13
Three and a half years ago
The Deadline announcement had dropped at dawn, the only thing anyone on set had been able to talk about all morning. Shane shouldn’t have been surprised Lilah hadn’t told him herself. They hadn’t spoken an unscripted word in months.
Still, when he’d seen the article, it felt like something in his brain had fried, erasing his ability to process the written word. But no matter how many times he looked at it, it still said the same thing.
He’d tried his best to push it out of his mind as he’d gone through hair and makeup, but it consumed him, like a needle trapped in a record’s groove, unable to move past the same section and repeating over and over.
Sitting in his trailer, failing to absorb the revised script pages in front of him for thirty minutes straight, he knew he had to talk to her. It was the only way to clear his head, get it out of his system. He wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to say, but he’d figure it out in the fifteen seconds it took to get from his trailer to hers.
He strode over to the door and flung it open—only to find Lilah already standing on the other side, her feet staggered sideways on the stairs, like she was talking herself into (or out of) knocking.
They froze, staring at each other.
What are you doing here? was what he meant to say. What he actually blurted out was, “You’re leaving?”
She didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t have to. Her cheeks went pink and her eyes dropped to the ground, and Shane felt like his chest was about to burst open.
“Can I come in?”
He stepped to the side without a word. She shut the door behind her then hovered in front of it, arms crossed. “I got another job,” she said, her mouth tight.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Must’ve slipped my mind during our last heart-to-heart.”
“It’s professional courtesy.”
She cocked her head, her brow creasing with a faux-confused expression. “Professional courtesy? You mean like when you sent Dean in to play the back of your head last week?”
Shane felt heat creep up his neck, but he said nothing. Neither of them moved for a long moment.
“I assume you weren’t on your way to congratulate me,” she said.
“So you’re going.”
“I’m going.”
“And I’ll just…be here. Still. Without you.”
She met his eyes, her face placid and impenetrable. “That’s really none of my business anymore.”
Her stoicism only made him more agitated. He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “This is pretty fucked up, Lilah. Even for you.”
“I thought you’d be happy about it,” she shot back, which made him start. Why wasn’t he happy about it? Why had his first instinct been to barge into her trailer like she owed him an explanation?
“I am happy. It’s just hard to put together a parade on such short notice. Still trying to work out the permit situation, might need to call in a favor.”
The corner of her mouth quirked up, and something wound tighter inside him, ready to snap.
“That seems excessive,” she said. “I’m sure ‘bye, bitch’ spray-painted on my trailer door would get the same point across for a fraction of the hassle.”
“You deserve a better send-off than that.”
“What did you have in mind?” The look on her face was a challenge and an invitation all at once.
It was fucking dangerous, was what it was.
He took a step closer, then another.
“I don’t know. Skywriting, maybe.”
She didn’t back away, didn’t object. She just uncrossed her arms, her gaze flicking to his lips—only for a split second, but long enough to start his pulse pounding in his ears.
He paused, a breath away from brushing against her.
“Or fireworks,” he murmured. She lifted her chin and met his eyes, the provocation in them bright and burning.
He’d have to initiate, of course. She never would. She’d see it as a sign of weakness, admitting defeat before they even began. Even that first night, in the corner of that dark hotel bar in New York—back when things between them were as close to simple as they’d ever been—she would’ve rubbed herself all over him and then gone upstairs alone if he hadn’t made the first move. He’d been oblivious enough to believe that pulling her into his lap was his idea. But really, the choice had always been to either play by her rules or not play at all.
So he reached out, unsure at first where he was going, almost surprised when his hand came up to cup her jaw—the first time he’d touched her in nearly four years. He held it there for a moment, their gazes locked. It wasn’t too late to turn back. Nothing had happened yet, not really.
But then she closed her eyes and turned her face into his touch with a soft exhale, and that was it. His blood turned molten as his fingers spread and shifted, tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, his other arm banding around her lower back to pull her flush against him. He was already hard before he even kissed her.
Considering how slow the buildup was, the first kiss was ferocious, both of them diving in so quickly that Shane was shocked nobody got hurt. But no, they’d always been good at this, their faces fitting together like they’d been made that way, the taste of her mouth too familiar as he plunged his tongue inside it.
He slid his hand possessively to the base of her throat and walked her back against the door, their kisses becoming more desperate, him sucking on her tongue, her biting his lower lip and sighing into his mouth as she clawed at the back of his T-shirt.
Shane broke away, both of them breathing heavily. “Do you…do you want to do this?” Five minutes ago, he’d had no idea this was even within the realm of possibility. Now he felt like he would die if she said no.
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
Only Lilah could turn consent into a standoff. But instead of annoying him, it just drove his desire higher, and he gripped her jaw to dive back in for another hungry, ravaging kiss, nudging her legs apart with one thigh and rocking against her, making her gasp.
This wasn’t the way he really wanted this to happen, he realized with a pang. If he had a choice—if he’d known he’d get one more chance at a last time with her—he’d do it differently. On a bed, for starters. He’d lay her down and take his time. Show her he wasn’t some overexcited twentysomething kid anymore. But if this was his only option, going at it fevered and fumbling, he’d take it in a heartbeat.
He ducked his head down to suck at the sensitive spot just behind her jaw—too hard, probably, but he couldn’t bring himself to care with the way it made her breath go ragged, her head lolling helplessly on her neck.
“Careful,” she gasped. He barely heard her, too preoccupied by the feel of her hands groping at his belt.
His own hands traveled down, sweeping over the indent of her waist, the flare of her hips, and he kissed her again, groaning as he grabbed two generous handfuls of her ass through the thin, stretchy material of her skirt.
Fuck. He needed to be inside her, right fucking now.
He was so disoriented that he hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud until she laughed against his lips.
“Wow. All these years, and you still think foreplay is optional. I thought Serena would’ve trained you better than that.”
He knew she was just talking shit, trying to rile him up by taking jabs at his sexual prowess and his recent breakup all at once—and it was working.
He released her, dropping to his knees and pushing her skirt up her thighs. She braced her shoulders against the wall and watched him, her pupils blown-out and her expression hazy, as he ran his index finger along the elastic seam of her underwear, slipping it underneath and finding her soaking.
“Foreplay, huh?” Even as he teased her, he knew the rasp in his voice gave away how affected he was, how his cock was hard as iron, chafing uncomfortably against his fly.
She gave an exasperated huff that almost sounded convincing. “It’s about the principle.”
But he wasn’t listening. He nuzzled his face between her thighs, giving one long, slow lick over the fabric. She bit back a moan, but her legs were already shaking before he pushed the material aside.
It was gratifying that he barely needed to think about it, that he could just let his instincts take over. He still knew exactly how she liked it, even after all this time, all the ways to make her gasp and tremble and cry out, and she slung one of her legs over his shoulder and gripped his hair with both hands for support.
When he felt her orgasm building on his tongue, those telltale whimpers and shudders that had him on the verge of coming himself, he pulled back, ignoring her protests. He stood up and kissed her again, wrapping her tightly in his arms and guiding her away from the door.
As the backs of her calves hit the couch, she pulled away.
“Wait,” she said breathlessly. “My hair. Max will kill me.”
“What?”
“I need to be on top.”
“Okay. Right. Okay.”
He sat down, palming himself through his jeans, groaning loudly at the sight of her bending over to pull her underwear off in one fluid motion before climbing up and straddling him.
“You better be quiet, or these are going in your mouth,” she said, dangling the lacy fabric from one finger.
“Promise?”
She threw her head back and laughed, and something about it sent a strange twinge through him. Fuck, he’d missed her. Missed making her laugh just as much as he missed the rest of it.
She reached down to stroke him through his pants, and he felt like he’d never been this hard in his life, like he was about to go out of his mind from wanting her. He got dizzy as he watched her undo his fly and slide her fingers under the waistband of his boxer briefs, his cock springing free so enthusiastically it was almost embarrassing.
When she reached out and wrapped her hand around it, thumb sweeping lightly over the tip, his hips bucked involuntarily and he shuddered. “Fuck. Lilah…” he moaned, his vocabulary reduced solely to those two words.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, swollen and pink from where he’d sucked and bitten them, and he swallowed a moan like he could practically already feel them enveloping him, sucking him down, even though they had no time, even though they were running out of time already.
“Condom?” she breathed, and he gestured absently toward a side table. She glanced sideways at him like she was about to say something, give him shit for having them so easily accessible, probably. But she just leaned over to rummage through the drawer, rolling one on and positioning herself above his lap without missing a beat.
He pushed her skirt up to her hips so he could have an unobstructed view as she braced one hand on his shoulder and used the other to position him against her. She slid down agonizingly slowly; it felt like it took ages for just the tip to notch inside her. Then she stopped. He tried to thrust up, desperately, but she only lifted her hips with him, preventing him from sinking any deeper.
When he collapsed back down again, growling in frustration, she finally started to move, fucking herself on him shallowly, slowly, teasing him. Down an inch, up an inch, but no more. He felt like he was going to go out of his fucking mind.
“Goddammit, Lilah,” he choked, digging his fingers into her hips, dragging his eyes back to her face.
She was unbelievable, looming over him, face flushed, eyes sparkling, teeth sunk into that full bottom lip, like she should be in a fucking museum or something. Gloating down at him with an expression that could only mean I own you.
He couldn’t argue with that.
“Ask me nicely.” The sternness in her voice made his cock pulse.
“Please,” he groaned, but he didn’t wait for her response before his grip tightened around her hips and he slammed her down flush against him, making her take him all the way.
The moan that ripped out of her was powerful enough to make her fall forward against his chest, but when she rolled upright again, she was smirking. Like he’d played right into her hands, like baiting him into losing control had been her plan the whole time.
He knotted his hand in her hair, tightening his grip, making her wince. “Be quiet,” he growled. Her breath hitched in response, and she ducked down to catch his lower lip in her teeth so hard he thought she might draw blood.
She started to ride him, lazily at first, then finding her pace, and all he could do was try to keep up, electric currents sizzling up his spine, his jaw going slack. She was in charge, she’d been in charge from the moment he’d met her, and he fucking loved it. He loved her.
No. Fuck. What? It was enough to make him lose his rhythm for a second. He didn’t love her. He didn’t love her. He hated her, but he was also fucking her, and it was so goddamn good he could barely remember his own name. Of course everything was all mixed up. It didn’t mean anything.
But why did he hate her, again? Because she’d gotten his friend fired, someone he didn’t even talk to anymore? Because he’d been in love with her all those years ago, and she hadn’t felt the same way?
He forced himself to abandon that train of thought before it completely derailed him, surrendering instead to his animal instincts, his heart hammering so hard he swore he could hear it rattling his rib cage, blanking out everything but the sensation of her squeezing around him, slick and hot, taking what she needed from him. He kept his hands firmly on her hips, not trusting himself to touch her anywhere else, both grateful and disappointed that they were still fully clothed.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Her voice was shaky as her eyes fluttered shut, then open again.
“Like what?”
“You’re being all…intense.”
“Sorry.”
“No, don’t stop stop,” she said, and exhaled in frustration. He realized he’d unthinkingly slowed the movement of his hips, so he picked up the pace again.
She leaned over him, her hair brushing against his shoulder, one hand clinging to his neck as she ground against him at an angle that made them both groan. He wasn’t sure who found whom, but suddenly her other hand was brushing his, their fingers interlacing, palms pressing together. He looked down at their hands, then up at her face to see her watching him, her eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, then back at their hands again. For some reason, that felt like the most intimate place they were joined, by far. He pushed that out of his mind, too.
He heard the rhythm of her breathing change, felt her grip on the back of his neck tighten, and he willed himself to hold on long enough for her to finish, even as that familiar tingling pressure built at the base of his spine.
He shouldn’t even care if she came or not, he realized dimly. He could be selfish if he wanted. Maybe that was what she deserved, to get all wound up and then left unsatisfied. But what he craved even more than his own release was to feel her tumble over the edge, to force her to give up some of that tightly held control for just a moment. To grasp at some kind of tangible proof that he could make her half as crazy as she made him.
He felt her shudder and clench around him, gasping and whimpering as she came. He gave her a second to come apart against him, his hand reaching beneath her shirt to stroke her back. When she opened her eyes again, though, the heat was still there, which was all he needed to thrust up into her, fast and hard, drawing more cries out of her as she let go of his hand to wrap both arms around his neck.
It wasn’t long before he came with a groan, harder than he had in years, possibly ever, hard enough that his vision went black for a second, feeling like he’d been wrung out of everything he had. He collapsed against the back of the couch, still holding her tightly to him, her head buried in his neck, their breathing slowly returning to normal.
Once the haze cleared, though, he couldn’t push the truth away any longer.
She was leaving.
She was fucking leaving.
She didn’t even tell him. She didn’t give a shit about him. And she was fucking leaving. Even this was probably just some weird power move, trying to prove something to herself, or to him.
He must have tensed up, because she shifted against his chest, pressing her damp palm to his shirt as he sat them both upright. Her expression was still relaxed and peaceful. She leaned forward to kiss him.
Instinctively, he jerked his head away, feeling his gaze go hard.
She looked confused for only a split second before her face immediately clouded over with hurt, followed closely by embarrassment, her hand on his shirt tightening to a fist.
He stood so suddenly he practically pushed her off his lap, fumbling with the condom and his zipper before turning back to look at her, annoyed and disheveled on the couch.
“Why did you come here, Lilah? What the hell was this? One last chance to fuck with my head? Is that it?”
She was breathing heavily again, looking up through her lashes at him. “No.”
He waited to see if she would elaborate further, but she didn’t, just kept staring at him with that same haunted look in her eyes.
“Then what? What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, defeated.
“Well, fucking figure it out,” he snapped, his voice rising. He never yelled, couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his cool, but it was like a stranger had taken over his body and trapped him outside, unable to do anything but watch. “You know what? I am happy you’re leaving. You’re the worst goddamn thing that ever happened to me. And if I never see you again, it’ll be too fucking soon.”
She stood slowly, without looking at him, bending down to clutch her crumpled underwear in one hand. She walked toward him until they were toe to toe, eye to eye.
“Fuck you, Shane,” she spat, her voice ragged. All the amusement was gone, all the playfulness. He’d ruined their game, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He swallowed the obvious response.
“Congratulations,” he murmured instead.
She shot one last, fiery look at him—lips swollen, cheeks red, mascara smudged below her eyes, and her hair a mess despite their best efforts—before stalking out, slamming the door behind her.
As soon as she was gone, he got straight into the shower, taking care to keep his hair and face out of the spray. No matter how high he cranked the temperature, no matter how hard he scrubbed, he could still smell her on him. And instead of calming him down, that churning, restless feeling only got worse, pressure building inside his chest like a shaken soda can.
When he got dressed and returned to the main area, Dean was sprawled on his couch, one shoe off, an open bag of chips on his chest, playing Call of Duty. It wasn’t an unusual sight, but in Shane’s state of agitation, it was the last straw.
“Get out.” The bitterness in his own voice startled him.
Dean craned his neck to look at him. “What’s with you?”
“Nothing. Nothing,” Shane said, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck as he paced back and forth. “Maybe I’m just tired of seeing you every time I turn around.”
Dean blinked, stunned, the controller hanging forgotten from one hand. “What?”
Shane felt his stomach twist at Dean’s expression, one he didn’t think he’d ever seen before, let alone caused. In a dimly lit back corner of his mind, he was already mortified, barely able to recognize himself. But when he opened his mouth, instead of an apology, what came out was “You need to move out. It’s way past time, it’s fucking embarrassing. Get your own life. Stop mooching off mine.”
Dean tossed the controller aside and stalked toward Shane, and for a split second, Shane thought he might be about to hit him. A perverse part of him hoped he would: give him some actual, physical pain to focus on, something sharp and immediate to distract him from the confusing jumble of feelings that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach since that morning, that had only gotten worse since he’d opened his door and seen Lilah standing there.
Dean didn’t even give him the satisfaction of getting angry, though. It was like he knew exactly what Shane was trying to do—attempting to alleviate his own misery by spreading it. But Dean had always been too even-tempered to bait like that.
“Fine” was all he said, quietly, shooting Shane a stony glare before shoving his foot into his other shoe and storming out the door.
Three weeks later, watching the two of them leave that wrap party together, there was no doubt in Shane’s mind that he’d gotten exactly what he deserved.