27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Emil

Christian was acting cagey this morning when I asked if he wanted to drive together to Elite 8 Studios. He told me he’d meet me here. That he had something to do first.

But he didn’t say what.

I try not to let it worry me, but I’ve never been very successful at not worrying.

“Emil?” a deep voice says, breaking me from my trance.

“Oh. Hey, Trevor.”

“Everything all right?” he asks. Trevor has worked here longer than anyone else. His moniker, Bruiser, comes from the fact that the guy is a beast: big and muscled and almost scary-looking if you didn’t know better. In truth, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“I’m fine,” I assure him, although me standing in the entryway to the studio not moving a muscle probably doesn’t help my case.

I head alongside Trevor into the building.

“Filming today?” I ask him.

He nods. “Breaking in the newest hire, Sean.”

I snort. “Go easy on him.”

Trevor gives me a grin. He isn’t known for going easy on set, but that’s part of his charm.

“Can I ask you something?” I say abruptly.

Trevor stops with me outside the break room. “Of course.”

“You’re married.”

He nods. “Sixteen years now.”

“Do you think… I mean, is it wrong to get off on fucking other men?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I backpedal. “Shit, I didn’t mean to imply there’s something wrong with you , just…”

“Just yourself?” Trevor fills in, apparently seeing right through me. I wince, but he answers me evenly. “I don’t think it’s wrong unless you or your partner feels bad because of it.”

“And…it’s never been a problem for your husband?”

“No,” he says, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Isaac… He can be such a brat. He’ll play at jealousy, don’t get me wrong. But then I come home, rail him over the countertop like he was all but begging me to do, and everything is fine.”

I choke a little.

“I fully believe you can be in this line of work while committing your heart to one person and one person alone,” Trevor says seriously. “Sex and love…they don’t have to go hand in hand. They do, for many. And that’s fine. But there’s nothing wrong with you, Emil, just because you’re not in a purely monogamous relationship.”

“I get off on people watching me,” I admit for the very first time. I’ve never told any of my coworkers that. “I crave it. I don’t want to stop.”

Trevor doesn’t look particularly surprised by my admission. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you found someone who enjoys it with you, huh?”

I let out a breath. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

He clasps my shoulder gently, squeezing once before letting go. “Don’t let other people’s opinions bother you, Emil. That way lies unhappiness. I’d rather be happy, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. I would.”

Trevor nods. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

Trevor gives me a smile before continuing on into the break room. I walk past to the locker room, setting my bookbag down once inside. It’s quiet at the moment, although I know it won’t stay that way for long. There’s always activity in the studio. People coming and going. Sex happening inside these walls. I suppose, if I cared what people thought, I’d never be in this business in the first place.

“Christian likes you the way you are,” I remind myself, trying to soothe the old, flaring insecurities that are trying to tell me something’s wrong. That Christian is pulling away or… No . I stop that line of thinking. Nothing’s wrong. Everything with Christian is fine. Easy , even. “Because we fit.”

We do.

His exhibitionist , that’s what he calls me. And he’s my beautiful voyeur.

My lips twist into a smile, but even so, I make a note to check in with my therapist to hash out some of these swirling insecurities before I self-sabotage the best thing to happen to me in…maybe ever.

“Fucking self-awareness,” I mutter, plunking down onto the bench seat in front of my locker. The door swings open not a second later.

“There you are,” comes a voice I’m intimately familiar with.

I spin in my seat, pulse hitching when I spot Christian. “ Holy . Um…what, uh…”

Christian lets the door close behind him, a little smirk on his face as he walks forward. There’s a trench coat tied loosely around his body, the bottom hem ending near his knees. Nothing innocent is ever hidden away underneath a trench coat.

“Christian?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry.

He stops a dozen feet or so in front of me, his legs bare apart from the cute black shoes on his feet. Ballet flats, I think. “I have a surprise for you,” he says.

“Shit,” I mutter, feeling my heart thump wildly in my chest. “Arrhythmia.”

“What?” he asks, head cocked to the side as his hands toy with the belt near his waist.

“Uh… I had this theory that you were giving me an arrhythmia.”

“And?” Christian asks, lips quirking. “Any conclusions?”

“Data points to yes.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Should I keep the coat on, then?”

“Fuck no.”

Christian chuckles, and without hesitation, he lets the trench coat slip off his arms. It pools on the floor behind him as Christian, my gorgeous-as-fuck boyfriend, this man who’s sweet and supportive and perfectly filthy, stands in a multicolored tutu and nothing else. Well, nothing except for his shoes and the dainty silver chain around his stomach.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

He raises his arms above his head, the extension making him look longer and leaner than normal, and then he spins ever so slowly, legs crossing in the process. He bends toward the floor, and I nearly have a heart attack.

“You…” I manage.

“Told you I’d wear a tutu for you, Specs. Made this one the other night. Do you like it?” he asks, standing slowly upright and then dropping his head back and to the side, neck arched as he looks at me over his shoulder.

I suck in a steadying breath, my chest feeling too warm, too tight, my eyes pricking for no discernable reason, and I say the only thing I can.

“I fucking love you.”

Christian freezes, his body going rigid as his eyes widen. It takes me a second to realize what fell out of my mouth.

Shit . “I…”

“Specs,” Christian says, dropping his arms and spinning toward me.

“I—” Fuck . “I needa take a shower.”

I hop up, all but sprinting toward the showers as Christian’s, “Emil,” follows me. I jump into a stall and pull the curtain closed, my heart pounding, my hand shaking as I twist the shower on. Christian comes to a stop on the other side of the curtain, his form a dark shadow. “Do you need your bathroom stuff?”

Crap . “Um, yeah. Please.”

Christian disappears, and a minute later, he returns, handing my toiletries bag over through a gap in the curtain.

“When you’re done in there,” he says evenly, “there’s something I want to say. But I’m not going to do it through a shower curtain.”

My heart beats fast, and I curse the words I let slip as I tug off my clothes. I dump them over the top of the curtain, and they fall with a thump.

“I know what you’re doing,” Christian says, sounding serious yet almost amused. “Just so you’re aware.”

“Um…” I mumble, letting the shower drench me. My glasses fog quickly. “I, uh…”

“And the only reason I’m not following you in there is because we go on set in five minutes. And I don’t have time to dry your hair and my own.”

I mutter another, “Shit,” making quick work of shampooing my hair that most definitely didn’t need to be washed.

“You okay?” Christian asks.

No .

“Of course,” I squeak.

Christian simply hums. “I’ll grab you a towel.”

He disappears again, and I rinse my hair. I give my body a quick pass before turning off the water.

When I pull the curtain aside, Christian is standing there, still in his tutu, looking like a gorgeous wet dream, whereas I likely look like a drowned rat. I avoid eye contact as I pluck the towel from his hand and dry myself off in record time. Christian gives my arm a tug as soon as I’m done, and I let him pull me over to the mirrors. He plugs in a blow dryer and sets to work on my hair, fingers drifting through the strands as I clear the water off my glasses.

My eyes catch his once in the reflection, but I look quickly away.

As soon as the blow dryer shuts off, I grab my clothes and round the bank of lockers. I redress as Christian follows me.

“Specs.”

“We’re gonna be late,” I say, fixing my glasses as my heart does its best to drown everything else out.

“It’ll be fine,” he says calmly.

I shake my head, not wanting to get in trouble with Jerome but mostly not wanting to hear whatever it is Christian needs to say. I don’t want him to tell me he doesn’t feel the same. That it’s too much, too fast.

Why did I think it would be a good idea to date a coworker? How am I supposed to work with Christian if we break up? I can’t do… whatever this is before our scene.

I head for the door, and Christian makes a sound behind me. “ Specs .”

I’m halfway down the hall when he catches up.

“Stop running,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Just… stop for a second.”

“Can’t,” I say, heading for Studio 3. “We have to get on set.”

“Jerome will understand if we’re a minute late,” he says, walking briskly beside me.

“I can’t do this,” I get out, my voice nearly breaking. “I just can’t, okay? Don’t make me do this right now, Christian. Please .”

He lets go of my arm, and I heave out a breath, opening the studio door. Christian follows me through without a word, and when Jerome catches sight of us, there’s relief on his face.

“Cutting it close, gentlemen,” our boss says, waving us on set. I hastily scoot onto the bed, my pulse racing, my stomach feeling hollow.

“Sorry,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair to straighten the strands.

“Holy shit,” I hear Marco say. “That skirt is sick.”

Christian huffs a laugh. “Thanks. Made it by special request.”

“You made that?” our boom operator says, sounding impressed. “Damn. Think you might be able to make one for my niece? She loves ballet.”

“Absolutely,” Christian replies, his weight settling beside me on the bed. I keep my head down. “I’d be happy to. Just let me know her size.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Marco says. “I’ll pay you, of course.”

“If we could,” Jerome says loudly. “We’re a minute out. Quiet on the set.”

The crew shuffles around us, getting into place. Christian’s hand brushes mine, but I keep my gaze resolutely on the bedspread near my knee.

“Emil,” he says softly.

I hum.

He puffs out a tiny breath. “Are you okay to do a scene today?”

“Of course,” I say quickly.

He makes an unhappy sound. “You don’t seem okay.”

“It’s fine,” I murmur, doing my best to keep our conversation private. “I can still do my job.”

“Specs, I—”

“Ten seconds,” Jerome cuts in, his hands counting us down. Christian quiets, but his fingers curl around my own.

As Jerome’s hand falls away, the camera lights up red.

“Hey, everyone,” Christian says, his greeting lacking its usual cheer. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the tablet scrolling furiously with text, and it takes me a second to realize why. Christian’s tutu . He chuckles softly. “Thanks, do you like it? I made it for someone special.”

His fingers tighten against mine.

“Unfortunately,” Christian says slowly, “that someone can barely look at me right now.”

My heart thumps, a big, forceful thing. I meet Christian’s gaze slowly, and his eyes, tightened as they were, soften.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” I manage.

Christian aims a smile at the camera, taking in a deep breath. But then he shakes his head. “I, uh… Shit.”

His eyes meet mine again, so very dark, so very troubled, and he says four words you never want to hear during live production.

“I can’t do this.”

My heart sinks.

Oh no.