Chapter 2: Josh works on Chloe
The text came through at 7:43 PM, just as Chloe was finishing the line work on a storyboard panel. The phone buzzed against her drafting table, a harsh vibration in her quiet flat.
Running late again. Scenes with Paige are taking forever to light. So sorry. Rain check for tomorrow? - S
She stared at the words, at the little heart emoji he’d appended, a stupid, habitual punctuation he used for everyone. The careful lines of her drawing—a somber figure looking out a rain-streaked window—seemed to blur. This was the second time this week. The warehouse location had run over on Tuesday, and now Friday was gone. Each cancellation was logical, justifiable. The film needed the time. Stan was in his element, driven, alive. She understood it. She’d always understood his obsessions.
But understanding didn’t stop the hollow feeling from expanding in her chest. It was the three of them at the pub all over again, her as the silent spectator while Stan’s world gently tilted toward Paige’s light. She was the production designer. The best friend. The solid, real thing in the background of his shot.
A firm knock at the door jerked her from her thoughts. Her heart did a foolish, hopeful leap. Stan? Maybe he’d finished early.
She opened the door to the scent of greasy Chinese takeaway and Josh’s leather jacket. He held up two plastic bags, steam fogging the sides. “Evening, Chloe. Figured you’d be starving. Artist at work and all that.”
She blinked, the disappointment a cold splash. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you from a night of sad noodles and sadder thoughts,” he said, already easing past her into the small flat. His eyes scanned her space—the neat bookshelves, the art supplies ordered by colour, the fairy lights strung above her bed. “Nice place. Cozy. Very you.”
“I didn’t invite you in, Josh.”
“You also didn’t slam the door,” he pointed out, setting the bags on her small kitchen counter. He began unpacking containers with a proprietor’s air. “Stan’s knee-deep in cable and cinematic genius with the goddess Paige. Told me he had to bail on you. Seemed genuinely cut up about it.” Josh’s tone suggested Stan was anything but. “So I thought, fuck it. Nobody should eat alone.”
He was being… considerate. It was disarming. Chloe hovered, her arms crossed. “That’s… unexpectedly nice of you.”
“I have my moments.” He handed her a set of chopsticks. “Spring rolls. Kung Pao chicken. The works.”
The smell was undeniable, and she was hungry. She sat on the floor at her low coffee table, grudgingly accepting the food. For a while, they ate in a silence that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. He talked about the locations, about his cousin being a prick, about the logistical headaches of Stan’s ‘vision’. It was normal. Easy.
Then he leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze settling on her. “Must be a bit shit, though. Watching him pour all that energy into her.”
Chloe stiffened. “It’s a film. She’s the lead.”
“Come on, Chloe.” Josh’s smile was thin, knowing. “We both see it. He’s making a movie about an unattainable fantasy and he’s cast the campus fantasy right in the role. He’s not just directing her. He’s worshipping her. And you’re there, holding the light reflector.”
The accuracy of the image was a scalpel, precise and cruel. “I’m helping my friend make his project. That’s it.”
“Is it?” He took a swig of the beer he’d brought. “You’ve been his constant. The one he talks to. The one who gets him. And now Paige floats in with her perfect hair and her ‘sparkling blue eyes’”—he mimicked Stan’s earnest tone perfectly—“and suddenly you’re the third wheel. It’s fucking brutal to watch.”
“Stop it,” she said, her voice low.
“Why? Because it’s true? You sit there, pretending you don’t crave him. That you don’t lie awake wondering what it would be like if he’d just look at you, just once, the way he looks at her. If he’d ever slide his hands under that neat little sweater of yours, get his proper, clean-cut dick inside you instead of just dumping his artistic angst in your lap.”
The vulgarity was a physical slap. Heat flooded her cheeks. “Fuck you, Josh. Get out.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey. Okay. Harsh. I’m sorry.” The apology was quick, slick as oil. He didn’t move. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I just call it like I see it. And I see a stunning girl who’s being treated like a piece of furniture. It pisses me off.”
The anger in his voice felt genuine, and it confused her. It meshed with her own quiet fury, giving it a shape. She looked away, struggling to rebuild her walls.
“You don’t have to settle for being the consolation prize,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. “You don’t have to ache for his cock. There are other options.”
Her eyes flicked back to him, drawn against her will. He was spreading his legs slightly as he sat on her floor, the worn denim of his jeans pulled tight across his groin. The outline was unmistakable, even in the low light. A thick, heavy bulge, already semi-erect, straining against the fabric. It was… substantial. The sheer size of the imprint made her breath catch in her throat.
He saw her looking. A slow, wolfish smile spread across his face. He made no move to hide it. “See?” he murmured. “A replacement doesn’t have to be a downgrade.”
A cocktail of revulsion and a shocking, unwanted thrill shot through her. Her mouth was dry. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Do I?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, which only accentuated the prominent bulge. “Or are you just saying that because it’s what you think you should say? Your heart’s pounding. I can see it in your throat.” His eyes darkened, intent. “Let me ask you something, Chloe. Be honest with yourself, even if you won’t be with me. Is your pussy wet right now? Just from this? From seeing what I’ve got for you? From thinking about how good it would feel to finally have something big and hard and present filling you up, claiming you, instead of just empty, artistic longing?”
The explicit language was a direct current. She felt a treacherous, humid ache between her legs, a traitorous response to his crude, visual proposition. It horrified her. It excited her. The conflict paralyzed her for a second too long.
Josh moved. It wasn’t a lunge, but a smooth, confident shift onto his knees, closing the space between them. He was in front of her, the heat of his body radiating, the smell of leather and cheap beer and male intent enveloping her. His hand came up, not to touch her, but to hover near her cheek.
“I could make you feel so good,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I could fuck that polite, artistic right out of you. I could bend you over this pretty little table and make you forget his name. You’re dying for it. I can see it.”
His proximity, the graphic promise, the overwhelming physicality of him—it shattered the paralysis. Fear, real and sharp, cut through the fog of arousal. Some of the things he said were true, and that was the most dangerous part.
With a burst of strength she didn’t know she had, she shoved him hard in the chest. “Get out!” she screamed, the sound raw in her small flat.
He stumbled back, more from surprise than force. The predatory gleam in his eyes remained, but he slowly rose to his feet, adjusting himself with a blatant, unashamed gesture. “Alright,” he said, his tone conversational again, as if they’d been discussing the weather. “Alright, Chloe. Message received.”
He walked to the door, slow, deliberate. He opened it, then turned, his gaze sweeping over her one last time, from her furious, flushed face down to her trembling hands.
“But you looked,” he said softly. “And you liked what you saw. Think about that while you’re waiting for his next text.”
He closed the door behind him with a quiet, definitive click.
Chloe sank to the floor, her back against the couch, trembling violently. The scent of Chinese food was now cloying, nauseating. She felt violated, seen in a way she never had been. And the most terrifying part, the part that sent a cold shame through her veins, was the damp, undeniable truth in the center of her underwear, a wetness that proved, on some base, animal level, he was right.