Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“I’ve made my decision, I’ve already begun courting Magnus and the others. We can talk about the rest of your responsibilities as my agent later,” I hiss with finality, jerking my head in Ursula’s direction over my shoulder.

As if remembering himself, Vinny gulps down whatever he was trying to say in his sudden panic—one of his big, hairy hands combs back through his thinning hair—sweat still beading on his brow.

“Yeah, yeah, ok. I’ll catch you during your next break,” he mumbles, defeated—already busily thumb tap typing away to someone on his omnipresent cell phone, as he slinks out of the greenroom.

Iam proud of myself for handling Vinny and his over-important attitude, but by the time we’re halfway through the biker scene for the music video shoot, I am in serious trouble.

After Ursula released me—clad in a microscopic denim skirt and leather bustier with sky high teased hair, black halos of smokey eyes, and bright red lipstick onto the set—I had to suffer through some awkward shots of hanging all over Johnny, as well as both Mick and Scotty; the drummer and bassist of the band, respectively, as we took turns shooting different ‘fantasy’ sequences that the band members were supposedly imagining while eyeing my character at a biker bar.

Most of the scenes were fairly tame; Me toying with the studs and patches on Mick’s vest under a bank of hazy neon signs near a smoky bar. Scotty watching me tie the stems of two maraschino cherries together over the top of his mirrored aviators, Johnny whispering dirty something’s in my ear as I sit atop a pool table–my arms lazily wreathed around his neck.

Oh, the irony.

The real problem begins after I’m ushered onto another part of the set, a fake strip of road where a custom altered motorcycle has been rigged up as a prop. Maxwell sits behind the handlebars—his muscled chest bare and glistening with oil under a black leather vest, his long dark hair loose around his shoulders.

I swallow hard, shuffling toward him– that telltale tight feeling pinging across the skin of my forearms.

Fuck.

No more supplements, and I can feel that it’s not going to go well from the outset.

I manage to climb up and onto the prop motorcycle behind Maxwell, my vision swimming slightly as the bright lights are adjusted directly into our faces—the green screen lined up carefully behind us to get the right shot for post production to make us look as if we’re speeding down a lone highway later.

Blessedly, there are two enormous fans that begin to whir—blasting the pair of us with air to help sell the illusion of our highway ride. It helps to keep me from immediately overheating, my breaths already becoming more and more shallow as I begin to ache between my legs.

I’m holding onto Maxwell, trying to keep my hands from exploring the firm ripples of his muscles as I pretend to clutch onto him for dear life.

I catch a glimpse of Vinny behind the cameraman, his eyes darting two and fro—chewing his nails in a state of obvious distress.

He can’t be worried I’m gonna fire him after I snapped at him in the green room, can he?

I try to focus on Vinny in a vain attempt to distract myself from the vibration of the prop motorcycle between my thighs—the inviting smell of Maxwell’s vanilla–woody-citrus scent against the animal tang of his leather jacket makes me feel surprisingly desperate to touch him—to turn him around to face me, to kiss his mouth.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’m short of breath, my hands moving from Maxwell’s chest down toward his hips.

Without warning, Maxwell lifts his hands above his head and makes a “T” sign with his two open hands–signaling the director and cameraman to stop.

I look from the cameraman to Vinny—his hands pressed together as if in prayer against his lips as if he’s waiting for a metaphorical ax to fall. If either of them have any clue why Maxwell is asking to stop filming—I can’t tell by the look on their faces.

“Hey.” Maxwell dismounts the prop bike and looks me up and down.

“Are you ok? You feel like you’re burning up.” He looks at me with concern before tentatively touching the back of his hand to my forehead.

“Oh shit,” Maxwell hisses, drawing his hand back quickly.

“Hey man, she’s not doing so well,” he calls to the director, who is already climbing out of his folding wood and canvas chair.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine–I can keep shooting,” I insist as the director draws nearer, a worried look on his face.

To my surprise, Vinny comes sprinting from the sidelines, waving his hands in the air like a man possessed.

“You’re right, Maxwell, if she’s running a fever—we gotta get her home and recuperating as soon as possible!”

I’m woozy and light-headed as Vinny steps in, offering me a hand to help me down from the motorcycle.

Maxwell shoos Vinny away, lifting me from the motorcycle up and into his arms in a single fluid motion.