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“No, but if you’ve been in here as long as I was on set, I figured you’d be hungry.”
He leaned forward and finally took the bag from me, peering inside. His brows flew up toward his hairline. “Shawarma-stuffed pita? How did you know? That’s so creepy, Aleric.”
“I didn’t know,” I defended myself as I sank into the small chair near the coffee table. “God, why do you think I’m some whacko?”
“Because you’re really nice and fairly respectful sometimes, and other times, you look like you want me to—” He stopped abruptly and swallowed thickly.
“To what?”
He shook his head, and it was clear he wasn’t going to finish that sentence. “Sometimes you’re insulting the entire disabled community and acting like we don’t matter. Then you find me a ramp and get me my favorite dinner. I feel like I’m in a fucking snow globe being constantly shaken.”
I snorted as I pulled out a foil-wrapped pita and peeled it open. It smelled amazing. It was stuffed with chicken and veg, covered in tzatziki. “Okay, you actually have good taste.”
He laughed through a stuffed mouth. “Mm. Trust me, it didn’t come naturally. I was all about poached fish and whatever the fuck health kick my mom was on until I started playing basketball. I met real people after that and had my world changed.”
“Remind me to send them a muffin basket,” I said, halfway through the pita. “This tastes like someone’s yaya made it.”
He choked as he tried not to laugh through his bite. “Someone’s yaya did. It’s this little mom ’n’ pop shop over on Kane Street. If you don’t piss me off for the rest of the night, I’ll give you the name.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly, not pointing out that I doubted there was more than one mom ’n’ pop Greek shop on Kane Street. Hopping up, I walked to my minifridge and grabbed a couple of waters, passing one over.
We finished the rest of our meal in silence, and it was in that post-comfort-food half-coma that I remembered I’d asked him here for a reason.
“So,” Camillo said after he balled up his wrapper and tossed it on the table, “you were going to prostrate yourself?”
My entire body flushed so hot I felt dizzy. My cock thickened in my sweats, and I did my best to shift so he couldn’t see the movement of it. Fuck, why did he have to keep saying shit like that? “That was not on my agenda. But an apology was.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Alright.”
He really wasn’t going to let this go, and I knew I needed to make it a good one. “I’m going to fuck up again. This is all very new for me, and you’ve done nothing but make sure to remind me at every turn that I don’t belong in this role.”
“Because you don’t.”
“I know. But I’m here, and I want to do a good job. I actually do respect you, and I respect the story we’re trying to tell. I’m not here to insult you or make you look like an incompetent twat.”
“You said something like that before, and then when I tried to show you what you were doing wrong?—”
“I know. I got defensive and turned into the same type of asshole who torments me,” I told him.
His mouth had been open, probably to talk more shit, but it snapped shut at my words. He stared at me for a long second, his gaze both piercing and gorgeous. And maybe a little terrifying. He really did feel like a prince right then.
“How?”
“How…what?”
“How are you tormented? And why?”
I supposed it was only fair. It wasn’t like no one knew my story. I’d spoken out about the way child actors were treated, but people didn’t believe me. They didn’t want to believe me. “I was…” I knew the word my therapist wanted me to use, but it was hard to say it. “Mistreated on set when I was younger. And when I got older, the mistreatment got worse. And more creative. And…darker.”
Camillo’s eyes narrowed. He looked angry. “I’ve heard stories. Not about you, but others.”
“They’re probably mostly true. For a long time, the industry went unchecked when kids were involved. And when we got older and wanted to speak out or fight them, the press ran stories about us being dramatic drug addicts who were impossible to work with. They could kill a single career with one article and a well-timed phone call to a studio exec.”
Sitting back, Camillo’s gaze was fixed hard on me. He was listening in ways most people never did.
“Obviously, you know what people say about me. Most of it isn’t true. But everywhere I turn, they want me to admit on camera that it was my fault. That I was the one behind my meltdown. That I was some drug fiend who was forced into rehab, and now I’m on some apology tour. But I’mnotsorry for what happened when I was a kid. It wasn’t my fault.”
“No,” Camillo said softly. “I suppose it wasn’t.”