Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

Whether it’s because she’s keen to try to get the part on entirely her own merits, or she doesn’t want to ask this of me so early into our courting—I’m not sure. Either way, my anticipatory delight curls the corners of my lips with a devilish smile as I begin to tow her towards the LaRentas.

After nearly an hour of watching Daphne charm Mrs. and Mrs. LaRenta, I’m beaming with pride when Winnie insists that Daphne stop by their studios to talk about the post-apocalyptic action-adventure film they’re still auditioning leading ladies for.

“And tell Magnus not to be a goddamn stranger! I know our most recent family brunch date was canceled for good reason.” Winnie gives Daphne a dazzling wink.

“But now that y’all are obviously cozy and comfy.” Martine waggles her eyebrows at us.

“We better be barbequing sooner rather than later,” Winnie agrees, drawing her petite brunette wife in for a kiss on the cheek.

“Speaking of which,” Martine sighs—her eyes casting into the distant crowd, “I think I see Magnus and Julian now.”

Daphne and I take our cue, bowing out of the conversation.

The two of us wait as a catering waitress crosses in front of us, a plate of postage stamp sized hors d’oeuvres balanced in her open palm.

Now that we’ve broken free of the intimate bubble of conversation, I can see that Daphne is instantly overwhelmed. Not to mention, both of our stomachs make a loud burbling noise at the sight of the minimal food options.

“So, how would you feel if I were to suggest… getting out of here?” I whisper conspiratorially in her ear.

I’m rewarded with a gleaming smile, Daphne rests her blonde head against my shoulder.

“It wouldn’t be tacky of us to bounce as soon as I’ve rubbed elbows with Mrs. and Mrs. LaRenta?” She bats her golden lashes at me.

“No, we’ve shown plenty of face. The paps got lots of good shots of the both of us, and they’ve got Julian and Magnus to make the rounds at the party for Pack Silver besides.” I pull my phone out of my tuxedo pocket, texting the driver to meet us around the back.

“Shall we head back to Tern’s Nest? Get a little Chinese take out?” Daphne whispers wickedly as we drift around the back of the makeshift ballroom toward the service exits.

“I have a little something else in mind,” I answer mysteriously—Daphne already eyeing me appraisingly as we slip free of the crushing crowd and make our way into the balmy summer night.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Daphne finally asks as we clearly miss our exit for Cypress House; the lights of the city at night twinkling outside the limo windows.

“Well, you’ve seen Cypress House, The Ranch, and obviously the newly acquired Tern’s Nest, but you’ve only heard about The Studio?” I kick back, making room for Daphne under my arm as I recline into the plush leather seat.

“I have.” Daphne eyes me curiously as she snuggles against me, the two of us watching the nightscape of Hollywood pass us by on the other side of the tinted glass.

“Well, I have a few things I want to show you.” I squeeze her gently against me, the softness of her petite, curvy form fitting against me as if she were always meant to be there.

We sit in the near silence of the limo, watching the West Hollywood scenery pass until the chauffeur pulls into a narrow alley off Formosa Avenue—up to the unassuming loading docks and back entrances of the building.

I thank him and pass him a wad of folded bills as a thank you, as Daphne and I exit the limo, both for his expeditious transport and for his ability to be discrete.

I spirit Daphne up the narrow back stairwell and into the eponymous Studio.

The two of us step cautiously through the door. The space is dark, save for the city lights twinkling in the massive floor-to-ceiling windows; starlight and moonshine, doing their best to glow through the generous skylights above.

Since neither of us has adjusted to night vision yet, I take a moment to fumble past Daphne to the pad of many light switches on the nearby wall. The brightness of the banks of overhead lights that shudder to life once I throw the switch is a little difficult to bear. Both of us squint against the brightness, forced to deal with the cold incandescent light until I can shuffle my way around the studio to the smaller floor and desk lamps to give us some proper mood lighting.

I pull my tuxedo bow tie free as I make my way around the room as quickly as possible, turning a knob here, pulling a delicate pull chain there, as Daphne turns slowly in place, taking in the massive space with her wide eyes.

“Woah,” she breathes, kicking off her strappy high heels and padding barefoot over the narrow expanse of poured concrete floor between the sisal welcome mat and the first of many mismatching persian rugs.

She orbits a scrap metal statue of a heron I all but abandoned after my acetylene torch bit the dust last month. The delicate pink pads of her fingertips test the points of the massive bird’s upturned steel beak inquisitively.

“Beautiful,” she breathes, gaze far away in the mists of wonder.

I halt my buzzing about, to watch Daphne round the edge of another work table strewn with dirty paint brushes, tubes of oil paint, and dented cans of linseed oil, toward the nylon drying line that stretches across either end of the massive loft space. Photographs from my makeshift closet/dark room hang from wooden clothespins up and down the line.

Without asking me if it’s alright, she reaches up and plucks a rather intimate black-and-white photo of Magnus, sunning himself in the nude, on a yacht in Cannes during the recent festival season—from the drying line.