Star Bright

by Shelly Greene

  Julian was walking toward them as they approached. The beach was a good look for him; his ponytailed hair gleamed and rippled in the sun, and his eyes looked all the bluer for the sky and sea they reflected. Rafi couldn’t help feeling amused that Julian Gault in beach-casual still involved silver stud earrings and several thin necklaces. He wasn’t a fashion darling for nothing, Rafi supposed.

  “Good morning,” Rafi called, but before he could finish the words, Julian’s face brightened and he threw himself into Rafi’s arms. “What,” Rafi began, but Julian kissed his cheek and whispered, “Photographers.”

  Fat lot of good the bodyguard was doing, then! “I’ll run them off,” Rafi said, scowling and scanning the nearby rocks. Had that been a glint of sunlight off a camera?

  “No, I told them to be here.” Julian’s expression of delight, wholly unmatched by his voice, had not wavered as he pulled back and ran his hands down Rafi’s shoulders. “Anonymously, of course. We need PDA photos, that’s a very important part of a story like this. Smile, will you? Imagine I’m someone you like.”

  “You’re the actor, not me,” Rafi said, but made a valiant attempt at a smile. It was no effort at all to curl a hand around Julian’s slender hip. He ducked his head under the brim of the hat to kiss the tip of Julian’s nose, and heard a shutter click somewhere.

  “Walk with me.” Julian took Rafi’s hand and turned back the way he had come, keeping to the sand far clear of the waves. “By the way, this is Tasha Jordan, you’ll likely be seeing a lot of her.”

  Rafi nodded warily at Tasha-the-bodyguard, who stared impassively back and fell behind him and Julian. “Bodyguard? Do you feel you’re in danger here?”

  “Probably not, but there are certainly people in the world who don’t like me, and the ones who do can be even more alarming. Don’t you have that problem? A world-famous rock star like yourself?” His voice was sugary, his expression just a little bit arch.

  “My building has good security. Anyway I prefer to take care of myself.” He knew how to do it, too—Rafi had studied hand-to-hand combat since his childhood, a hobby rather more practical than his friends’ video games and shot glass collections. “My father put bodyguards on me now and then, as a kid. I hated having someone watching my every move. I like to perform, yes, but performances end eventually.”

  Julian made a thoughtful noise. “Mm, yes, your father. Ted Reyes, the great business tycoon. I imagine having him in the wings didn’t hurt your band’s chances of success.”

  Julian had been researching him. Rafi wished he’d done more of the same than just looking up Julian’s age. “My father thought the band was a waste of time, we got no particular support from him. Distant Kingdom made it on talent.”

  “How comforting to believe so.” Julian turned toward Rafi and sighed. “You really can’t control your expression at all, can you? You look so disgruntled. Clearly I will have to cheer you up.”

  He moved closer, pressing his body against Rafi’s and winding his arms around Rafi’s neck. It…wasn’t a sensation Rafi could ignore, and he made no attempt to keep from sliding his arms around Julian. He was warm and shapely, lean muscle shifting under Rafi’s hands as Julian tilted his head and pressed kisses against Rafi’s chin, and jaw, and lips…

  It was very pleasant, but Julian was acting. He was a good actor; Rafi had always thought so, and several awards committees agreed. He had no doubt the photographs were coming out wonderfully. But Rafi was close enough to see the cracks in the performance, the way Julian’s breath remained calm and pupils small in the sunlight. Rafi couldn’t say it was a hardship, kissing and cuddling a gorgeous movie star, but he wished it felt less like hiring a prostitute.

  After a minute, Julian stepped back, took off his hat and dropped it onto Rafi’s head, where it sat comically small atop his thick curls. The act was whimsical enough to get a genuine laugh out of Rafi, who swept the hat off and swooped back in for another kiss. Those did feel nice, after all, even if they were more like the daydream of a kiss than the reality.

  “This way,” Julian said.

  They rounded a rock outcropping, which sent a few photographers scuttling out of sight like startled crabs, and were suddenly facing a pair of saddled horses. The grooms waiting with them wore uniforms with the name of a stable Rafi remembered passing on his way here, probably only a mile down the beach. Maybe the stable was where Julian had left his car, or perhaps he’d risen directly from the sea foam.

  “I got you a kiddie ride,” Julian said as they approached the horses, “since I wasn’t sure if you’d ever ridden before.”

  “Oh, I’m experienced at riding. Pretty familiar with horses, too.”

  One of the grooms, a girl of maybe seventeen, made a tiny “eep” noise. Julian only gave Rafi a withering look. He tossed a tip to the nearest groom and swung himself into the saddle of a bay mare, who pranced a little, eager to run.

  Rafi was, in fact, very familiar with horseback riding; his family were exactly that sort of rich people, he supposed. He didn’t need the placid, resigned gray gelding picked out for him. He did feel rusty, though, next to Julian, who was a picture of liquid grace and easy competence on the bay mare, already circling him as he got settled in the saddle.

  “Race you to the water,” Julian said, and shot off down the beach, Rafi and his kiddie ride trailing behind despite all he could do to urge the gelding on.

  Soon both horses were kicking up splashes of water at the edge of the surf. Julian rode circles around Rafi, shouting encouragement to his delighted horse, and it was the most genuine and happy Rafi had ever seen him look.

  When their horses had worked off some energy, Julian and Rafi steered into a more leisurely walk down the beach, staying within talking range of each other.

  “Oh,” Rafi said, reaching for the heavy gold bracelet on his wrist. “You probably want this back.” The cut beneath the bracelet still bore a bandage, but a much smaller and thinner one, not noticeable from a distance.

  Julian hissed, pulling Rafi’s hand away from the bracelet. “Are you crazy? Keep that on. You live in that, now. It’s our token of affection. Don’t go out in public without it. Don’t go to the bathroom without it.”

  Rafi spread his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Are you sure? I thought it was a special thing to you.”

  “It is,” Julian said coldly, “and I expect it back in perfect condition when we break up.”

  “Can’t wait,” Rafi muttered, and hoped none of the photographers had caught that little spat on film.

  Julian had regained control of himself, his expression falsely pleasant. “So you don’t keep bodyguards,” he said. “You make few public statements, outside of an active but casual Twitter and Instagram. You give few interviews alone, and let your bandmates do most of the talking in group interviews. Do you even have a publicist?”

  It was less that he let Bo and Carlos do the talking, and more that he couldn’t get a word in edgewise, but he supposed the effect was the same. “DK does have a publicist, but he, ah…”

  “Ah,” Julian said in a tone of enlightenment. “He threw his hat in with the other two.”

  “Yeah. I got to keep Amber, though—our manager. We’ve been friends since grade school.” Over Julian’s shoulder, Rafi could see a trio of camera-laden persons creeping closer, daring to leave the shelter of the rocks. “Anyway I always hated the public-relations circus. A man’s actions, and an artist’s art, should speak for themselves.”

  “That,” Julian said, “is adorable, and does a great deal to explain your current situation.”

  Rafi narrowed his eyes, certain that he had just been insulted somehow.

  “In that case,” Julian said, running absent fingers through his mare’s mane, “how does Rafael ‘PR-is-dirty’ Reyes feel about a fake dating stunt?”

  Rafi grunted uncomfortably. “We need to talk about what we’re each going to get out of this.”

  “You get to make Bo jealous,” Julian said
immediately, “and repair the blow she dealt to your public virility.”

  “It’s not about my virility,” Rafi said. “If it were, I’d hardly be likely to replace her with a dude. I heard every possible insult about my virility, masculinity and dick size back when I was dating Cory.”

  “So what is it about? Because something made you call me ‘sweetheart’ the minute you saw your ex.”

  Rafi took a slow breath, turning words over in his mind until they were the right ones, the true ones. “I want to show them I don’t need them. Either of them. I can be happy without them. Deliriously happy.” Even if it wasn’t true.

  Julian nodded thoughtfully. “Plus, you get a PR distraction from your legal battles over the band, which you seem to find personally embarrassing, though not for any reason I can see.”

  Rafi grunted again. He did find the legal battle embarrassing; he felt duped and betrayed. The agreement between the three of them had always been that the name of the band, and thus the contract with their label, would remain with the majority—i.e. two out of three—if they ever split up. Rafi had thought that was fair, thought it was unlikely to ever matter anyway, but sure, it could happen that one of the others would want to pursue something else after a while. It had never occurred to him that the two people he loved most in the world would gang up on him, try to scuttle his career and steal his band. Distant Kingdom had been his idea, his project, driven by his determination and his choices; he couldn’t believe that his own brother wouldn’t acknowledge that.

  There were other issues, too—song rights, and royalties, and unsold merchandise, and money, money, always money—but Rafi was happy leaving all that up to Amber and the lawyers. He didn’t care about money. This was about the future of DK.

  “Fine, we know what I want,” he said eventually. “What about you? I assume you need some good publicity after the spitting incident.” Rafi hadn’t heard the entire recording of Julian’s screaming rant on the set of his latest movie, but hardly anyone could escape knowing that Julian had spat on his female co-star at the end of it.

  “That’s one factor, certainly,” Julian said, smooth and unconcerned. “You’re an excellent choice of boyfriend, where that’s concerned. You have a reputation as unusually honest and decent, as Hollywood types go. If you see something in me, there must be something there to see.”

  Rafi grimaced uncomfortably.

  “I also feel that a serious relationship will help shift me, in the public eye, from child star to serious actor,” Julian continued. His eyes flicked in some brief communication to Tasha, who was scowling at the photographers; she sighed and made a visible effort to relax.

  “I don’t know that that’s necessary,” Rafi shrugged. “You’ve always been a serious actor. I remember you in The Golden Crown; you were what, thirteen? Stole the entire thing.”

  “Everyone remembers The Golden Crown. And the Noble Blood movies. I’m good at historicals.” He said it with neither humility nor triumph. “I’m tired of playing angsty teenagers in them, though. Gunpowder was my best chance at opening a new market for myself, more meaningful roles. Losing my temper on set may have ruined that.” They had circled back to the grooms now; Julian nimbly dismounted. “I have to be more careful.”

  Rafi dismounted too, patting the neck of his good-tempered grey and handing over the reins to a groom. “Or you could just, you know, be nicer to people.”

  Julian gave him a look of such blank incomprehension that Rafi actually felt a chill.

  “Perhaps you haven’t heard,” Julian said, “but I’m an ice-cold bitch. The reputation is earned. Nothing softens someone’s reputation like them falling in love, however.” He suddenly stepped up to Rafi, tangling his hands in the tank top to pull him down and touch their foreheads together, his smile soft and beautiful. A flash went off in the shadow of a nearby rock formation.

  “That should do it,” Julian said, sounding satisfied. “Tasha, time to send our friends packing.”

  Rafi watched in some consternation as the bodyguard jogged around the rock formation to the photogs and began exchanging angry shouts and gestures. A well-oiled performance piece for both sides, apparently; soon enough the photogs were moving off, still snapping pics over their shoulders.

  “We’ll need some photographs of our own,” Rafi realized aloud. “For my Instagram. Ask anyone, I’d never date someone for real without plastering them all over my social media.” He’d deleted only a few pictures of Bo before realizing it would take the better part of an ice age to get them all. He even still had pictures of Cory here and there. “You’ll need to talk about me, too. Twitter or whatever.”

  Julian frowned. “I think I do have a Twitter. My uncle runs it. I don’t know the password.”

  “We’ll set you up one of your own, then. Once I link to it, there’ll be no question it’s really you.”

  They waved to the departing grooms and horses, then sought shade under a sun-faded cabana, and spent a surprisingly companionable few minutes crowded around their phones. Soon Julian was established on Twitter as @Real_Julian_Gault, as opposed to the rather chilly promotional account @juliangault, and they had both posted a few photos—close-ups of their faces in the cabana shade, their linked hands in the sunlight, a few cozy full-body shots that a bemused Tasha took for them. By the time the third one was posted, the first two were already pulling in frenzied responses.

  That was when Julian’s uncle showed up.

  “Sir,” Tasha said, gesturing to the approaching figures—two men and a young boy. Only the boy was actually dressed for the beach, in a teal zip-up bodysuit. Uncle Eddie looked like the caricature of a rich retiree in a white polo, khakis, and a flat cap. The third figure, Rafi realized in some exasperation, had to be another bodyguard, this one in an unforgiving dark suit that made Julian look like quite the softie for putting his guard in shirtsleeves. Uncle Eddie was carrying a picnic basket.

  “Ah, Julian! I wondered if you might be here, your favorite beach and all. Christian and I had the urge for a picnic. Please, join us!” He swanned right into their cabana and started laying out a tablecloth.

  “Sorry, sir,” Uncle Eddie’s bodyguard muttered to Julian, which surprised Rafi.

  “Don’t worry, Lyle, I was expecting as much,” Julian replied, which surprised him even more. “Rafael, may I introduce you to my uncle, Edward Gault—”

  We’ve met, said the glance between Rafi and Eddie, but neither of them said it aloud.

  “—and my cousin Christian.”

  “I’m not your cousin,” the boy said waspishly.

  “You are, in fact, since my uncle has legally adopted you,” Julian said serenely. “Uncle, Christian, this is Rafael.”

  Rafi found himself staring at Christian. At second glance he looked older than Rafi had thought, closer to thirteen than ten. He was a pretty child—dark curls, big blue eyes, a delicate elfin face—but nothing Rafi would have stared at, except that he looked familiar.

  “Oh!” Rafi said. “Christian Petrie! You were in that horror movie, with the haunted orphanage.”

  The boy’s sullen expression lifted, perhaps pleased to be recognized; unfortunately Rafi’s mouth was still moving.

  “Ugh, I hated that movie. What was your father thinking, letting you be in something so gruesome at your age?”

  Christian’s mouth fell open in an expression of outrage reminiscent of Rafi’s grandmother when one of her coupons was declined.

  Julian tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile behind a hand. “Now you’ve done it,” he murmured to Rafi. “He doesn’t even know what to be offended about first.”

  Rafi frowned, bewildered. “Didn’t you see it, Julian? The poor kid was dismembered. He made for the meanest, creepiest ghost I’ve ever seen. I would never want a child to see that, much less be part of it. You were terrifying, Chris, I’ll give you that.”

  “Christian,” the boy corrected, frosty and precise.

  “Lunch is served!” Uncle Eddie soun
ded as jovial as if the argument around him wasn’t happening at all. “Everybody, have a seat, see how much we can eat before the flies carry it off, hm?”

  Rafi instinctively moved toward the food, which looked great—barbecue sandwiches and coleslaw. Julian took a seat at the picnic table as stiffly as he might have done at a royal dinner, and his uncle claimed the seat beside him before Rafi could, actually jostling Rafi’s arm in his hurry to do so. Rafi bit back an annoyed comment; he’d probably done enough to irritate Julian’s family. Instead he stepped around the table and sat down next to a glaring Christian.

  “Here you are,” Uncle Eddie said, placing a sandwich on a plate before Julian.

  “I am capable of feeding myself, Uncle.”

  “Oh, are you? When did that happen?” It might have passed for avuncular ribbing, except that neither of them smiled. “Eat, Julian, I can tell you need it. You should take better care of yourself.”

  Rafi glanced awkwardly between them and took a bite of his sandwich. Sadly not as good as it looked.

  “We still need to discuss that offer from Fox,” Uncle Eddie said. “I told them you were still thinking it over, but they’re quite impatient—”

  “Oh, that,” Julian said. Long, graceful fingers were picking at his sandwich apathetically. “I called them this morning and declined.”

  Uncle Eddie went still.

  “I did tell you I didn’t want it, Uncle,” Julian said.

  “You don’t know what you want. You never have.” He and Julian had locked eyes in some kind of contest that Rafi was just as glad he wasn’t competing in.

  The wind caught a handful of napkins and flipped them into the air; Rafi caught at them, rose from his seat to chase one that escaped—and felt a small, slender leg move directly into his path, tripping him. He fell hard, jarring his body and scraping his hands.

  “Oh no,” Christian exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!” His expression, glaring down at Rafi with cold distaste, did not match his voice at all.

  Who peed in your cornflakes, kid? Rafi got to his feet, one scraped palm now bleeding onto the napkins.