Gilded Lies

by Lin Lustig

  He cleaned up and forced himself out into the living room where Glen was busying himself in the kitchen, Emerson resided at the desk, and Licia coiled up in the red chair like a waiting viper, talking on her phone about remodeling.

  “Good morning,” he said without pizazz. He thought about asking Emerson how he’d slept, but an awkward rush of adrenaline made him hold back.

  Emerson seemed to notice him, though, and cleared his throat. “The Anons has been outed, too.”

  “What?” John came to his side and hovered to see the screen. He could feel the warmth coming from Emerson and his vibe woke. Licia muttered something in an annoyed tone, but he couldn't catch the words.

  “The NNN posted the Anons as a resource for Abnormals and anyone looking for more information. I need to know who else we trust to moderate. We've had over thirty thousand hits and I can't begin to approve comments fast enough.”

  “We'll have to open it up.” John scrubbed his face, not appreciating the extra strain. “I don't know enough of the users.”

  “I'll moderate.” Glen topped a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and rounded the counter to stand with John. “My contact Arissa could, too.”

  “Even then that's only four of us. It's not enough.” And none of them had the time it would take to process that number of incoming messages. “The site has to evolve to deal with this. I'll make a post to explain, then it is what it is.”

  Emerson snorted. “You're just going to wash your hands of them? Just like that?”

  John flinched back. “No. I'm going to get out in front of this. I can't chase behind and expect to catch up. I'm going to go public.” The frustration made his vibe pressurize, like it was trying to make up for being so weak before.

  “Great. Fine. Pointless holding onto a system that isn't working anyway.” Emerson closed down the laptop and turned towards him and Glen. Glen looked caught out with a spoonful of oats halfway to his open mouth and sidestepped over to the kitchen counter. “Maybe being public about your support will help. You owe some authenticity to your fans, even if it costs you your image.”

  John felt a flash of dread. Licia perked up, watching him. He cast around for the right way to defend himself. “It might help build a new brand.”

  Emerson leaned on the desk, resting his chin on his hand. “Maybe.” He rolled his chair back and stood.

  “Wait.” He couldn't hold back the pressure in his abdomen and feared Licia would ennui him to death if he slipped. He held out his hand.

  Emerson stared at it but didn't move.

  “Take what he offers, or I'll put you both down so I can hear myself think.” Licia set her phone aside and waited.

  Slowly, Emerson faced the wall, but extended his arm. John held his wrist, his skin hot and soft, and then opened up. The effervescence drained away, and Emerson's shoulders relaxed. They both needed this. John stroked his thumb along the inside of Emerson's wrist. He tolerated it, or maybe he liked the contact, too. John stepped into his space.

  Emerson pulled away and marched down the hall towards his new room. John started after him but stopped after a step. He'd already done so much damage, the only thing he could do now was leave him be.

  “Glen, give us a minute,” Licia said.

  He scooped up his bowl and padded off to the storage room where they'd managed to shove enough of the excess out of the way for an air mattress. Once he shut his door, John sat on the couch as near to the red chair as he could get. Part of him wanted to curl up in her arms and give in, but they'd never had that kind of relationship. They'd never had any real relationship. They'd never hugged, never offered comfort, only ever been the allies who could trust their lives to, but nothing else.

  Still, being near her was a comfort in its own way. He leaned forward a bit just to get closer and was surprised when she adjusted her position to narrow the gap as well.

  “If you go public there's no turning back.”

  It was already too late for that anyway. “I know.”

  “This could destroy you. Not just your career. Through history, people on the outside have been arrested, tortured, murdered. I need to make sure you're sure about this.”

  He recognized the uncoiling of her ability but couldn't hide his surprise when a hint of worry touched him. “It's the only option.”

  “You could run. We could all run.”

  They could, he guessed. Especially with her at their back, but for how long? At what point did you stop living to stay alive? He'd run for long enough, and it had cost him the only person he'd never wanted to hurt. Resolve melted away his own worries. “I'm going to do this.”

  Licia pulled down the sleeves of her long black t-shirt so it covered her hand like a glove. She then cupped his hand in hers. “Good.”

  He gripped her, knowing that touching her skin-to-skin would overdose her on his vibe, but holding her felt right, and he wished they didn’t need the barrier. He’d tried to let go of what he’d once hoped they’d be, but no matter how hard he fought it, somehow, they fit.

  The to-do list with his team, which had felt so exhilarating before, now felt insurmountable. If he did this and it went wrong, then Emerson would be right—this was career suicide.

  But it wasn't like he was outing himself as specialized, just supporting them. Did that make it sound like he was one of them? There wasn't a way to be ready for this, or to predict how it would fall out, but he still had to do it. Long dead was that eighteen-year-old homeless kid, so desperate he'd sell himself to the devil. Now he had to reclaim his soul, but he wasn't alone. Monsters had to stick together.

  Licia tilted her head, her pale blue eyes soft like down. She didn't say anything, but the beautiful thing was, she didn't have to.

  At the team meeting his social media manager quit on the spot when John announced he'd support the Abnormals. His agent encouraged him not to do it, and then dropped the one reason that made him hesitate. The other actor competing for the role of Kira Moyer, starring opposite action hero star Jordan Eshield, had a production conflict. The role was his.

  As long as he didn’t fuck that up, too.

  CHAPTER 37

  Emerson

  The clocks ticked closer to seven p.m. on Friday night. Sleeping on the couch in the theater room all week had put a kink in his neck that wouldn’t go away. Nerves were now making it worse. He’d done all he could not to talk to John after he’d declared he’d go public, but now he wished he’d tried to talk him out of it. Because of that, John hadn’t even asked if Em would guard him tonight. He’d taken Henry instead.

  Emerson sat with Glen on the couch, Licia sequestered on the chair, and together they waited for the entertainment news to reach its main story: John Beechum, confirmed for the new Jordon Eshield film, with a message to all his Abnormal fans, up next.

  He still couldn't believe John was doing this. After an entire damn year of John keeping their relationship quiet, UHP outs Abnormals and not even a week later John was ready to put his face on the contrary side. Never mind that the only thing Em had asked for was to be with John openly. To be proud of their relationship, even it didn’t fit his straight-man brand. John was a big hit with women and men, and his managers were idiots. Now Em would have to sit here and watch John give away the one thing he’d ever asked for—aside from that disastrous marriage proposal. Because it’s not like he’d ever expected John to already be married.

  “Can you tone it down?” Licia asked.

  Emerson grabbed the remote and muted the show.

  “No, tone it down, not turn it down. I meant your resentment. It's making my tea taste like Szechuan chicken.”

  The studio image switched to a wide shot of a desk with host Neena Arden. Emerson ignored Licia and turned the volume back up. Neena introduced her show, the topics on hand, and then called out her guest: John Beechum.

  John's presence was undeniable. The audience wolf-whistled and screamed, and honestly Emerson couldn't blame them. John's hair was swept over in a s
oft part, his blinding smile genuine as he basked in their adoration, and his suit... Damn, that was one hell of a suit. Perfectly fitted and dripping with suggestive lines all the way down to his favorite wing-tipped leather oxfords.

  John's public persona was a little off from the John he intimately knew, but it wasn't day and night, more like dawn and dusk. The shadows might point in a different direction, but they were still his.

  Glen snorted at John's suggestive flirts with Neena. “Neena turned him down like a bad song on the radio.”

  Verbally yes, but Neena also made an excuse to stroke John's chest and feel his shoulder. Of course, John played his usual sex icon angle. Straight as always. Emerson knew he should be supportive of John stepping out into the unknown like this. If only he'd been willing to do the same with him. Then again, it was a little hard to have a committed, public relationship with someone who was still married.

  John's face lit with the challenge of Neena's humorous rejection, but he leaned back in the armchair and loosened his tie. An audience member shouted the usual, “Take it off!” He dismissed the call with a wave and got back to business with Neena. They discussed his new role, his most famous past roles, the show on Broadway coming to an end next week, and then finally, Neena led into the segment that had Emerson on the edge of the couch. Licia, however, sank further back into her chair.

  The audience quieted, and Emerson's heart grew louder. John's opening was smooth, a brief tale of a close friend who had a specialized trait—because that's how John thought of them, not as abnormal, but as talented individuals who had distinctive skill sets. How he loved this friend more than anything and taking away their ability was taking away part of who they were.

  “The way I see it, in the end it doesn't matter if people have these unusual abilities or not. What matters for any of us is what we do with what we've got.” John let his sentence hang and shrugged. Then looked over himself and raised an eyebrow. The audience called out their appreciation.

  “We all know you do,” Neena eyed him with appreciation, then made a show of knocking herself back into the conversation at hand. “It sounds like you're all for a little abnormality.”

  “I certainly am. I'm offering an open invite to any specialized individual out there: my new charity project, the Specialized Awareness Community, is open to you. Tell us what you need and how we can help you be you. We are all about fierce self-acceptance, so feel free to join me in the SAC.”

  Neena laughed, as did the audience, though Emerson didn't. Licia rolled her eyes. John hadn’t changed his brand at all; this was the same old sex icon that had broken his heart and now invited untold numbers to climb aboard.

  It had never overly bothered him to share John with his fans or with Prisha—sure, jealousy spiked occasionally, and the awkward conversations weren't fun. But this felt like John was giving himself wholly to the Abnormals. There was no more room left for him.

  No, he reminded himself, he didn't need room anymore. He was through with John, and as soon as he'd made sure he and Licia couldn't hurt anyone else, he'd return to California and... and he hadn't thought that far ahead yet. A problem to solve when the time came, he supposed.

  The TV screen brightened, bleaching out John and Neena's faces. Emerson reached for the remote—or tried to. The rest of the room whited out as pressure built in his mind. There was a gap of time where he was stunned, unsure what was happening, but then he recognized the pressure and loss of sensation. He thought he was done reliving memories. In the moment between seeing a vision and knowing where he was, he wondered what horrors he'd get to remember this time. The accident, reminding him he'd taken life just like the murderess sitting close by? When his college boyfriend had broken up with him for gaining too much weight? Or the scene he couldn't get out of his mind—a knife dragged across a throat in Central Park while he stood by and did nothing.

  His vision cleared, the memory as vivid as they day he’d lived it. The set was familiar, so he was back in Hollywood working a sound stage, hovering to stay near the client. Which gig was this?

  Then Markus—still a fine-looking man in his thick rimmed glasses and waxed mustache, even if he didn't want Emerson anymore—called action. A set door slammed open as two entangled bodies stumbled through, mouths urgent, hands aggressively removing clothes, and an utter heat in their gazes that made Emerson flush.

  John stripped off his shirt while Alice Layned—styled as a brunette with enhanced curves—undid his belt. Pants undone but not removed, John pressed his body to hers and they fell back on a bed styled for a middle-class apartment with wrinkled sheets and too many pillows.

  Emerson imagined being the one topped by John instead of Alice. Could almost feel John's hands roam up his chest, his lips devouring, his hard length straining to be free.

  Emerson gulped and discretely adjusted himself. He had to stop fantasizing about him. John made it clear at the party months ago that he wasn't into men. They'd barely spoken since, even when the tension between them was obvious. Now they were thrown back together on the movie’s sequel and things had been awkward at best.

  Alice stripped John down to almost nothing and Emerson had to look away.

  There was no way he'd misread their interactions: the flirtatious touches, the subtle leans when caught up in conversations. John's persistent lingering stares, especially at Emerson's lips like he was imaging their taste. But no matter how much Emerson wanted him, John held back. That was that. He was too stuck on the idea of his reputation. He'd never change.

  “Cut!” Markus called. “John, you missed your cue and flubbed the line. Reset. We'll shoot again after lunch.” Markus took off a pair of fat headphones and slid from his chair. He was thinner and shorter than John but built with a tight core of muscles wrapping around every bone in his body. Emerson realized he had a type and sighed in annoyance.

  Working in such close proximity sucked after being turned down. Everyone believed John was a sex-god, infallible and hard as iron. Thinking about it made Emerson's face hot. He was thankful his skin tone camouflaged the blush.

  John extracted himself from the tangle of sheets. Their eyes met. John didn't have the same advantage and blushed a wonderful shade of pink cotton candy. His mostly naked body was a sculpture of musculature and lean mass. Veins popped on his forearms. His chest narrowed until lines from his obliques directed the eye down. He was wearing the equivalent of a super-thong that strapped his goods down tight for the scene. Emerson couldn't help but imagine releasing John from it.

  Shit, he needed a break. He was achingly hard seeing John this way. John slipped on a robe, then walked straight towards him. He thought about running the other way but wasn't going to be a coward. Then John stepped right past him.

  “Trailer,” was all he said, and Emerson wasn't sure he’d even heard that right. Momentary excitement nearly swept his feet out from under him, but no. John probably wanted to tell Emerson off for staring. Well, hell.

  He gave John a head start, then knocked on his trailer door a minute later. John opened the door, still dressed in a robe but now with a comfortable pair of boxers, and stood back so Emerson could come in.

  “I need you to stop staring at me like that,” John said and shut the door.

  Emerson hated being chewed out. “I'm not staring. I looked up once.”

  “I know you're doing more than that. It's distracting me.”

  “Oh come on, it's not like I'm on the side jacking off. I'm doing my job.”

  John rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. “I just need you to—”

  “What? Leave? Quit my job? Move out of the country? What would make your delicate ego feel best, your majesty?” Frustrated, he slipped, sucking away some of John's vital energy.

  John stilled and glared at him. “I don't know what to do about this.”

  “There's nothing to do. This is a job. When it's over you can go about your business. Or I guess you can ask Alice to fire me.” He hated the suggestion. They'd
become good friends before the wrap party. John's quick wit and blatant acceptance of Emerson's oddball thoughts made it so easy to talk to him. But now...

  “It's not that.” John slouched back on the padded bench lining the far wall. “I miss hanging out.”

  Emerson's mouth fell open. He snapped it shut before John noticed. He was blushing that enticing shade again. Emerson sat next to him, trying his best to hide his excitement from the burst of hope. “Then come over. Hang out tonight.”

  “Emerson I... This... I mean it's not—” John didn't finish.

  “I want you,” Em finally admitted it aloud. What was with him today?

  Now he was the one who couldn't look away from John's lips. He'd never realized how pale and unbalanced they were. His top lip was so thin, but the bottom one made up for it, like a juicy berry waiting to burst if only Emerson could get his teeth on it. He had to stay controlled, otherwise he'd ruin this by putting John to sleep, rather than showing him how to wake up.

  John didn't move away, but tensed, licking those uneven lips. Emerson couldn't help himself; he was so hard the texture of his jeans bit into his erection. He wanted John to touch him, to slide the zipper down one tooth at a time until there was room to stand free. Moving slow, Emerson brushed the back of his knuckles against John's thigh. The cloth of his robe stayed between their skin, a small barrier. When John's breath caught, an ache rushed up from Emerson's toes.

  “Emerson, I'm not gay.” John's breathless voice was a symphony of sound.

  “You don't have to be.” Emerson leaned in. Like being stuck in a hypnotic state, John did too. Emerson pressed his lips against John's with no heat, no force. Just a brush of skin on skin. Every muscle in his body tightened. His heart fluttered and he took some of John's energy by mistake, but it was such a sweet sensation. Soft lips. Soft eyes. Coursing energy.

  John didn't react, didn't move. His lips stayed still. There was no feedback. Emerson broke contact, tingling. The pressure on the bench changed. John pulled his robe further closed, then slid his hand across his belly and clenched his fingers.