The day Chris Ames landed his first role in a feature film was the best day of his life. He knew he'd skipped several rungs on the career ladder and gone from being a no-name actor in a used car commercial to supporting actor in a legitimate film with one of his idols playing the lead.
Holy. Shit.
And not only that — he played the boy toy love interest of Celeste Kincaid. He was going to get to make out with Celeste...fucking...Kincaid. At 23, Chris was the perfect age to have had a huge crush on Celeste when she took Hollywood and the world by storm as the cute girl-next-door heroine in a teen movie that had a ridiculous plot no one remembered. But her hazel eyes and dark hair streaked with blonde highlights accompanied by that now-iconic low-cut green top and black hot pants made the movie an instant classic to every male of his generation.
That movie had come out when he was nine, and at the time, Celeste was 26.
Today, at 40, Celeste was a stunning natural beauty who had never gone the typical Hollywood route of fake lips, breasts and God only knew what else. She was the darling of an online campaign to do away with airbrushing pictures on magazine covers. Her detractors said it was easy for her, as she was one of the lucky few people who just never seem to age. But she took it all in stride.
Chris had seen all of her movies. There weren't a ton, but from a sci-fi space pioneer film to one in which she was sort of a female version of Indiana Jones, he'd always gone and seen them, even if just to see her.
Now he'd be in one. It had been three weeks since The Call had come and the director, Jason Bloomberg, had personally congratulated him on getting the part, and Chris was still in shock when he thought about it. It still didn't seem real. This would open doors for him he'd only ever imagined.
His cellphone rang. A pretty common occurrence now that his friends and his "friends" had all heard the news. He looked down and saw that it was Pete Flanagan, who'd come to Los Angeles with him four years earlier and done pretty well for himself as a frequent supporting actor.
"Hey, Pete, what's up?" Chris answered.
"You hear yet?" Pete's excitement was brimming over through the phone.
"Hear what?"
"Don't be coy with me, Chris."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Oh shit. You really don't know," Pete said with a laugh. "It's all over the news now." He shifted his voice to an approximation of a TV newsman and continued, "Celeste Kincaid confirms she will bare all in her next film, hints at steamy love scene."
Chris felt his heart skip. "Wait, what?"
Celeste Kincaid had famously never done a nude scene, regardless of how much some producers had begged her to do one. She'd also never accepted the standing offer of half a million dollars to pose for an Internet porn site, and she'd never been outed in any of the now-relentless hacks of celeb photo accounts that frequently turned up private sexy photos, suggesting she'd never allowed herself to be filmed nude even in her personal life.
"This has to be you, right?" Pete said. "I mean, you have to be the one in the love scene."
Chris was already scanning headlines on his iPad. It seemed legit. One story had quotes from her where she said she just felt like it, and felt this story was the one where it would make sense.
"I, umm...yeah," Chris said. "I guess so."
"Lucky son of a bitch," Pete said. "You really hit gold here. Of course, it'll be awkward as fuck, so enjoy that."
The phone beeped to indicate Pete had ended the call, and Chris sat down, wondering if he was reading it right. Of course he wanted to be in a steamy sex scene with Celeste Kincaid. But then, did he? It suddenly seemed like too much to take in.
Three days later, he was signing papers in the studio office. Having never bared skin before, he didn't realize that the lawyers made sure to spell out every aspect of what he'd be required to do. He had yet to even meet Celeste, but here he was, signing papers that laid out the process in weirdly clinical terms, like "Remove her shirt, bury head in breasts as you unhook her bra. Let bra fall aside. Suck left nipple."
"Ok, then," he muttered to himself as he read through it all and signed at the bottom, his signature less neat than normal given how much his heart was racing at the thought.
As he handed his paper in to the director's assistant, Jason Bloomberg poked his head out of his office and beckoned Chris inside.
"Shut the door," he said as Chris entered. "Are you ready for this? I know this is all new for you."
"Yeah," Chris said, trying to sound confident.
"Your acting skills need to be better on set than that lame attempt," Bloomberg said, looking up with a smile. "I know it's awkward, but you'll do fine. I don't have to tell you that you need to be respectful, correct?"
"Absolutely not," Chris said. "I'm not 'that' guy."
"Good. Because a sex scene is not sex. It's not going to be fun, and it's not going to be easy. It's a lot of work, but we will make sure to clear out all nonessential people. Even then, there's going to be quite an audience. But they're all professionals, as you and Ms. Kincaid are. Follow the script, say the lines, and try not to think too much."
Chris nodded.
"So, we will film the intimate scene first. I find it's better to do it this way, so it's not some ball of anxiety hanging over everyone's heads. Plus, if you and Ms. Kincaid hate each other after working together for a little while, it's less you have to fake."
"That sounds good," Chris said.
"Great. I'll see you Monday."
The next day, the Saturday before the shoot, his phone beeped with a number he hadn't ever seen before. Thinking it was a spam text, he almost deleted it without reading, but clicked on it anyway.
"Hi Chris - this is Celeste. Since we are shooting Monday and we have yet to meet, I'd really like to have a coffee or something first. Are you free today?"
Chris rolled his eyes. "Nice try, whoever this is," he responded.
A minute or so later, his phone beeped again. Another text. Same number. Chris looked at it and saw his phone loading a picture. It was Celeste, sitting on a couch, hair wrapped in a towel, with the visible hand holding a scrap of paper that read, "Hey, Chris — it's really me. Coffee?"
"Oh, shit — sorry! Thought I was being punked," he hastily responded. "Yes. Tell me when and where."
Three hours later, Chris found himself staring into the camera at the gate to an address in Beverly Hills. The gate clicked, and he passed through, to the amazement of the occupants of a star homes tour van parked across the street.
"None of these people know who I am," Chris thought to himself. "But many of them will once this movie comes out."
A big man in a suit opened the door as Chris walked up, smiling and ushering him inside.
"Head into the kitchen. She'll be down in a second," he said, waving his hand down the hall.
