“Yeah, well...” Liam looks down, realizes his bottle is still dripping onto the floor, and drops it behind him in the sink. “Did you need something?”
I hold up my bag. “We’ve still got to test your fake blood.”
“Oh. Right.”
We clear off some space next to the compound miter saw and get to mixing.
“Okay. How about this?” I hold up a white plastic spoon, coated in fake blood.
Liam nods. “Looks good.”
“Right. So...” Now it’s my turn to blush. “We have to, ah, test it on your skin?”
“Sure.” Liam holds out his arm. I use the back of the spoon and make a stripe of red across his smooth skin. It immediately breaks out into goose bumps, even though the scene shop is feeling way too warm. His arm is powerfully corded, strong enough to cut through the water like a dolphin. Gentle enough to tuck in my tags when they stick up.
Boyfriend.
I clear my throat. “Lift?”
He does; the fake blood starts running down, too quick.
“Too thin. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He grabs paper towels from the stack I brought over, wipes it off.
I add more corn syrup and cornstarch, and we try again. This time it trickles down in beads. He grins. “Very dramatic.”
“It feels okay?”
“It’s fine.”
“You’re going to have it all over your face and chest. You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He dabs his finger in it and tastes it. I make a face, but he just laughs.
“What? It tastes like candy.”
“Gross.”
“Oh yeah?” He dips again and tries to boop me on the nose. I knock my stool over trying to get away from him, but he cackles and starts chasing me with his bloody finger.
“Nooo!” I yell, but I’m laughing too, laughing so hard I can barely breathe as I dart around racks of flats and carts of broken lights and buckets of paint.
But Liam is tall, and long-limbed, andI don’t try that hard to avoid himeventually he catches me, smearing red across my cheek.
I give him my best glower, but he just laughs.
He’s standing right in front of me, breathing hard, hisnippleschest showing through his T-shirt. Tall and handsome and strong and fast andboyfriend.
Jasmine’s boyfriend.
I back away. Far away, until I bump against the rack where we store old flats.
“You’re a jerk,” I grumble.
His smile falters.
“I was only joking around. Sorry.”
