Page 22 of Script
But what about notoriety? Would he out me for that? Was I worth more in the public eye than he was? I doubted it—he had years of being an elite sportsman, I had three chewing-gum-for-the-eyes action movies and a kids’ movie.
He didn’t need people to know what had happened just to make him look good.
I began to feel better. And just to be sure, I pulled down the vanity mirror to check that I didn’t appear as if I was losing my shit. As I confronted my stupid-ass reflection, I swore I could see it smirk back at me for giving in.
In that moment I wanted him.
And now I’ve fucked up.
My resolve to wait for everything had crumbled in the face of Cameron with his sure grip, and his eyes, and his hair, and his thighs, and fuck… where had my self-control vanished to?
I’d nearly traded a hand job for everything I wanted and planned for.
“Fucking idiot!” I snapped at myself, then pushed up the visor so hard I heard a crack.Great, now I’m breaking my car.
I sat back in my seat, and settled my breathing, using all kinds of techniques until I relaxed into the seat. It was all going to be okay. I’d go back, talk to him, get him to sign a post-sex NDA, pay him off if I needed to.
I should call Atlas.
And tell him what? Sorry I nearly fucked up; I think my hockey player knows I was more than turned on by a massage. I held his hand. Fuck. You need to fix it for me?
I scrolled the entertainment news searching for my name—waiting for it to pop up.
The first headline I saw was “Secrets revealed derailRapidfranchise!”
Heart in my throat I clicked and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The big secret was that a plot hole had been found in the second movie. I was surprised it had taken people that long to find it.
Nothing about me. About being gay. About me losing my shit over a man I should be avoiding.
Atlas would work it out for me, hide it, make it go away, but he’d make it worse by explaining all other things I’d only just avoided making the press.
My chest tightened as I recalled the warnings Atlas had given, about Me Too, and responsibility and… wait. What if Cameron accused me of inappropriate advances? What if he stated that I grabbed his hand, and he felt like I was using my influence to get him to…
To what?
I don’t have influence.
But the media would jump all over it.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh fucking goddamn shit!
I was sweating, hot, freaking terrified.
That was way worse than losing my career—that would ruin me, ruin everything. My family would be dragged into it, I’d end up in the—
A bang scared the living daylights out of me, and after I gasped and clutched my chest dramatically, I side-eyed whoever had knocked there, and saw a cop. I sat upright, years of media training coming to the fore, and lowered the window.
“Is everything okay?” the cop asked me, and it was obvious he recognized me because his eyes widened. “Finn Kerrigan. Right?” he asked, and I was flustered.
“Sorry. Yes, of course. I’m just getting my license and ID.” I reached for the paperwork with exaggerated care, and handed it to him, and he gave it a cursory glance.
“Are you aware that you are parked on private property, Mr. Kerrigan?”
I am? I glanced up at the pizzeria sign, then noticed the one beneath it warning of consequences for parking in the space. Shit. Way to add more shit to an already crappy day.
“I wasn’t, I’m sorry. I just needed to take a call,” I lied, but it seemed to be enough to mollify the cop who nodded and passed back my ID.
He stared at me then peered into the cool interior.
