She awoke to the patter of heavy drops on the window intermixed with crackles. She scans the room in front of her, full of bleary objects hard to differentiate in the void of light until she turns her head to see a glow emitted from the fireplace.
Was that lit when we...fell asleep? She can't recall.
The arm chair in the corner is rearranged to face the tall windows, streaks of rain streaming down in sheets. Keanu sits there, feet propped upon the window sill, his head resting on one hand. The table next to him has a cluster of lit candles, the flicker is a sharp contrast to the dark, foggy sky surrounding Paris.
She sits up in bed, forgetting for a moment she's still undressed. Memories of what happened between them last night flood her, leaving her awash with vulnerability. She quickly shifts the soft, Egyptian cotton sheet under her arms as a tingle sweeps up her back, neck and across her chest.
Seemingly hypnotized by the water pouring from the still black sky, he is utterly still.
No longer feeling timid, her vision narrows to a pinprick, studying the faraway look on his face. She has seen this expression on him before, a hint of sadness hiding behind those smoldering eyes. It sparks this acute need inside her to find out what is going on.
What is he hiding from? What is he suppressing?
She wraps the sheet tight around her like a towel and tiptoes toward him. As she nears, she notices tiny goosebumps on his bare chest, shoulders and arms. She longs to run her fingers over his skin, to warm him, but instead she strokes his hair to announce her presence.
"What are you doing over here?" she asks, outlining his ear with two fingers. "It's the middle of the night."
She may well have been wearing a cloak of invisibility, having no effect on his blank stare. In his lap she sees a worn, leather journal.
"Whatcha reading?" she asks, reaching for the book, when his hand comes tumbling down on top of hers.
"Don't."
Startled, she peers into his eyes. There it is again: something dark, something quiet, unsaid.
He blinks a few times, as though he'd just come out of a trance and realized where he is at, or, more importantly, who he is with. A sense of calm replaces his look of trepidation. He sets the journal aside and turns her hand over in his lap, drawing his finger down the faded white line in her palm.
The back of her hand now lying on the soft cotton of his Calvins, she tenses, fighting a giggle from the tickle in her palm. As his finger traces the remnants of her scar, she can't help but notice the hem of his black boxer briefs are pushed up in his seated position, baring most of his upper thigh. She tries not to squirm as she recalls the feeling of the light curls on his thigh tickling against the smooth skin of her own.
Gritting her teeth, she pulls her attention back to the present. "What are you, a spy? S'that top secret?"
With prolonged, deep eye contact, his fingers dance from her palm up the sensitive underside of her arm, to her elbow. The prickles on her skin match his, now, and he smiles, watching her try not to flinch. His hand moves to her waist, covered by the wrinkled sheet.
She squeals as he pulls her down like a handful of feathers, into his lap.
"I hope I didn't wake you," he murmurs unconvincingly, dragging the back of his finger across her collarbone. He doesn't seem bothered by her being awake at all.
"Hmmm, and what if I tell you you did?" she teases, her eyes darting back to the table. "Is that a book or a journal?"
"Does it matter?" he skirts the question, fingers playing with the corner of the sheet tucked in near her arm. His eyes caress her with longing, invisible fingers, and suddenly she's forgotten her question. He tugs the corner of the sheet until it comes undone, running the palm of his hand up and down across her skin.
An exquisite shudder shoots through her.
"Come here," he whispers, pulling the sheet like a net around her, urging her lips onto his.
She succumbs, every inch of her lit with the burning need to feel him again.
He stands, cradling her while the sheet falls to the ground, carrying her back to the bed, their bed, at least for the night.
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
It's 10:30 a.m. the next morning and they're in a studio in Paris, being shown to the green room before their interview with French reporter, Thierry Dubois. On one side of the room is a grey linen couch, lined with yellow, white and grey chevron pillows. On the other side are two white, leather club chairs. Between the two seating areas is a white, wooden, coffee table, all the most recent, popular French magazines fanned out on top. Sandra is wearing a sleeveless, burgundy linen dress with a deep V-neck and Keanu is in a dark jacket with a dark, crew neck tee underneath.
Sandra takes her seat on the couch and Keanu joins her, sitting at a respectable distance with his hands folded in his lap, brown leather watch on his wrist. He makes polite conversation with the assistant producer, but doesn't draw it out longer than common courtesy would dictate.
Sandra reaches for one of the magazines, flipping through the pages as the AP makes her exit.
When the door clicks shut, he leans toward her, brushing her hair behind her ear and dragging his lips across her neck.
"You smell like roses today."
She leans away from him slightly, slipping her hand up between his lips and her skin and returning her attention to her magazine with a dramatic flair.
He grins and moves in again, this time nuzzling behind her ear before gently biting her lobe.
She giggles and pushes him back. "Stop it," she smiles. "Be professional."
He puts his hand on her chin, luring her to face him when the door opens and they move apart like lovesick teenagers caught by their parents in the den.
The assistant producer looks from him to her and back again before explaining they are running a bit behind and asking if they need any refreshments or more snacks.
"No," he snaps.
"Keanu could probably use a cold glass of water, actually. Don't you think, Keanu?" she gives him a knowing look.
"Sure thing, I'll be right back with it," the AP replies.
"No rush!" Keanu calls out as the door closes again.
She snickers and pretends to return to her magazine.
With a devilish grin, he rubs the palm of one hand on the space above her knee. "How much time do you think we have?" he asks, eyebrows raised.
"You've gotta stop. For real." She practices a stern tone, but he pretends not to hear her, reaching for her arm, her waist, her shoulder while she pretends to slap his hand away.
The AP returns, knocking before entering this time.
"Come in," Sandra invites her.
"Here's your water, Mr. Reeves. Miss Bullock I have one for you, too, in case you...need it. We should be ready to go in ten minutes."
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~
A few minutes later, they find themselves sitting at a large, round, white table with French 'shock jock', Thierry Dubois. A hit with the younger crowd, he'd gained the reputation for being a must-stop on any film's European press junket, despite his sometimes combative, always controversial interview style. Actors are coached by their publicists to remain amicable and try to tolerate the jabs they could expect from him in return for all the talk and exposure.
"Sandra Bullock et Keanu Reeves, bon jour. We're so happy to have you here with us today. You're here in Paris to promote your film, Speed."
The glow of blue lighting casts an eery, night club setting for this celebrity interview show. The audience is in a semi-circle in front of them.
"Keanu, you're playing Los Angeles SWAT Officer Jack Traven."
"Yes."
"And Sandra, you play Annie, his love interest."
She pinches her lips together and forces a polite smile.
"Now Keanu, this is not your first big film. You've had some success already with Point Break and the Bill and Ted films. Tell me about this role. Is this just the new Die Hard on a bus?"
*"I've heard that claim, but no, it's not. This movie is so imaginative, man. The SWAT guy I played is 'every-guy,' not the typical hotshot. He's studly, but sort of sensitive. There's a humanity to him and to the picture.
*"You did a lot of your own stunts in this film, correct?"
*"I didn't really do anything that was too, you know, gutsy," he insists. "Gutsy to me, I don't use that term idly. To show guts you've gotta be doing something very...hard edge, you know? Extreme. I didn't do anything extreme."
*"Well your co-star, Dennis Hopper, was impressed with all the action. What made you agree to do some of those crazy stunts?"
*"I didn't do any stunts. Stunt men and women, they do the stunts. But, why did I like it? The thrill, you know? I've gotten to go fast a couple times, and, it's all physical and exhilarating. It was fun."
"Oui, oui, yes. Now, Sandra. My impression of you is this is your first big picture. What ones were you in before that?"
"Smaller ones."
"Cute. You have this dark-haired, somewhat funny label. Where did that come from?"
"My mother. I don't know," she leans back in her chair.
Thierry smirks.
"She's got your audience laughing," Keanu points out.
"Sure, she's good for a laugh if you like that kind of thing. Now, Jan de Bont has said he had to fight the studio for you? Why is that? They wanted a bigger name? Or a Hollywood bombshell who's more traditionally hot?"
"Well, Thierry, I guess maybe because I'm somewhat hot?" She crosses her arms in front of her. "Or maybe he just needed someone somewhat strong enough to kick someone's ass if I had to? Who knows?" She turns to Keanu, "Can I say ass on TV?"
"I don't see why not, it's not bad unless it's in French, right?"
"Yeah, I think I'm in the clear here."
"If the ass fits, right?" he shrugs.
Thierry shuffles the notecards on his desk. "Is it true people thought you were a little bit off center for taking this role?"
She licks her teeth and ignores his tone with grim determination. "Well, I think people were a little bit hesitant or they just criticized this project because I'd just done Demolition Man and so taking something like this so quickly afterwards made people think I was out of my mind. But it was just—"
"So no concerns that Hollywood would label you an action film actress?" he pressed, not allowing her to finish her thought.
Her lips curl. "Not really cuz I don't do all that much action."
"In this film, Annie is a passenger on a bus that will explode if it doesn't stay above fifty miles per hour. Why would a serious actress want to take such a role? Or are you fine not being taken seriously?"
She chews on her lip for a second, taking a breath. "You know, Thierry, the truth is it was probably one of the hardest roles I had to do because you have such a short time in which to establish a character. And the material was so well—"
"You had to show you could drive a bus, right?"
Turning his shoulder toward the reporter, Keanu holds up his hand. "Hold on, you were interrupted, what were you saying?"
Sandra smiles gratefully. "I was saying it was so well-written. It was funny and edgy. I came out of it a little more trained and able to convey emotion."
Thierry pointedly turns the attention back to his preferred line of questioning. "You're looking real wholesome and fun this morning, Sandra, and I see this picture in the newest Vanity Fair that would suggest you are being viewed as a coming sex symbol. How's that image sit with you?"
Her throat constricts but her expression remains flat and determined. "Well, somewhat sex symbol might be a better label for me, right?"
"Did you pull this dress out of your bedroom closet?"
"Ah-ha. Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing about this picture. Is there something I need to know about you?" she asks, nonchalantly.
"I mean, that bent over pose, well I can see why you're making such a splash. I mean, you look like you have a real nice," the reporter makes no effort to hide his objectification, "Personality."
Keanu leans forward, stroking his throat, with an intense, fevered stare.
Sandra reaches under the table to squeeze his thigh, subtle lift of her chin when he turns her way.
He draws in a slow, steady breath, shoulders still tight but tempered.
"Aww, don't be shy now, Thierry. With a little work and a few more salads I'm sure you can have a fetching figure, too."
The reporter smirks. "So you just drive the bus for Keanu and then fall in love?"
She ignores his pointed tone. *"Um, yeah, which, I think the way it was done in this film was really nice because it wasn't blatant. You can watch somebody without them watching you and I'm always looking straight ahead so he can watch me and then I look at him. It's sweet. And it's light, not forced. It comes slowly out of all kinds of circumstances which I think is really refreshing."
"Well I know there are a lot of women out there ready to fall in love with Keanu, so you have some competition." He pivots, turning to Keanu. "Are you seeing anyone now?"
"Um," he looks at the coffee mug on the table in front of him. "I really don't have much free time these days."
*"But if you did, what kind of girl would you be looking for?"
There's a thick pause while he scratches his eyebrow repeatedly, a thin red streak appearing behind the path of his nail. Under the table, his leg is bouncing. *"I don't know man," he adopts a challenging tone. "Next question."
"Nice dodge," the reporter jeers. "Okay, how 'bout you share your go-to romantic gesture then? Or does a bloke like you no longer need to resort to romance now that you're on every lady's bucket list?"
Forced laughter explodes from Keanu as he shifts forward, then back in his chair.
"Are you looking for ideas, Thierry?" Sandra interjects.
Thierry huffs, asserting he's good in this department.
"What's your idea of the perfect romantic gesture?" she persists.
He shrugs. "Champagne and truffles are a good go-to for anyone," he blurts out, before trying to regain control of the conversation. "But the ladies all want to know, what's it like kissing Keanu Reeves, Sandra?"
"Aww, c'mon, now, Thierry, you don't have to pretend you're asking for 'the ladies,'" she winks at him, then lengthens her fingers, inspecting her nails and not answering his question.
Thierry pulls at the neck of his shirt, clearing his throat several times. "Alright, well thanks for stopping by, the film is called Speed, and good luck with the rest of your trip!
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
After the interview is closed, Sandra and Keanu return to the green room to gather their things. "At least that's over, right?" Sandra mutters, rubbing her hand up and down his back when he doesn't reply.
The door opens with no warning, and in walks Thierry with a staff photographer. "Right, then, good show, friends. Can we get a photo real quick before you leave, for the wall?"
Sandra bites the inside of her cheeks.The fucking nerve, she thinks, forcing a stage smile. "Sure, of course."
Thierry stands against the wall, both arms outstretched to indicate he expected them on either side. The photographer calls out instructions as the flashes start. Thierry's hand slips from Sandra's shoulder, down to her back and her waist, before coming to a rest just above her buttocks.
She bites her lip and forcefully shoves his hand back up to her back as he laughs and the photographer continues to shoot.
Keanu turns to face him and with wide steps, walks into him until the reporter backs up against the green room wall. Looking directly into Thierry's eyes, a wry smile comes across his face. "I think you're done here, man. Right?"
He laughs uncomfortably. "No need to have a tone, there, Reeves. You don't want to get on the wrong side here before you've even started your European tour, do you? Not for some actress, no different than the world's oldest profession, after all."
Keanu lifts his chin, his neck corded but a gleam in his eyes. "Who you fucking talking to, man? What profession is that, huh? I'm curious."
Thierry raises his hands up defensively.
A strong ten-beat passes until Keanu grins. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue now? Weird." He slaps him hard on the shoulder, then turns his back completely, a protective hand now around Sandra's shoulders. "You have a great day, there, Tommy."
~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*
* Quoted, paraphrased, and inspired by various actual interviews. Sandra was often treated like an accessory and asked typical sexist things.
**I'm not sure if this chapter is finished. It feels a bit undone, but publishing for now. Will make note if anything changes.