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Yeah, I may have gone to a few frat parties and drank like tomorrow didn’t exist, but for most of the part, I kept to myself with the goal of finishing my major, sober.
My attention’s brought back to Donna Mack, the slutty reporter showing way too much leg who Wesley’s pretending to ignore. “According to online polls, you guys are finalists as the hottest couple on television. 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 she’s just dished out 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’s been doing more of in front of the camera and less in the bedroom.
Perhaps that’s 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’s causing significant friction in our relationship.
“Wesley’s a very affectionate guy. We’re flattered 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’s 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.”
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 floor.
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 will 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 is blue, and somehow they will capture that quote and make you a home-wrecking whore sleeping with Will Smith. Go figure!
I manage to put on a smile as Wesley tilts his head toward 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 he’s 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 have our answers down pat, having done this hundreds of times. To add to this, we often prepped our answers to avoid being caught out. We are professionals. To the world, we are reality stars of the hit television show, but to us we are actors. Actors that happened to fall in love while filming.
An hour passes, and finally, we’re 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 which catches my eye is the text from my mom.
Mom: Big news, kiddo. Call me when you’re free.
I love my mom, but she’s 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’l
l meet you outside?”
He nods, his head buried in his cell while typing quickly and barely acknowledging my presence.
I wander toward 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, there’s 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.”
