Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lennox

I'm completely in my head on the walk over to the Belmont. Reed's behind me, next to Jamie. They've been going over Reed's character, talking about the scenes and the blocking. It's like he's one of us now .

It's not until we're at the wrought iron gate that I look up and think, shit . We're really going back in there.

I knew that was the focus of the vote and the conversation at Randy's, and I even voted to go back in, but staring at the Belmont, the busted and boarded windows, the vine latched to the side, a slip of cold zips down my spine, the hair on my arms rising. The seven-story hotel looms, twice as macabre and horrifying in the rainy mist, the sandstone bricks a murky brown. The sun that was attempting to pierce through the gloom has set now.

I swallow as we walk through the courtyard, our voices automatically quieting. Up the steps and into the lobby, it's that same musty smell.

Our flashlights sweep over the dilapidated remains, and into the hallways, shrouded by the depth of the quiet darkness. I can almost feel the brush of wombat fur against my jeans, hear the flutter of bat wings between the lull of our conversations and the off and on patter of rain as Jamie goes over our plan and instruction for night two of filming.

"We've got to try and make up time," Jamie whispers to me. "We need to reshoot almost everything. See what we can do, considering that Reed hasn't had time to read any lines."

I eye him. "Are you reconsidering your choice?"

Do I hope he's reconsidering? I'm not sure.

Obviously, I don't want to lock anyone out. It's just that Reed being here—permanently—complicates things for me. I don't even know how I fucking feel about him.

Other than "complicated".

Jamie keeps his voice low. "Not at all. He's perfect for what I have in mind."

My curiosity sparks. "Which is?"

He smiles and tugs down on Willis. "You'll see. Get him in your chair before the others. That will give him some time to acclimate before we start."

"Usual guy makeup?" I ask. Fuck, I don't know if I want to do this. I sweep back my hair again, my fingers tingling at the thought of him in my chair. So close to him. Looking at every detail.

Jamie nods. "Make him look like the hot jock he already is. Even more so if you can."

How the fuck would I make him hotter? I honestly can't think of a way.

"What about wardrobe?" I ask.

Jamie shrugs a shoulder. "I actually asked him about that when we were packing up. What he's wearing is fine for his character. And he said he's okay with it getting torn and dirty over the next few weeks."

So, he's going to be wearing those dark gray joggers, that hug his thighs, repeatedly then.

Great.

"His hat too?"

"Yep." Jamie grins. "I like the BU hat. I like it all."

Shit.

"Alright," I say dryly. If my brother notices my tone, he doesn't respond. He's got too much on his agenda, anyway. Organizing all of us is like organizing a bunch of walruses. Which, I know nothing about organizing walruses, but it seems like a unique challenge.

And so, before I can fully adapt to the thought of this switch from Jonas to Reed, Jamie sends up ahead to get set up in the library, and I'm standing with Reed at the intersection of the lobby and hallway, our flashlights darting over the frayed red carpet and the sconces on the walls.

"So, we're back," he says in that voice of his, somehow both deeply masculine and soft, his jaw tensing as stares ahead. "And it's all still all the same. Maybe I should have thought more about this before volunteering."

I take the first step into the hallway, over the transition from marble to carpet. "Why did you volunteer?"

His flashlight melds with mine, dead center in the hallway. "I have my reasons."

"Nebulous answer."

He pulls the cart behind him. "Do you always have to push me?"

"That's not really pushing you." I swing my light into an open doorway. "It was just an observation." We keep moving. All the hairs on the back of my neck are lifted, my stomach hardening with each step. "It probably only bothered you because you don't like to answer questions about yourself."

"Do you ?" he tosses back at me, in a rather cavalier way.

"Like to answer questions about myself?" I lick my lips, the taste of the rain still there, muted by dust now. "It depends who's asking. And what the questions are."

We pause at an open doorway, Reed shining his light in while I keep mine trained on the hallway, both of us falling silent to listen. The ceiling above us creaks, and my light darts up, my chest tightening. It could be the others. Jamie could be checking out the next location for filming. Or maybe it's just the building settling.

Or maybe it's something else entirely.

Fuck, I don't know.

Reed's light swings from the open doorway back to the hallway, a flicker of dust falling as our beams cross.

He keeps the cart close to him. "Do you think the wombat's still here?"

"I'd guess so? Why would it leave?"

We continue forward. We're moving faster than the first time, checking in the open doors rhythmically.

"Okay, I have one," Reed says after a moment.

"One what?"

"A question for you."

My jaw sets because I've been asked a variety of intrusive questions over my life. Some with good intentions. Some not.

Does Reed know I'm trans? I sort over our past conversations. I don't know.

I'm fucking proud of being trans.

But I'm also under no obligation to tell my friend's boyfriend about my medical history.

And certainly no obligation to do it now. Alone in a darkened hallway, with my heart already up in my throat, my shoulders already tight.

Like how I told Archer.

"Go ahead," I say, keeping my eyes on the hallway. The odd stack of library books comes into view. "But I can't promise I'll answer."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him lick his lips, his face in the shadow of his flashlight. That beautiful fucking jawline of his moves as he asks his question.

"When did you first start drawing?"

I laugh softly. "I didn't expect that."

"What did you expect?"

"I'm not sure, but that's something I'll always talk about. I remember always drawing. There was never a ‘before'. But it was around ten or eleven when I got obsessed with it."

He pauses, glancing over at me. "Why did you get obsessed?"

I keep going forward, letting out a soft breath, and imagining the dust that I can't see, the specks close to my face, fluttering with it. "I get lost in another world."

He stays with me. "I can see that."

I frown. "Why do you say that?"

"Stepping into your room, I got that feeling. Your room is…" He tilts his head, the brim of his hat blocking most of his face. "Interesting."

"I'll take that as a compliment?"

"It was one."

"When I was younger," I say, not fully sure why I'm telling him this, "I had some trouble relating to myself. Sometimes it was more comfortable to exist somewhere else."

He's quiet for half a minute, our shoes shuffling on the carpeting as we press forward. A wheel on the cart must catch because he turns and tugs on it, the contents of the boxes rattling as it's pulled loose.

The library doors come into view under the sweep of our flashlight, and I sigh.

Honestly, I don't know if this wombat scares me less or more considering we haven't seen it since the first time. Like it's lingering in the dark, watching, waiting for its moment. Maybe it has nefarious plans.

More than likely, it's just a scared animal who doesn't want humans invading its home.

But my anxiety seems to be sticking with nefarious plans.

Reed's light moves to the ceiling, above the library doors, taking in the crown molding and exposed wood. "I used to draw."

I stop. "Do you still?" I'm so fucking curious . What's his style? His inspiration? His vision?

"I haven't for years." He stops by the doors, turning back to me. "My brother always told me I was shit at it."

I peer at him. "That's a fucked up thing to say."

"Sometimes brothers say fucked up things."

Jamie doesn't .

I center my light on his stomach, lighting up the bottom half of his chin. "How old were you when he said shit like that?"

We're paused in front of the closed doors, neither of us reaching toward the handle, the dark hallway behind us, with whatever is hidden behind all those doors, but my attention is dialed in on him.

I can only see the lower portion of his face, the shadow of his hat over his eyes.

"Middle school. High school. I don't know."

A bitter taste fills my mouth. "It's not true."

"You've never seen what I draw."

"I don't have to. Art doesn't work like that." My shoulders are rigid, my annoyance with this person I've never met rising. "Yes, there's stuff to learn, skills to work on. But no one gets to say if one's art is shit or not. My guess is that your brother was responding to something in himself rather than anything you drew."

His lips press. "It wasn't that big of a deal."

I blink. Is he minimizing this for himself?

"Then why are you thinking about it?" I ask him.

"I don't know." He pulls in a breath. "I just was." He reaches for the handle. "Are you ready?"

"I suppose."

He pushes down on the handle, and the door swings inward. I raise my flashlight to sweep inside, my breath halting, my toes pressing into my shoes. It's all as we left it, the tables pushed into the center, the stacks of books on the shelves, spines dusty and faded.

We step inside. The sound of rain is louder, echoing off the skylight. The smell is less dense than last time. Did we leave a window open? I don't remember Reed closing them.

I step to the side, holding the door as he pulls the cart inside.

We start toward the center. "Did anyone encourage you?"

"With art?"

"Or life in general." I tip my head back to take in the skylight, the sky pitch black with clouds.

"I had a coach in college." He stops the cart by the tables and then sets his phone down, the light darting straight up. "Coach Ruckford."

I pause next to him, my light playing over the boxes on the cart. "And before that?"

"Not much." He starts stacking the boxes next to the tables, which I'd done yesterday.

"Coaches didn't care much. Water polo isn't exactly a big sport in the Midwest. I couldn't wait to play in college."

"Where did you grow up?"

"Outside of Cincinnati."

I flip the top of the first box and pull out the lights. "Don't think I'm a complete idiot when it comes to geography, but that's in Ohio, right?"

"Yeah." He laughs, taking the lights from me before setting them on the table like they were last night. He must have really been paying attention. "Where did you grow up?"

"A place called Pittsfield." I move on to sorting the rest of the stuff while he flips on the batteries, light welling into the room. "It's as exciting as it sounds."

"I have no idea where that is."

The tall makeup chair is next. I set it up, then reach for my kit. "Pretty much straight down I-90. Other side of Massachusetts." I unroll it on the table, then get to sorting brushes and product, then nod to a box. "Can you pull everything in that one out and set it on that far table?"

He nods. "I have a roommate from somewhere out there."

"My sympathies to them."

He laughs. "That bad?"

I pause, my fingers hanging over my kit. "I mean, no. Maybe not. It depends on a lot, doesn't it?"

"Depends on what?" He sets things out carefully.

"Do you want me to go into a whole diatribe about my life growing up?"

"Sure, why not."

"Maybe later." I check the time on my phone. "We should get you into makeup."

His lip slides up. "Avoiding the conversation?"

"I'm just as capable of that as you." I gesture to the chair. "Have you ever had someone do your makeup?"

"Nope."

"Not even for Halloween?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"Is it a problem?"

"Not at all."

I step back as he sits, his long legs allowing his feet to stay on the floor, unlike anyone else who has ever been in this chair. "It's just a bit of smoothing. If I do my job right, you'll hardly notice."

"I'm in your hands," he says softly.

I'm taller than him, but not by much. His eyes stay on my face as I take a moment to study him. I focus on the details, the slight roughness to his skin, the shape of that jaw. I've got a lineup of brushes set out, primer and concealer and whatever else I might need.

I don't reach for them.

I should be. But I'm standing there, not entirely frozen, just standing there—looking at him. I'm not sure why this is freaking me out so much. It's just a face. Just skin.

"Is there a problem?" He swallows, looking like he's genuinely concerned.

"No," I say quickly. "Your skin is a little dry. I bet the chlorine dries it out."

"Yeah, I put lotion on it."

"What brand?"

He shrugs. "Whatever's on sale at the grocery store."

I'm mildly horrified.

Although not really surprised.

"I can give you some recommendations if you want." I brush my fingertips along the rise of his cheekbone, feeling the slight dryness, the structure of the bone underneath.

He's watching me. Cool brown eves steady on my face. "I do one of those charcoal masks that's supposed to suck shit out of your pores."

"Does it irritate your skin?"

"No."

I focus on what I need, grabbing some moisturizer and squeezing out a dollop on my index finger. I lean in, smoothing it over one cheekbone and then the other, before rising up toward his forehead. "Can you take off your hat?"

He slips it off and settles it on his knee before resting his hands on his thighs, fingers tapping.

He doesn't look relaxed.

He looks the opposite of relaxed.

I guess I'm there with him.

I finish moisturizing, touching lightly, maintaining my even breath, my focus on what I'm supposed to be doing. I use a touch of foundation and concealer, but he doesn't need much. It only takes three or four minutes.

Reed watches me the entire time. Usually, people don't watch me. They close their eyes or un-focus them, only glancing at me at intervals. But Reed watches my face as I steadily work. He's hardly moving, just breathing, his fingers stilling on his thighs, the library hushed and dark around us.

He finally straightens when I lean in with a brow brush.

"What's that?"

"For your eyebrows. Just darkening them."

"They need to be darkened?"

"Just the contrast for the camera."

He nods, watching my hand as I approach. I'm careful, a smooth sweep of the brush. I'm bending so that I'm looking at him from straight on. His legs spread another inch. Far enough I could step forward between them. My eyes automatically flick down to make sure I'm not crowding him, his joggers tight on his thighs, the fabric pooched between his legs. Jesus.

His chest stops moving.

I focus on the other brow. That rise of fabric between his legs is not something I need to notice. And I'm totally not still thinking about it.

I groom carefully. "You don't need to hold your breath."

"I'm not."

"If you say so. I'm almost done." I make a small adjustment to his left eyebrow. "Just some lip gloss." I twist back to my kit. "How do you feel?"

His throat moves as he swallows, and his breathing resumes. "Honestly?"

"No, I want you to lie to me." I toss at him sarcastically. When he wrinkles his nose, I add. "Yes, honestly . I appreciate the truth."

"This feels like a big production. And I'm not sure about the lip gloss."

"It's really not a big production." I retrieve some lip gloss. "It's just us. I'm sure your water polo games have more consequence. At least with this, we can just do another take. And the lip gloss is nearly matte. It's just going to give your lips a bit more depth."

"Yeah, but…" His eyes narrow. "Aren't I supposed to memorize lines and shit?"

"We'll help you through that. Besides… there's not much dialogue in this first part." He does know what this first part is, right? I mean, he was there yesterday when Indy and Jonas were filming. "You know what this first one is, right?"

His jaw tightens. "Yeah, I kinda saw it last time."

I roll my shoulders, cramping from leaning forward over the last few minutes. "I suppose it's pretty awkward to have that be your acting debut."

"I'll survive."

I unscrew the cap of the lip gloss. "You'll do great. It's not as if you haven't kissed Indy before."

He stiffens, his knee bouncing once. "Sure."

I hesitate, lip gloss raised. "You have."

Why am I telling him that he has?

But… hasn't he? Haven't they ? It's not like we're in elementary school here.

He nods at the lip gloss. "Might as well put that stuff on. Give me some depth."

I feel my lips rise. "Pretty sure you already have depth, Reed. Loosen your lips."

"I'll try."

He leans forward, and I smooth on the clear gloss, his eyes moving up to mine as I work and staying there until I lean back.

His hands rest on his thighs. "This is the longest we've gone without arguing."

"You think what we do is arguing?"

He looks up at me, his tongue grazing over his bottom lip, shiny from the gloss. "I don't know, Lennox. Is it?"