP makes great makeup, don’t get me wrong. They make the best liquid covers and creams, hands down. But when it comes to their powders, I’m less than impressed with the finish. Still, as Janis would say—this ain’t Hollywood.
The mere word, Hollywood, triggers thoughts of Dawson no matter the place or time. Only now, as his handsome image floats to mind, I’m greeted with new memories, like the way I found him curled up to Moonshine this morning while Muffin licked his feet.
I didn’t even mind the fact that my cats are traitors and chose to slink off in the night to sleep with him. I just took it all in, watching the steady rise and fall of Dawson’s chest, noting the way his thumb rested on the scruff of Moonshine’s neck, like he’d been rubbing him when he drifted off to sleep. I wanted to climb onto that cot with the three of them and make the moment last forever.
Dawson’s in the video diary nook now, probably making a plea bargain with Marsha to erase the footage of his hiccup attack last night.
I try very hard not to think about the fact that it’s already day four, which means tomorrow is Emmy Day, which also means I’ll find out if Dawson’s ready to live up to his word. He offered to miss the Emmys, after all. Time to see how serious he really was.
Knowing that Dawson will join me soon, I try to sort through yesterday’s heated argument. There’s one line that stands out more than the rest. One that, if I’m being honest, struck a chord: ‘…not everyone is likehim.’
A lot of viewers will guess just who Dawson was referring to once it airs; I’m not the first to have daddy issues, but most of Kyler Ray’s fans don’t even know I exist. They know all about Char, of course. She attends every event so she can strut around in her tiny skirt and her oversized shades and bask in the spotlight. She has her own fan page with a massive following, too. All for what—being Kyler Ray’s mooch of a daughter who doesn’t have a job outside of being Dad’s assistant?
I think back on the comment once more. A lot of viewers will guess Dawson was referring to one of my exes, not that it matters either way. I knew exactly who he meant.
Have I really lumped Dawson into the same category as my absent father—a man who lives for the praise of everyone but his own flesh and blood?
There’s no way.
But even as I answer that question, it feels like a lie. Because somehow, in some way…I kind of do.
The acknowledgment is a hot coal in my gut. One I’m anxious to snuff out, though I don’t know how. Admitting that Dawson might be onto something rouses an entire defense army in my head. I’m already stockpiling ammo, ready to fire back with guns blazing.
“Hey,” Dawson says as he pushes open the studio door.
“Hi.” I wave from my spot beside the makeup-covered vanity, trying to redirect my thoughts.
Dawson rubs his hands together as he takes a seat on the stool beside me and surveys the goods. “We’re finally doing makeup today, huh?”
I scrutinize him for a blink.Nope.No sign of my dad there.Not the slightest resemblance. Sure, Dawson is a confident man, but he’s never come off as cocky. He’d never want anyone to feelless thanin his presence; he proved that the first day we met, treating not only me but my entire team with kindness and respect.
“Yes,” I say, “makeup.”
His masculine scent reminds me of the way I lured him into the corner last night and then turned him away. That wasnotan easy task for me. I assumed getting him against the wall would be the hard part, but I was wrong. Turning my cheek when his lips were a mere inch from mine—that was torture. I was tempted to forgo the ten K and let Dawson kiss me the way only he can.
I’d like to say I sacrificed it all for charity, but that would give me more credit than I deserve. In the end, I feared that if I gave into the passion—and there was definitely a lot of it—things might go too far. Heck, we were two steps away from a luxurious bed with the most incredible sheets I’ve slept on.
I force my thoughts back to the task at hand.
“So,” I say, “we’re supposed to do makeup for the first scene. We’re grungy and bruised, with a few specified gouges and scars.
“I’m going to walk you through each step as I do yours, then pause and let you do mine in return before we move on to the next application.”
“Nice,” Dawson says. “I can’t wait. Oh, they mentioned we should get into costume first. Do you see them any place?”
I point to the far corner where portable walls create two changing areas. “I’m pretty sure they’re in there.”
Dawson comes to a stand. “You going to need help with yours?”
