Love Unrehearsed (23 page)

“That’s mine,” he growled, rubbing me with demanding ownership, bringing a second orgasm on like wildfire. My body bucked and shook while he continued to punish me with each thrust. His soft whimpers and grunts turned into one deep, guttural groan as his body released and stuttered everything he had into me.

Even behind Mike’s dark sunglasses and stoic face, I could still see the hint of guy smugness on his lips as he walked us to makeup. He didn’t need to utter a word to Ryan to congratulate him on getting laid mid-afternoon; the hard pat on Ryan’s shoulder spoke volumes.

Ryan chose this time to tease me, casually drifting his fingers under his nose as if he still wore my scent. I chuckled at our private joke when he licked his finger and raised his brows, savoring a phantom taste of me.

One of the male makeup artists, a slightly pudgy and excessively hairy man we had been introduced to before by the name of Buckley, was busy fashioning a “cup,” for lack of a better word, over Ryan’s exposed privates.

“It’s called a merkin.” Ryan answered my questioning gaze, pressing the sides of the cup into his skin to assure its adhesion.

I envisioned him popping that thing off like a tent way too small for its support pole. The adhesive would surely, painfully rip a few hairs from his skin.
Ouch.

Nicole might get to touch his body intimately, but there was one flesh-toned package she’d never get to see—lesbian or not. Unfortunately, his nudity meant that those totally sexy muscular indentations in his incredible ass might get some screen time. That would definitely cause a few million “Charles Conroy” fans to blow a gasket for sure. Even more hype for
Seaside III,
which wouldn’t start filming until the fall.

Ryan turned to face me with his fists on his hips, looking like a life-sized, naked Ken doll with obscured genitalia. “So, what do you think?”

He was so adorable, smirkin’ in his merkin.

“And it’s not even my birthday!” I laughed. “I’m wondering how painful it will be when you have to take that thing off.”

“Just like a Band-Aid,” Buckley mumbled. “Grit and pull.”

Ryan blew out a tense breath and slipped a gray flannel robe on, tying the belt securely like a boxer headed for a fight.

It was time for him to go pretend with another woman below him and I was going to watch.

React

“Cut. Ryan, you need to drop your arm a bit. You’re casting a shadow on Nicole,” Jonathan instructed, sounding irritated. “No, that’s still not working. We need to adjust the lighting. She’s got a dark shadow running right across her face.”

I watched the gaffer make a slight adjustment to one of the towering lights near the large bed, and was thankful for the momentary reprieve.

An hour ago, that naked body was between my thighs, loving me. Now Ryan was carefully seated between Nicole’s bare legs, nothing but flesh-toned merkins keeping their bodies from actually touching.

Ryan and Nicole were holding light conversation while the lights were adjusted around them, but the sight of him lying on top of her was almost too much for me to take in. Like a sick, masochistic voyeur, I stood there, watching. Watching my fiancé slip his lips over another woman’s body every time the director called “Action!”

I knew it was fake, completely staged, but still.

Ryan pressed Nicole’s hair back from her face, gazing at her before crushing his lips down on hers. She gasped and the sheet that barely covered them rose and fell with the roll of his hips.

Slight tremors vibrated up through my shoulders. Instantly I was torn from the spot and pulled back in time, recalling every ounce of pain I felt when I walked in on my ex-fiancé, Thomas, grinding his naked ass into that emaciated slut, Cheryl Regan, with painful clarity. The overwhelming anguish blasted uncontrollably like lightning into my chest.

I had sworn to myself that day I had caught Thomas, made the most sacred of vows to the sanctity of my own soul, that I would never, ever allow myself to be hurt like that again. To step anywhere near a man who was capable of eviscerating my heart.

Loving someone should never end in all-consuming devastation.

But time and time again I set myself up to be ripped to shreds. And here I stood, torturing myself all over again watching this charade.

Certain moments were tolerable: those when filming had halted and Ryan and Nicole weren’t all over each other. But the moment the cameras were rolling, my hands tightened into fists and I wanted to puke craziness.

I knew Ryan was uncomfortable with my presence, peering at me through worried eyes every spare moment when his pretend make-out session wasn’t being carefully orchestrated. Still, it wasn’t enough to end this insanity.

I don’t care how other women would handle watching their man fake sex with another woman; I twitched when Jonathan yelled “Action!” yet again.

Ryan’s mouth on her jaw, her lips, grinding her into the bed like he was actually fucking her looked so real that the heartache seared its way up my throat.

It’s pretend. It’s fake.

The sheet covering them slipped and a good sliver of Ryan’s ass was now in full view. No matter how many times I repeated my mantra it still didn’t keep the bile from rising up.

I could see Ryan desperately trying to reach that detached mental space he needed to go to to pull this off. He needed to be “in the zone,” so to speak, where he wasn’t Ryan Christensen anymore. The place where his character persona, Chase Sheffield, took over and deviant actions became inconsequential.

God, could I do this again?
Could I actually be secure enough in my heart and mind to deal with the knowledge that there would be more times like this in my future? More fake love scenes and more intimate touches shared between my lover, my husband-to-be, and random sculpted actresses? Would my eventual marriage become yet another Hollywood divorce?

It’s one thing to be married and trust that your spouse never cheats on you. It’s another when scripted fake make-out sessions are part of his career, and you know with absolute certainty that moments like this will reoccur.

For a brief time I carried this man’s baby in my womb.
If we ever have children, I’m not going to be able to stand here and supervise his pretend sex each and every time. Knowing how easily a moment like this could get way out of hand, leading to a connection with another woman.

One day I’ll be pregnant—large and round, uncomfortable. One day sex won’t be a priority; feeding and caring for an innocent infant will be. Staying home to raise a family with some sense of normalcy will be. Will Ryan be able to control himself and know in no uncertain terms where the lines of acting and cheating are firmly drawn?
So many unanswered questions.

Ryan clasped hands with Nicole, raising their entwined fingers over her head—a move that I thought was reserved for our lovemaking sessions only. The sense of betrayal that came from it pierced into my heart like a hot knife and I had to consciously stop the whimper from breaking free.

Jonathan had called “Cut!” and Ryan and Nicole were listening to him intently. I couldn’t look at Ryan anymore—not in the eyes, anyway. My focus landed on everything else—the towering lights, the black cords snaking across the floor, the black screen blocking shadows from forming, the khaki cargo shorts the boom operator was wearing.

Thousands of movies, thousands of onscreen kisses. Jake Gyllenhaal’s kissed a lot of girls. I love his movies. When he filmed with Anne Hathaway—that sex looked real. They both were this naked, too. And that girl in
Prince of Persia
—Princess what the hell was her name? Jake kissed Heath Ledger, too. Several times. Damn, that was hot. But they were acting. Making a movie for our enjoyment just like this. I wonder if these things are why he split from Reese Witherspoon all those years ago? And after all of this time, he’s still single. Maybe he wanted to—

A firm hand clasped my shoulder, startling me.

“You okay?” Mike asked quietly. His worried expression wasn’t helping.

Damn, how I wished my defiant bottom lip would keep from quivering. I gave him a noncommittal shrug.

“He loves you, you know.”

I bit that traitorous bottom lip of mine hard, trying to find that place in my brain where I could be nonchalant, cool and so
whatever—it’s just another day in the office for him—no biggie
with all of this.

I turned to look up into Mike’s eyes. “I know.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier to watch, though, does it?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “No, it doesn’t.”

Mike sighed. “It’s pretend, Taryn. In this business, actors treat kissing like it’s nothing more than giving someone a handshake,” he said in a hushed voice.

I glanced back at him to see if he was actually serious with that line of made-up bullshit. Somehow I couldn’t equate it so benignly. I kept my voice hushed. “It’s the temptation I worry about, Mike. It’s one thing to admire the apple on the tree. It’s another to take a small taste and tempt yourself with thoughts of what you might be missing.”

“True, but you can’t condemn him for having this be a part of his job. Temptation is all around every one of us, Taryn. Even you are not immune and yet he trusts you.”

I knew I had to learn to deal. It was just a harder concept than I thought, bordering on insurmountable.

“I’m not condemning him, Mike. And I do trust him, but I can tell you that if the situation were reversed, he’d be livid right now.”

Mike scraped a hand over his head.

“Sorry. I’m trying, Mike. Really I am. But I can’t say I’m all right with watching the man I love be so intimate with someone else, fake or not.” I tilted my head in Ryan’s direction. “How would you feel if that were your girlfriend beneath him?”

Mike’s eyes darkened. “I’m not going to lie. I’d probably hate it just as much as you do right now. But I’d also try to remind myself that it takes more than a few hours of filming a fake love scene to build the kind of relationship that you and he have.”

Mike’s penetrating gaze silently shouted,
Think about that one, sweetheart.

Filming halted for a ten-minute break. Ryan was still tying the belt of his robe as he rushed over to me. Silent words passed between him and Mike as he grabbed my hand and hustled me away. We found a private corner and Ryan immediately pulled me into a tight embrace.

His hand held my head to his chest and I couldn’t help but tremble. He kissed my hair and my forehead over and over again.

“At least you get to keep your clothes on in this scene.” I couldn’t stop myself. I was trying so hard to be cool about things, nonchalant and teasingly playful even, but the bitter tone I thought I had under control kept rolling out with my words.

Witnessing a mostly naked Nicole writhe like a wanton whore under my very naked fiancé continued to twist poisonous thoughts around in my head. Ryan didn’t know it, but at 3
A.M.
I slipped out of our bed to have a private crying session in the condo’s kitchen.

Agonizing pain from the paranoia of Hollywood and fame separating us one day squeezed my heart again. Besides John Travolta and Will Smith, I could not think of any other famous couples who stayed together for the long, long haul. Even the best poker players wouldn’t bet on those odds.

Ryan leaned over and gave me a quick kiss after we departed out of wardrobe. He draped an arm over my shoulders. “I like this jealous side of you. Makes me feel wanted.”

He had no idea how close I was to freaking out. “You having fun torturing me? I don’t care what you say. Pretend or not, a kiss is still a kiss, especially those designed to sell
the illusion
for all it’s worth.”

Ryan frowned at me and took my hand. “I told you she tasted awful. There was absolutely nothing about that entire experience that even came close to pleasure.”

Yeah? What happens when the next one doesn’t taste so bad?

Several crew members hustled past us so I kept my voice low. “Well thank
God
for that.” I laughed at the absurdity, trying to cover up how territorial I was feeling with humor.