Meet Me Backstage

20. Can't Fight This Feeling

SKYE

I step out of the makeup chair and am rushed over to wardrobe. The ladies hem and haw for a moment about finding something in my size before handing me a pair of black ripped skinny jeans and a faux-leather top that fits like a T-shirt. They hurry me off to the dressing room and I sigh as the door closes.

What the hell am I doing?

My phone buzzes and I realize it's probably Greg's response to my awkward previous text message. It was something along the lines of: "Hey are you cool with me pretending to be Jackson's girlfriend for a music video? Model dropped out. Thnx."

Greg: LOL. Are you serious?

Not exactly the response I expected, but to be fair, I didn't really know what to expect.

Greg: They want you to be a model?

I roll my eyes. You can think that I'm not model material, but you aren't supposed to say it out loud.

Me: There's nobody else.

I slip the shirt over my shoulders and with a few hops and shimmies I manage to stuff my thighs into the jeans and button them up.

Greg: I guess so. I mean - it's acting right? You're not going to be naked or anything embarrassing, are you?

Me: Embarrassing?

Greg: I just don't want to have to explain it to my parents one day.

Well I might consider that a problem if your parents even knew I existed.

It's stupid to feel like this, but part of me wanted him to get jealous. I wanted to get an emotional reaction from him—something that showed he cared. Is that healthy? Almost certainly not. But I can't help it.

Me: It's a music video, not furry porn.

Greg: Do you have to kiss him?

Oh. I didn't even think about that. André didn't mention anything about kissing.

Me: Idk

I wait for a minute, tapping at the vanity with my fingernails. I have no idea what his response will be to that. Heck, I hardly know my own response. My phone buzzes and I jump slightly at the sound.

Greg: Ok. Have fun.

Well there goes my last excuse for not doing this.

*****

In the last hour, I have demolished a TV with a baseball bat, smashed three lamps against the wall, and taken a knife to a couch. It's been a bad day for living room furniture, but a good day for working out my stress.

I'm called off the set as they prep for the next shot and I sit down in a folding chair. All eyes in the room are suddenly drawn to the corner and I follow everyone's glances to Jacks walking in. He's wearing a half-tucked dark denim shirt with the top three buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. His jeans are tightly fit and in a matching shade. It's the kind of look that most people could never pull off, but on Jacks it oozes sex appeal.