“Sorry not sorry, neighbor,” I snicker with a smirk, imagining Rowan across the hall, tossing and turning, trying to sleep after a long day of filming.
Splashes of red contrast sharply with the cool blues and greens. My brush moves faster as the chorus kicks in again, and I find myself singing along at the top of my lungs, not giving a shit if anyone hears.
“THERE ARE NO VICTIMS, JUST VOLUNTEERS!!!” I belt out, emphasizing each word with a fresh stroke. The music pulses around me, and I feel alive, electric, powerful.
Acrylic splatters across my overalls and skin, little flecks of color marking me as I mark the canvas. I’ve always been a messy painter—I consider it part of my process. The paint on my skin is like a badge of honor, proof that I’ve poured myself into my work.
Twenty minutes in and I’m fully immersed, Operation: Fuck with Rowan Cole becoming almost an afterthought.
As the music shifts to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” I start adding intricate details to what’s becoming one of my best pieces yet.
The water scene has transformed, becoming darker, more mysterious, with hints of something lurking beneath the surface—something powerful and untamed.
Just as I’m dipping back into the cerulean blue, a hand clamps down on my shoulder, making me whirl around screaming in terror.
I have just enough time to see a glowering Rowan right before his expression instantly turns to surprise when I bitchslap him across the face with my paintbrush, leaving a glob of blue paint in its wake.
twenty-two
Sixteen hoursof filming has got me beat all to hell. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me as I drag myself up the stairs. The first day is always a shitshow, but today took it to a whole new level, which means we’re already behind schedule.
A wave of exhaustion washes over me as I reach the top. When I walk past Lizzy’s apartment, I pause, staring at her door. Maybe this is my chance. We could talk. Clear the air between us. I still need to ask her about being my fake girlfriend, though the thought of how that conversation would go right now would probably be more like trying to defuse a bomb—with my balls in Lizzy’s vice-like grip.
Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock. But something holds me back. Maybe right now isn’t the best time.
My brain is fried, and the last thing I need is my jumbled mass of gray matter to make me say something stupid. Like how much I’ve missed her. Or how I can’t stop thinking about her.
With a sigh, I trudge across the hall to my door. Fumbling, I almost drop my keys twice before I finally manage to get the damn thing open. I still need to run some lines, but right now allI want is a cold beer, a hot shower, and a bed, in that exact order.
The apartment is dark and quiet as I step inside. Chucking my keys onto the credenza next to the door with a clatter, I strip off my jacket, tossing it onto the couch as I make my way into the kitchen.
Yanking open the fridge, I grab a beer, twisting off the cap with more force than necessary before taking a long, deep swallow.
“Fuck,” I groan, pressing the cold bottle against my forehead. Marcus pushed us hard today—endless takes, constant script adjustments, technical issues with the lighting. By hour twelve, I was ready to strangle someone.
I’m only halfway finished with my beer when I hear the unmistakable sound of guitars blasting from across the hall. The volume is so high I can feel the bass vibrating through the walls.
“Seriously?” I mutter, setting the bottle down with a hard thunk.
The music only gets louder, followed by singing—or rather, screaming—accompanying it. Lizzy’s voice, raw and powerful, cuts through the wall like it’s made of paper fucking mâché.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl, running a frustrated hand through my hair.
She’s got to be doing this on purpose. No one blasts music this loud this time of night unless they’re trying to make a point. And if I know Lizzy, I know exactly what point she’s trying to make.
I’ll give her five minutes. Five minutes to turn it down on her own before I go over there.
Pacing back and forth in the kitchen, I finish my beer before grabbing another while I wait. But the music only seems to get louder. If that’s even possible. The vaguely familiar song bleeds into Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” making me snort. The ironyisn’t lost on me considering at this rate I won’t be getting any sleep.
“EXIIIT LIIIGHT!”
That’s it.
Slamming my beer down, I storm across the hall and pound on her door hard enough to make the side of my fist sting.
“Izzy! Turn it down!” But my voice is drowned out by the thundering bass and her singing off-key.
I knock again, harder this time.
