Page 27 of The Actor: Harrison

“So you’re going to stay in that trailer until the heat wave goes away? You’re crazy.”

“I don’t have any other choice. It’s not like I can afford to go to a hotel,” I point out, a bit annoyed.

It’s easy for him to talk. He lives in a huge mansion surrounded by lush trees. I, on the other hand, don’t have the money to buy a popsicle, let alone pay for a room with air conditioning.

“What if they turn off the air conditioning because the set is empty?” He raises an eyebrow challenging me.

I thought about this possibility and I don’t want to make a plan unless it happens. “I’ll die in there, I suppose.”

“You’re coming home with me,” he states, beckoning with his head toward the parking lot.

“What? No!” I almost squeal.

“Yes, you are! You have a roommate, right? Ask her to come too if you don’t want to be alone with the big bad guy.” He points a finger at his chest.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not that. And she’s at her mom’s this week, so she’s not at home, luckily.”

“Good, so you don’t have any excuse. Come on. I’m sweating out here.”

“I’m not coming!” I insist stubbornly, even if the idea of air conditioning is tempting.

“Why not?” he asks, exasperated.

I open my mouth to say something, but the truth is I don’t have a good reason to refuse his offer.

“That’s what I thought. Stop being a stubborn ass and accept that sometimes people just want to help you,” he says, turning around, and this time I follow him.

“It’s not that. The problem is when they ask you something in return for their favors,” I mumble as I keep up with his long strides.

He throws a quick glance in my direction. “If they ask for something in return, they are not favors, they are services and you should be able to choose from whom you want those services.”

I think about his words and, somehow, they make more sense than any other part of the argument. If the price is to suck a dick, at least I get to choose which dick to suck. Not that I’d ever do something like that, but it’s a good reminder to take back the power that men want us to give up.

“No Ferrari today?” I struggle to hide a smile when we reach a black SUV in the parking lot.

“Too flashy. I use it only when I want to show off.” He grins.

I sit down on the leather seat and feel my skin stick to the material. “This heatwave is terrible,” I murmur more to myself than to him.

“I know. I can’t even put my hands on the steering wheel. We have to wait until the air conditioning is working before we go home.” He turns on the air conditioning and a bit of fresh air comes out in front of me.

After Harrison is finally able to put his hands on the wheel, we hit the Los Angeles traffic without saying too much. It’s strange to be in a car with him. Under normal circumstances, I would have gone out with the actors since we began filming. The bond you create on set during filming is a long-lasting one that often ends in lifelong friendship.

With Harrison things didn’t start that way. That’s partly my fault. I should have given him more credit and not judged him based on rumors and preconceived ideas I had of him. On the other hand, he didn’t make it easy for me, pointing out my every fault. The result is that this drive to his house is a bit awkward.

When we finally park in his garage, I walk out of the car and take a deep breath. It’s already less suffocating here. Walking into his house, I’m pleasantly greeted by a cooling breeze, but not too cold like some places can be. Sometimes the shock is so sudden I feel sick. Not in this house. Everything is tasteful and balanced, from the furniture to the temperature, and I’m not surprised. After getting to know Harrison a bit, I find that a lot of his extroverted image is a facade for the public, while in private he’s a very balanced and calm man.

“I have water, soda, or iced tea. I’m not offering you alcohol, considering the temperature,” he offers, peeking into his fridge.

“Iced tea is perfect, thank you.”

He points at a cabinet and I open it and grab couple of glasses while he put the pitcher with the tea on the counter. He grabs a lemon, cuts a couple of slices, then gets ice from the freezer and puts it in the glasses, before pouring the tea and topping it with the lemon.

He grabs the pitcher and walks out of the kitchen toward the patio, crosses it and goes down a pathway in the garden surrounded by low bushes and some sparse tall trees until we reach the swimming pool. I follow him with the two glasses.

“Put it there.” He points to the low table between two deck chairs and then motions for me to follow him.

The swimming pool is surrounded by tall trees and, this time of day, they cast a shade over the water. It’s hot, but not hot like the inside of the warehouse where we work.

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