“Jesus, that was fast,” Des says, wringing her hair out. “That came out of nowhere.”
I rub my hand over my short, spiked black hair. “No kidding. Sunny one minute, pouring down the next.”
How the hell can I be expected to have dinner with this girl now? She’s soaking wet, her shirt plastered to her skin, outlining the cups of her bra and the flat of her stomach and the curves of her back. I can see the erect nubs of her nipples poking through the fabric of her shirt and bra.
I’m wet too, though, and my shirt is a plain white undershirt. And now that it’s wet, the thin cotton is basically see-through. And yeah, being an athlete and an action-movie star, I’m expected to be in top shape, especially during filming. And I am. I spend hours at the gym every day to retain the bulky physique the producers expect for my role, which is a renegade roughneck superhero. Kind of like Wolverine meets Batman. He’s dark and brooding. He wants nothing to do with his superpowers, though, and avoids using them, until events conspire to force him into action. In the graphic novel on which the movie is based, my character is drawn to be impossibly proportioned, even more so than most superheroes, and when the film people started casting, they knew they had to find someone who was capable of achieving the level of bulk needed to fill the role. The Rock could have played it, but he’s older than they were looking for, and too well known. They wanted a relative unknown, someone who’d done enough acting to pull off the lead role, but not famous enough to be immediately recognizable on a household level.
That’s where I came in. Marek in Fulcrum was my breakout role, but I’d had supporting actor roles here and there, enough to establish my chops. And I’m naturally big enough that with the right regimen and training, I could bulk up enough to fill the massive profile the character demanded. Which meant that, at the moment, I’m bulked out to the max. Even in my one season with the San Diego Chargers I wasn’t this shredded, and with my T-shirt soaked through I might as well be shirtless.
Des is eyeing me pretty openly as she wipes the moisture from her face with a stack of bar napkins. “Good thing I just took a shower,” she says.
“Good thing for you you’re not wearing this shirt,” I joke, plucking at the sopping, translucent fabric.
“You probably wish I was, though,” Des says, and slides onto a barstool.
“Damn right I do.” I slip onto a stool beside her and try to keep my eyes north of her shoulders.
A slightly awkward silence then, as she probably wonders what I’m expecting from her, and I’m wondering what the hell it is I think I’m doing. The last thing I need right now is a distraction, or media attention. Gareth, the director, and Parker, the head executive producer, have both been adamant that everyone attached to the project keep media exposure to a minimum. We’re shooting the long-awaited and highly anticipated sequel to Fulcrum, which means I’m reprising my role as Marek. Everyone from the big magazines to minor blogs is speculating about who’s in the movie, where the plot is going to go, all the usual chatter. But because it’s been more than three years since the original, and since Gareth, Parker, and I were all vocal about the impossibility of a sequel, the rumor mill is running on all eight cylinders. Which means media attention of any kind has an effect on the shoot, and could lead to possible leaks.
And apart from the need to keep myself out of the media professionally, I’m in no position to get into anything. After what happened with Em and the shit-storm that engendered, the last thing I need is to be photographed with some other girl. Especially, both of us soaking wet, on what’s supposed to be a fundraiser weekend.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I jumped off that carriage, why I’m here with her, why I’m so intrigued by her, why her tough-girl persona has me twisted and heated and hungry.
I just don’t know.
And I have no idea what’s going to happen or what I expect from her.
“So tell me about yourself, Des,” I say, to distract myself from the internal self-questioning.
She shrugs. “I’m a college student, here for the summer on a co-op program. This is my fifth year here on the island.”
“Major?” I ask her, and then turn to the bartender, who has stopped in front of us to get our orders. “I’ll have a Sam Adams and whatever she wants.”
“Usual, Des?” the bartender asks. Des nods, and the bartender slides me my Sam Adams, and then pours a vodka tonic, setting it in front of Des.
“You have a usual here?” I ask.
Des nods and shrugs. “Sure. I’m here after work a lot. Probably more than I should be, but there’s not much else to do in the evening, you know?” She sips at her drink and then sets it down. “I’m majoring in social work, with a focus on foster care.”
“Foster care, huh?”
“Yep.” She keeps her gaze on the TV screen in the corner and sips at her drink, her posture closed and tensed. Clearly, that subject is off the table.
“So you’ve been coming here for five years?”
She opens a little at that. “Yeah. I came here the summer I graduated high school. I’d already been accepted to Wayne State at that point, and my counselor at the high school suggested I do the summer co-op program. She knew the program liaison at Wayne, so she got me in before I’d technically started college. Been coming back every year.”
“Just for the summer work, or what? What keeps you coming back?”
She answers right away. “I don’t know. A lot of things. It’s a good way to save up money for the school year. It’s good work experience, looks good on a résumé. It gets me away from Metro Detroit for a few months every summer. Plus, I just like it here. The horses, the atmosphere, the tourists. It’s just so fun and different. My best friend Ruth comes here with me every year, and it’s just kind of what we do.” She glances at me. “What about you? What brings you to little old Mackinac Island?”
“There’s a fundraiser dinner at the Grand Hotel tomorrow night. It’s a big deal. Couple grand per plate, silent auction, red carpet, and photographers and the works.” My head aches just talking about it.
Des must hear something in my voice. “You don’t sound all that excited.”
I shake my head. “I’m not.”
She stares at me in disbelief. “Why the hell not? That sounds like fun!”