C Reiss - Spin

“This is Mr. Spinelli,” Arnie said in full agent-smarm. “He rents exotic cars to the business.”

“I know,” I said, cutting off my boss in a way I never would. I immediately caught my faux pas and held out my hand. “We’ve met.”

“Ms. Drazen.” He took my hand, and I felt tingling heat between my legs. “I wanted to say hello before you started.”

“Hello,” I said flatly, releasing his hand but not his gaze, which seemed just as physical.

“Great,” Arnie said. “I’m heading into a meeting.” He shook Ed’s hand, nodded to Antonio, and left.

When the glass door clicked behind him, I spoke. “We’ve got it from here, Ed.” I shot him a look. We were on the same side. I was watching out for him.

As if he understood, he nodded. “Later.” Ed tipped his cap and left.

Only the pull of the air between Antonio and me remained.

“This is flattering,” I said, “but it’s not going to work.”

“You can’t prove they didn’t take care of the cars?”

“Oh, you name it, I can prove it.”

“Good, I wanted the best.”

“You got me instead, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got me.”

“So you say.”

I tried not to smile. That would only encourage him. The last thing the arrogant ass needed was encouragement. “I won’t deny I’m attracted to you. I’m sure I’m not the first. But I’m not a conquest. I don’t like being chased, especially not through the offices of WDE. This is my job, Mr. Spinelli, not a mousehole. You can’t stick your paw in and hope to catch me. I don’t care to mix business with displeasure. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

I reached for the flash drive and envelope, and he stood in my way, getting close enough for me to catch the forested smell of his cologne.

“I could kiss you right now,” he said.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The windows suddenly felt like cameras. I felt the presence of everyone’s eyes as if they were pressure on my skin.

“I will. And you might push me away, but not before you kiss me back. You know it. I know it. And everyone else in this office is going to know it,” he said.

“Don’t.”

“See me then. Let me take you out Thursday night.”

I was relieved. That was the perfect out. “I have plans on Thursday.”

“Cancel them.”

“I can’t. It’s a fundraiser.”

“Catholic Charities?” He raised an eyebrow. If it was at all possible for him to look sexier, he did.

“Yes.” I stood straight. I didn’t want to have to explain it, but I had a compulsion to excuse myself I had to quell.

“Good.” He stood straight. “I was invited to that. We’ll go together.”

“No!”

“So we should see each other another time, then?”

Of course not. We should be together some other never. But I hesitated, and that was my mistake.

“I think I should see you before the fundraiser,” he said, “because I want to go with you and show Daniel Brower what he’s missing.”

“You going to take him out to the parking lot and beat him up for me?”

“He deserves far worse.”

Knowing better than to encourage him, I held up my chin. “I’ll decide what he deserves. Thank you, though.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up Wednesday at eight.”

“I’m busy.”

“I’ll have to kiss you now then.” He stepped forward.

I swallowed because his lips, a step closer to mine, were full and satiny, and more than anything, my mouth wanted to feel them.

“Follow me please,” I said like an automaton.

I brushed past him without waiting for a response, walking out the door and down the hall with the manila envelope in my arm. I nodded to my associates and knew he was behind me from the sense of movement and heat at my back. I slipped into a windowless, empty conference room and closed the door when he entered.

“Mister Spinelli—”

On the way to the closed office, I’d prepared a short speech about respecting my boundaries, but I swallowed every word when those satin lips fell on mine. His kiss was a study in paying attention, reacting to me as I reacted to him with increasing intensity. When his tongue touched mine, I lost myself in desire. His hands stayed on my neck, and I became aware of their power and gentleness.

When I put my hands on him, he moved closer, and with a brush on my thigh, I felt his erection. Oh, to be anywhere else. To explore that rigid dick, to feel it in me while those lips hovered over mine. My legs could barely hold me up when he kissed my neck.

“Wednesday,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath and timbre of his voice as arousing as the touch of his lips.

“You don’t really care about the cars.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m not making it up. I told my friend I’d be on her set after work Wednesday. I can’t ditch her. Friday. We can do Friday.”

“I accept the spirit of your agreement.”

He reached behind me and turned the doorknob. I put my hair in place and thought cold thoughts. He left, and I watched him stride down the carpeted hall. I didn’t move until he was out the office door. I couldn’t believe he left it like that, without setting up a definite time and place for me to be flat on my back. I felt ill at ease as I scooped up the audit materials and headed back to my little window in my little office in my little corner of the Hollywood system.

"You want to fuck her.”

Michael nodded. He and Katrina sat on stools at the counter of a tiny coffee shop she’d rented for the scene with staff all around. I held my clipboard and waited, having been told to stay within Michael’s eyesight.

“Right,” he said.

“You know if you fuck her once, she’s yours.”

This conversation happened as if no one was around. As if there weren’t three gaffers playing with the lights and keys with clothes hangers clipping wires and aligning scrims. As if the assistant camera person wasn’t holding up his little light meter to every color of everything and calling out numbers.

“You have to fuck her,” Katrina said with real urgency. “You’re not getting it.”

“I’m getting it.”

Katrina hauled off and slapped Michael in the face. The sound echoed in the halls and rooms of my brain. I flinched and looked at them. I wasn’t supposed to. That was very personal actor/director business, and everyone else had the good sense to ignore it.

Michael made eye contact with me as it happened.

“That,” she said. “That feeling. Right now.”

“I have it,” he said, putting his hand to his lips as if he wanted to hide his face.

“Good. Get to makeup.” She winked at me as Michael strode off, then she called to the cameraman, “We’re shooting him from the right. Have the stand in mark it.” She walked off, barking more orders, and I marked the change in angle on my clipboard.

We would be filming late, and I girded myself with coffee and the knowledge that helping Katrina, even in the tiny role as part-time script supervisor, would right a great wrong that had been done her.

Michael played the scene, which did not include the woman in question, but her best friend. His character was about to bed her out of spite, like a man on a mission to save his testicles. He was riveting. He seized the scene, the set, the crew, and the mousy character who had no idea what she was getting embroiled in. He put his hands up her skirt as if he owned what was under it, but his character didn’t take an ounce of responsibility for what he was doing.

“Cut!” shouted Katrina.

I noted the shot and take, but only after the scene was fully broken. “There’s your Oscar,” I mumbled to Katrina.

“I just want someone to touch this thing with a ten-footer.” She took my clipboard and flipped through the pages on it. “We never got that last line on page thirty. I think we can ADR it.”

“I think WDE will get behind you. Honestly. As long as you promise not to sue anyone again.”

She made a pfft sound that promised nothing. “Dinner break, everyone!”

A production assistant ran up to me as I tucked my papers away. “There’s a man here asking for you.”

It took me about half a second to figure out who he was. “Dark hair and brown eyes?”

“Yeah. He brought dinner.”

“Of course he brought me dinner.” I had to process that while fixing my hair and straightening my sleeves.

“No,” he said. “He brought everyone dinner. He brought you wine.”

Movie sets that weren’t dependent on sunlight stayed up all day. So though I’d shown up at six p.m. to relieve the other script supervisor, the set had already been up for twelve hours. Because no one left when there was work to be done, meals and snacks were provided to the entire crew. Bigger productions got more services, with above the line crew (actors, director, producers) getting gourmet catering, and below the line crew (camera, grips, gaffe, PA, AD, on and on and on) getting something good but less noteworthy. On Katrina’s set, everyone got the same mediocre food from a truck wedged into the corner of the parking lot. A few long tables with folding chairs took up parking spaces. The day Antonio showed up for dinner, our French fry and burger habit was broken.

He had a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm and wore a grey sports coat with blood red polo. A woman in her sixties stood under his arm as he talked to Katrina. In front of them were four chafing dishes, plates, utensils, and a line of people.

“You do not get to invade my set,” Katrina said, but I saw her eye the food ravenously. It was peasant food—meaty, saucy deliciousness that would satiate everyone for another four or five hours.