Page 51 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Temptation,I hate you.There’s a spare jeep in the car park and the driver is lounging against the side of the vehicle, smoking a cigarette and looking bored out of his mind.
My cell phone beeps.
Jake:We need to talk. I’ll call you.
Me:Will that be before or after you’ve screwed Cassie’s brains out all over some Marrakech shag palace?
Angrily, I chuck my phone into my bag. I hear it beeping again but I can’t be bothered to read his excuse.
Dammit.
“Can you take me to set?” I say, walking straight up to the driver before I have a chance to talk myself out it. He nods and chucks away his cigarette.
We arrive as Jake and Cassie are making their way across the unit base to his car. He’s changed into a fresh shirt—something dark, tight-fitted, and expensive-looking—and he’s holding his baseball cap lightly in one hand. His black hair is slick with sweat, but it suits him. He could shave it into a Mohawk and he’d still look incredible.
Cassie is wearing a strapless coral silk jumpsuit that highlights her slender frame. I watch from the window as he opens the door for her. She pauses to say something to him, her long blond hair swirling all around her face like she’s in some sappy shampoo advert, and he smirks to himself as she glides gracefully into the backseat.
“On second thought, I’ve changed my mind,” I mutter to the driver. “Can you take me back to the studio?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I spend the rest of the afternoon staring into space, imagining a world where Cassie loses her looks in a freak Botox incident, stars in a succession of flops, and disappears into obscurity forever. But there’s no chance of that with Jake championing her every career move. Everything he touches turns to gold. Well, everything except me. I’ve been left to rust in the elements.
I wish I had the guts to fly home, but the invisible strings of all the what-ifs are binding me here.What ifby some miracle Max is telling the truth and Jake and Cassie really are over?What ifI’m jumping to all the wrong conclusions?What ifthis whole movie set world is some weird form of Stockholm syndrome that has me thinking I care more about Jake than I actually do?
With Jake not around to call the shots, we wrap early. Rachel and I decide to stay on in the office to catch up on paperwork. I achieve very little other than devouring great chunks ofThe End Of the Affairlike the glutton for angsty punishment that I am, and musing on whether I’d be able to forgive Jake if my love rival was God, like in the book, and not some horrible actress with a God complex.
It’s nearly nine p.m. when Max strolls into the office. He’s had a haircut and he’s looking a little too similar to his brother for my liking. “How’s George?” he calls out to me.
“Clooney or Bush?”
“I’d love to answer that without the threat of a sexual harassment suit.” He stops and glances around the room. “Rachel about?”
“Nope.”
“Gone on a date, has she?”
“Yes, with some bronzed hunk called Sam Tropez.”Is it just my imagination or does he look put out by that idea?“She’s in the makeup department getting a spray tan.”
Rachel begged me to come with her, but I wasn’t in the mood to be turned luminous orange. She must have guessed that my current state is somehow Jake-related, but she’s cool enough to keep her mouth shut.
Max considers me for a moment. “You’re in a particularly vile mood tonight, Charlie.”
Ignoring him, I turn around to reload the photocopier’s paper tray. I’ve been coasting on a wave of inertia for the last twelve hours. I may as well pretend to do some work, at least while my boss is standing right in front of me.
“You do know that we wrapped hours ago, don’t you?” He’s smirking at me; I can hear it in his voice. I know he’s checking out my ass, as well.
“We’re working late,” I say, frowning at him over my shoulder. “You should try it sometime. Your movie might not be so much in the shit if you did.”
Max starts laughing, as I knew he would. He’s immune to all forms of criticism. “I never knew assistants could be so cruel. You and Jakemustbe rubbing off on one another, or, rather not…as the case may be. I’m guessing this has something to do with him sweeping that fashionably challenged moron off to Marrakech without you?”
“I couldn’t give a damn what your brother does. And you’re only saying Cassie’s a moron because she probably kicked you out of bed once.”
“Wrong. I wouldn’t touch her with my sound recordist’s boom pole.” A steely note has crept into his voice and, once again, I’m left wondering what Cassie did that was so bad.
“Can I help you with something, Max?” I’m done with this conversation. All I want to do is get lost in my book again. “I’ve fixed your daytimer and arranged your girlfriends’ bra sizes into alphabetical order. Don’t you have some love-struck runner to seduce?”
“Not tonight. Not right now, anyway. I’m on a mission.”
