Prince of the Playhouse: A MM, Coming Out, Secret Identity, Theater Romance (Love in Laguna Book 3)

by Tara Lain

  “Even with a guy?”

  “Hell yeah. Haven’t you heard? We’re in fashion.” He leaned across the console, tucked a finger under Ru’s chin, and coaxed his lips into kissable range.

  For a second Ru froze. Feels weirdly like cheating. Bullshit. Who had he just agreed to design a wedding gown for? He slid a hand into Merle’s thick, shaggy hair and yanked, which produced a satisfying moan from Merle. Their lips met, awkwardly and enthusiastically, and Merle slipped a tongue into Ru’s mouth. Nice, warm, exploratory, tingly, but—

  Merle pulled back and gave Ru a look. “No? Not doing it for you?”

  Ru sighed and wrinkled his nose. “Truth? I’m probably not giving you a fair trial. I have, uh, had kind of a, shall we say, diverting attachment to a man who doesn’t return the feeling. Unrequited passion hurts like a bitch.”

  “Hmm. I notice the past tense. So maybe I shouldn’t give up?”

  Ru cocked his head. “Seriously, darling, why would you bother? You’re about as adorbs as they come. Few people, male or female, would toss you out of bed.”

  He dropped his head on the steering wheel dramatically. “Maybe we all need our own unrequited passion?”

  “You’re very flattering.”

  Merle looked at Ru under his arm. “I think you need some flattering. I’m guessing you’re too hard on yourself. I know the symptoms because I do it too.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “It’s not easy growing up gay. Hiding takes a toll on your self-esteem.”

  Jesus, if he only knew. “So true.” Mrs. O came out on her porch with Flopsy and Mopsy dancing around her feet. Must be last-walk time. “I best go in before Mrs. O hoses us down.”

  “Is she really a busybody?”

  “I love her, actually, but yes, she does like to know what’s going on. Her saving grace is she doesn’t share it. Like I say, I think she’s compiling blackmail documents on all her neighbors.” He leaned over and pecked Merle’s cheek. “Thank you for the drink and the attention.”

  “Anytime. Seriously.”

  “I’ll see you at the Playhouse.” Ru climbed out of Merle’s car, and the two dogs looked up like someone had thrown them a bone. Running like fuzzy wind, they arrived at his feet, leaping and cavorting but not barking. They pretty much never barked—an excellent characteristic in neighbors.

  The car window slid open on the passenger side. “And you said you didn’t get any attention.”

  Ru looked at the dogs. “Lady, gentleman, please meet Merle Justice, my friend.” Flopsy leaped in the air and planted a lick on Ru’s cheek. “Yep, Merle likes to do that too.”

  Mrs. O’s voice rang out from the porch. “Did you say Merle Justice?” The sentence rose at the end to a near shriek, and she ran, boobs bouncing, off the porch to the car. “I love you, Merle. I’m a huge fan.”

  Ru spoke out of his mouth sideways. “Either flee for your life or get out of the car.”

  Merle chose the latter and slowly circled the vehicle.

  Mrs. O arrived, clapping her hands. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

  Ru laughed. “He holds no claim to deity status, Mrs. O, but he is a noble gentleman.”

  Merle stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Merle.”

  She hurled herself, boobs and hair flying, into his arms and hugged him madly. “I’m so thrilled. I’ve watched every episode of Dyson’s Corners at least five times. You’re my favorite character.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O.”

  “Oh, call me Lottie.”

  Never once had she asked Ru to call her Lottie. Is anyone in the twenty-first century really named Lottie? Mrs. O wasn’t past fifty-five or sixty.

  She stepped back. “Ru, you didn’t tell me you had such a famous and gorgeous boyfriend.”

  “Merle’s not my boyfriend, Mrs. O. We’re new friends. We’re working together at the Playhouse.”

  “He certainly looked like your boyfriend.” She turned to Merle. “You’re going to be performing at the Playhouse?”

  He smiled. “Yes. In Hamlet.”

  “Oh my God, tights! Where do I get tickets?”

  Ru shook his head. “No tights, and you can buy tickets at the box office. Tip—I’d get there quick.”

  “Of course. Everyone will want to see Merle Justice as Hamlet.”

  Merle made a face, then smiled. “Thank you for your confidence, but actually, I’m Horatio. Gray Anson is Hamlet.”

  She turned into a statue. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope.”

  “Gray—the biggest movie star in the world—Anson is coming to our little playhouse?”

  “Yep.”

  “Holy shit.”

  Merle cocked his head. “Aww, come on, Lottie, I’m counting on you to like me best.”

  “Oh, I do, I do, dear.” She patted his hand. “But Gray Anson in tights. That I have to see. That boy is hung!”

  Ru sputtered. “No tights.” But he couldn’t stop laughing long enough to get the words across. “How would you know that, Mrs. O? Hollywood rumors?”

  “Oooh no. You mean you don’t know about the Gray Anson nude site?”

  “Uh, no.” If a kiss from Merle didn’t send his cock into orbit, the prospect of seeing Gray’s package unveiled totally did. Maybe he could find it? “Okay, you two play nice. I have to get to work.” He kissed the air in their direction, turned, and powered up the walkway and into the door of the cottage. As he hung up his jacket, he heard Merle’s car start and saw the lights move away.

  The sketchbook and pile of drawings on his dining room table called him—but not as much as the laptop sitting beside them. If I just search Gray Anson nude—

  He grabbed the computer, sat on the couch, and did just that. A list of Gray Anson links turned up—the first of literally thousands of pages of references. The top searches were all paid links to films, upcoming releases, scenes, and reviews from older movies. In the middle of the pack—Nude Photos of Gray Anson Surface.

  He clicked.

  This link has been removed.

  Shit! He used the back arrow. A couple of links said something about Gray suing for removal of illicitly acquired photos of him in the nude. That explained that. The long arm of the movie-star law. Disgusting how disappointed I feel.

  The knock at his door brought his head up, and a quick flip closed the laptop cover.

  He walked to the door. Some enthusiastic scratching gave him a clue. He opened and two giant poodles leaped up to lick his face. “Okay, okay. I love you too.”

  Mrs. O stood there with a handful of papers. “Got a minute?”

  “Just working.”

  She waved the handful of paper-printed photos. Ru glanced and gasped softly. She smiled. “I knew you’d never believe me since all the nude photos are taken down. I guess he’s got a lot of power to fight crap like this.” She grinned. “But I copied all the pictures the first time I saw them.” She nudged him, and the dogs pushed between them. “Wanna see?”

  Well, Jesus, no way could he look at Gray’s dong and not get hard. That would be embarrassing. But man, did he want to see.

  She rattled the papers. “I know you’re busy, so I made you a set. Not as good as the originals—well, actually the original originals are pretty bad, since somebody took them with a long lens, and these are worse than that.” She assumed a drawl. “But it don’t take no magnifying glass, baby, to see Anson’s equipment, that’s for dang sure.”

  Well, hell. He reached for the prize. She snatched them back. “You sure you’re ready?” She laughed.

  “Uh, maybe not, you crafty minx.”

  “Okay, I’m only going to show you one, then you can explore the rest on your own.”

  He wanted to rip the pictures from her hand, shove her out the door, and feast. Instead he smiled. “I’m full of anticipation.”

  “You better be.” She grabbed one of the papers, glanced down at it, flipped it over, and held it in front of his face as she cried, “My eyes! My eyes!”

&
nbsp; Whoa. He swallowed. Say something clever, asshole. “That’s pretty impressive.”

  She frowned. “Pretty?” She looked at the grainy black-and-white photo like they must be seeing different things. “Come on, that’s a nine- or ten-inch doofus, right? And this picture is pretty intriguing, because I’d call that at half-mast. There he is hanging with a bunch of guys, not a female in sight, and his thing is peppy.”

  “Uh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe the women are inside putting on sexy lingerie or something?”

  “Maybe. But I know for a while people were using this photo to claim Anson is light in his loafers. That’s probably why his lawyers fought so hard to get the photos taken down.” She handed Ru the stack. “Hey, you know me. Like a lot of women, I love my boys gay. It’s fun imagining what they get up to. But a bunch of Gray’s fans are redneck guys. Not so forgiving. And your total population of gay men just won’t make up the difference if he loses his good-old-boy audience. A lot of people make a ton of money off that boy’s ass.” She gazed at Ru. “It must be tough.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re a good woman, Lottie O’Grady. Not many people could rustle up much compassion for a Hollywood gazillionaire with hot and cold running everything.”

  She cocked her head at him. “But I bet you can.”

  Anytime he wanted to relegate Mrs. O to the tall pile of Laguna eccentrics, he’d recall this moment. He just smiled. “Thanks for these. I’m sure they’ll be very educational.”

  “Sure.” She chortled. “If you’re getting a PhD in giant cocks.” She held the door open. “Come on, kids.” The two dogs ran out, and she leaned in and kissed Ru’s cheek. “Pleasant dreams.” Laughing riotously at her own joke, she left, closing the door behind her.

  The stack of papers shook in his hand. Carefully he locked the door. He set the photos on the coffee table, facedown, went into the bedroom, and changed into his silk pajama pants, leaving his chest bare. He gazed in the mirror. If he’d been on that beach with Gray, would the man have noticed him? He turned sideways. Not a bad chest, really. Slender, but all those years of passionate weight lifting had paid off. He still had nice pecs and a six-pack—not that he ever showed them to anyone.

  In the bathroom, he peed and washed. Nice and comfy, he strolled into the kitchen like he had all the time on earth and didn’t already have half a boner. He poured a glass of chardonnay and approached the coffee table like it held the original of the Mona Lisa. Sitting carefully in front of the stack, he shoved a cushion behind him, took a deep breath, and turned over the first photo. It was the one Mrs. O had showed him—Gray on a beach, nude, with several men in the background. Jesus, look at that schlong. Ru let out a long, slow breath and forced his eyes to the other men. Two guys sat on beach chairs, both apparently also nude, but that far back the photo quality was so bad it was hard to tell. He could see that one leaned over toward the other. Maybe had a hand on the guy’s arm. Behind them stood another figure. Definitely a man, because he seemed to have a protuberance standing out in front of him and maybe, just maybe, he had his own hand on said protuberance. Hell, probably just a jackoff party. You don’t have to be gay to masturbate.

  Carefully he turned over the next photo and laughed. Some enthusiastic fan had blown up the most notable part of the previous photo. This picture could have been a baseball bat for all Ru could tell. But shit, Mrs. O had a point. The man redefined “hung.”

  What’s next? A captivating shot of one rock-solid buttock, definitely belonging to Gray, in the foreground of a photo of several men standing around drinking. One guy’s arm almost certainly encircled the neck of another. Ru stared lovingly at the Anson ass, then flipped the page. Well, okay. A nude man, in this case not Gray, stood with his back to the camera, arms apparently crossed over his chest and legs sturdily planted. Beyond him, some guy’s bare butt stuck up in the air as he kneeled on a chaise. It didn’t take much imagination to guess that the owner of the bare ass was in the process of sucking somebody off, but the nude back blocked the view. Reminded Ru of the old Cruise movie, Eyes Wide Shut, where the director had inserted guys in black robes into the scene to cover up the image of women fellating men. Except no women here, baby. Of course, it could just be his dirty mind. Or wishful thinking.

  He sat back, still holding the picture. Really? Do you really hope Gray is gay? You’d wish that on a guy who has so much to protect?

  He sighed. It’s always hard to wish the best for people when it doesn’t include you.

  He picked up the last photo. Holy mother. This picture came from a different camera at a different time. Someone had caught a color close-up of Gray in an unguarded moment—the perfect profile against a sunset, his famous smoky eyes on the horizon. Not a hint of the cocky, self-assured, king-of-the-universe Gray Anson appeared in this photo. Just a sad, lonely young man gazing into some distant, unpromising future. Where had Mrs. O gotten this photo? Why did she give it to me?

  He dragged the back of his hand across his watering eyes and wiped it on his bare chest.

  Chapter Six

  Ru knelt in the back of the auditorium, adjusting a seam in Beverly’s costume. One of his seamstresses followed his directions and pinned the garment tighter at the waist. “She’s a temptress. We want to see the war between her sadness and sexuality displayed on her body.” The seamstress looked at him like he’d left the planet and calmly tightened the seam.

  On the stage, Polonius instructed Ophelia to appear to be reading a book so she’d have a reason to be found alone by Hamlet. Polonius hid, Ophelia slipped into a nook with her book, and on came Gray. Hard to say “on came Hamlet.” The shiny charisma that lit up a billion movie screens simply wouldn’t suppress itself to the character. Gray spoke the lines, but all you could see was a movie star reciting Hamlet. Ru glanced at Beverly, who stared at her shoes in embarrassment. Despite his fame and wealth, the cast wanted Gray to succeed, not fail. After all, it was their play too. Jesus, Ru wanted to hide.

  Ru waved a hand at the gown. “You know what to do, Estrella, right?”

  “Yes, Señor Ru.” Her dark eyes said I was doing this before you were born, sonny.

  Ru hurried back to the costume department. He leaned over the big pattern-making table. What possessed Gray to set himself up for failure like this? He was brilliant at being Gray Anson. The best. No one like him. Hamlet? No so much. Despite the glimmer of understanding of the character he’d shown that first time Ru met him, in a word, he stunk. Ru wanted to die for him.

  He walked into the small room where they kept materials and finishings. Sorting buttons always soothed him. When he’d hidden from the gangbangers in his neighborhood as a kid, he used to sneak into his mother’s closet and comb through her sewing basket, carefully arranging the buttons by colors and the spools of thread by hue and size. Now he ran his fingers through a plastic box of shirt buttons.

  The snick of the door closing in the costume department stopped him. “Who’s there?” He walked to the door into the big room and peeked inside. Gray stood with his back to the entrance like he wanted to keep the world out. Good plan. “Hi.”

  Gray looked startled. “Oh, hi. Sorry. Didn’t hear you.”

  “I’m sneaky.”

  For a second he seemed confused, then forced a smile. “Right.”

  “You’re not scheduled for your fitting until tomorrow. They’re not quite done with the sewing.”

  He stared at his feet. “Oh. I see.” God, the great man looked lost.

  “This is a nice quiet place to hide out for a while, though.”

  Gray sighed, walked over to the table, and flopped in a chair.

  Ru turned toward a pile of cloth samples and pretended to be busy. “So how do you think it’s going?”

  He snorted. “You were out there, right?”

  Ru nodded but didn’t turn.

  “You’re a smart guy. You know I’m sucking ass.”

  That would be fun to see. Ru turned toward him and crossed his arms ove
r his chest. “Why do you think you’re having so much trouble?”

  He shrugged, then looked up at Ru as though to see if he cared. “I’m not really an actor. I mean, I’ve got little training. I made one film and it hit big. It’s been a roller coaster ever since.” He flicked a spool of thread across the table. “I work with a coach and try to take classes, but fuck. I film sixteen hours a day pretty much the whole year. I haven’t had a whole day off in months.”

  “Jesus, you don’t make it sound very glamorous.”

  “Trust me, it’s not. I took this fucking part out of the worst kind of hubris. Believing my own damned PR. Now I get the karma of that. The whole world will know I’m a fraud.”

  “Fuck if you’re a fraud!”

  Gray looked up with wide eyes.

  “I’ve been watching your films for years. Okay, we ain’t talkin’ Tennessee Williams here, but what you do is wildly entertaining, commanding, gripping, and nobody does it better.”

  “Shit, man, that’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”

  “You don’t have to fail at this either. I’ll admit you’re not looking good right now.” He grinned to soften the criticism. “But you can get it. You just need to find the reality in all those fancy words.”

  “How am I going to do that? I really am trying.”

  “Don’t you have a coach?”

  “Yeah, but she’s used to working with real actors. She talks over my head.”

  Ru sat opposite Gray. “Think about it. This dude is blabbing about killing himself. Haven’t you ever thought of doing that? Like, either killing yourself to make all the shit and pain stop, or maybe killing yourself to keep from killing someone else.”

  Silence.

  Ru looked up at Gray, who stared at him with an open mouth. Suddenly he nodded. “Hell yes, I have. That makes sense to me.”

  “That’s what he’s doing. He’s just saying how much easier it is to off yourself than to suffer the slings and arrows of all the idiots and their lies and demands. But if you kill yourself, are you giving up—what? Like heaven, or enlightenment? See, Hamlet probably kind of believed in God, but even if you don’t, you could kill yourself and be missing out on something really good that life has waiting. So it’s a tough one.”