Lights camera omega, p.2
Lights, Camera, Omega, page 2
Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, a gentleman in an incredibly expensive suit with half of his face obscured by huge, monolithic sunglasses had been following a little too closely on my heels.
With horror, I watch in slow motion as I crash into my proximal pursuer; my large cup of dark roast coffee sloshes all over the front of his silver silk Moire jacket and snowy white collared shirt.
As if that isn’t enough, I somehow manage to trip over my own feet in my panic, falling against him with both palms open, instinctively catching myself against his chest.
In possibly the worst turn of events, my croissant sandwich has somehow become pinned between my palm and the mystery man’s now destroyed pocket square.
“Sorry!” I squeal a gasp, retracting my hand and allowing the sandwich to fall to the pavement below.
For an absurd second, I eye the tempting daub of aioli on his pocket square and mourn my lost lunch. In the next breath I’m scrambling to pull the pathetic plastic package of travel tissues from my purse–frantically dabbing at the spreading coffee stains on his shimmering lapels.
“Oh my god, I’m such a klutz!” I hear myself laugh too loud, too shrill. If I could, I would simply evaporate on the spot. Might save me a little embarrassment. Just POOF! Right into thin air.
The well-dressed man removes his oversized sunglasses, his severe maroon eyes fix on me as if he might stare lasers right through me.
It’s only now that I’m so close to him, manically trying to fix his clearly ruined suit, that I realize the obscenely delicious smell is coming from him. I have to resist the nearly overpowering urge to sink into his coffee and sandwich splattered chest and nuzzle into the heavenly smell emanating from him.
It’s around the time that I’m swooning, that I realize I know those intense cut garnet eyes, the knife’s edge of high cheekbones and tidy ash blonde coif shot through with silvery gray.
My mouth goes dry as I realize that I have just unknowingly committed career suicide.
The man who I have so unceremoniously doused in coffee and craft table delicacies is none other than Magnus fucking Wagner. Director, auteur, and co-founder of Panopticon Pictures.
I take a deep breath and brace for the worst.
Ihate going to set before production has really started. It’s too loud, too crowded, too full of extras in musty period costumes milling about, and snaking lines for cattle-calls at central casting.
“You don’t have to look that miserable, Gus.” Julian needles me as we pass Sound Stage D on our way to the east gate, and our dedicated production space on the illustrious Sound Stage A.
“You said we would have coffee before you took me to look at costuming and textiles.” I’m overtired, and it’s the best I can do to keep the growl out of my voice as I snap back at Julian.
“That is not what I said at all,” he sings songs back at me, his auburn curls tied back at the nape of his neck sway back and forth as he dramatically shakes his head at me, smiling all the while.
If anyone else pulled this kind of cutesy shit with me, it would likely be the last interaction we ever had. But because it’s Julian I’m already smiling, even if I am genuinely still a little pissed off by his response.
“You said, ‘We can stop for an energizing beverage, maybe a little breakfast before I show you everything. You need to be fully awake to appreciate how gorgeous everything is!’” I don’t talk with my hands, wildly gesticulating like Julian does when he speaks, but I’ve pitched my own smoke-rasp baritone to mimic Julian’s brassy tenor, chiming along with his brisk but musical cadence.
Julian smiles patiently at me. His eyes, like slivers of green sea glass, squint against the high sun.
I open my hands, palms up and turn them over like an old stage magician showing the audience that I’m holding nothing, nothing up my sleeves.
“I tried to get you to come into Greenlyfe with me.” Julian swishes the muddy looking iced beverage in his hand.
I recoil, the vinegary smell threatening to burn my nose hairs.
“You couldn’t pay me to drink that stuff.” I stifle a gag, just barely, pushing my sunglasses further up my nose as if they can somehow shield me from the foul stuff.
“Well, no one is forcing you to drink it, but kombucha is a very energizing beverage.” Julian shrugs, taking a sip of the dubious concoction of fermented goods.
“Yeah, and no one was forcing me to eat the wheatgrass eggless egg bites either.” I shudder, recalling the sad shriveled little nubs of rubbery green Julian had gotten back into the car nibbling. He’s always trying to help integrate more healthful practices into my life—as I’m partial to too much work, coffee, smoking, drinking, and not enough sleeping, eating, or stopping to smell the roses.
While Julian’s just trying to be helpful, there’s no denying that I’ve become incredibly successful leaning into my bad habits. Money talks, and right now it says, keep going!
Of course, there are different types of success, and I’m painfully aware there are areas in which I am lacking.
As if he can read my mind, Julian nudges me with his elbow and gives me a gentle smile, shielding his eyes from the sun for a moment so that he can give me a good look in the eye, even if I am wearing sunglasses. He knows I can see the expression, that I know what it means. He’s just playing around with me, he knows I’ve been down lately, that I’ve had a lot on my mind.
“We can stop by craft services and get you something,” Julian offers warmly.
“Ugh, that coffee is just water dressed in brown.” My lip curls back reflexively.
“I’d probably be better off drinking your fermented compost juice,” I tease, pinching the sleeve of his jacket just above his funny bone—a strange little way I’ve always shown him affection.
He rolls his eyes at me, his full lips pulled wide in a smile that just barely shows his teeth.
“You’ve gotten to be a snob, you know?” Julian snorts a laugh.
“You’re not wrong,” I grunt, visibly affronted when a young blonde suddenly explodes from the craft services tent and darts in front of me, unexpectedly underfoot.
Julian has to cover his nose and mouth to stifle his laughter, doing his best not to burst into hysterics directly over the woman’s shoulder.
The two of us have a moment of shared silent laughter, delighted by the natural comedic timing that life can have, when the spritely young lady, barely a pace away from me, suddenly turns on her heel and launches toward me.
I’m facing Julian, the little blonde freight train coming down the tracks of my peripheral vision, when she slams into me; coffee, sandwich and all.
“Sorry!” She squeaks.
I look down at my suit, a custom piece Julian made me.
The little blonde beta is grabbing a packet of travel tissues out of her shitty little plastic leather purse, making a delusional attempt at salvage.
“Oh my god, I’m such a klutz!” she squawks, her aquamarine eyes big as saucers as she looks up at me.
She looks familiar but I can’t quite place her.
High, round cheekbones and a pointed chin, her heart-shaped face rosy gold from plenty of time spent in the sun, framed by incredibly thick yellow gold waves, and generously spattered with tawny freckles.
Without meaning to, I let my eyes travel down her petite, curvy form, her cheap chambray sundress showing off more of those freckles in sprawling constellations over her bare shoulders.
My libido, a traitor to the last, begs the question, is she dusted with that fetching smattering of freckles everywhere?
I catch myself before a hungry growl announces my feelings. This little bit of beta skirt is hardly worthy of even the most temporary of distractions.
She still hasn’t moved, so I pull my sunglasses from my face, doing my best to maintain an impassive expression.
I watch as her eyes widen, her full lips tightening into a flat line, her throat working to swallow.
Yes, that’s right princess, now you realize you’ve really stepped in it. I think, a little too giddy as I savor her epiphany.
“Oh dear, I’m not sure this one can be saved,” I tut thoughtfully, pinching my coffee-stained lapel.
“A loss you can suffer, I’m sure,” Julian scoffs dismissively.
The little blonde beta looked as if she might actually be turning a sickly shade of green as she stood there, still as a statue.
“One of your finest works, destroyed at the hands of this absent-minded young lady here.” I click my tongue, removing my mulberry silk pocket square so that I might shake away the aioli and bits of lettuce still clinging to it.
The little beta’s expression changes. Her golden brows pinch together, her obscenely long corn-silk lashes fan up and down as she blinks rapidly.
“Well, I certainly should have been more mindful of where I was going in a hurry, but you were practically up my ass—you could’ve given me a little more space,” she blurts out in a rush before hiccuping down the reality of what she’s just let slip.
I am simultaneously delighted and annoyed.
What a mouth on this one. It’s been years since anyone other than Julian or the boys have talked back to me. Everyone’s been so busy for the past decade, slathering me in praise or trying to stay in my good graces in the hopes of a part, a screenplay, or an agreement to direct their picture that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to meet with any kind of opposition—meaningful or not.
Right here, right now, this little blonde beta has decided she’s going to let me have it. It really is a shame she’s so figuratively beneath me I can’t get her literally beneath me. The fucking paps and gossip rags would have a field day.
“Oh, excuse me!” I make a flourish of my hands as if to open the space between us.
“I had no idea that I, the lowly Magnus Wagner, was in the company of the illustrious–” I pause, looking to blondie to supply her name. Her only reply is a lemony, pinched mouth expression, the heat of fury pinking her cheeks with a very fetching blush.
“I’m a professional, I—I work here too,” she stammers, her anger tying her tongue.
“Oh, do tell!” I can't help but to needle, especially when I'm getting such a rise out of her.
“I’m an actor.” She crushes the empty paper coffee cup in her little fist, tears threatening at the corner of her eyes.
“Ah! But you still haven’t told us your name, mystery blonde beta starlet!” Since she didn’t oblige me, I provide her with a title, continuing in my mockery since she’s been kind enough to provide such delightful sport.
“Oh please, can you forgive a plebeian such as myself for imposing on your personal space!” she quips, heat high in her cheeks.
A bit of spine, I like a little chase.
“The fault is all mine, prima donna.” I punctuate the routine with a deep bow, perhaps a little too unkindly, because Julian steps in to get me back under control.
“You’ll have to forgive him.” Julian beams, handily nudging me out of the way, offering the young woman his most winning smile.
“He’s absolutely insufferable when he hasn’t had his coffee.” Julian does his best to excuse my bad behavior.
It almost works on her too. I can see her struggle not to swoon under Julian’s megawatt beauty and charisma.
“I still need a coffee, but I’d like to drink the next one rather than wear it,” I add dryly, a little too pleased with myself.
The blonde beta’s aquamarine eyes flash and I can tell I’ve sparked that little flame of anger again, but this time the heat of her rage makes her scent vaporize, wafting from her sun-bronzed decolletage to my nose; fresh cut peony, golden apricot, and warm honey—surprisingly delicious for our stacked little blonde beta.
Before the saucy, golden-haired spitfire can wind up and say something she’ll really regret, Julian loops his arm through mine.
“Our lovely friend probably has somewhere she needs to be, just like you and I!” He calls a little too loudly, a little too cheerfully as he begins to haul me backward off my heels.
As if on cue, Willy Rosenburg, one of the production assistants on Sound Stage E, appears from the craft services tent.
“Daphne Dale!” he booms in a tone not unlike an angry father yelling at his teenage daughter.
“What are you still doin over here?” He barks at our new friend.
“Quit bothering Mr. Wagner! You better get that sweet tuchus over to hair and makeup before Lois has a meltdown.” Willy shuffles her in the direction of Sound Stage E, one finger pressed to the black plastic earpiece attached to the side of his head.
Her expression crumbles, her anger slipping through her fingers for a moment before she turns to both Julian and I with that wide eyed, almost gasping look of pleading, and that stubborn furrow pinches her brows and narrows those big doe eyes again.
Oh, she's got fire, this one.
I give her a wink, and she's off in a hurry.
“Oh yes, do take care, Miss Dale! See you in the movies!” I chirp after her. I watch her golden head bobbing in a sea of people as she begins to make her way across the busy set. The poor girl’s blush threatens to burn her up like the surface of the sun.
As soon as she and Willy disappear into the crowd, Julian unhands me.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hisses at me. I’m surprised to see how genuinely upset he looks.
“What!?” I unfold my sunglasses and balance them back on the bridge of my nose.
“Some little D-lister douses me with coffee and an actually edible sandwich before I’ve even had breakfast, gives me lip about it, and suddenly I’m the asshole?” I huff, incredulous.
“You were practically on top of her,” Julian mumbles, rolling his eyes.
“Hmph, well.” I snort, shifting uncomfortably under the collar of my suit shirt.
“You can tell that we do really need to think about ‘getting back out there’ again, because even though she was just some D-lister beta, I would have liked to be more than on top of her.” I rumble, an unbidden heat roiling deep in my stomach.
Julian’s auburn eyebrows shoot up.
“Does this mean you’ll actually let me go pick up some new scent cards from the agency this week?” He asks cautiously.
I feel the irritation rising in me again.
“Don’t act like it’s been all my fault that we haven’t picked up anything new in a while. Cosmo has all but sworn off ever taking any other auditions until recently—only god knows why,” I grouse, annoyed that Julian had made it sound as if I have been the single point of failure in our pack’s current omega-less state.
“I’m not saying that at all. In fact, I’m delighted that you’ve found yourself suddenly inspired.” Julian beamed, his own salt-white skin gently freckled in a way that perfectly complimented his fiery auburn locks and bottle green eyes.
Maybe that’s why she got me going so quickly. I must secretly be a freckles guy. I think somewhere in the background as I watch Julian’s face carefully while he speaks.
“You know how I’m always desperate to spoil someone besides you and the boys,” he adds, his voice lower and laced with an underlying heat.
Just like the nacre of an oyster turns the irritant of a single grain of sand into a beautiful pearl, so Julian manages to turn my ails to boons.
Between the excitement with the spitfire beta and the prospect of finally finding a bit more success in this region of my otherwise charmed life; I entertain the idea of indulging in a quick tryst with Julian in my office before we look over the textiles for production. Too bad that we’re on such a tight timetable today.
Most regrettably, I have a meeting with Ed Mammut, my business partner and joint owner of Panopticon pictures. While I may be the one making the movies, Ed is the one who manages the business end of making those movies. He’s the reason we’re both this stinking rich. The reason I’m going to be able to make some small, lower budget films that I actually want to make once I’m done with this contractual obligation run. Sadly, there’s simply no room in today’s busy schedule for afternoon delight.
“Wow,” Julian chuckles, his nostrils flaring slightly. He’s always been sensitive to his alphas, but especially to me–to my scent.
“That little pint of sunshine must have really got you going—you smell—”
I don’t let him finish.
“I smell like someone who can’t afford any distractions, so don’t keep running that smart mouth or I’m going to end up missing some very important meetings this morning to make a mess of my beta, since we’re still short an omega.” I purr under my breath, though the thought of someone hearing my ‘threat’ to Julian is nearly as exciting as the act itself.
I delight in the little shiver of pleasure Julian gives as he considers my warning.
“A shame, indeed.” He sighs wistfully before adding, “I’m sure we can figure something out this evening once you get home.” He winks mischievously.
“I’m sure we can,” I assure him.
“Well, we better get this over with. I’ll call the placement agency while you’re in your meeting with Ed.” Julian waggles his brilliant copper brows suggestively.
“Sounds like a plan.” I nod sagely, skipping ahead of Julian up the stairs to Sound Stage A, drawing nervous glances at my ruined suit.
“While we’re at it, I should probably call the boys–have one of them bring me something else to change into before my meeting with Ed,” I chuckle, holding the door open for Julian.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Julian sighs dreamily. He keeps an eye on me over his shoulder as he passes through the open door.
“I think that spilled coffee looks quite well on you.”
I'm sitting in the chair for hair and makeup, earbuds in, blasting the driest of harpsichord concertos in an attempt to get my head back in the game.
At first it feels like a head rush, like I stood up too fast–all the blood rushing to my head. Then my skin warms, my body starting to feel hazy and far away, like a limb that’s just woken from sleep before breaking into pins and needles.
