Lights, Camera, Romance!

Chapter 1: A Guy Like Dimitri Belikov

Hi, guys, I know I haven't updated my other stories for a year now, but I'm back in the writing spirit again, and with it, this came to mind. Hope you enjoy, and remember to review!

Little-Miss-Badass.

ROSE

I will never like a guy like Dimitri Belikov. He's arrogant, stupid, and is the single most annoying person in my life.

Dimitri Belikov, known to the better part of the world as Ben Barnes, sits to my right in a chair with both names scripted on the back. Personally, I think that the names should be written in block letters, as reading isn't Mr Belikov's strong point. Dumbass.

"So are we gonna make out or what?" Dimitri asks like he's asking me about the weather. I shrug.

"That depends. You think Mia Rinaldi will be there?" We are forever chased by legions of paparazzi- on the way to the set, at St Vladimir's (our favourite coffeehouse), shopping on Melrose, getting pedicures (me), jogging to the Santa Monica Pier (Dimitri), or walking on the beach (both of us, side by side, agent's orders). But Mia Rinaldi is the worst. She's known for snagging shots when you're down and really out- like if your mom's having surgery, she's there in the waiting room, or if the spray tan goes horribly wrong, she's the first to sell the pictures to the tabloids. And she's been on our case ever since rumours started about this being the last season of Vampire Academy.

And the thing is, the rumours might be true.

Cut to three years ago; I was fourteen, and Dimitri was fourteen and a half. The Kirova Network was going under- no one wanted their stupid 'every episode has a moral' shows anymore so they tried one last thing. We were the last thing. Vampire Academy premiered to like, three people. But then word got out and pretty soon more people- like, maybe ten- were watching. So we had mild success. Great.

"I think we should go for the arm around the waist, my hand on your butt. And if you want," Dimitri flashes me a smirk, "You can rest your hand on my dick."

I glare at him. He smirks at me again.

"You carry this," he says and thrusts a thick block of paper at me.

"What's this? The Great Russian Novel?" I sneer, because the last thing that this boy is capable of is writing a book, even though he swears he will. One day. Yeah, right. He can't even leave a note that says more than three words, and even those are limited to "Coffee," "Meet me," or his signature "Outta here."

Dimitri pushes his hair- dark chocolate brown that's only a few shades lighter than mine- out of his eyes. He puts his hand on my arm and I fight the urge to shake him off in disgust.

"I will write that book someday," he says in his best believable voice. Sometimes he's so convincing it's hard to believe he's full of shit. Then he starts talking and ruins the whole illusion. "But this is a prop."

I check it out. It's the weight and size of a script, complete with Vampire Academy: Season 5 written on it in perfect italics. I check the time. We're due on set for our next scene in a few minutes- one where we go to a club just outside the grounds of the school and I sing 'Sexy Naughty Bitchy', which has already been leaked online and is rising at stupid speeds in download popularity. The lyrics are pure nonsense- and we're just fake characters. But people have a hard time remembering that.

Cut to two and a half years ago. I'm fourteen and a half, and Dimitri is fifteen and taller, his shoulders a bit more broad, his face (and body) decidedly hot. And the show's fine. It's okay. Then- I swear it must have been overnight (that's what the tabloids claimed, anyway)- it happened. I got boobs. One headline read, "Hathaway's C Cup Run" in honour of my unfortunate jogging-bra issues. Before there could be any doubt about the realness of my new boobs, my mom, Janine Hathaway, (then my manager, as well as a B-movie actress herself), went on E! saying it's genetic, showed her old school photos, and, sure enough, everyone's convinced. And they are real. But what isn't real is everything else.

"So we'll film the scene, I'll grab my stuff, and we'll go for a sexy, romantic walk." Dimitri and I lock eyes- his are dark brown but flecked with caramel specks; mine are the same dark brown, but they're pure dark brown, no caramel flecks at all. We agree. The sexy, romantic walk it is.

Cut to the end of Season 1. Vampire Academy has picked up viewers after the boob buzz, so when our agents wake up Dimitri and I in the middle of the night and tell us to meet them at four a.m. at the Dusk to Dawn Diner in West Hollywood, we figure it's about a salary increase. Or a summer special- Vampire Academy: A Midnight Summer or something like that. What we got instead was a cheap cup of watery coffee with no soymilk anywhere in sight and an ultimatum: fall in love or fall apart.

So we chose love. Or it chose us, you could say.

And we've been faking it ever since. Because even if the ratings were climbing courtesy of my C-cup boobs, they would fade like overwashed denim if we didn't give the audiences something more to cling on to than innuendos that lead nowhere and sexual tension that isn't dealt with. Fake romance wins a lot of followers.

"You hear we're number two in Japan?" Dimitri gulps water from a plastic bottle that he will later throw out before leaving the set with his camera-ready refillable eco-friendly metal bottle. It gives off a fake image that he's considerate about the environment. Seriously fake.

I nod. "Alberta told me," I say. Alberta is my agent and texts me every four to eight seconds about any and all news. My thigh buzzes and I check the text. "Correction. Number one." Dimitri reacts as though I've told him I like his socks (which I don't, because they're his socks, which apparently makes them super sexy and worthy of being showcased in every mall in the country).

"Yeah. Number one." He gulps more water and then hands the bottle to me. "You want this?" I'm about to be just the slightest bit touched- he remembers that I get parched in the mid-afternoon. "It tastes like shit."

I nudge him with my elbow and the water spills on his shirt. He jumps up, flailing like he's on fire (he can be such a pussy), and assistants rush to his aid. "Don't even think of the romantic walk now," he threatens, his brown eyes glaring, fiery with anger, his wet shirt clinging to his- gulp- sculpted, looks-rock-hard chest.

"Oh, like you have a choice," I sneer, and them am quickly aware of the crew paying too much attention to our fight. I raise my perfectly arched eyebrows and Dimitri does his best sexy smirk (which he is famous for) and opens his arms wide. I know the drill. I know this choreography of love. So I step forward, letting him embrace me, while the crew breathes a collective sigh.

Aren't they cute?

Cut to headlines: 'Vampire Academy's Real-Life Love'; 'Rose Hathaway: Leaving The Single Life?'; 'Dimitri Belikov and Rose Hathaway- So In Love!'

It's not difficult to keep up the charade, really. I mean, they hold hands, the guy handles the girl's butt and pulls her in public, the girl whispers something in his ear at the awards show that makes them both look like they want to go home, rip their clothes off and jump into bed, he fixes her dress strap on the red carpet, and you throw in some 'sexy' shots of them at the beach, horse-riding, and, most recently, on vacation on a private desert island.

Now that was fun: Dimitri Belikov- the boy of few words- a supposedly deserted island, and fish. Not exactly my version of fun. I spent most of my days reciting Shakespeare to the marine life. I'd snorkel and rehearse lines for the ultimate play- Much Ado About Nothing. Everyone is obsessed with Romeo and Juliet: the words, the poetry of forbidden love, real love, love so deep it destroys you, and so on. But to me, Much Ado has it all: the banter, the hidden emotions, love tucked away like the secret you can't tell for fear it will ruin you. That's what I recited on the island and all of it would wash away in the water, where no one but the fish could hear it. I know every line of that play. Memorizing always comes easy to me. The part about getting in touch with your true emotions, not so much. That's the price of Vampire Academy. No one can see us as anyone else.

We keep hugging. We're known for our long hugs. I'm used to Dimitri's scent- one part pure male, one part Sexy Teen cologne, which he has to wear since he's the face of their campaign. Three years and (though I hate to admit it) it still makes me weak in the knees and wet down south.

"It's time to film," Dimitri murmurs into the top of my hair.

The stage is set. Make-up comes in and pats my chin, nose and forehead with powder and touches up Dimitri's hair.

I drop the fake script for Season 5 in my chair and can already imagine the sexy, romantic walk we'll go on later. We perfected the sexy 'spontaneous' romantic walk way back at the start of Season 2: arms around waist, Dimitri moves his hand either to my butt or boob, I laugh/ moan, snuggle into his shoulder, rest my hand on his cock (and let me tell you, even when it's not at attention, it's fucking massive), and he whispers something into my ear. Sexy smirk. Hormones. Snap. Photographers love it. Only this time, I'll be holding the script for everyone to see, so that everyone knows that yes, there's another season; nope, no problems on set with a director who is checking into rehab; and, no, for the billionth time, we are not breaking up. We will do the sexy, romantic walk and convince everyone that there are no problems in paradise. And for that moment, captured on film, the lie will be easy to believe.

DIMITRI

My mom picked the name Dimitri because she thought it sounded like a leading-man name, the name of the world's sex symbol. She thought that a simple name like Paul would make me sound like I should be the wisecracking sidekick. However, my 'sidekick' on the show is called Edison Castile, which is definitely (in my opinion) not a sidekick sort of name.

Eddie parties way too hard. I'm sure that he'll be dead by twenty-five. I could be wrong.

I don't mean to sound cold, but it's the way stuff happens. You do too many drugs; you wind up dead one way or the other. I'm not against the alcohol, hell, I love Russian Vodka, but I'm definitely against drugs. Drugs kill you. Even in my hometown of Baia, Russia. Which is most certainly not where we are now.

Right now, we're on our way to walk romantically to St Vladimir's and sip lattes photogenically, then an intimate walk on the beach- just about every third ocean-view house between the pier and Venice Beach has a webcam streaming live pictures. So we'll be downloaded a lot- we'll probably see some packs of teens who will take cell phone pictures with us and put them on their Facebook pages. Free publicity. It keeps the ratings up, which is all part of the job.

I have to admit that the job is starting to wear me down. I'm starting to wonder how much money is enough. I'm not quite set for life, but I figure that by the time the DVD money stops flowing in, our fans will have kids of their own and will shell out enough for reunion tour tickets and merchandise, which means that we can slink back into obscurity and retire comfortably.

And then I'll never have to see her again.

Not that I hate Rose. In another life, I probably (who I am kidding? Rose is smoking!) would have been one of those guys who secretly watches our secret-filled, backstabbing bitch full show just to ogle Rose. She's not only the sexiest girl on the planet, she's also funny as hell- or, anyway, she's hilarious when she forgets who she's talking to. Namely, me. Rose carries the male views on her back, whilst I'm there for the girls. And it's pretty easy work.

But the fake romance- my second job, really- gets harder every day. Sometimes I'll do stuff like whisper, "You've got salad between your teeth," when we're posing for a 'sexy' photo.

That stuff probably hurts her feelings.

No. I know it hurts her feelings. And I should feel bad. But I don't. As Sartre said, "Hell is other people." I can't use that in public, though, because it would give off the impression that I actually read books. I can't appear to be too brainy because I'm the thick-yet-sexy eye-candy of the world.

But Rose does put me through hell. (That's my excuse). And it's not just me. I guess the nice thing to call her is a perfectionist. Whenever the director sets up something she doesn't like or the poor writers write something she doesn't like, she gets to change it. And believe me, she can be really persuasive. The crew tried standing up to her at first, but she can throw a diva fit with the best of them. "I respect the audience, Eddie! They identify with my character, and they're going to be heartbroken if she says this! I read the chat boards to find out what the fans want!"

And she really does. Every day she's on her MacBook Pro checking out what the world is saying about us. I think that it must be exhausting actually caring that much.

Whenever shooting is delayed because Rose feels like some part of the show doesn't fit her (specific, highly demanding) requirements, the crew look at me, pleading with me. "You're her boyfriend," their eyes seem to say. "Can't you do something?"

But I'm not her boyfriend. I just play the part of her boyfriend in the reality show that we call life. Not that I have a real life. I devote 168 hours a week to this charade, and all I want is to have the life of a normal teenage guy, with no one telling me where I have to go, or what I have to do.

Like right now. I attempt to order a medium iced latte- I'm not that thirsty since I've just drunk three quarters of a bottle of water that tastes like shit- but Rose interrupts, whispering through clenched teeth. Most people would think that this is a loving smile, but I know that it's a threat.

"Dimitri. Did you hear me order a large? You can't be consuming fewer calories than me. Think for a minute will you? They'll start taking photos of my thighs and saying that I have cellulite. We've talked about this."

Actually, she's talked and I haven't been bothered enough to listen to her rambling on about fuck knows.

"He'll have a large with extra whipped cream," she says to the barista, who is leering at her chest, and, from the looks of it, getting at hard-on at the sight. He catches me looking at him checking out her boobs and looks sheepishly at the floor. Dude, I want to say, you can have her. Take my girlfriend, please. I'm begging you.

And then I could get a real girlfriend. We've got attractive female fans of legal age, but I can't get near them because you never know who's got a cell phone with them or who's going to go running to the tabloids with the "My Wild Night with Dimitri Belikov" story. My mom warns me about this particular danger pretty often. It usually comes up after my nephew Paul (see, it's a great name) asks me which hot female celebrities I've met. Apart from Rose, who he never stops going on about.

If I ever did become a front-page tabloid story like that, I'd be the one who derailed the gravy train- and the one who broke the heart of not just America's, but the whole fucking world's, sweetheart sex princess. This would kill not only my likeability, but also my career.

Don't think that I haven't thought about it. Because I seriously have. But then I remember my mom putting in the time and effort to take me to auditions and rehearsals, and I feel bad about letting her down. And once, when even the guilt wasn't enough to make me stop, I went over the financials with Yuri, my accountant. He said that with the market in the toilet, I'm getting fuck awesome value on my investments right now, that it's a great time to buy, and that I shouldn't worry about all the paper value that my stocks have lost. And then there's my real estate. He says I could retire today, but I saw what happened to my dad (he worked for twenty-five years at a nuclear plant in Russia and has nothing to show for it) and I want a little extra security. Still, sometimes I think about ending it with one bold stroke.

I actually think about it all the time. Two girls from USC just sent me e-mails through the fan page with photos attached and thoughts on just exactly how they'd like to get to know me listed in excruciating detail. But even though they're hot, I can't help but think that Rose is hotter, with a much better rack. I try to clear my head of thoughts about Rose's body, but I give up almost immediately.

I'm only human, after all.

And so is Rose. I think. She hides her humanity under a robotic control-freak exterior. Walking with our iced lattes in hand towards the beach, she snuggles into the crook of my arm and I pull her close- like I need to protect her from anything, but, whatever, it's camera friendly- as some guy with a camera lens as long as his arm takes our picture from a block away.

"I could be in a dorm room at USC right now doing unspeakable things to girls named Abby and Celine," I say, smiling with practiced affection.

"You smell like cheap cologne, hun. I doubt that even skanks like them would want to have sex with you right now," she retorts, smiling up at me like I'm the only man in the world.

It's all I can do not to laugh. It's the cologne I promote and it's the most successfully selling cologne in the world. "Hey," I joke, "I paid nearly five bucks for this at the Rite Aid down the street!"

"Filling out an application for a job you're actually qualified for?" Rose replies.

"No, checking out this week's Celeb Weekly for details from your plastic surgeon on your enhanced puppies." I smirk at her.

"You'll never get any closer to them than a magazine article, loverboy." Rose smiles.

"Well, I've got your mom's, so I'm all set. Where do you want to do the script-reading shot? The beach?"

"We've done too many shots on the beach. Let's go to the farmer's market. We'll get some organic strawberries and do the shot there."

"Okay." Although the market is further away from my house, which means that I'll have to spend more time with Rose, it'll be good for the cameras that will definitely be following us. I'll 'surprise' Rose with some fresh roses (cheesy, I know) whilst she buys the strawberries and then we'll sit there on the green, green grass and look at the Season 5 script. Which is a mock-up created by my agent, Vasilisa Dragomir. But hopefully a "they're just like us!" photo with us eating strawberries and looking over the brand-new script will force the Kirova Network to renew us for another season. This is the theory, anyway.

I honestly don't know if I want it to work out or not.