Chapter 8: Shower Confessions
The drive back to the hotel was silent. The false vibrancy of the set had faded, leaving Sydney hollowed out. She stared blankly at the passing lights, her hand resting on Marc’s thigh like a dead weight. She’d performed the breakdown. For twelve hours, she’d summoned snot and heaving sobs on command, over and over, under the hot lights until her eyes were raw and her throat was scraped. They’d finally called wrap. The director had embraced her, called her a “brave artist.” She’d smiled thinly and walked away.
Her suite was cold, sterile. A fruit basket from the studio sat on the table, a bright, absurd still-life in the gloom. She didn’t turn on the main lights. She walked directly to the bathroom, Marc following her, a silent shadow.
She started the shower, her movements mechanical. Steam began to billow, fogging the massive mirror. She peeled off the cashmere sweater they’d put her in for the drive, then the simple cotton pants. Her skin was pale under the harsh bathroom lights, marked here and there with faint pressure lines from her costume. She looked at her reflection in the fogged glass, a ghost of herself.
“I can smell the makeup,” she said, her voice raspy from crying on cue. “I can smell it in my pores. It’s like a film.” She turned to him. “Get in with me.”
He undressed quickly, his clothes falling to the marble floor in a heap next to hers. The steam thickened, wrapping around them. She opened the glass door and stepped into the torrent, head bowed, letting the water sluice over her. He joined her, the hot water instantly plastering his hair to his skull.
For a long moment, they just stood there, the noise of the shower filling the space where words failed. Then she reached for a bottle, squeezed gel into her palm. She turned to him, her blue eyes sharp in the mist.
“Let me,” she said, and it wasn’t a request.
Her soap-slick hands landed on his chest, flattening against the hard muscle, sliding over his shoulders. She worked methodically, as if scrubbing a stain from a cherished object. Her palms swirled over his pectorals, down the ridged plane of his stomach, her thumbs catching in the groove of his hip bones. She dropped to her knees on the wet tile, her hands sliding around to his ass, pulling him closer as she soaped his thighs, the rough hair of his legs.
He looked down at her, water cascading from his chin onto her bowed head. Her blonde hair was dark and heavy with water. This wasn’t an invitation. It was a reclamation. She was washing the set, the lights, the director’s voice, the phantom hands of the makeup artists from her own skin by cleansing his. He leaned back against the cool tile, letting her work.
Her hands moved to his cock, already hard from the sheer focus of her touch. She fisted him, a slow, firm stroke from root to tip, the gel making her grip slippery and perfect. She looked up at him, water running into her eyes. “I needed to feel something that wasn’t pretend,” she said, her voice barely audible over the spray. “I needed to feel you.”
She stood then, her body pressing against his, her full, heavy breasts flattening against his chest. The soap made their skin glide. She kissed him, a deep, hungry kiss that tasted of exhaustion and defiance. Her tongue pushed into his mouth, claiming it. She reached between them, guiding him, her hand trembling not from fear but from a frantic, coiled energy.
She lifted herself onto her toes, and he understood. His hands went to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he lifted her effortlessly. Her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. He pressed her against the wall, the tile cold through the steam.
“Don’t be gentle,” she breathed into his ear, her voice a ragged command. “I don’t want gentle. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
He pushed into her in one slow, inexorable thrust. She was wet and ready, her body opening for him with a gasp that was part relief, part pain. He filled her completely, pinning her to the wall.
“Fuck,” she moaned, her head thudding back against the tile. “Yes. Just like that.”
He began to move, a hard, driving rhythm born of a day of helplessly watching her be dismantled. Each thrust was a counterpoint to a director’s note, a rebellion against the curated image. Her moans echoed off the glass and tile, loud and unfiltered, nothing like the controlled sobs she’d produced for hours.
Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her tits bounced with the force of his movements, water sluicing over the pale, bouncing curves. She clung to him, her inner muscles clenching around him tightly, a raw, physical confirmation of her presence. “Harder,” she begged, her mouth against his neck. “Make me forget my own fucking name.”
He pistoned into her, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. The steam and the heat and the slap of wet skin filled the world. This was the only real thing—the strain in his thighs, the bite of her nails, the fierce, clutching heat of her around his cock. This was a truth no camera could capture.
“Tell me,” she panted, her lips at his ear. “Tell me what you’re doing to me.”
“I’m fucking you,” he grunted, the vulgarity feeling right, necessary. “I’m fucking you through the wall.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “God, yes. Your cock is so deep. I can feel it in my belly.” Her words were filth, a raw incantation. “I’m your fucking slut. Your dirty, used-up slut. Come in me. Mark me. Make me yours.”
Her filthy talk, so at odds with her polished public image, pushed him over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he held her there, pinned, as his orgasm ripped through him. He spilled into her with a guttural shout, his body shuddering against hers.
She followed instantly, her own climax triggered by his, by the feeling of him pulsing inside her. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound that seemed to surprise even her, and her body convulsed around him, milking him dry.
For a minute, the only sound was the shower and their heaving breaths. He lowered her slowly, her legs shaky as they took her weight. She leaned into him, forehead against his chest, water and sweat and soap mingling between them.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his skin.
“For what?”
“For the… the things I said.”
He put a finger under her chin, tilted her face up. Her mascara, waterproof but not this-proof, was smudged in dark streaks under her eyes. She looked beautifully ruined. “Don’t be,” he said, his voice rough. “They were the realest words I heard all day.”
A weak, shuddering laugh escaped her. She nodded, then rested her head back against his chest. They stood there until the water began to cool.
Later, wrapped in thick hotel robes, they ate room service french fries from the bed, the city’s lights blinking beyond the window. The frantic energy had passed, leaving a deep, drained calm.
“Vancouver’s six weeks,” she said, staring at a fry. “Exterior shots. Mostly night work. In the rain.”
Marc nodded, chewing. He knew what was coming.
“It’s a closed set. Remote. They put us up in these little cabins.” She looked at him. “I want you to come.”
He stopped chewing. “To Vancouver.”
“Yes.”
“To a closed set. For six weeks.”
“You could work on the Bronco. I’ll have it shipped up. You’d have a garage space. It’s… it’s quiet. No paps. No Lena hovering. Just… us and the trees and the rain.” She sounded almost pleading, a stark contrast to the woman in the shower. “I can’t do another six weeks of that,” she gestured vaguely towards Hollywood, “without this. Without you.”
He looked at her, at the fragile hope in her red-rimmed eyes. He thought of his own garage, the steady, predictable work, the silence of his own apartment. He thought of her, washed and real and eating cold fries in a robe.
He reached over, took her hand, laced his greasy, fry-salted fingers with hers. “That vacuum diagram’s a mess,” he said. “Rebuilding it will take time. Good tools. Quiet.”
A slow, real smile spread across her face, the first one he’d seen since the plane. It was worth more than any award.
“I’ll get you the best tools,” she whispered, squeezing his hand.
Outside, the endless city hummed, already moving on to the next story. In the quiet hotel room, they made their own.
The silence between them now was different from the car. It was warm, threaded with the simple comfort of shared salt and grease. Sydney finished a fry, licked her thumb, and looked at him. The overhead light caught the faint, healing scar on her knuckle from a wrench slip months ago in his garage. A real mark. She traced it with her own finger.
"You're really not afraid of it, are you?" she asked. "The chaos. The fucking circus."
Marc leaned back against the headboard. "I'm afraid of messed-up throttle linkages. This is just people."
She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. "You have no idea." But she said it with wonder, not correction. She crawled across the bed, the robe falling open. The French braids from her on-set hairstyle were half undone, leaving crimped, wild waves in her blonde hair. She straddled his lap, the terrycloth rough between them. Her eyes were clear now, intensely blue and focused.
"I feel clean again," she murmured, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "Thanks to you." Her hands went to the belt of his robe, tugging it loose. Her touch was no longer frantic. It was deliberate, possessive.
She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, her palms skating down his chest. Her own robe gaped open, and she shrugged it off completely, letting it pool around her knees on the bed. The cool air pricked her skin, tightening her nipples. She looked down between their bodies, watching her own hand as she wrapped her fingers around his hardening cock.
"Hello again," she whispered, giving him a slow, claiming stroke.
He sucked in a breath, his hands settling on her hips. The contrast of her soft skin over the sharp bone beneath was something he’d never tire of. She rose up on her knees, guiding him to her entrance. She sank down onto him with a deep, controlled sigh, taking him all in one smooth, breathtaking slide.
"Christ, Sydney," he groaned, his head falling back.
She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips that made his vision blur. She set the pace, riding him with a concentrated intensity, her eyes locked on his. The earlier desperation was gone, replaced by a deep, simmering hunger. She bit her lower lip, her inner muscles fluttering around him as she found a rhythm that made her breath catch.
"That's it," she breathed. "Just lying there. Let me fucking use you. Let me take what I need."
Her words, low and husky, ignited him. His hands tightened on her hips, meeting her downward strokes with upward thrusts. The pace quickened. The slap of skin filled the quiet room, a raw, honest sound. Her tits bounced with the motion, and she arched her back, offering them to him. He took one tight nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and her moan cracked through the air.
"Yes! Fuck, yes, just like that."
She was chasing it now, her controlled rhythm fragmenting into something needier, more urgent. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. The kiss was sloppy, open-mouthed, all tongue and shared breath. She broke away, gasping.
"I need to feel your perfect cock in my belly again," she panted, the words hot against his ear. "Yes. Stretch me out. Fill me up. I don't want anything else. Just you. Just this."
Her filthy talk was a constant stream, a dark, thrilling soundtrack. "Cum inside me. Flood me. I'm your little slut, Daddy. Your famous little slut. This is all I'm good for. This cunt. Taking your cock."
The vulgarity, so stark against her angelic features, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling at the base of his spine. She felt it too, felt him thickening inside her.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice strangled.
"Not yet," she commanded, riding him harder, faster. "Make me come first. Watch me."
She threw her head back, a sheen of sweat glistening on her throat. Her body went rigid, a silent scream on her lips as the first orgasm ripped through her. He felt her clamp around him, pulsing wildly. She collapsed forward onto his chest, shuddering, but her hips kept moving, desperate, chasing a second peak almost immediately.
"Again, again, again," she chanted into his skin, and he drove up into her, relentless. A second, sharper climax seized her, wringing a raw, broken cry from her throat. Her body milked him, spasming around his length, and that was all it took.
He erupted. A guttural roar tore from him as he shoved up deep, holding her impaled as he emptied himself in hot, pumping jets inside her. She whimpered, oversensitive but clinging to him, taking every last drop.
He sagged back, spent. Slowly, he slid out of her.
A thick, white strand of his cum followed the withdrawal, splashing across her trembling belly. A second, final pulse arced further, painting a glistening stripe over her lower ribs and onto the soft underside of her breast.
They lay there, wrecked and breathing in ragged unison. The only sound was the distant sigh of city traffic, fourteen floors below. She didn't move to clean herself. She stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly, a faint, triumphant smile touching her swollen lips.
Finally, she turned her head on his chest. In the dim light, her eyes were dark pools, sated and peaceful. "So," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Vancouver."
His hand, resting on the damp small of her back, slid up to cradle the base of her skull. His fingers traced the crimped waves from her abandoned braids. “Yeah,” he said, the word quiet and final in the dark room. “Vancouver.”
She let out a breath she didn’t seem to know she was holding, her body going soft against him. “Just like that?”
“You asked.”
“I know I asked.” She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him. The cum was cooling on her skin, a tactile reality. “It’s six weeks. Your garage. Your life.”
He looked past her, at the ceiling. He thought of the silent alarm system, the smell of stale coffee and motor oil, the comfortable predictability of blown gaskets and scheduled oil changes. Then he thought of the hollow look in her eyes after the director called cut, and the way it had vanished only when she was scratching his back raw in the steam. “Stan can run the shop. He’s been angling for more hours. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
A complex emotion flickered over her face—relief, guilt, wonder. “You’d really do that? For this?”
“Not for this,” he said, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “For you. And for the Bronco. That vacuum line is a nightmare.” A faint grin touched his mouth. “Needs a proper rebuild.”
She laughed, a wet, choked sound, and dropped her forehead to his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Realistic.” He shifted, reaching for the discarded corner of the sheet to wipe the mess from her stomach and breast. She allowed it, watching his hands. The care in the gesture was more intimate than anything that had come before.
“It’s raining there almost every day,” she said, as if testing him.
“Good for the dirt. Won’t have to hose it down.”
She shook her head, smiling into his skin. “You’ll hate the food. It’s all… healthy. Kale and locally-sourced salmon.”
“I’ll find a diner. I always do.”
“The cabin is tiny. One room.”
“Better than my apartment.” He finished cleaning her, tossed the sheet aside, and pulled the comforter over them both. “We’ll manage.”
She was silent for a long time, her fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. The city’s glow painted faint stripes across the bed. “I screamed at a PA today,” she said, her voice small. “Not in the scene. For real. She brought me lukewarm water. I threw the bottle. It hit the wall.”
Marc didn’t respond immediately. He just waited, his hand moving in slow strokes down her spine.
“I apologized after. Cried. It was pathetic.” She swallowed. “I’m scared I’m turning into something I don’t like over there, in that world. Something that throws things. Something hollow.”
“You’re not hollow.”
“You felt me today. After. I was empty.”
“That’s tired,” he corrected, his voice low and firm. “That’s spent. Not hollow. Hollow doesn’t come back. You came back.”
She lifted her head, her eyes searching his in the semi-darkness. “What if I stop coming back?”
He held her gaze. “Then I’ll be in a cabin in Vancouver with a half-rebuilt Bronco and a lot of rain. And I’ll wait.”
Her lip quivered. She hid her face against his neck. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”
“I decide my deals.” He turned onto his side, facing her, their noses almost touching. The scent of sex and hotel soap clung to them. “Here’s the deal. You do your job. I’ll work on the truck. At night, you come home. To me. Not to Sydney Sweeney. You come home, and you be whoever the hell you are right now. The one who eats cold fries and talks dirty and gets salt on the sheets. That’s it.”
Tears welled, spilling over and tracing hot paths to the pillow. She didn’t wipe them away. “What if I can’t find her? That girl?”
“I’ll find her.” He said it with the flat certainty of diagnosing a faulty alternator. “I’m good with broken things. And you’re not even broken. You’re just… out of tune.”
A sob escaped her, but it was followed by a laugh. “Out of tune. Fuck you.” She kissed him, salty and deep. “Okay,” she breathed against his lips. “Okay.”
They lay like that until her breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of sleep. Marc stayed awake, listening to the foreign sounds of the luxury hotel—a faint elevator chime, the hum of the mini-fridge. He mapped out the tasks in his head: the call to Stan, the sublet for his apartment, the tools he’d need to bring. The logistics were a solid, manageable pile in his mind, a raft in the uncertain sea of her world.
Just before dawn, she stirred. “Marc?”
“Yeah.”
“You really accepted.”
“I did.”
She snuggled closer, her hand finding his, their grease-stained, callused fingers intertwining. A perfect fit. Outside, the first pale light began to bleed into the sky, turning it the color of a fresh weld. The storm of the day was over. The constant, enduring rain of the Pacific Northwest was waiting.
The constant, enduring rain of the Pacific Northwest was waiting.
It found them first in the rental car, a steady drumbeat on the roof as they drove north from Vancouver into the deep, dripping green. The wipers slapped a rhythm against the downpour. Marc drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Sydney’s thigh. She stared out at the shrouded mountains, her denim shirt—his denim shirt—buttoned up against the chill that seeped through the glass.
“It’s not so bad,” Marc said, breaking the long silence filled only with rain and engine hum.
“It’s a fucking drowning,” she replied, but she put her hand over his, her fingers lacing through his. The set was a cleared scar in the old-growth forest, all mud and generators and trailers huddled under a canopy of fir boughs. Her cabin was the farthest back, tucked against a wall of fern and rock. It smelled of pine sap and damp wool. Inside, it was a single room: a bed, a wood stove, a small kitchenette. His toolbox sat by the door, a solid, familiar anchor.
“Home,” she said, the word hanging in the damp air.
He nodded, hefting a duffel bag. “Workshop’s around back. They had a prefab shed wired. It’ll do.”
That first week was a study in contrast. Her days were a chaos of mud, artificial rain from giant hoses, and emotional takes that left her shivering under a foil blanket between setups. His days were silent, methodical. The Bronco’s engine block was dismantled on a tarp, each part cataloged, cleaned, assessed. The shed’s single bulb cast a warm circle of light against the eternal gray outside. He’d hear her return, the crunch of her boots on gravel, the shuddering sigh as she opened the cabin door.
She’d come in, often soaked to the skin, shivering. She wouldn’t speak. She’d peel off the wet layers, leaving them in a heap by the stove, and stand naked in the half-light, steaming. Then she’d walk to him, wherever he was, and press her cold body against his warmth, seeking a heat no blanket could provide.
One night, the rain was particularly vicious, a horizontal lash against the windows. She came in later than usual, covered in a fine, gritty mud that seemed painted on. Her eyes were glazed, distant. She didn’t even undress. She just walked to where he sat at the small table, reviewing a parts catalog.
She took the paper from his hands and set it aside. She climbed into his lap, straddling him, her muddy pants grinding into his jeans. She framed his face with her filthy hands. Her kiss tasted of coffee and earth and a faint metallic tang he recognized as fake blood.
“I need to disappear,” she whispered against his mouth. Her voice was scraped raw from screaming on set. “Make me disappear.”
Her fingers went to his belt, frantic. He helped her, yanking his jeans and boxers down just enough. She shoved her own pants down over her hips, not even bothering to take them off. She was already wet when she guided him inside her, sinking down with a fractured gasp. It was fast, desperate, a piston motion with no grace. She rode him hard, her nails digging into his shoulders, her forehead pressed to his. Her breaths were sobs.
“Fuck, yes,” she chanted, a broken record. “Just this. Just your cock. Nothing else exists.”
He held her hips, helping her, meeting her jarring thrusts. It was over in minutes, a sharp, climax that wracked her body and pulled his own from him. She collapsed against him, her muddy hair sticking to his neck. They sat there, joined, listening to the storm.
“They built a full-scale interior,” she mumbled into his collarbone. “A replica of my character’s childhood home. It was perfect. I walked in and vomited in a corner. They had to stop filming for an hour.”
His hands, streaked with her mud and engine grease, smoothed down her back. He didn’t offer platitudes. He just held her as the rain hammered the roof, a promise of six more weeks of this.
The next afternoon, he found her in the shed. She was wearing one of his old thermal shirts, sleeves rolled up, hunched over the carburetor he’d left soaking in cleaner. She held a small brush, scrubbing at a gummed jet with intense concentration.
“You’re gonna strip the threads,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
She didn’t look up. “Show me then.”
He moved behind her, his chest to her back, and wrapped his hands around hers. He guided the brush, showing her the gentle circular motion. Her hair smelled of pine smoke and shampoo. For an hour, they cleaned parts in silence, the only sound the soft scraping of brushes and the endless rain. It was the most peace he’d seen in her since they arrived.
That night, the atmosphere had shifted. The desperate edge was gone, replaced by a slow, simmering focus. They’d shared a bottle of wine. She was on the bed, propped on an elbow, watching the fire. He was stoking the stove.
“Come here,” she said, her voice a low hum.
He turned. She had that look, the one that bypassed thought and went straight to his blood. She’d changed into a simple white tank top, no bra. Her nipples were visible, hard points against the thin cotton. She hooked a finger in the waistband of his sweatpants and drew him toward the bed.
“Sit,” she instructed, nodding to the edge of the mattress.
He obeyed. She slid off the bed and knelt on the worn rug between his legs. Her blue eyes locked on his as her hands went to his waist, pulling the sweatpants and his boxers down. His cock, half-hard, sprang free. She smiled, a real one, devoid of Hollywood or melancholy.
“My turn,” she murmured, almost to herself. “No drama. No fucking character. Just you. Just me.”
She leaned forward, her breath warm on him. She didn’t take him in her mouth immediately. She nuzzled the length of him, her cheek sliding along the shaft, her lips placing soft, open-mouthed kisses on his inner thigh. The contrast of her tenderness against the raw need of previous nights was staggering. He tangled his hands in her hair, not to guide, but to feel the reality of her.
Then her tongue flicked out, a broad, wet stroke from base to tip. She took the head into her mouth, her lips forming a tight, hot seal. Her hand wrapped around the base, establishing a slow, twisting rhythm that matched the glide of her mouth. She worked him with a meticulous, devastating patience. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently in her palm.
She deep-throated him suddenly, taking him all the way until her nose pressed into his pubic hair. She held it, her eyes watering, then pulled back with a slick, obscene pop.
“You taste like sweat and woodsmoke,” she gasped, before diving back down.
Her pace increased. The suction was perfect, intense. She used her tongue expertly, swirling the tip, flicking the frenulum. She moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to his core. Her free hand slid up his stomach, nails lightly scratching his skin.
“I’m gonna make you cum,” she said, pulling off for a second, her voice husky and wrecked. “I’m going to swallow every fucking drop.”
But she didn’t. She redoubled her efforts, her head bobbing fiercely, her hand a tight, twisting companion. He felt the familiar, unbearable tightening, the heat coiling at the base of his spine. His hips jerked involuntarily.
“Sydney… I’m gonna…”
She pulled her mouth off with a gasp just as he erupted. The first thick, white rope shot across her cheek. The second landed on the neckline of her white tank top. The third, fourth, fifth pulsed onto her chest, painting slick, glistening stripes over the cotton, soaking through to her skin.
She sat back on her heels, breathing heavily, her lips swollen and wet. She looked down at the mess on her chest, then up at him, a wicked, completely present light in her eyes. Without breaking his gaze, she hooked her fingers in the neckline of her tank top and pulled it down, exposing her full, perfect breasts. His cum was splashed across her pale skin, beading on one nipple.
“These,” she said, her voice low and thick with ownership, “are my best assets.”
Then she did what she promised. She bowed her head, her blonde hair falling forward, and took her own nipple into her mouth. She sucked, cleaning the mess from her skin with a long, deliberate swipe of her tongue. She moaned, a sound of pure, filthy pleasure, as she tasted him on herself. She switched to the other breast, her tongue lapping up every streak, her eyes closed in concentration. When she was done, she looked up at him, her mouth glistening, her chest clean and flushed.
“Now,” she said, climbing onto his lap, guiding his still-sensitive cock back inside her with a slow, shuddering sigh. “Now we can sleep.”
The call came a few days later, while Marc was elbow-deep in the Bronco’s transmission. It was Stan, his voice crackling with bad cell reception. “Boss, we got a problem. It’s the city inspectors. They’re saying the variance for the rear bay is no good. They’re talking red tags. Shut down.”
Marc listened, grease dripping from a wrench onto the dirt floor. He looked out the shed door. Sydney was on the porch of the cabin, memorizing lines, her lips moving silently. The rain had eased to a fine mist, wrapping her in a silver haze.
“Okay,” Marc said into the phone, his eyes on her. “Handle it, Stan.”
“Handle it? Marc, they want you. In person. There’s a hearing.”
“I’m not there,” Marc said, his voice final. “You are. Use the binder. Top shelf, behind the manuals. The one with the lawyer’s letters. Show them. That’s your job now.”
A long pause. “For how long?”
Marc watched Sydney look up from her script, her eyes finding his across the clearing. She smiled, a small, tired thing that belonged only to this place, to this rain, to him.
“Indefinitely,” Marc said, and ended the call.