What no one sees, those moments not caught on the silver screen, is the way your gaze lingers where it should not.

A far horizon that you keep glancing at, like a pilot, eyes drifting towards somewhere else - a place you might call your own, a land where you might be able to be honest and true, a new world just for you and those things about you that are kept in shadow.

Or the turn of a cheek, a white expanse in the lime-light, and ruby red lips in a knowing grin. You've lingered on those images as well, as bad as any lovelorn fan sitting in their den.
You've wondered at the sensation that flesh would make against your fingertips.
Would they be as soft as they appear? Would they kiss you like a thief - sneaking clenches on the sly? Would they grasp your hand as you tumble down together?

Fantasies, though, are best when they are silent.

The fan and their longing.
The star and their wishes.
Best kept to the darkness, best kept as quiet as a confessional booth.

And heaven forbid if anyone ever saw past your act, if anyone ever cut past your bluff and bluster, if anyone ever saw the actual you - mistakes and all, desires and more.

Heaven forbid if your fantasies ever had a shot of coming to life.

/ /

He's close to the edge, but not going over it.
And Ashley is dismayed, as always.
Because a drunk Aiden is a sloppy Aiden, prone to messing up in front of others, and the sweet sense of satisfaction tends to feel good swirling around in Ashley's veins.

She likes seeing him look stupid. It adds something worthwhile to this farce of a marriage they are in and it levels the playing field between them.
They keep score of the slights. They keep a tally of when the other missteps and they use it against each other, too.

Cold and calculating. A match for the ages.

It makes Ashley ruefully laugh as she holds fast to her half-glass of alcohol, looking blandly at the merry-makers in this crowded club as they dance around and smoke fills the air.
She notices Glen in the midst of it all, grinning and tie finally gone from his neck, a pretty young girl attached to his hip - they kiss and they sway and he passes his lit cigarette over to her bow-shaped lips.

She sees the extras and some of the grips. She sees the shimmying of those women getting paid to be here, to be the entertainment for packs of drooling boys in expensive suits.
She watches as the dim lights catch on the band as it plays - trumpets become more golden as they croon, the sheen of sweat on bare foreheads as they bob and weave.

It is the vision all of America has of Hollywood at its finest, the land of magic and mystery.
The land of milk and honey, this is Oz on Earth - that's what everyone believes.

That's what everyone wants to believe.

Ashley used to believe it, too.

But as the party continues to intensify, she slips away to the back entrance and to a brief second of reality - the dank and dirty side-street, garbage cans and stray cats, brick and cool air.
And her back leans against the wall and her eyes close and she inhales deeply, trying to gain some semblance of fact and lose some of the fiction.
Ashley tries to inhale something much more elusive than oxygen.

"I found it to be quite stuffy in there, too."

Ashley opens her eyes once more and there is Glen's sister, Spencer Carlin, not three feet away. On her own wall. Ankles crossed comfortably. Camera held securely in her right hand.
And Ashley can only blink, internally startled and not wanting that reaction to show on her face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spook you, Ms. Davies. If someone had spoken to me from the depths of this eerie alley, I'd not be pleased either."

And Spencer pushes off from the wall, walking into the minimal amount of light from the lamp post overhead and offers a small smile.
Ashley has been on the receiving end of many entreaties, romantic and business and otherwise, and there was always a trick up a person's sleeve.

Do this and we'll pay you more. Do this and they'll love you more. Do this and you can have it all. Do this and he'll stay quiet. Do this and she'll disappear.

But in Spencer Carlin's smile, Ashley can find nothing but a smile.
Of course, Ashley could only be searching for that horizon or that kiss in Spencer's gorgeous face - a lie she will tell herself for a second of peace - but out here, away from the noise of the club and away from that husband and away from the oppressive glitter of fame, Ashley finds her own lips quirking upward in response.

"That's alright, Ms Carlin. We all need a good scare once in a while."

And Spencer's smile widens and her head tilts to the left slightly and strands of blonde hair fall gently upon the girl's shoulder.
And Ashley's feels the heat get just a tad closer, igniting in her stomach and spreading out, her insides just tender to this spark of interest.

"I suppose so, Ms. Davies."
"Call me Ashley."

It is quick, like lightning, but Ashley swears she sees it.
A flash of recognition. A hint of what could possibly come. All of that in Spencer's blue eyes, in this alley way in the middle of the very early morning, and Ashley watches as eyelashes flutter down - slow and with purpose.

And then, they are looking at one another.
And Ashley breathes in deeply.
And there, in Spencer Carlin, she thinks she might have found that something elusive after all.

"Then you must call me Spencer."

/ /

To Be Continued...