“According to online polls, you guys are finalists as the hottest couple on TV. The fans love you. They’ve even started Instagram accounts dedicated to only pictures of the both of you.” She’s quick to smile, as if it’s some sort of compliment.
Wes places his arm around me, pulling my body closer while planting a kiss on my neck. I am all for affection in private, but dislike it when he purposely does it in interviews. Something he has been doing more of in front of the camera and less in the bedroom. Perhaps that is what’s causing this crabby, irritable mood. I need to get laid.
Blame it on busy schedules, back-to-back filming or the fact that George claimed the middle of our bed as his territory. Either way, it is causing major friction in our relationship.
“Wesley is a very affectionate guy. We’re flattered that our fans take time out to praise our relationship,” I answer in a confident tone.
Lies . . . more lies.
She asks a couple more routine questions before wrapping up the interview. When she leaves the area, Wes takes the opportunity to slide his hand along my thigh and into the slit of my dress. Attempting to push him away, I scan our surroundings to make sure no one is watching. Someone is always watching us.
“Let me finger you, you know you love it,” he begs, tempting me with his eyes.
I squeeze my legs tight, ignoring the sensations building. “Can’t you wait? Seriously, they’ll be back any minute now.”
Wes ignores my comment, pressing further on the base of my clit until we’re interrupted by one of the assistants carrying two bottles of water. She spots his hand buried between my thighs, turning her red face in the opposite direction and almost crashing into the camera.
“I’m sorry . . .” she stammers while eyeing the ground.
Wes snickers, retracting his hand with a satisfied smirk. Annoyed at his childish behavior, I offer her a genuine smile ignoring the voices warning me this would end up in the headlines like everything else.
The camera crew closely follow with the interviewer at their heels. Great—Hot Gossip magazine. I despise this group. You could say the sky was blue and somehow, they would capture that quote and make you a homewrecking whore sleeping with Will Smith.
I manage to put on a smile as Wesley tilts his head towards me and carefully moves his fingers across his nostrils. Breathing slowly against my ear, he whispers, “I can smell you on me. When this is over . . . you’re mine.”
Wesley Rich has a way with words. He also has a way with using them in the bedroom. I disguise my grin by covering my mouth and letting out a small cough. Knowing that he is suffering from lack of sex makes me feel better.
I place my hand on his, keeping it on his lap as the magazine starts interrogating our lives. We had our answers down pat, having done this hundreds of tim
es. To add to this, we often prepped our answers to avoid being caught out. We are professionals. To the world, we are reality stars off the hit TV show, but to us, we are actors. Actors that happened to fall in love while filming.
An hour passed and finally, we are done. Removing our microphones, Wes hops off the stool and pulls his cell out of his pocket the same time I do. There’s a dozen notifications but the only one that catches my eye is the text from my mom.
Big news kiddo. Call me when you’re free.
I love my mom, but she is the most annoying woman to walk this planet when she vague-texts me, which is something she does often to prompt a phone call.
“I’m going to call my mom,” I tell Wes. “I’ll meet you outside?”
He nods, head buried in his cell, typing profusely and barely acknowledging my presence.
I wander towards the exit, smiling politely as I pass the crew. There are a few younger kids hanging around that stop and ask me for a selfie. I happily oblige, though desperate to find out what the big news is.
At the end of the hall is a small conference room which I slip into, closing the door behind me. I hit dial on mom’s number and wait impatiently for her to answer.
“Kid, can I call you back? I’m just in the middle of writing this complicated scene and my characters are screaming at me,” she says in one breath.
“Uh, no,” I argue back. “You don’t just vague-text me and leave me hanging. Hand your characters a Xanax and tell them to chill out.”
Mom laughs, letting out a sigh. It’s the same sigh she often lets out when caught in the middle of a deadline and brought back into reality.
“Okay, you have my attention.”
“Mom!” I yell in frustration. “What’s the big news?”
“Your brother will be in town tomorrow. He has some news and has asked if you can come home.”
My brother, Ashley, hasn’t been home since last year, busy with his own life and career. This proved a point—as his twin sister, we do not have the ESP thing going on. The last text he sent me was yesterday and it was a picture of his injured foot which completely grossed me out.