by Jade Astor
He should feel grateful, not guilty. He vowed to remind himself of that as often as necessary while he struggled through the rest of the day.
Twelve miserable hours later, Darian presented himself at Reece Hall’s imposing front door, dressed in a suit and carrying a bottle of cognac. Though Victor had told him not to bring anything, he felt uneasy arriving empty-handed. When he had called home after his meeting with Jeanette, his restauranteur mom Rikki had assured him that a small bottle of apéritif would make a thoughtful gift—as long as the gathering wasn’t intended as alcohol-free, his mom Ange had cautioned.
“No—he hauled out the brandy at lunch,” Darian told her. “I don’t know about his other guests. I’ve never met them.”
“You should be fine, then,” Rikki said. “He can decide which of his friends he offers it to.”
“He doesn’t drink too much, I hope,” Ange added. Darian could practically hear the thought that followed, as though she had spoken it out loud.
“Mom! I’m only going to a dinner party! This isn’t a date—and it’s definitely none of my business what his drinking habits might be. Or yours, for that matter.”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt to consider all options, especially since Argo seems to have removed himself from the equation,” Rikki had said.
“Argo isn’t out of the picture. We’re just on a break.”
“Oh, yeah, we’ve heard that one before. Ange and her ex were on a break when we first got together, you know.”
Darian was still thinking about that conversation when Victor opened the door. He could hear the murmur of voices and the gentle thump of mellow mood music wafting from the big sitting room to the left of the foyer.
“Darian! Great to see you! So glad you could make it.” Victor ushered him into the foyer. Darian proffered the bottle, complete with a black velvet bow the liquor store clerk had tied on for him.
“This is for you.”
Victor held it up to the light and beamed. “Fins Bois, XO. An excellent choice. You have good taste in drink, my friend.”
“Not really. One of my moms manages a restaurant. She advised me.”
“A connoisseur in the family? In that case, I hope the food tonight won’t disappoint you.”
“Oh, I’m not fussy. I make it a rule never to complain about any meal I don’t have to cook.”
Victor grinned. “The cognac will help with that. Overpowers the taste of anything you don’t like. Come on in and see everyone.”
Victor led Darian toward one of the rooms he had visited on Saturday, though thankfully not the one with the white and gold decor. The last thing he wanted to do was spill cognac or drop some gooey appetizer on Victor’s heirloom furniture. When they entered, he was struck by how different the space seemed now that people occupied various chairs and corners. Lively warmth filled the room, thanks to the candles they’d lit and the upbeat instrumental music playing in the background.
“This is Darian Winter,” Victor announced, leaving no doubt they’d been discussing him in detail before he arrived. He gave the assembled group a self-conscious wave.
“Guilty as charged. Nice to meet all of you.”
A guy about Victor’s age, with dark curly hair and gold octagonal glasses, stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Logan Hunter. This is my sister, Sandra.”
So this was Jamie London’s beleaguered significant other. Logan indicated a woman on the sofa to his right, and Darian noted that she looked just like him, right down to the glasses. She held a drink in one hand, which she raised in Darian’s direction.
Victor gestured toward a wiry African American guy and a beefier dude with a bushy black beard, standing together by the drinks table. They, too, seemed to be in the same general age group as they others. “Chuck Jacobs and Wes Weldon,” he said, pointing to each of them in turn.
“You’re cast members?” Darian asked, easily picturing Wes as a rampaging barbarian in some bloody medieval epic. Despite his appearance, his brown eyes seemed warm and his smile genuine and welcoming.
“Nah, he’s the actor,” Chuck said. “I’m the camera man. The one and only camera man on this production, incidentally.”
“Which makes you the most important person in any scene,” Wes finished for him. “We know, we know.”
The two of them laughed, and Darian wondered if they were a couple like Logan and Jamie. Come to think of it, where was Jamie? He saw no one else in the room.
Victor seemed to read his mind. “So what happened to our star?” he asked in a sardonic voice. “Darian is dying to meet a real-life celebrity. I’d hate to disappoint him when he drove all the way out here.”
“I hope you didn’t promise him an autograph,” Sandra said, her eyes rolling behind her thick lenses. “His head is swollen enough as it is.”
“Wouldn’t dream of asking,” Darian said in all sincerity.
As if on cue, Jamie London appeared in the doorway. At first Darian wondered if his eyesight had been dazzled by so much candlelight. A gold shimmer seemed to envelop him as he swept into the room, as though propelled by a blast of magic fairy dust. Then Darian realized that Jamie was wearing a peacock blue jacket decorated with glitter that matched his wavy blond hair. Darian was sure he saw more than a hint of metallic eyeshadow too.
A high-collared white shirt, bolo tie, and ankle high boots over tight black pants completed the effect of some otherworldly being materializing among them. Darian had never understood what people meant when they spoke of performers showing star quality. Now he did. Though he wasn’t Darian’s physical type—he preferred husky and rugged, like Argo—he couldn’t deny that the air around Jamie London seemed to crackle and vibrate, as if his presence pushed energy out into the world.
A few steps in, Jamie stopped and tilted his head. A single hank of hair tumbled over his forehead in a glossy wave.
“You must be Darian. I’m glad you aren’t a disappointment. We’ve heard about little else all afternoon.”
“I’m glad, too,” Darian said, and everyone laughed. Logan reached over and took Jamie’s hand. Jamie allowed the gesture, but didn’t turn to look at Logan. His cool blue eyes continued to appraise Darian.
“Now that we’re all here, why don’t we go in and eat?” Victor suggested. “You can take your drinks with you. And Darian’s brought us some primo cognac we can look forward to trying later.”
Over a well-laid table featuring prime rib with all the trimmings, Darian tried to learn more about the relationships within the group. He understood how Logan had managed to coax a professional TV personality to act in his low-budget production, but what motivated the others to participate seemed less clear. “Did all of you go to college together?” he asked.
“Logan, Wes, Jamie and I did,” Victor said. “Chuck’s new—back in the day, Logan ran the camera himself. He’s moved into the director’s chair now.”
“Thankfully,” Jamie said.
“And of course Logan brought Sandra in as our wardrobe and props manager,” Victor went on.
“Don’t act like it was an act of charity,” Sandra snapped. “I have a Ph.D. in theater from one of the top programs in the country, you know.”
She’d said it for Darian’s benefit, obviously, so he did her the courtesy of nodding. “Very impressive.”
“We had some fun back in those early days, didn’t we?” Wes reflected. He tipped his glass toward Logan. “We’ve been on some wild rides with this guy and his ideas.”
“Sorry I missed it,” Chuck said.
“No matter,” Victor assured him. “We’ll make new memories. It’s going to be amazing.”
“How many films have you made together?” Darian asked.
“Not counting the little one-act things that went nowhere, only one,” Logan said. “But we don’t have any copies of it left.”
“Thank the forces of goodness for that,” Victor said.
“That bad?” Darian smiled, but when the others looked down, he realiz
ed he’d touched on a sensitive subject.
“Let’s just say things didn’t turn out the way we planned,” Victor said. “This new one will be better, though. Tell him, Logan.”
“Don’t want to say too much, obviously.” Logan patted his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Have to be careful not to jinx anything. But I can tell you it’s a horror movie unlike anything you’ve seen before. It’s all driven by the passion between two men. Wes here is playing the villain.”
Wes grinned. “Or, as I prefer to think of him, the victim. Jamie and Victor do away with me and then I come back after them. As a zombie, no less, seeking my revenge on them both.”
“It’s like a gay version of Withering Heights. With zombies,” Jamie said, his disdain obvious.
“Worked for Jane Austen,” Chuck commented as he took a bite of prime rib.
“It’s Wuthering,” Sandra corrected sharply. “But then, I don’t suppose you’ve actually read it. Either of you.” She glared at her brother.
“Are you kidding? It’s way too long. But I saw the movie,” Jamie shot back. “Most of it, anyway, before I fell asleep.”
“So there’s romance in it?” Darian asked. “You wouldn’t expect that in a zombie movie.”
“That’s the innovative part,” Wes said.
“I’m trying to put something in my film for everyone,” Logan said.
“Thus pleasing no one in the end,” Jamie said. “But what else is new?”
Darian saw irritation flash across Logan’s face. Hastily he turned to Jamie. “So what’s your role in the movie?”
“I’m playing Caleb, the man both Victor and Wes are in love with,” Jamie gushed. “They’re brothers, you see, and Caleb is their irresistible neighbor. Neither can help falling for him, and why should they? He’s rich, charming, and beautiful.”
“He’s also a manipulative, murderous little cheat,” Victor blurted. When everyone fell silent, he smiled and shrugged. “Sorry to give it all way, but I read the script before you all got here.”
Sandra picked up where Jamie had left off. “What happens is that Victor’s character falls in love with Jamie, and then Wes steals him away. Thaddeus—that’s Victor’s character—kills his brother in a jealous rage and buries him in the cellar. Little does he know that Wes isn’t about to give in that easily. He digs his way out and comes after both of them.”
“Which is no more than they deserve,” Wes said.
“We decided Reece Hall would be the perfect setting,” Logan said, gesturing at the ceiling with his fork. “We’re going to restore some of the rooms to their original 19th century look, or at least come as close as we can, and film our scenes right in them.”
“Logan finds it very useful to have a rich friend with a manor house. So would anyone, I suspect.” Jamie swung around to Darian. “What sort of domicile do you inhabit? Perhaps Logan would care to frame his next epic there.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be much of a film. My place is just a cottage. Faculty housing for Birchwood.”
“They wouldn’t allow filming there anyway,” Victor said. “Can you imagine? Gay love stories on campus? Perish the thought of such goings-on happening within those hallowed halls.” He caught Darian’s gaze and smiled. Darian couldn’t deny he felt a little twinge in his chest—not unpleasant in any sense of the word. Then his guilt was back again. Argo should have been here. Argo should have been his date this evening.
He resolved to call him as soon as he got home.
“Well, then, maybe Logan’s next project will be more low-key,” Jamie went on. “An art film, maybe, all about a gorgeous guy going slowly mad inside a little bungalow filled with dusty old books. It’s not as farfetched as you might think. Novels make me crazy too. That’s why I’m into scripts and films instead. Logan’s the writer in the family. I can put up with reading scripts. And I read all of his. Every last word.”
“Jamie has a lot of good ideas,” Logan said proudly. “He’s always able to suggest improvements.”
“I can just imagine,” Sandra said under her breath.
Jamie preened under Logan’s devotion. “I’ve dared Logan to try his—er—hand at making what they used to call a skin flick. I mean, if the point is to make money, and when isn’t it, nothing sells like sex.”
Logan scowled. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you saying you’d star in something like that, Jamie?” Victor asked. “I must say, I’m surprised. I don’t recall you being that adventurous in college.”
“Anything for love, right?” Wes put in.
“Hardly.” Jamie sniffed. “I was thinking Logan could find someone desperate for exposure, so to speak. Maybe Wes or Victor, for example. At least Victor has the looks, if not the talent. Something like that might be perfect for him. And as for Wes, well, I understand hirsute is all the rage in some circles. There might be hope for you yet.”
After an embarrassed silence, they went back to their food and then enjoyed Darian’s cognac along with an amazing trifle studded with the tastiest cherries Darian had ever eaten. Again he wished Argo had been present to enjoy some of it, along with Victor’s rich dark coffee.
After the meal and some generic chitchat Darian didn’t pay much attention to, Victor walked him out to his car.
“Sorry to keep you out so late on a school night,” he said, though he didn’t sound regretful at all.
“Actually, you didn’t. I’m on a leave of absence thanks to the shootout at the convenience store. The powers that be thought I might need a little time to recuperate mentally after my ordeal.”
Victor grew serious for a moment. “They’re probably right. What happened to you sounds beyond scary. I admire the way you handled the whole mess.” Then he brightened. “As far as relaxing goes, I’m sorry if made you uncomfortable at dinner. We’ve all been friends a long time—except for Chuck, of course—and we get a little rowdy. We probably sound terrible to someone who isn’t used to us. None of us mean anything by it, though.”
“That’s okay. I had fun meeting your friends and hearing about the movie.”
“I knew you would. Here’s an idea. Since you don’t have to teach, why don’t you come back tomorrow when we start filming? We can always use another pair of hands. Sandra will need some help with the costumes and makeup, for starters.”
“I don’t know anything about filming a horror movie. I’d just be in the way.”
“Not at all! Really. Come tomorrow. We’d all love to have you.” Victor winked. “Warning, though—we might be working late some nights. You can always stay in one of the guest rooms on the top floor, though. Might want to bring an emergency overnight bag, just in case.”
Darian was about to agree, but noticed Victor’s eager expression and paused. The last thing he wanted to do was give Victor the wrong idea. He still planned to call Argo when he got home. What Argo said could very well determine the way he spent his days off from school.
“Only if it’s really okay with your friends, especially Logan. It’s his project, right? I wouldn’t want to be a pain.”
“Leave it to me,” Victor said.
The drive home led him through a tangle of dark, creepy looking trees. Stripped of leaves, they looked menacing. Dark, clawlike limbs seemed to reach out to him with grasping fingers. Some of them brushed against the glass of his car windows. He cranked up his car stereo to make things seem normal. He sang along to some cheesy breakup songs and thought about Argo.
Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe they weren’t broken up at all. If he lucked out, he wouldn’t have to say anything when he got Argo on the line. It was entirely possible that Argo, after spending the whole day alone, had started to regret the impulsive way he’d called things off between them. He might even have spent the time thinking up a way to undo the damage.
By the time he pulled into his dark driveway, he had almost convinced himself that was what would happen. He almost expected to see Argo’s SUV parked beside his house until he remem
bered that with his bandaged arm and prescription painkillers, Argo probably wasn’t allowed to drive.
Inspired by the screen writers and actors he had dined with, he played out a satisfying little drama in his head. He could almost hear Argo’s apologetic voice in the darkness of his car.
I was wrong, Argo would say, his voice thick with emotion. I lost it there for a while. The meds made things worse. Some strong stuff they gave me. Can we just pretend it didn’t happen? Come over right now and bring your toothbrush. My arm’s feeling a lot better. The rest of me is working fine, too.
Sadly, as with most things, especially when it came to his relationships, the reality was much less satisfying.
Argo, in fact, seemed surprised to hear from him.
“Jeanette’s given me two weeks off from teaching,” Darian said when the conversation fizzled, pretending he had called to discuss the shooting. “She wants me to get counseling. Plus she doesn’t want reporters crawling around the school looking for me.”
For a moment the old Argo surfaced, wry sense of humor and all. “They’ve been pressuring me to do the same thing. Fat chance I’ll be letting some pretentious shrink interpret my dreams. I forget them all by mid-morning, anyway. Probably with good reason.”
“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.” Briefly Darian pictured himself and Argo attending couple’s therapy, their hands entwined as a Freudlike man encouraged them to trust one another. “They say a shooting can be traumatic. It affects cops in ways they might not realize.”
“How do you know that?”
“I…uh…saw it on a reality show.”
Argo snorted. “No, Darian. I’m not going. No offense, but I can handle my own problems. Look, this isn’t complicated. A bullet grazed me. They bandaged me up. My sister hovered over me and drove me nuts for almost two days. I’ll be fine. End of story. I’m eager to get back to work.”
“How do you know what it’s like if you’ve never tried it?”
“I don’t need to try it. Cops prefer to keep things simple. What happened, where was everyone standing, who pulled the trigger first and why. The way it should be. The rest of it, all this dream interpretation and talking over your childhood tantrums, is just a bunch of horse puckey.”
