Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Easy.
Totally doable.
As soon as Blake’s done with me, all of this will go away anyway. I give it to the end of filming, tops.
Chapter Nineteen
Blake
I don’t know how Jordan can be so cavalier about this, and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to truly empathize with what Harley and Ryder went through for years. Apparently, I’m one of those assholes who need to experience the homophobic undertones of this industry before I can truly relate to it.
Jordan’s okay with keeping us on the DL but then says it’s too risky to meet up, so for days after our talk with our management teams, we show up to set, we say our lines, we get scenes done, and then we part ways as if we aren’t even friends.
The crew is more confused than ever, Ben is manically grinning at us like he knows it was all an act and we were never really together, and all I can think is … I shouldn’t be letting this happen.
Jordan thinks this will all be over in a few weeks, but I was too scared to ask whether he meant us, the media shitshow about it, or the movie.
I should have told Jordan that this isn’t a random fling for me and that I’m having feelings I haven’t experienced since I was a teenager. Maybe not even then.
When I think about Jordan, I get butterflies. Freaking gut-turning, nervous excitement. I’m not a butterflies kind of guy. I don’t do feelings. Not because I’m against having them. The reason I haven’t had a proper relationship isn’t because I hate them. I’ve never met someone who’s caught my attention like Jordan has.
But he’s convinced it’s all temporary, our management teams tell us it’s career suicide, and I’m sitting back and doing as I’m told, even though it hurts inside.
It’s already starting to wear me down.
I arrive to set early for another day of shooting because I left my script—updated again—in my trailer last night, and I don’t know my lines, but as soon as I get to the studio, the usual stares follow me.
Considering I was part of the biggest boy band on the planet and moved on to become an action hero, it’s surprising that this is the first time I’ve had a major scandal about me.
Sure, there had been rumors in the past—we’ve all had them. One of us died, one of us had a ridiculous diva rider, we were hard to work with, but they all melted away to nothing because they were nothing.
I’ve never had anything this big.
It’s probably because the other guys in Eleven were more popular than I was, and they were always more dramatic than me. I’m the quiet, private one.
Maybe Jordan was right and mid-list fame is the sweet spot, where scandals are small and jobs are constant.
A production assistant approaches me and asks if I need anything, and I bark, “Coffee,” at her like some dictator. Her face falls, and then a small line appears above her brow.
I slump and stop walking because I’m not this guy. I don’t shout orders at people. I’m not Ben. “Sorry. Rough morning. Could you please bring a cup of coffee to my trailer?”
She scrambles away.
I arrive at my trailer, grab the script off the table, and then throw myself on the bed in the back and start reading through today’s scenes.
Aww, fuck. It’s the scene where the two characters bare their souls and admit they like each other and want to keep seeing each other, even though Madden no longer needs a fake boyfriend.
“I want this to be real,” I say.
Relatability for the win. It won’t be much of a stretch to get into Madden’s head today.
I read over the words and let them sink in, praying they’ll stick for when I need them.
There’s a knock on my door, and I tell them to come in, assuming it’s my coffee, but when I look up, Jordan’s standing there, cup in hand and a small smile on his face.
“Word has it you yelled at a poor PA to get you this.” He holds up the drink.
“I apologized right after.”
“Yeah, but you don’t yell. At anyone.”
“I’m tired.”
“Not sleeping well?”
Or at all, really. “Not so much.”
“You look like you’re wound tight.” Jordan puts my drink down, out of reach.
“You’re not going to give me that?”
“I’m going to give you something else.”
I hope he meant that to sound as dirty as I heard it.
Jordan steps closer. “Do you know how many times I’ve gotten in my car to drive to Denver’s house so I can see you?”
My stomach flips, and when Jordan reaches back and takes off his shirt, my cock tents in my sweats. “Why haven’t you?”
“At first …” He reaches for my ankles and pulls me down so my legs hang off the bed. “I was trying to wait until the media circus died down. They don’t seem to know where you’re staying, which is good, but I have a few eager fuckheads hanging by my apartment building waiting for me to make a move.”