Treading Water
By Alex Winters
Actor Tucker Crawford is having the worst summer ever. Thanks to a viral video of him trying to swim, he’s the laughingstock of Hollywood and his role in a hit TV series is in jeopardy. The only bright spot is Tucker’s sexy new swim coach, Reed Oliver, but even that has its problems—because Tucker is deep in the closet and has never been with a guy.
Reed Oliver is having the best summer ever. He’s just scored a high-paying freelance gig teaching a Hollywood actor how to swim. The two of them have the run of a deserted summer camp, complete with an Olympic-size swimming pool. But when cocky playboy Reed meets shy, virgin Tucker, sparks fly and Reed’s walk-in-the-park coaching job becomes a minefield of temptation. Once they kiss for the first time, there’s no way to overcome their mutual passion and no looking back. But after two weeks of secluded intimacy, can they keep their romance alive in the real world?
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Excerpt
One
TUCKER
“DID YOU ever go to real summer camp?”
Tucker Crawford was about to answer when the rental car hit another pothole in the middle of the one-lane dirt road and rattled his teeth. Summer Stevenson gripped the steering wheel tighter and made an apologetic pearly grin beneath her oversized, bug-eyed black Breakfast at Tiffany’s sunglasses.
“Sorry,” she mouthed dramatically as she steered dutifully down the rutted dirt road toward their final destination. Hollywood royalty of a sort, Summer wasn’t necessarily used to driving herself places, let alone into the ass crack of Middle of Nowhere, Georgia.
“I was a little too busy working two jobs for those kinds of shenanigans,” Tucker muttered, clutching the strap of his seat belt a smidge tighter and girding his loins as if they were back on location setting up another “driving a rigged car through a crowd of zombie extras” stunt scene.
Summer clucked her tongue, and even though he couldn’t see them, he was pretty sure she rolled her predictably blue eyes just for good measure. “At thirteen, Tucker? Exaggerate much?”
She favored him with another frosty glance from behind her stylish sunglasses even as she gave him one of her trademark smiles—the kind that had been appearing on America’s TV screens since well before Summer herself was a teenager. “I mean, that’s when most kids go to summer camp.”
He braced himself as another pothole loomed, but his stunt-driving chauffer managed to avoid it. “Look, Summer, if we’re going to be fake dating for better ratings this season, you should probably know enough about me to remember that I didn’t come from the same, uh, silver-spoon background as you. You know, when reporters start asking?”
The GPS screen on the rental car’s glowing dashboard guided her closer and closer to Camp Run-A-Mok with every blinking purple arrow and whispered suggestion to “turn right in three-quarters of a mile” in just the most pleasant tone ever. “Please, Tucker, you make it sound like you were some kind of street urchin or something.”
The camp sign finally came into view. It was a giant arch, constructed of wrought iron on either side and the words Camp Run-A-Mok spelled out in giant pieces of distressed wood, like something you’d see entering the Triple R Ranch in an old-timey western. His stomach did another flip-flop, and not from Summer’s famously bad driving this time. He was nervous as hell about the next two weeks and what they might mean for his acting career, and holding it all in while acting like he wasn’t holding it all in wasn’t helping much.
It seemed oddly fitting that his fake girlfriend should be the one to drop him off at fake summer camp. Though they weren’t necessarily friends per se, they were at least friendly after four seasons together on the set of Suburban Dead. And their opposites-attract sarcasm had definitely kept the conversation on the way from the airport light, vaguely hostile, and occasionally humorous, all of which had served to take his mind off the unpleasant matter at hand.
At least until this very moment.
“No, you’re right. I wasn’t exactly homeless growing up, but I didn’t grow up in Beverly Hills being babysat by famous actors and actresses on the set of my mother’s movies either.”
Summer’s response was calm and measured, as if she’d had to defend herself enough times over the years to have a pat answer ready for clueless Neanderthals like Tucker, who probably should have known better. “Look, Tucker, it’s not my fault I was born to folks who were already in the acting game long before I came along, and I’ve spent every job since I started on TV proving myself worthy of what little career I have. So yeah, maybe you should know a little bit more about me before reporters start asking about us, Boo.”
The manicured brows arching over her sunglasses indicated she was aware she’d just made a verbal mic drop and that he should be as well. But they’d never spent much time alone together on set, and this forced proximity in the front seats of the rental were the longest they’d spent together, just the two of them, ever.
He glanced over at her with a curious, almost tentative smile. “Sorry, Summer, I guess we both have a lot to learn about each other, huh?”
Her façade was a practiced cool; she was not used to such personal revelations from her far less famous costars. “I’m an open book, Tucker. Everything you ever need to know about me you can find on my IMDb.com page. You’re the Mystery Man with the ‘salt of the earth’ background, remember? That’s what our little relationship ruse is designed to counteract this summer, remember?”
“I know, I know,” Tucker grumbled, as if to quiet the butterflies doing the jitterbug in his taut belly.
She sighed and joined him in glancing up at the towering rustic sign just before they drove under it, and the ominous gloom he’d been feeling all morning grew as the deserted camp stretched out in front of them like something straight from the set of, well, a horror movie.
Summer gripped the steering wheel tighter and sat up a smidge higher and nodded at him sympathetically. “Listen, I know you’re skeptical about all this fake romance business, but trust me, it’s going to be good for me, for the series, for getting us renewed next season, and especially for you.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Listen, between you and me? I think this whole ‘costar charade’ thing is an outdated piece of old Hollywood bait and switch, clearly. But it works, trust me. The fans love it, even if most of them know it’s total BS. And from a pure business sense? You’re the one getting the most out of this arrangement, Tucker, trust me.”
Summer was right, obviously. And even if she wasn’t, she talked so quickly, so confidently, Tucker had no choice but to nod and believe her. It had always been this way. Summer had been blessed with famous parents, boundless opportunities, and flawless good looks, but she’d made the business of Hollywood her business since she made her first million at twelve, probably. She knew her looks would one day fade and that her future lay behind the camera at some point, but until then Summer seemed bound and determined to put on her best dog and pony show in front of the camera. This year Tucker was along for the ride, whether he wanted to be or not. He just wasn’t sure which role he was playing yet—the dog or the pony.
Tucker supposed he should be grateful that she’d chosen him to parade in front of the photographers and reporters in the buildup to the next season of their long-running zombie series, which was streaming exclusively on the Nightmares Network.
And he was. But the whole situation of “pretend dating” vaguely icked him out, particularly since, in a way, he’d been “pretend dating” with every girl he’d ever hooked up with. But how was poor Summer supposed to know that? How were any of them supposed to know that, after so many years of practice? The show’s producers and publicists were all for it, but Tucker wasn’t so sure it was such a good look for him—or his career, such as it was.
Still, what could it hurt? A few staged kisses at random coffee shops, cafes, nightclubs, premieres, and downtown hot spots back in LA between filming, and a few “leaked” photos from on location down in Georgia would keep the PR campaign going until the series premier in the fall and ensure a big uptick in new viewers.
How hard could it be?
“Are you… sure about this place, Tucker?” Summer was pulling up to a small rustic cabin with a matching sign out front that said Camp Welcome Center. Her uberconfident voice and practiced steely exterior finally faltered just a smidge. Tucker only wished she’d let it happen more often, for both of their sakes. It had to be a terrible burden, fighting to prove her own worth at every turn when all anyone ever wanted to do was compare her to her famous parents or assume she got where she was because of them.
Tucker checked the address on the back of the business card that Costas Imperial, head of Scream Studios and the show’s executive producer, had given him on the way to the airport in LA that morning. “No, but… it’s the right place.”
“Yeah,” Summer warned ominously, clutching the steering wheel with two sets of white knuckles. “The right place for some cheesy ’80s slasher flick.” They shared a conspiratorial chuckle, no doubt for very different reasons.
She put the car in Park in front of the welcome center and leaned in closer, smelling of cinnamon and spice and old Hollywood money. “Are you sure you’re not filming some low-budget indie flick while we’re on hiatus this summer, Tuck? You know that’s against union rules, right?” she teased, skin sultry and shimmering from the cloying Georgia heat. If only he’d found her half as attractive as the rest of the world seemed to, being Summer’s fake boyfriend might lead to more than just higher ratings come fall. Then again, she was no more into him than he was into her. As she’d reminded him at least a dozen times on their way from the airport, this was strictly business.
“I wish to hell I was.” With the same trepidation he’d felt all morning, Tucker watched the cabin’s screen door open with an ominous creaking sound. “Then at least I’d have an excuse for feeling scared to death at the moment.”
Beside him, Summer’s leather seat shifted, and moments later, she squeezed his hand on the armrest between them. It was such a surprising gesture, he almost flinched. In the end, he was glad he didn’t. The very last thing Tucker wanted to do in response to the first genuine moment they’d shared off set was rebuff his notoriously private costar.
The tenderness in her grip almost matched the raw empathy in her voice as she said, “You’re gonna be fine, Tucker. You’ve got this, okay?”
He nodded as he reached for his door, wishing he was half as confident in himself as she was in him. Or, for that matter, half as good an actor as she was.
About the Author:
Alex Winters is the pseudonym of a busy restaurant manager whose curious young staff would love nothing more than to follow him around the dining room reading his steamiest, most romantic passages aloud! When not writing romantic holiday stories of various heat levels, he enjoys long walks with his wife, scary movies and smooth jazz. Visit him at www.awintersromance.com to see what stories are brewing up next!
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