Wetlands

“Please, Beatrice, I need you!” The actor flung his arms out as if he were auditioning for a revue musical and not a dark gothic drama. The second-hand embarrassment was palpable.

“Excellent, we’ll… get back to you.”

Jordan was starting to feel like he was not cut out to be a director after all. He had thought securing funding for his twisted horror romance pilot would be the hardest part, a feat he’d managed by a hair thanks entirely to his producer (Thanks, Elena!). But it turns out that sifting through three hundred audition tapes and narrowing them down to thirty callbacks, only to pass on every single one, was a different kind of soul-crushing labor. He didn’t mind the grind (it’s showbiz, after all) as much as shattering aspiring actors’ dreams. It was a privilege that required a certain hardened backbone he simply didn’t have. He was used to being the one without a seat at the table; now that he owned it, the chair felt uncomfortably rigid.

“Guess I’ll be preparing a new casting call,” Elena sighed as the hopeless actor shuffled out. ​

“Fuck,” Jordan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “What are we gonna do?”

He was still missing his Vincent Gourdain; the dashing heartthrob-slash-vampire-slash-swamp-creature that was supposed to carry his entire Beauty and the Beast meets Nosferatu meets Creature from the Black Lagoon series.

​“I say we go out on a limb and pick that last guy. Maybe his looks will distract from the fact that he can’t act for shit,”

​“Ugh, this has to be perfect, El. Perfect! An opportunity like this doesn’t just come around for people like me.”

“What? Male directors?”

The words had slipped out of his mouth before he realized how stupid they sounded. “You know what I mean.”

​“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. Your ‘Count Shrek’ is out there somewhere.”

​​He had better be, or Jordan was about to lose the pitch competition to yet another tacky Netflix sitcom.

​“I know I’m late,” a voice rasped from the doorway. “The Central Line was stuck for thirty minutes. It’s fucking freezing out there. Tracks are all frozen.”

Before they could manage a reaction, much less a response, the man bursting into the studio had already shed his coat and dropped into the audition chair, legs spread wide.

“Wanna dive right in?”

Jordan’s eyes traveled up the line of the man’s trousers, lingering unwillingly on his thighs straining against the tight fabric before reaching his face.

“Sorry, I don’t think we were expecting anyone else today,” Elena said, filling in the space of Jordan’s silence.

“Well, here I am,” the man said, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Right. Sorry Mr...?”

“Kaviani. Ash Kaviani.”

Elena fumbled through the file of headshots but couldn’t find anyone with his rugged face and dark eyes anywhere.

“Sorry, my mistake, I must’ve mis-scheduled,” she apologized in typical Canadian fashion, knowing damn well she hadn’t. She never did.

“No worries. I’m here now, so let’s do it,” Ash replied, as if her apology had been meant for him and not Jordan.

Elena and Jordan passed nods of agreement. They had already been through two dozen readings the past few days. What’s one more?

“Well, the camera is all set up, so we might as well,” Jordan said. This guy totally lacked the sort of refined elegance the role of Vincent Gourdain called for. But there was no harm in entertaining it. “I’m Jordan, the director, and Elena, whom you have been emailing, is our casting director and producer. Glad you caught us before we—”

Ash stood to shake their hands. The rough, hardened ridges of his palm felt like a brand against Jordan’s smooth skin. He felt the firm grip pulling him slightly forward, into Ash’s orbit. ​“Elena will be taping,” Jordan said, his voice a fraction higher than usual. “And I’ll be reading Beatrice.” He turned to the script.

“From over there?” Ash asked, one eyebrow arched at the table dividing them.

“Yes?”

​“I thought you were filming a romance. You need to sit here. Next to me.”

Elena shot Jordan a look that said, ‘get a load of this guy,’ but it passed Jordan by. He was amazed. This unknown stranger had barged in, seemingly from out of nowhere, and suddenly started commanding the room.

Commanding him.

He hesitated, the script suddenly heavier in his hands, but heard himself obeying before the thought had fully formed.

“If it helps you, of course.” He sat his chair in front of Ash, hiding the fact that this was the most exciting thing that had happened all day. Hell, all week. The cool air clung to Ash, mixing with his citrusy cologne as it drifted Jordan’s way. What is that perfume?

A breath of fresh air.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Ash closed his eyes for a second before they immediately snapped back up, his gaze completely changed. The arrogance that seemed to make up Ash Kaviani had been replaced with the hunger and desperation of Vincent Gourdain.

“It is true. This porcelain skin is mere rotting flesh, this breath but a fog, and these tears freshwater streams. But my lust for you hides behind no illusion, Beatrice.” Ash did not rush the lines. He let every word settle, heavy and melancholic. Jordan’s stomach tightened.

“Love cannot grow on lust, Vincent. You’re clouded by hunger. Once you’re satiated, all that will remain of me is a pile of bones. You’ll devour me like a beast.”

Ash swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling, then leaned closer. His faint cologne grew stronger. Top notes of bergamot and… rosewood?

“That’s right. For you, I am a dog, for you have me on a leash, Beatrice. Pull any harder and my neck will break.”

“Better yours than mine.”

There were a few seconds of silence, and Jordan became acutely aware of how still Ash was sitting. Did he forget his lines? No. As their eyes met, he felt Ash’s gaze penetrating deeper into him with every silent beat. It started to feel less like a reading and more like a test. Jordan hated how much he liked it.

Then, Ash stood up and started pacing around him, his blocking smooth and deliberate. His eyes never once left Jordan, not even when the script demanded it. “Can’t you see?! I am yours to play with. Yours to toy with and ravish. Yours to use. Yours to harm. Yours to starve!” He stopped. Hyacinth, or cedar, or both? For a moment, it looked as though he might pull back, and the thought disappointed Jordan more than it should have. But instead, Ash dropped to his knees, pressing into Jordan’s lap. His bicep pressed dangerously close to his crotch. He looked up at Jordan like a whimpering dog, and Jordan couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Even if it was all an act. Even if it was his own words. “And should you not want to feed me, I’ll more than happily fade away right here, so long as it is in your arms.”

“I cannot give you my heart, Vincent!” Jordan exclaimed, trying his best to refrain from putting too much emotion into the words. From getting too immersed.

He failed miserably.

“I don’t need your heart; I’ll be more than satisfied with the ground it walks on. Please, I need you Beatrice.” Ash was only a few inches from Jordan’s face now. His black eyes weak, his red lips trembling. Yearning. If this were a real shot, only a close-up would be able to capture the tension Jordan was feeling right now.

“Eat me, Vincent.”

Jordan carefully stretched out his neck, mindful not to block the view of the camera, as blood pumped through his discernible veins. Ash’s mouth parted, revealing his naturally sharp canine teeth. Moving closer to his jaw. Definitely lemon. His upper lip brushed against Jordan’s neck forcing an involuntary gasp from Jordan as his pulse thudded openly beneath the skin.

Versace Blue. Of course.

“So?”

Ash thumped back into his chair, his voice returning to the same nonchalance he had entered with. “I get it?”

In truth, Jordan needed a minute to compose himself before answering. But he couldn’t afford a minute. It would be far too unprofessional to reveal the kind of effect Ash’s performance had had on him. He cleared his throat and crossed his legs in hopes of hiding some of the effect…

“Thank you, Mr. Kaviani,” Elena chipped in, in hopes of shouldering some of Jordan’s obvious embarrassment. “That was very… colorful.”

Ash smirked. He knew exactly what he had done. And what’s worse, he knew that Jordan knew what he had done and that it had worked.

Jordan returned to the table, exchanging less-than-comfortable looks with Elena, who had to stop herself from physically face-palming once she caught a glimpse of Jordan’s bulging zipper.

“Yes, thank you. We will watch the tape back and get back to you in—”

“No need for all of that. I know I’m good. You know I’m good. I’ll get the part,” Ash said bluntly.

“Wow, well, guess the only thing we need to put you through is extensive media training,” Elena snorted, clearly amused by his confidence. Jordan, on the other hand, could only bear to shift in his seat.

“I’m going to make your series, Jordan,” Ash went on. “And put you on the map.”

“Appreciate it,” Jordan scoffed, regaining some footing at last. Deep down, however, he was hoping it wasn’t entirely untrue. “I’ll make you rich and famous in return, Ash,” Jordan joked but Ash did not laugh.

“I know you will.” The corners of his mouth curled, traces of Vincent Gourdain’s hunger slipping out. “I’m going to be even more famous than the Monteiros.”