Page 84 of Every Now and Then
I jolt, sitting up straight. “Hayes! We’ve only just gotten together. We can’t… we can’t do that.”
He holds up his hands, all innocent-like, but I see through his ploy. Hayes is playing me. He knows that by planting the seed, eventually I’ll probably come around to liking his idea.
The problem isn’t that I don’t like his idea.
It’s that I like it too much.
But how do I explain my need for independence? During my marriage to Kyle, I was so reliant on him. I gave up everything—I quit college, moved across the country, gave up a chance at a career—to get married and raise his family. And then Kyle cheated and blew up my world, nearly losing it all. I need to stand on my own two feet. It's too scary to think about depending on someone else again.
“I can tell I've freaked you out, Yankee. I'm not asking for it to be permanent solution, even though I'd love for it to be. I know you might not be ready to really move in together, so if it makes you more comfortable, I could move out to the ranch. You and the girls couldstay in the condo without me. That way, it wouldn’t be too much, too soon.”
Just when I think I've erected my emotional walls high enough, Hayes scales them.
I tilt my head. “You’d do that for me?”
Sliding his hand into my hair, he angles my face toward him, brushing his lips against mine. “Yankee, I’d do anything for you.”
29
Hayes
Now
Filming fucking sucks. It’s an all-night shoot, which started as soon as the sun went down, and it’s now well after midnight.
We’re shooting on location at Tank’s Motel and Tavern. We rented out the entire place—the bar, the motel, and the parking lot—to make the video as authentic as possible. That plan seemed good in theory, but it’s been more of a mindfuck than I expected.
For the first half of the shoot, Rowdy, Josh, James, and I spent hours filming the musical performance scenes. There’s a full stage set up in the parking lot, framed by the neon lights of the city and the taillights on the highway behind us. We’ve filmed take after take of usperforming the song. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve playedRoom 112.
It’s my own damn song, and I’m already sick of hearing it.
After we wrapped the musical performance, the guys left, and we moved inside Tank’s Tavern to shoot the next portion of the music video. Extras filled the place as Sloane, the actress we hired to play my love interest, and I fake-flirted over drinks at the scarred wooden bar, pretending to get drunk.
Fuck, I wish those really were tequila shots rather than water.
It’s got to be boring as hell watching us film from the sidelines, but each time I glanced her way, Annabelle had a smile on her face. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Annabelle’s smile will falter when we film the next portion of the video.
The part that takes place in the motel room.
Between takes, I flock to Annabelle’s side to reassure myself that she’s handling this alright. If I’m feeling like this is a mindfuck, she must be, too. But each time I check in with her, she swears she’s doing fine.
After a short break, Colt, the director, instructs everyone to head across the parking lot to the motel.
When Annabelle and I walk into the room, I stop. It’s exactly as I remember, all the way down to the ratty rattan headboard and putrid plaid polyester comforter. Not that I expected Tank’s to have a line item for redecorating on their annual budget, but damn, being back here is surreal.
Outside the camera frame, lights are aimed at the bed, and camera equipment clutters the edges of the room. Taped-down cords crisscross the floor. Otherwise, everything is unchanged.
“Oh my God,” Annabelle mutters behind me, her head on a swivel, as she takes it all in.
“I know,” I say, threading my fingers through hers. I tug her into one of the adjacent rooms, where we’ll wait until it’s time to shoot.
Even after all the extras from the tavern scenes have been dismissed, the room is still teeming with people. The film crew, record label execs, security, makeup artists, wardrobe stylists.
And Sloane.
She’s changed out of the outfit she wore for the bar scene and is now clad in only a nude, lacy bra and jeans. A makeup artist brushes some shimmery powder over her cleavage before asking Sloane to slip back into the T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier.
Sloane looks like Annabelle. Younger, slightly longer hair, but similar features. I don’t know what I was thinking when I cast Sloane for the role. Truth is, I really wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get the selection process over with.
