A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 15 - Daisy Ridley and Taylor Swift - Part 2
"I should get going," she said reluctantly, climbing off the bed. "Early call time today. They've got me doing more movement stuff for the role."
They padded into the bathroom together. Daisy rinsed her mouth at the sink, then splashed water on her face. Osiah stood behind her, hands on her hips, watching her in the mirror while he splashed his own face. She leaned back against him for a moment, ass pressing lightly against his softening cock, and smiled at their reflection.
"Last night was fun," she said quietly. "And this morning too. Thanks for… letting me come over."
"Anytime," he replied, giving her ass a light squeeze.
Daisy turned, rose up on her toes, and gave him a quick, sweet kiss—soft and affectionate, no pressure. She tasted faintly of toothpaste now. "I'll text you later if I survive the day."
She pulled on her clothes—simple jeans and a loose sweater that still somehow looked good on her frame—grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. At the threshold she paused, looked back with a little wave and that same shy-excited smile from earlier, then slipped out.
Osiah stood there for a second after the door clicked shut, the apartment suddenly quieter. Daisy's vanilla scent and the faint smell of sex still lingered in the air. He sat on the edge of the bed, still naked, and scrolled through his phone. A couple of calls to make before the day really started. He dialed Jeremy Slater first.
Jeremy picked up on the second ring. "Osiah Morse. Been a minute, man. How the hell are you?"
"Yeah, man. How you doing?" Osiah leaned back on one hand, stretching his legs out. "Surviving the machine?"
Jeremy laughed, that familiar dry chuckle from their old workshop days. "Barely. I'm hearing your name popping up in some bigger circles lately. You're 2nd 2nd AD on the new Avengers now? That's a solid jump. Last time we talked you were still wrangling background on smaller stuff. Congrats."
"Thanks. It's been a grind, but it feels good. Keeps me busy. How about you? Still writing, or you finally crossed over to directing full time?"
"Both, actually. Writing's still the main thing, but I got the gig directing The Lazarus Effect. Small horror thriller. Tight budget, tighter schedule, but it's got real potential. Olivia Wilde and Mark Duplass are attached. We're shooting a lot of it in this creepy abandoned hospital outside Atlanta. Real location, no stages. Should be fun if we don't all lose our minds."
Osiah smiled. "Sounds like your kind of thing. You always liked the gritty, practical stuff."
"Exactly. Which brings me to why I called. I need a solid 2nd AD. Someone who can keep the background from eating the frame, handle the extras without turning every reset into a circus, and not lose their shit when we're shooting night exteriors in an actual abandoned hospital at 3 a.m. with fake blood everywhere and the power flickering. You interested?"
Osiah sat up a little straighter. "Yeah, I'm interested. Tell me more about the schedule."
Jeremy launched into it. "We start principal photography in about six weeks. Four weeks in Atlanta, some pickups in LA later. It's not a huge crew, so the 2nd AD has to be hands-on. You'd be running background, coordinating with the AD team, making sure the extras sell the panic without staring at the camera. We've got some big night sequences—power outages, medical chaos, the works. I remember how calm you stayed during those nightmare night shoots back in the workshop shorts. That's what I need."
They spent the next few minutes going deeper. Jeremy described the tone—claustrophobic horror with real emotional stakes, not just jump scares. He talked about the location shoots, the practical effects, how they were leaning into practical blood and real hospital corridors instead of heavy CGI. Osiah asked about the crew size, the daily pages, how much improvisation they were allowing the actors.
"Pages are tight, but we're giving the leads some room to play," Jeremy said. "You'd be working directly under the 1st AD, but with the scale we're at, you'll have real input. No bullshit hierarchy. Plus, we've got some solid mutual friends on the crew already—couple guys from the old USC circle. It'd be like old times, except with actual money and better catering."
Osiah chuckled. "Better catering would be nice. Avengers craft services is good, but nothing beats knowing the director from writing bad horror shorts at 2 a.m. in a classroom."
"Exactly. Look, I know you're locked into Marvel for a bit. But if the dates line up even partially, I want you. Your name's been coming up a lot lately—people say you keep the machine running smooth without yelling. That's rare."
"I'm in LA for the next few weeks on Avengers, wrapping some big sequences," Osiah said. "Send me the full details—schedule, rate, sides if you've got them. I'll talk to my agent and see what we can shift. If it overlaps too much I might only be able to do part of it, but I'd love to make it work."
"Will do. I'll email everything over today. Good talking to you, man. Been too long."
"Same. Take care."
They hung up. Osiah made one more quick call to his agent, relaying the offer and asking her to look at the conflicts with his current Marvel commitment. The conversation was short and professional—she promised to get the breakdown by end of day and loop back with notes on negotiating the rate.
By the time he hung up, the morning light had shifted across the room. Osiah stood up, stretched his arms overhead until his back popped, then headed into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and took a quick shower, letting the hot water wake him up fully. Daisy's visit and Taylor's call already had the day feeling layered—work, connections, and whatever tonight with Taylor would turn into.
Dressed in jeans and a simple black crewneck, he grabbed his keys and headset, ready to head to set. The apartment felt quiet again, but in a good way. Another day in the machine.
***
The Chateau Marmont bungalow was quiet when Osiah arrived a few minutes after eight. A private table had been set up on the small patio overlooking the garden—soft candles flickering in glass holders, a bottle of good red wine already open and breathing, no waitstaff hovering. The air smelled like night-blooming jasmine and warm stone. Taylor stood up when he walked in.
She looked incredible.
The dress was simple but dangerous: a tight black slip that ended mid-thigh, thin straps over her shoulders, the fabric hugging the full swell of her tits and the dramatic curve of her waist before flaring just enough over her hips. Her long legs looked even longer in strappy heels. Her blonde hair was down in loose waves, and she wasn't wearing much makeup—just enough to make her blue eyes pop. When she turned to grab the wine bottle, the dress clung to the round, firm shape of her ass like it had been poured on.
"Hi," she said, smiling wide and genuine as she pulled him into a quick hug. She smelled like vanilla and something warm and expensive, her body soft and warm against his for that brief second. "Thanks for coming. I needed this."
They sat. The conversation started easy. Taylor poured them both wine, the deep red catching the candlelight, and took a long sip.
"I swear I've done like twenty interviews today alone," she said, leaning back in her chair with a tired but amused sigh. "Everyone wants to know if the album is really a full pop shift. Like, yes. It is. I wrote it that way on purpose. I stayed up until four in the morning in my kitchen with a guitar and a notebook, figuring out exactly how I wanted these songs to sound. I had this whole vision—bright, bold, unapologetic. And now every interviewer acts like I'm betraying some sacred country oath. One guy today literally asked if my parents were disappointed. I almost laughed in his face."
Osiah nodded, taking a sip of his own wine. It was smooth, a little earthy. "It's the right move. Country was great for what it was, but you've outgrown it. 1989 sounds like you. The real you. Not the version the label wanted five years ago when they were still trying to keep you in the same box."
Taylor's smile softened, genuine and a little relieved. "Thank you. That means a lot coming from someone who's not just saying what they think I want to hear. A lot of people are… skeptical. My dad still thinks I'm making a huge mistake. He keeps texting me articles about how pop careers crash and burn faster than country ones. 'Look at what happened to so-and-so,' he says. My mom's more supportive, but even she's nervous about the optics—like, will the fans who grew up with me stick around? But it feels right. Scary, but right. Like I'm finally saying what I actually want to say instead of what people expect. I wrote 'Shake It Off' after one too many tabloid weeks where everything I did was picked apart. It was my way of laughing at it."
They talked through the first course—some simple grilled fish and vegetables that tasted better than anything Osiah had eaten on set in weeks. Taylor asked about his work on Age of Ultron. He gave her the short version at first: background wrangling, keeping hundreds of extras from staring at the camera during the big Sokovian street scenes, making sure the chaos felt real instead of a bunch of people waiting for lunch.
"It's bigger than the first one," he said, cutting into his fish. "More moving parts, bigger sets, more pressure from every angle. But the same job at the core—make sure the machine doesn't grind to a halt because someone steps in the wrong spot or an extra drifts into frame."
Taylor listened, chin resting on her hand, eyes genuinely interested. "That sounds exhausting but kind of amazing. I've done tours, but nothing on that scale with wires and practical explosions and hundreds of people moving at once. Do you ever get to watch the actors do their thing, or are you always running around putting out fires?"
"Both," Osiah said with a small shrug. "I catch the monitors when I can. Scarlett's been killing it with the stunts—she throws herself into every take like it's the only one that matters. Elizabeth too—she's figuring out Wanda in a way that feels real, like the power actually costs her something. It's cool to watch."
Taylor nodded, then leaned in a little, eyes sparkling with curiosity and something sharper. "So… I heard some things. Not from the usual Hollywood gossip mill. Scarlett mentioned you the other day when we ran into each other at an event. She was pretty… detailed about how you two reconnected on set. And the way she talked about it? Let's just say it stuck with me." She laughed, but there was a real edge of jealousy under it, a little flush creeping up her neck. "Is it true? All of it? Or is she just messing with me?"
Osiah took a slow sip of wine, completely unfazed. "It's true."
Taylor's eyebrows went up. She waited for more, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. When he didn't elaborate she let out a short laugh and shook her head, half amused, half something else.
"Wow. Okay. You're not even gonna try to deny it or give me the polite version."
"No point. It happened. It's casual. Nobody gets hurt."
She studied him for a second, then took another drink, her blue eyes flicking over his face. "Must be nice in a way. I feel like I can't sneeze without someone writing a thinkpiece about who I'm dating or why I'm single or whether I smiled at the wrong person at an awards show. Meanwhile you're just… living your life and people like Scarlett are out here dropping hints that make me curious as hell." She paused, then added with a small, self-deprecating smile, "It stings a little, if I'm honest. Not that I have any claim or anything. Just… hearing it from her made it feel very real."
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