After My Lover Erased Himself to Be My Ghost

Three weeks after I left Briggs on the beach, I went to a private industry dinner. It was held at a massive estate in Beverly Hills. The room was hot and loud. Crystal glasses clinked. Waiters in black vests carried silver trays of champagne. I stood near the marble bar, sipping sparkling water. I wore a sharp black suit. I wanted to look like armor.

Sterling Gibson found me. He always did. He walked up to the bar and ordered a scotch. He smelled like expensive cologne and arrogance.

He turned to me and frowned softly. "You look tired, Saylor," he murmured.

I stared straight ahead. I didn't look at him.

He stepped closer. His hand hovered an inch from the small of my back. "This press tour is bleeding you dry. You're working too hard. You need someone steady right now. Let me take care of you."

I finally turned my head. His smile was polished and practiced. He framed his pitch as concern. But it was just ego. He couldn't stand that I had left him. He wanted me to fall apart so he could put me back together.

"I’m perfectly fine, Sterling," I said evenly. My voice was quiet, but it had an edge.

"You don't have to do this alone," he pressed. He leaned in, trying to create a bubble of intimacy in the crowded room.

"Excuse me," I said. I didn't step back. I just turned and walked away toward the host. I didn't look over my shoulder. But I could feel Sterling staring at my back. His jaw was tight. He looked like a man who never learned how to read a closed door.

Two days later, I drove to the Sony lot. I told myself it was just a courtesy call. I needed to check on the production of Forged in Fire. I needed to know if securing Briggs that role was a catastrophic mistake.

I wore dark sunglasses and a trench coat. I slipped into the soundstage through the heavy back doors. The thick walls cut off the bright California sun. The air inside smelled like hot dust and ozone from the lighting rigs.

The set was dead silent. I walked quietly past the thick black cables and camera monitors. Then I saw him.

Briggs was in the middle of a scene. He sat on a dirty mattress in a mock-up of a rundown apartment. He wore a faded t-shirt. His shoulders shook. He wasn't crying loudly. It was a quiet, suffocating kind of grief. He clawed at his own chest. He looked completely shattered.

My breath hitched in my throat. The pain radiating from him wasn't acting. It was too raw. It was the absolute wreckage I had left him in. He was taking the open wound I gave him and bleeding it out for the camera.

Across the dark room, Robert Mitchell caught my eye. The director sat in his tall chair. He didn't say a word. He just gave me a slow, heavy nod. He knew he was watching gold.

I stood in the shadows. I watched Briggs for exactly four minutes. My chest ached with a strange, heavy pressure. I reached over and pressed my thumb hard against the inside of my left wrist. I found my racing pulse. I couldn't watch him do this anymore. I turned around to leave.

I made it to the edge of the set before a hand caught my arm.

"Leaving so soon?"

It was Sterling. He had been circling the production all week. He used mutual industry contacts to get a visitor's pass. He was doing everything he could to stay in my orbit.

I ripped my arm out of his grip. "Don't touch me, Sterling."

He stepped into my path. The director yelled "Cut!" in the background. The crew started to mill around for a break. Heads began to turn toward us.

"Saylor, please," Sterling said. He dropped his voice to a low, intimate whisper. He reached out and touched my arm again. "Stop this act. We both know you're lonely. We belong together. Let me take you home."

I felt a spike of pure, blinding irritation. I looked past Sterling's shoulder.

Briggs was standing ten feet away. He had stepped off the set to get water. His face was still smeared with fake dirt and real tears. The pink laser scar under his eye was visible under the harsh studio lights. He was staring right at us. His eyes were wide and dark. He tracked Sterling’s hand on my arm. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

I looked at Sterling. Then I looked at Briggs.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I walked right past Sterling. I marched straight up to Briggs. He froze. His breath hitched audibly as I stepped into his personal space.

I reached up and grabbed the collar of his worn flannel jacket. I pulled him down roughly. I pressed my mouth hard against his.

He tasted like salt and stale coffee. For a split second, his entire body went rigid with shock. Then a ragged, desperate breath escaped his throat. His hands twitched. They rose instinctively, wanting to hold my waist. He wanted to pull me closer.

I broke the kiss before his fingers could land.

I let go of his collar. I didn't look at his face. I didn't look at Sterling. I just smoothed down the front of my trench coat.

The entire crew was staring in stunned silence. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

It wasn't a kiss of love. It was a weapon. It was a deliberate, violent use of his body. It was a door slamming shut in Sterling's face, leaving no room for ambiguity.

I turned on my heel and walked out the heavy soundstage doors. Sterling didn't follow me.

I walked out into the blinding afternoon sun. My driver was waiting by my black SUV. I got into the back seat and shut the door.

"Drive," I told him.

As the car rolled slowly through the massive parking lot, I looked out the tinted window. Briggs had followed me outside. He was standing by his own beat-up sedan a few rows away.

He didn't look at my car. He just opened his door and got in.

My driver stopped at the lot's exit gate, waiting for the guard to lift the arm. I kept watching Briggs through the dark glass.

He didn't start his engine. He just sat there in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were stark white. He stared straight ahead into the empty lot.

I knew exactly what I had done. I knew he understood what that kiss was. He knew it was a performance. He knew I used him to crush Sterling's ego.

But I also knew the truth. It was the first time I had touched him since I left him on the beach. I still felt the phantom heat of his mouth on mine. The sudden, desperate way he tried to hold me.

I pressed my thumb into my left wrist again. The pulse there was frantic.

The gate lifted. My driver pulled out onto the street. I looked back one last time. Briggs was still sitting in the dark car, totally unmoving.

He was going to sit there for a long time. He wasn't going to sleep tonight.

And neither was I.