Method(3)

He allows it as he stares out the window and I lean in and let him feel the weight of my body. His fingers absently stroke the bare skin on the top of my thighs as I work the silky material of his tie from around his neck and undo a few buttons of his shirt.

I need our connection. I am his life and he is mine, and that’s the only way we’ve ever worked.

“I love you,” I whisper, before pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. He’s a wall of muscle, hurt, and frustration as I will my way back into his space, praying for any sign of life on his part.

“Baby,” I croak out, frustrated for being unable to keep it together. Flailing, I clear my throat and press my lips to his chest once, twice, and then slide my fingers through his thick hair, my thumb running along his jaw back and forth as I admire him. His eyes, the color of a new leaf, are trained on the morbid sanctuary of Forest Lawn Cemetery. I can handle his silence, but his pain is like a gnawing heartbeat too loud to ignore. Each minute that passes in that white noise terrifies me. Briefly, I want relief for him, for us both. I slink down in front of him, spreading his legs and kneeling while I unfasten his slacks. Pulling out his ready cock, the throbbing muscle twitches in my palm right before I wrap my lips around it. I work my mouth, rolling my tongue back and forth over his flesh loving the feel of him, alive in this one act, allowing me to soak him in. Looking up, I see he’s rapt on me, on my task. When we finally connect, his eyes glisten before a lone tear rolls down his cheek. Each pull of my lips, each stroke of my hand, every moan around his thick length is my assurance that I’ll be whoever he wants me to be, whatever he needs. He takes a single finger and traces my stretched lips, spurring me on as I lick and suck, my desperation bouncing between us.

“I love you,” he whispers as a tear spills from my own eye and he catches it with his finger before sucking it into his mouth. It’s here on my knees, while he comes on my tongue that I know we’re going to be okay. Not after when he pulls me into his lap and cradles me, not when he’s kissing me so long and hard that I detect a small semblance of us again. It wasn’t when he took me home and wordlessly fucked me all night. It was then, while I was at my most vulnerable, when he let me see him at his, that I knew we could make it through this.





Mila



The slice of a turning page rouses me from sleep. I can sense his weight next to me and open my eyes to see him sitting up against the headboard, with a script in hand. He’s nearly finished, and that lets me know how hard I’ve slept.

Noticing me stir, he palms my shoulder before trailing his fingers down my arm. I lay there basking in his touch as I study his stubbled jaw, one of the things that drives me craziest about him. But there are countless others. Soaking him in next to me, my fingers itch to run through dark locks so thick they give way in the direction of the slightest touch. His size is intimidating and the quiet strength he exudes beneath his muscular build is awe-inspiring. From his faded emerald eyes to the slant of his regal nose and generous full lips, it’s clear his creator expected nothing less than worship for the gift bestowed.

The first time I fell in love with Lucas, I was sixteen years old sharing a box of Junior Mints with my mother. I, along with half the women in America, sat in a theater seat mesmerized while he outshined a majority of his co-stars. I can’t say he was my first celebrity crush, but he hit me the hardest. Growing up in LA, I’d seen and met my fair share of celebrities, so I can’t say I was starstruck, more awestruck by the way he delivered. Even my mother was impressed, and she’s a tough sell. But we were both right in feeling wowed because that role thrust him into the spotlight, one so bright he’s one of the reigning kings of Hollywood. I give myself a few seconds to admire him before I move to get out of bed. He stops me by pulling me back toward him. Resting my head on his chest, I begin to read some of the lines.



INT:

Richard pulls up in an old Camino where Sisco waits outside an abandoned warehouse.



Richard

(Rounds the car, flicking a cigarette at Sisco’s chest and pulls his gun pointing it at Sisco) Where’s the fucking money?



Sisco

(pats his pockets and shrugs with a smug smile)

I don’t seem to have it here.



Richard

(Leans in suspiciously and presses the gun to Sisco’s temple) This is about her again? Fuck, Sisco, you were never going to see this through, were you? Leave it to you to make your one grand stand about pussy.



Sisco

(Presses his head against the gun to urge Richard to shoot)

You can have the fucking girl, but you’ll never see a dime of the money. Do it.



Richard

You have got to be shitting me. She came onto me, man.



Sisco

Don’t bother. It’s all over.



Richard

It’s not my fault your bride couldn’t keep her fucking hands to herself.



Two gunshots sound. Sisco falls to the ground.



Richard

(looks at the shooter who stands behind Sisco’s lifeless body) What the fuck did you do?



I’m unimpressed as I read on for a few more pages already knowing Lucas is going to pass.

“What do you think?” he says, looking down to me.