Waking Up by Renee Dyer Page B

husband dying.  That’s worse than some bitch fucking one of your co-stars.   A small smile curls my lips and for reasons I can’t explain, I throw my arms out on both sides of her body, resting my hands on the counter-tops, trapping her.  Her eyes widen.  I can tell she’s scared and maybe even a little excited…
    Damn, that’s hot.
    Even though I’m about to tell her about one of the bigger, not the biggest, heartbreaks in my life, I’m turned on and would much rather kiss the ever living life out of her.  But, somehow, I think she’s not going to be down with that option.  Guess it’s option number one.  Bare my soul.  How do chicks do this shit all the time?
    Locking onto her hazel eyes I know my face changes when I start to tell the story.  I’m not trying to act or hide how much it hurts.  I tell her I’m going to tell her the truth about my bitch of an ex.  I hear my voice crack as I begin.  I start to tell her the real reason I left Vancouver.  I tell her I’m finishing my last scene.  I tell her how we always celebrated with dinner.  That’s the easy part to tell.  The part before the sounds makes a difference.  How quiet it is for a whole second before the moans start.  I can picture it all while I’m standing here telling Adriana the truth of why I left.  How everyone was turning around in circles, looking for the source of the moans, laughing, giving each other pats on the backs, saying they wished they were celebrating already.  Only I knew who it was already celebrating and I was devastated.
    I have to stop for a second.  Knowing what I’m about to tell her is going to open my still festering wound so wide it can gush and the hurt can multiply till I’m not sure I’ll be able to breathe.  It’s just a moment, but it’s long enough to take a couple deep breaths.  Long enough to steady my voice so I don’t seem like a pussy.  Why that’s important to me, I’m not sure.  But, I need this woman to see me as a man.  Oh God.  Here it comes.   Stay strong through this part, Tucker.  Just say it and be done.  Grams always says talking about it makes you feel better. Maybe she’s right.   My all-knowing Grams.
    “When the noise died down from filming… that’s when I heard it… that’s when we all heard it.”  I have to take a break again.  Dropping my head to look at the floor, I just need a minute to think about how to phrase this next part.  Instead, I’m thinking how I really explained the last part wrong.  It wasn’t noisy really as we were filming.  It was noisier as we finished.  Everyone gave a cheer and then the cameras and lights scraped the floors as they were moved away.  The split second of silence seemed deafening right before the moans started.  I guess that’s where I need to start back up with this story before she thinks I’ve forgotten how to speak, but I know when I look up I’m going to see pity in those beautiful eyes.  I don’t want her pity.  I don’t want anyone’s damn pity.  This is fucked up.  Just breathe, Tucker, and start talking.  It’s that simple.  Raising my head, she’s standing there patiently waiting for me to get on with it. Okay then.
    “We all hear the moans of sex.  The crew starts laughing about someone having a good time and being excited for break to start.  Everyone is laughing except me.  I know those moans.  Christ, I‘ve made her moan like that more times than I can count.  People slowly start noticing that I’m not laughing or maybe it’s the look on my face or my fists clenching and unclenching.  I’m not sure what, but it becomes clear to everyone that the moans they hear are coming from Victoria.”  I could really use a break at this point, but I know I need to just get this part out fast before I lose my nerve.  Does she really need to hear the rest?  That Vic was in my trailer, my fucking trailer, door wide open for everyone to see Grant Andrews plowing her from behind?