Something Like Trust

Chapter 1-2

My task was to remain silent and vigilant. I had no problem with either aspect. I’d been on set for a couple of weeks, and I knew how things worked fairly well by now. I continually searched the soundstage, looking for anything that could be construed as out of the ordinary. It was habit now, the track my gaze made, and I knew exactly what I was looking at as I made my circuit.

I had no problem pulling my attention away from Brandon Culpepper. Where I did seem to have difficulty, though, was keeping it from straying back to him.

The moment the director called “action,” a transformation the likes of which I had never seen took place. Brandon went from sweet and angelic to psychopathic serial killer in an instant. It was as complete as flipping a switch, so absolute was the change. Gone was the guy I observed barely able to complete a sentence without blushing red and stuttering, and in his place was a man even I would be afraid to meet in a dark alley.

It was creepy as hell.

And, inexplicably, utterly arousing.

I chalked that second part up to the fact that Brandon was everything I wanted. He could have been reading from the phone book and I would have still gotten hard. But to watch him in a scene, his presence so commanding, I was fascinated.

A hush fell over the set as the director, a competent, and no bullshit woman named Constance O’Meara, called for “places.” Within moments, the cast and crew were ready. I let my gaze travel another circuit of the entire set before retuning my attention to the small space where the filming was taking place. Just a corner of the set had been transformed to look like an empty warehouse. The extra on the ground was covered with fake blood, and waiting patiently for the scene to begin. Brandon was looking everywhere except at the woman at his feet. He fidgeted, and lifted a hand to touch his hair before he remembered himself and aborted the movement. He took a breath, then slowly blew it out.

“Action,” O’Meara called, her voice heavy with anticipation.

I held my breath as I watched. That moment as Brandon slipped into his character never failed to excite. And there it was, like an entirely different person had taken over his body. His smile was slightly maniacal, and he started humming a wordless, eerie tune of his own invention. He picked up the huge but fake knife his character used to cut apart his victims. His actions were slow, methodical, as he mimed slicing into the victim’s abdomen. For her part, the extra was perfect, whimpering and crying out until the life left her. Brandon seemed to take no notice of her as he went about his work, walking around her, getting covered in the fake, viscous, sticky blood. And then he lifted the knife, holding it up and admiring it, before he extended his tiny, pink tongue and licked it.

I shuddered. What did it say about me that a scene like that made me want to f**k him six ways to Sunday?

“Cut!” O’Meara called. The set relaxed, and Brandon dropped the knife like it burned him. I cut my gaze over to the director’s chair to see her studying the monitor in front of her. It had been only the second take, but to my inexpert eye, it had looked like a good one. My suspicions were confirmed a moment or two later when O’Meara nodded.

“Looks good, people,” she called with an authoritative air. “Let’s clear the set so we can reset for the intestines. Brandon, sweetie, you can take a break but don’t get cleaned up yet, all right?”

O’Meara never talked to anyone like that, but as I’d learned, Brandon was a special case. Everyone treated him differently, like he was just too precious for words. If I were honest, I wanted to treat him special, too.

He nodded, his smile shaky, and headed toward a quieter corner of the set. He stared at the blank wall, keeping his hands far away from his body. I had the sudden powerful urge to go over there and comfort him. Because sure as s**t, that man looked like he could use a tight hug.

Brandon was good at what he did, no doubt about that. Judging from the way every last person on the set was impressed with him, I knew he had a rare gift. I was also certain that the scenes they were shooting would make for compelling TV. I wouldn’t be surprised if an Emmy was in his future for his work on this show. He was that good.

I glanced around, checking, but everything was in order so I let my gaze rest on Brandon again. He had pressed his forehead against the wall, and I watched as his shoulders rose and fell with a deliberate rhythm. The man was doing his damnedest to cope, though I couldn’t imagine what was plaguing him. I’d taken several steps in his direction before I even realized it, when a sudden shout caught my attention. They were ready to begin again, the scene reset for the next camera angle. I watched Brandon take another deep breath, center himself, and walk back onto the set.

I checked in with Miranda over our comms, who was on soundstage one with the principle cast members. They had already started shooting scenes for the next episode, while O’Meara picked up additional footage of Brandon’s serial killer that would be worked in as needed. When I got the “all clear” from Miranda, I once again focused on the action before me.

It took another hour and a half, and five different takes, before O’Meara proclaimed herself satisfied. As soon as she called an end to the day, Brandon reached for the wet towels and began to wipe the blood from his hands and face. It came off easily enough even if it left behind a faint pink tinge on his skin. It actually matched his usual blush rather nicely, and as soon as he colored at whatever the production assistant beside him said, the stains from the fake blood disappeared.

Brandon handed back the towel, then he looked up directly at me. I held his gaze, not looking away. A myriad of emotions crossed his expressive face before a look of determination settled. He took a deep breath, then another, before he deliberately walked toward me. I held my ground. I had to admire the resolute set of his shoulders.

He stopped in front of me, but a good two feet away. I was once again struck by his much-smaller size, and seized by the desire to wrap him up and keep him safe. He commanded my whole attention, just by being there in front of me, and I let him have the full weight of my gaze. It only took him a moment to crack.

“J-J-Jared? W-w-what have I d-d-done?” Brandon’s voice was quiet, the hint of a southern accent softening the edges of his words.

“You haven’t done anything,” I reassured him, making sure I spoke softly.

Confusion creased his brow, and he slightly tilted his head like he was trying to work something out. What it did was expose the column of his neck. I wanted to bite it.

“B-b-but you k-k-keep…” he paused, and inhaled sharply. When he was once against centered, he spoke, his words surer. “You’re always s-staring at me. I reckon that means you must think I’m a threat of s-some s-sort.”

There were about a dozen answers I could have given him, and every one of them was plausible. Every one of them had, at least, a kernel of truth. But I hated games, and I didn’t play them. It wasted too much time and energy, and I refused to lie. I would give him the truth, and he would do with it what he wanted.

“You’re beautiful. Captivating. f*****g creepy as hell when that switch flips and you become your character, too.” I looked him in the eye, and shrugged. “It’s fascinating. I love watching you. I’d like to do a lot more.”

Brandon blushed so hard I thought I could feel the heat radiating off him. He gaze raked me from head to toe and back again. Then he took a huge step sideways, stammered out a “thank you,” and turned on his heel. I watched him retreat and resignation settled into my gut.

I’d given him the truth, and he’d run. Guess that was all the answer I needed. Enough distraction. I refocused my attention on the set and shoved the beautiful Brandon Culpepper out of my head.