David has been holding the phone so long, his fingers ghosting over the keypad so many times, that even when he puts it down to get a drink his thumb moved in the same pattern, dialing Billie’s number on the bottle of Grey Goose.
The only light in his flat is from his flickering television, and the video quality of the recording is shit, because it’s from the Confidential cameras. But that doesn’t matter. Because he can remember it clear as the day it happened. Billie in that tight little jeanskirt, hay in her hair from the werewolf cage set. Those chains around her wrists, and it was a simple thing, really. He just had to kick down the door and say a short line, and he’d flubbed it four times. And the props guys had to reset again and again.
And he screwed up a fifth time, kicked the door down just fine and then flubbed the line one more time (“Oh you’re beautiful!” instead of “Oh that’s beautiful!”). Billie had grinned and bit her tongue and quipped right back, “Why thank you for noticing, Doctor!” before she pounced at him. Shoved him right up against the stone wall, those plastic chains tight up under his chin, snogged him so fast and hard that stars had burst behind his eyes, he’d had to excuse himself and get off the set because his costume did nothing to hide his raging erection.
It was the first time they’d kissed. Not the last, not by a long shot. But the first.
And he’d done it — he’d survived today. Smiled in front of the cameras for hours (he’s an actor, after all, and damn good at his craft), he’d hugged Billie and Laurence and told them congratulations and even when she squeezed his hand he hadn’t broken.
David turns the bottle upside down over his glass, and nothing comes out. He’s already finished it off. Absently running his hand over the pocket of his velvet jacket, he heads to the liquor cabinet, wondering if there’s anything left in the bottle of Jameson she’d brought over months ago, to celebrate after he’d renegotiated his contract and gotten a raise.