The Silver Screen Wars

4 - Dressing

"But it's being filmed nearby, right?"

Bishop chewed on the inside of his cheek, drawing on every ounce of his self-control that he had never once had to use before. f**k, what was with all these questions? If he said go left, she should go left. If he said go right, she should go right - none of this 'what's in it for me, what are the terms' bullshit that she was spouting. Who the f**k cared about money? Well, he did, but she shouldn't. She was getting a once in a lifetime opportunity that countless others would suck his c**k for. She should be paying him.

"I haven't decided yet," he grit out between his teeth, and he continued to browse the wares of the streetside stall they were currently standing in front of. "I'll tell you when I do."

"You don't know?"

Holy God. The sheer audacity of this pixie. Clearly, she still had yet to grasp who he was, and he couldn't wait until the other shoe dropped in due time. Soon, she would get it.

"Kodiak Clyde, mind telling me your IQ?"

There was a small, horizontal mirror screwed to the top of the rotating merchandise display that he was  currently combing through. Bishop glanced up at it and caught Kodi's reflection - and the sharp half-smile that appeared on her pretty little face. Oh, he thought. So she still wasn't going to back down, was she?

"I've got enough brain cells to rub together and to memorize a script," she said curtly. "Isn't that all you need?"

Prickly. She had an attitude. He'd think it was cute if he didn't f*****g despise it. He took an extra second to take in a deep breath and calm his rising blood pressure, and then he turned to flip through the women's undergarments hanging from the next rack over.

"You also need enough brain cells to recognize that you'll get your answers when I'm ready to give them," he told her. "Now what's your bra size?"

When she didn't answer, he turned his head to shoot her an incredulous look. Had she not heard him? Was she really going to make him ask twice? At some point, there had to be a line she didn't cross, but clearly she was still utterly oblivious as to what that might be. Hell, so was he. He couldn't believe he was tolerating this insubordination.

"My bra size?" she repeated. "We're going to talk about my bra size when we haven't even talked about the contract terms yet?"

"Contract s**t comes later, Kodiak Clyde. This is a little more relevant -"

"My money is more relevant than anything else, sir."

Silence fell, and they locked gazes for a long moment. Bishop wasn't quite sure if he'd died and gone to hell, maybe - what other explanation was there for meeting someone who dared to even interrupt him while he was speaking? This was proof that God didn't care, that so much talent and potential could be crammed tight into that little body that was quickly turning out to be about ninety percent mouth. Mouth with attitude.

His lips parted just enough that he could quietly suck in a slow, controlled inhale, and he held it there just long enough to remind himself why he was tolerating all this. Only temporary, he promised himself. Just a little longer. It wasn't as if he was going to let her bark at the end of her leash forever. Once the legal team finished drawing up the contract and she signed away her life on the line, her ass belonged to him.

But until then, he had to dangle a little carrot at the end of the stick and pull her along, keep her interested. Although why he even had to make an effort to do that absolutely boggled the mind. Anyone else would have been licking his shoes every second they waited. But this woman simply had no idea at all.

"Your bra size," he said again. "Don't waste my time."

She didn't break the stare. Instead, she slid her hands up the front of her hoodie and then cupped the bottom of her breasts through her clothes, hefting them slightly as if testing their consistency.

"It's about a thirty six f**k you," she replied calmly. "And if you try to pick out a new bra for me from that rack there, I'm walking."

Shit.

First of all, he was about two seconds away from wrapping his hands around her gorgeous little neck and throttling the s**t out of her. Secondly, f**k you? f**k you? When was the last time someone had told him to f**k himself? Women wanted to f**k themselves on him. Other men would take it up the ass in a heartbeat if he swung that way. And she was staring him in the eye right now and telling him to f**k himself?

But those points promptly evaporated in the wake of her subsequent threat, and Bishop didn't even realize that he'd let go of the lacy bra he was examining as if it had burned him. And f**k if she didn't notice how instantaneous his reaction had been - her eyes flitted from his hand to his face and then back to his hand again.

No. He needed to salvage this. He needed to stop panicking and remember who he was. Yes, he had stumbled upon something invaluable and irreplaceable in Kodiak Clyde, and yes, he was willing to go to any lengths to ensure that she remained in his possession, and yes, she was going to be the key to making all of this work in the end. But he was still Bishop Cassius, too. He'd worked too damn hard to get to where he was to take this kind of lip.

And so he slowly turned the rest of his body around so that he was looming over her, all frigid blue eyes and paralyzing glower. Yeah, he knew it was a d**k move, intimidating a woman with his size. But did he care? The answer was no.

"You need new clothes," he said, and there was a jagged edge to his words threatening to become worse. "And because you can't seem to dress yourself like a functioning adult, I'm going to have to do it for you. So I'm going to pick out what you're going to wear today, and then I'm going to take you to the studio. Understand?"

Oh. That was unexpected. Bishop saw something flash across her face when he mentioned the studio, and if he was right - which he always was - that something was no less than white-hot interest. Excitement, even. Oh, sure, she'd managed to bury her accidental giveaway almost immediately, but his eyes were far too sharp to have missed the glimpse she'd let slip from beneath her bored facade. Hm. Maybe she wasn't such a great actress after all, he thought smugly, if she'd shown her hand so easily to him.

But to her credit, she didn't outright ask about the studio that had so obviously piqued her interest. Cute. So cute, pretending to be unaffected. He was still pissed at the grief she had given him thus far, but the palpable thrill that he had sensed coursing through her for just an instant made something hot and sharp rise inside him in response.

Actress, indeed. He was holding back a final verdict until he really saw her in action, putting life into the script on the set of his choosing, but at the very least, she wasn't going to be a boring one.

Now all needed to do was figure out how to stop himself from killing her whenever she mouthed off, and they might have a beautiful partnership blossoming on this day. No problem. In just an hour or so, he was going to show her how the magic worked, and then she would realize exactly what she had been thumbing her nose at. And then she would be begging on her knees for his forgiveness, thanking him over and over again for the golden opportunity he had so generously bestowed on her -

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

Bishop stared at her. "What?"

"You said I can't dress myself like a functioning adult. What's that supposed to mean."

He ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip as he continued to stare into her eyes, reeling (though he would never admit it) from the swerving direction the conversation had taken. Dressing herself? He had graciously waited, deigning to allow her to formulate a response - and he had been prepared to actually listen to it! - and she used that chance to ask...about her proficiency in dressing herself?

"You're wearing..." Bishop made a vertical sweeping gesture with one hand up and down Kodi's body. Was she seriously not aware? "You're wearing that," he spat. "Moreover, you wore that to an audition. You're not going to get far in life, kid."

"Okay, but kid also got the job, right?"

Shhh, Bishop urged himself. Throttling her could come later. After she signed the binding contract.

"Your jeans are falling apart," he continued, but by now his voice was coming out in a low, guttural rasp that even he didn't recognize. Made sense. He had never had to hold himself back like this before. He supposed this was just what he sounded like when he was pulling himself back from the brink of a murder-one charge.

"My jeans are fine."

"They've been through the wash more times than I care to guess. They're thin as f**k, and since it's not a deliberate fashion choice, you're not going to walk around in those anymore."

The woman answered him with a disbelieving scoff. "So you people actually count how many times you wash your clothing? Sorry, but those of us with a budget just wear them until we can't anymore. It fits, sir. It covers the goods. Just because I don't walk around in Armani and Gucci doesn't mean I can't dress myself."

Fucking hell. She was one of those, he thought with a groan. The peasant type, the ones who didn't grow up with a great deal of money. He wasn't used to handling those kind of people. Poor people, that is. He had hoped that she was simply stylistically incompetent; it was far easier to impart advice on what to wear and how to look good to people who actually respected that price tags directly correlated with beauty.

It clearly wasn't going to be that way with Kodiak Clyde. Even now, there was a recalcitrant look in her eye as she waited for his answer.

Well, today wasn't going to be the day he debated fashion with anyone. Especially not with someone whose entire annual income probably wouldn't pay for a week's supply of his meals.

"Just wear the damn clothes," he snapped. "If you don't like them, I'll give you the receipt at the end of the day and you can return them for the money."

As expected, her dirty look vaporized in an instant, and she gave him a lofty nod of permission.

Bishop sighed and turned to resume rifling through the bras again.

Predictable.