“So, Julian Gault doesn’t have a private jet?” Not that their first-class accommodations were in any way uncomfortable, Rafi thought as he settled into his faux-leather recliner, but he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to tease.
Julian glanced up irritably from his book—not phone, not e-reader, but actual book, heavy enough to double as a weapon. “Uncle Eddie has a private jet. I’m sure he’s caught on by now that I’m not boarding it with him.”
“Especially if he’s checking his social media,” Rafi murmured, raising an eyebrow as a giggling, red-cheeked woman in the next aisle snapped a surreptitious photo.
Julian sighed, subtly enough that probably only Rafi noticed, and pasted on a dreamy smile. It was just the sort of smile, Rafi thought wistfully, that he would have been delighted to provoke in a significant other, if it had been sincere. Julian pressed a kiss to Rafi’s knuckles before twining their hands, and the woman across the aisle audibly gasped.
“Speaking of fans,” Rafi said, “aren’t we going to be cutting our arrival a little close?”
Julian frowned. “The screening doesn’t start until six. Are you worried about having enough time to freshen up at the hotel? Frankly I was wondering if you planned to stay in your rumpled jeans and T-shirt for the event.”
“What? No, I brought a tux.” Come to think of it, though—”What about you? No groomer, no stylist? Or are they meeting you at the hotel?”
“While I’m sure my uncle’s groomer would be happy to help, I don’t want anyone in their party to know where I’m staying. So no, I’ll be dressing myself.”
Rafi raised an eyebrow. “Bo always said that only geniuses and morons dressed themselves for red carpet events. I know which one I am,” it wasn’t genius, “but which are you?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“The designer didn’t, I dunno, send a handler with the clothes?”
“Well, it’s not an outfit with priceless jewels or voluminous skirts—this time,” Julian said. “If I need help getting it on, well, that’s what I have you for.” He actually batted his eyelashes.
Rafi shook his head. “Okay, well, that might be faster than dealing with a stylist team, which brings me back to my original point. We’ll need to dress and eat, and that doesn’t leave us a lot of time for red carpet interviews or fan interaction.”
“Fan interaction,” Julian repeated.
“Julian.” Rafi leaned forward, pressing Julian’s hand between both of his, and spoke very slowly. “The people you will see behind barricades lining the red carpet? They’re called fans. They like you. They’ve probably waited hours to see you, and they’re the reason you have a career.”
Julian’s voice went dry. “How odd. My uncle always says he’s the reason I have a career.”
“He’s a liar. Without the fans, you have jack squat.” Rafi reached out and tweaked Julian’s nose, oh-so-affectionately. The woman across the aisle was still taking pictures, though a flight attendant, bustling their way with a fixed smile, seemed primed to put a stop to it. “You said you wanted to soften your image—this is how. Smile, joke, sign a few things, let them take a selfie with you. Then you can go inside, leaving a dozen people who are going to tell everyone they know how sweet and amazing you are.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “I’m not a child, Rafi. I know how to charm a room when I decide to.”
“Good. Decide to.”
The flight attendant had, with impeccable politeness, bullied the other passenger into putting away her phone. Rafi nodded appreciation to the attendant as she departed, then waved at the passenger, who blushed mightily and half-disappeared beneath her airline blanket.
Julian, looking oddly thoughtful, had not reclaimed his hand. “My uncle’s always spoken of ‘the rabble’ in derogatory terms, but you’re not wrong. It doesn’t matter how brilliant an actor you are if no one wants to watch you perform.”
“Congratulations on passing Hollywood 101,” said Rafi.
Julian rolled his eyes and pulled his hand away. “I have a book to finish.”
“You have fun with that,” Rafi said, shaking his head and pulling out his phone.
Julian snorted beside him.
“What?” When Julian didn’t answer, Rafi folded his arms and turned to face him. “Seriously, what? That’s not the first time you’ve sneered at my phone. You were enjoying yours just fine at the beach, so you’re not a Luddite. Is it just me and my phone you somehow object to?”
Julian looked him up and down, as if debating whether to answer, before saying, “Thickheaded egotists like you with your phones, yes. You get people killed.”
“I already told you, I was not on the phone while driving. I pulled over so that I wouldn’t be on the phone while driving!”
“And you were in such a hurry to do it that you paid no attention to where you were putting your giant metal death machine! You could just as easily have killed someone, or several someones, or wiped out an entire family. Because, what, Twitter couldn’t wait another ten minutes?”
“That’s not what happened! I did something kind of dumb, but no one was hurt—except me, a little—and it wasn’t because of the phone. It was because I’d just heard on the radio that my ex-girlfriend was pregnant by my brother! Why are you determined to blame my phone, of all things?”
Julian still looked agitated, his eyes hot and mouth twisted—but suddenly he wouldn’t meet Rafi’s gaze. Because he knew he was being irrational? He’s been acting more and more erratic, Uncle Eddie had said.
“It was still a dumb thing to do,” Julian said.
Rafi wanted to throw his hands in the air. “I know it was! I’m paying through the nose for it, if that makes you feel any better. What more do you want me to say?”
Julian seemed to be struggling for words. The woman across the aisle was still pretending not to watch them; Rafi cautiously put an arm around Julian, who permitted it, and rested his head on Rafi’s shoulder.
“I want you to stop being an idiot,” Julian said at last.
“No promises,” Rafi said, and winked.
Julian rolled his eyes. Still nestled against Rafi’s shoulder—which felt surprisingly nice—he opened his book. Rafi, who after all was not driving the airplane, turned back to his phone, and the wonderland of time-wasters therein.
He had forgotten to charge it the night before. Rafi groaned as the screen went dark in his hand.
Beside him, Julian smiled without looking up. “Should have brought a book.”
* * * *
It didn’t take Rafi long to change into his tuxedo—charcoal pinstripe, excellently tailored; it was comfortable, appropriate and flattering and that was the end of his interest in it—and before long he wandered over to the other dressing room, and Julian.
Who was in his underwear, fighting with a white dress shirt.
“I thought you were a big boy who could dress himself.”
“Shut up.”
Julian had the shirt mostly on, though unbuttoned; what seemed to have stymied him were the cuff buttons. He was scrabbling and twisting at his wrist in a way that reminded Rafi of a dog chasing his tail. Rafi leaned against the doorway and watched in open amusement as Julian swore under his breath with mounting viciousness—then turned and thrust his hand out at Rafi. “You do it, then, if you’re so much more competent!”
“Oh.” Rafi felt oddly uncertain as he stepped closer; all he could think of, for a moment, was Bo. Helping her dress for big events, doing up zippers and clasping necklaces—a sweet note of intimacy, domesticity, in the midst of high glamour.
Julian’s hand was palm-up, fingers lightly curled; the pose was lazy and elegant, beckoning and mocking in equal measure. Delicate veins showed blue through the pale skin of his wrist.
Rafi, annoyed at his own hesitation, took the offered hand and began addressing the buttons. They quickly proved more difficult than he’d expected, tiny and slippery, with buttonholes a little too small and far apart.
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“‘A big boy who can dress himself,’” Julian echoed. “But perhaps ‘big’ is the problem. The rest of you is almost too musclebound to move, why not your fingers?”
“I’ll be glad to stop bothering you with my assistance.”
“You haven’t been of any assistance yet.” Nevertheless, he stopped talking, only watching intently as Rafi finally managed the buttons on one wrist, and reached for the other. The motion of lifting his arm made the shirt fall open a little more, and Rafi had to stop pretending not to notice Julian’s chest—slender and smooth and surprisingly muscular, one cute pink nipple peeking out the edge of the shirt.
Rafi managed to flick his gaze up, away from Julian’s chest, only for it to catch on Julian’s eyes instead. They were fixed on him steadily, expressionless, perhaps angry, perhaps—not.
Rafi swallowed, looking away, and fumbled another button.
This was a mistake. All of it, being here with Julian, agreeing to this crazy fake-relationship plan. Leveraging his reputation, his integrity—for what, a chance to spit in Bo’s face? Was that really the person he was?
Maybe a little. Maybe it felt pretty awesome to know that after years of letting her jerk him around, he could tell her, I can have another you in a minute, and in fact he’ll be here in a minute.
Besides, Julian had saved his life. Rafi owed him something for that. He could pretend to like him for a little while in front of some cameras.
If asked, he would have said that reaching for the front of the shirt, doing the buttons there, was meant as a comment on Julian’s competence. But Julian didn’t ask.
* * * *
They arrived at the Chinese Theatre with plenty of time to cozy up to the fans. Rafi insisted on doing that first, before answering any questions from the journalists lined up along the carpet.
“Let’s start there,” he said, grinning and pointing to a group holding up a sign that read, WE SHIP JURAFI! Next to the words was a giraffe, with Julian and Rafael’s faces inside a heart on its haunches.
During the next several minutes, a girl in a tube top asked Rafi to sign her chest, which he cheerfully did; another had him sign her copy of Epicurious, and a possibly-genderfluid person in a Mohawk gave some sort of formal blessing to Rafi and Julian’s blossoming love, which Rafi found surprisingly moving. A starry-eyed boy asked permission to write fanfic about them, to which Rafi could only stammer in reply, but Julian, to his surprise, smiled broadly and said, “Only if I’m topping.”
A few steps down, Rafi posed for selfies with a young couple who said DK had brought them together, while Julian admired a gray-haired woman’s fan art of Julian as the Marquis de Lafayette, his character in the premiering movie. He signed the art, and then gave her a flourishing bow and kiss to the hand. Rafi hoped the poor woman wouldn’t faint.
“There, see?” he whispered to Julian as they extricated themselves from the general melee, Rafi reaching back to touch a few outstretched hands. “That wasn’t too bad.”
“That woman’s a talented artist, I wonder if she sells prints,” was Julian’s only reply.
Once they were on the red carpet proper, the cameras started flashing. This part, Julian was comfortable with; he raised his chin, put a hand on his hip, spun a little to show off his long tan coat with its trail of dark butterflies down the front. The long coat, gloves, and ponytail (held with a jeweled pin that glittered madly in the flashbulbs) gave Julian an appropriate air of the colonial.
“Who are you wearing?” someone inevitably called out.
“Alexander McQueen,” Julian answered, which if Rafi recalled correctly was a favorite of his, along with a number of obscure Korean designers. Not that Rafi paid a lot of attention, but he got bored at dentists’ offices like anyone, didn’t he?
“What about you, Rafi?” the reporter called, which shouldn’t have been a surprise.
“Uh, not sure,” he answered. “I’ve had this thing for ages.”
Julian glared at him in what looked like genuine outrage, but other questions were coming now as they made their way down the carpet, holding hands.
“Julian, what was the most challenging part of this role for you?”
“Lafayette’s energy. He didn’t have an off button. It’s hard to keep that up.”
“Did you do your own stunts?”
“Wherever possible. For one or two shots the director insisted on letting the experts take over.”
“In this highly-charged political atmosphere, what do think this film is telling us about the Founding Fathers’ legacy?”
Rafi, fielding questions of his own, didn’t get to hear Julian’s answer to that one.
“So you really are dating Julian?” asked someone from—OK Magazine, he thought.
“Yes,” Rafi said, releasing Julian’s hand in order to show off his bracelet. “It’s kind of sudden, but pretty great so far.”
“What’s he like as a boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s…” A challenge would be the honest answer, but he was supposed to be softening Julian’s image. “He’s very sweet. A total romantic.”
“Really?” He could almost see the reporter’s heart melting.
A few feet away, someone was asking Julian, “So are you coming out? Are you gay?”
“Right now I’m more interested in Rafi than in labels,” Julian said, “but gay is close enough.”
“How does Bo feel about this, Rafi?” the OK reporter asked.
Hopefully terrible! “I really don’t care,” Rafi said, then waved pleasantly and moved on to the next press group.
Someone from a charity blog was asking Julian about what causes he supported—the ASPCA and a horse rescue, to Rafi’s surprise—when a young man cut in line, shoved a camera in Rafi’s face, and shouted, “Is Bo Thomas’s baby yours?”
Rafi stopped, already knowing he shouldn’t. “Fu—Get lost.”
“According to the official announcement, she’s twenty weeks along,” the reporter continued gleefully. “That’s months before you two broke up, at least officially. Is the baby yours or Carlos’s?”
“Get out of my face before I break yours.” His mouth was running away with him, and why was he reacting like this anyway? This was standard gossip rag stuff, he’d have been more surprised not to be asked about it.
Julian appeared at his side, sliding an arm around his waist. “Sweetheart?”
“Let’s go.” Rafi tried to hustle them into the theatre, but there was one more obstacle between them and the door.
Cassie Bayles, recipient of Julian’s on-set wrath followed by his saliva, looked incredible in something black and slinky with a slit high up her thigh. Dark hair was piled elegantly on her head and an embarrassment of jewels shimmered from her neck and ears. She turned as they approached, and her smile became a little frozen.
“Julian!” she said. “Here I was wondering if you’d make it to the premiere at all. You’ve bothered with so little else for this film.”
Julian’s smile was equally chilly. “I think Cassie is referring to the fact that, due to my filming schedule for Freaks, I was excused from much of the promotional touring for Gunpowder. An unfortunate necessity. Cassie, this is Rafael—”
“—Reyes, yes, I do actually keep track of what’s happening around me. A pleasure, Rafi.” She extended her hand, as if for a kiss, not a handshake; Rafi managed an ambiguous sort of hand-press.
“In any case, Cassie, let’s not pretend you missed me.” The tension in Julian’s body had doubled. Rafi looked longingly toward the theatre entrance.
“Oh, Julian, I think dispensing with the polite fictions would be a dangerous move,” Cassie said, still smiling. “Honestly you should be grateful I’m willing to bite my tongue and get this over—”
Rafi couldn’t help a swell of outrage. “Bite your tongue? You haven’t been doing much of that. I saw your interview with Hollywood Reporter. Not sure someone who calls a co-star an ‘impossible jerk’ can claim to be the bigger person.”
“I can’t claim to be the bigger person?” Cassie stepped closer, bright-lipsticked mouth falling open in outrage. She jabbed a finger into Julian’s chest. “You spat on me!”
A crescendo of murmurs and camera-flashes from the crowd around them.
Julian took a step of his own, going toe-to-toe with her. When he spoke, his voice was just as loud as hers, but flat and calm. “You killed your horse.”
The red carpet fell into utter shocked silence.
Then, behind them, a flurry of activity. Rafi glanced back to see Uncle Eddie stepping out of a limousine. It was time and past to get Julian out of here. He took his alleged boyfriend’s elbow in a grip of iron and steered him into the safety of the theatre before anything else could go wrong.
* * * *
They found their seats, and Rafi, at least, took a moment to examine the gifts left there—Founding Fathers bobbleheads and a tote bag with Washington crossing the Delaware. Julian gave them barely a glance, but Rafi thought he could be forgiven for being too shaken to appreciate movie swag.
“What happened with the horse?” Rafi leaned down to murmur, but Julian waved him off with a curt, “Later.”
Rafi had barely gotten seated when he saw Uncle Eddie and another man—about Julian’s age, wearing a dramatic scarlet shirt with his tux, with glossy dark hair pulled into a tiny man-bun—coming down the aisle toward them. Rafi’s glance at the seats to either side of himself and Julian showed they were assigned to Uncle Eddie and someone named Aaron Pratt.
Julian swore under his breath. “Switch places with me.” Then he got up and…left.
No, Rafi realized; he was preparing to go on stage with the rest of the cast for the film’s introduction. Several other actors and Gunpowder’s director were converging on the same spot.
Rafi took Julian’s seat, as ordered, so that Julian would be sitting next to Aaron instead of Uncle Eddie. Neither of the approaching men looked thrilled about this, but took their seats as assigned.
“I seem to have just missed something significant outside,” Uncle Eddie murmured. “Care to catch me up?”
Rafi shrugged. “Just a conversation with a colleague of Julian’s.”
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