Acting Out

by Tibby Armstrong

  Wound like a clock with its springs about to bust, Jeremy’d displayed an unnerving level of watchfulness all night—as if he held himself on the outside of everything. Hollywood fixtures of film and television—people Kit took for granted—stopped by the table to say hello, and Jeremy looked as if he’d landed on Mt. Olympus and didn’t know how to breathe the rarefied air.

  Kit couldn’t remember a time he’d felt so unjaded and new. He found it disconcerting that a part of him wished he did. Seeing himself through Jeremy’s eyes, he felt at once godlike and artificial. Recalling the exhilarating motorcycle ride that afternoon, Kit decided he wanted to watch Jeremy cut loose. Really let go.

  “Get my friend here a”—Kit flicked his eyes to Jeremy, who unconsciously licked his lips—“a slow comfortable screw.”

  More hoots of laughter followed while Jeremy turned progressive shades of red culminating in fuchsia.

  The music—house-mixed dance tunes on this Wednesday night—kicked up a notch as the waitress delivered the drink, making the liquid vibrate in the glass. Jeremy tried to hand over the only bill in his wallet, but Kit grabbed his wrist. Warm skin channeled memories of heated mouths and slick tongues. The music fed in on itself and rushed outward, mimicking the rhythmic kick-start of Kit’s pulse. He snatched his hand away and forced nonchalance. “As long as you drink what I order, I’ll pay.”

  Jeremy took a tentative sip of the drink, and Kit grinned when the kid’s eyes widened. Deceptively sweet, the beverage would go down like candy and leave Jeremy buzzed. A few of these—if not watered down—might loosen him up. Kit patted him on the back and caught Eric eyeing the interaction.

  “What?” Kit asked.

  “Heard you got cast in Falkner’s new film,” Eric answered.

  “Old news, dude.”

  Shit. He did not want to discuss this now. Not with Jeremy here. He enjoyed his friends, but they had an edge only nothing-can-touch-me confidence produced.

  “So how do you know our man Kit?” Perceptive as always—and perhaps the only guy in the room Kit trusted—Phil caught Kit’s deflect and tried to steer the conversation…straight into oncoming traffic.

  “I’m playing opposite Kit.” Jeremy colored with what Kit took to be embarrassment and pleasure at his first announcement.

  True joy bubbled from Kit’s belly into his chest. He felt Jeremy’s pride and excitement, and it tingled along his own fingers, so real and yet so foreign it made him light-headed. Almost simultaneously, he saw the semi barreling down the freeway and rushed into the conversation to rescue his cast mate from certain death.

  “Can’t talk about it. Nondisclosure agreement.” Stepping hard on Jeremy’s toe under the table, he gave a silent warning. Don’t go there, dude. Not safe.

  Jeremy’s lips parted in surprise. High spots of color appeared on his cheeks as he connected the dots. Downing his drink, he eyed the door hungrily, and Kit knew he wanted to escape.

  “You need another drink.” Kit grabbed the wrist of the passing waitress and jerked his head in Jeremy’s direction. “Long Island iced tea.”

  “What about you?” Jeremy shot back, his drink apparently loosening his tongue. “Gonna make me do all your dirty work?”

  A double entendre hid, couched somewhere in that statement. Clamping down on a grin, Kit made himself glare at the wiseass and poured himself two fingers of JWB.

  “Give over your keys if you’re gonna drink that,” Phil said.

  Drew rolled his eyes. “Killjoy. I wanted to see his mug shot in People next week.”

  “Great to know you’ve got my back, Drew.” Kit saluted his “friend” with his glass.

  He took a leisurely sip, letting the smoky taste of the alcohol roll over his tongue, and watched Jeremy suck down his drink. Five minutes later, when a glazed look and stupid grin took over the kid’s face, Kit grinned in triumph.

  “Hey, Amber? Jeremy’s been dying to dance with you,” Kit said to the leggy lingerie model.

  Despite his obviously inebriated state—or maybe because of it—Jeremy whipped his head around to stare in wide-eyed shock at Kit. “I have fucking not!”

  “C’mon. Let’s see you bust a move.” Kit leaned in close to Jeremy’s angry face. “Or can’t they dance back East?”

  Jeremy ran a hand down his face as red crept from under the collar of black silk to his hairline.

  Kit cocked his head. Was the kid scared? Well, only one way he knew to overcome fear.

  “Sorry, dude.” Kit faked the apology. “Didn’t know. Seriously.”

  “Didn’t know what?” The question came from the sandy-haired Curt, who Kit’d thought too trashed to notice the conversation.

  “Jeremy can’t dance.” Kit let the insult slam home with careful indifference.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Jeremy stood, looking twice as broad shouldered as Kit remembered. “Am I gonna hafta put up with this kindergarten bullshit for the next six months?”

  One corner of Kit’s mouth kicked up despite his best efforts to repress a grin. Jeremy frowned in confusion.

  “You’re seriously whacked,” Jeremy said, finally understanding Kit’s intent—and his acting. Or so Kit thought until the kid leaned down and whispered in his ear, “But I’ll shake my ass for you anyway.”

  Turning to his posse, Kit shrugged and laid waste to the rest of the whiskey in his glass. The pounding backbeat of the dance tune kicked him in his chest—repeatedly—as he steeled himself against so much as glancing at the dance floor. One by one, however, the rest of his friends riveted their attention across the room, until finally Kit couldn’t help himself. He looked. And couldn’t look away.

  The crowd formed a horseshoe around Jeremy, who’d captured the dance floor with acrobatics straight out of a raging version of Cirque du Soleil. Gravity ceased to apply to his body as he hit the floor and bounced up again effortlessly. Hips swiveling, he turned to face Kit and, heavy-lidded, unbuttoned his shirt as the crowd started to wolf whistle and cheer.

  His white skin glittering in the dance lights, smooth pecs rippling, Jeremy shot his shirt to Kit, who caught it with one hand. It smelled of sweat and fog-machine vapors. Musky in a way that reminded him of the taste of Jeremy’s lips on his tongue. Conditioning from that afternoon, no doubt, had his cock springing to attention at the scent.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Kit slid down in his seat and glowered as Eric said, “Shit. Dude’s a B-boy.”

  “I’d call it more acro dance,” Drew chimed in.

  “It’s both,” Phil said with a low whistle at a choreographed drop that sent Jeremy into a frenetic series of floor-based martial-arts-like moves.

  “And he’s doing it drunk.”

  Kit shot Amber an annoyed look at her comment. “He’s not that drunk. Not yet.”

  Amber giggled. “I wanna come home with you and Jeremy tonight, Kit.”

  Slowly, Kit sat up and looked from Amber next to him to Jeremy on the dance floor. A sense of control and normalcy settled back over his world. He grinned, slow and sensual. “Sure. We can do that.”

  Ordering Jeremy another drink to celebrate his success on the dance floor, Kit tore his gaze away from the low-riders barely covering the kid’s ass. He pictured Amber sandwiched between himself and Jeremy, and closed his eyes. She’d feel so right pressed up against him as he gripped Jeremy’s muscled arms for leverage and pushed into her tight pussy. Yeah. Muscles… Hard. Sweaty. Glistening and slippery like Jeremy’s pecs—

  Realizing where his thoughts headed, Kit shot from his seat and went to the bar. What the fuck was wrong with him? Queer wasn’t contagious, and he didn’t do method acting. He clenched his jaw and ordered two more bottles of Cristal. A few more rounds and they’d go back to his place, where Amber would cure what ailed him. If Jeremy enjoyed her too? So much the better for them both.

  Jumbled memories of motion and light. A car. Early morning air. Crisp, cool sheets. Giggling and grunting. The rending of fabric and more laughter. Salt.
Musk. Then darkness. A whirring sound grated inside his head, and Jeremy pulled a pillow over his eyes. The movement of fabric against his face hurt. When the world started to spin around him, he groaned. Hangover.

  He dangled one leg over the edge of the bed, found the floor, and the worst of the undulations abated. The cool air outside of the covers felt good against his superheated skin, and he tried to expose more. Thank God he was naked. Flinging out an arm, he put as much distance between his limbs and core as possible. Warm flesh met his hand. Soft. Rounded. He gripped reflexively and felt a nipple brush his palm.

  “What the fuck?” He lifted his head so fast his gorge rose without warning.

  He fell from the low platform bed, found a trash can nearby, and heaved until his stomach muscles threatened to permanently cramp and oxygen became a precious commodity. Still clutching the trash can to his chest, he raised his head to peer gingerly at bronze sheets trailing from the bed onto the floor. A lacy bra and thong littered the carpet next to a pair of boxers and his briefs. Two pairs of jeans…a minidress…heels…and one each of two different pairs of men’s shoes formed a path from the door.

  Nausea overwhelmed him once more, and he paused in his perusal of last night’s carnal wreckage to heave again. This time when he finished, he found the courage to examine the train wreck more closely. Two sleeping people—Kit and Amber—lay entwined on the far side of the bed. He peered into the trash can, and amid the liquor leavings found one spent condom. In his present state, he couldn’t imagine he’d been the one to use it, but still…

  Doubt gnawing at him, he half crawled to the guest bathroom and turned on the shower. He smelled sour and felt dirty. Worse than dirty. Cheap. What possessed him to drink so much? The thought of liquor made him turn to the toilet to purge again. Finished, this time he rinsed with some antiseptic mouthwash. Steam filled the air, softening the glare of white tiles.

  He stepped into the shower, felt scalding water, and didn’t care. If he could make it hotter, he would, but third-degree burns would suffice—at least until he found some battery acid and peeled off his skin. As he showered, he tried to pull together the jagged pieces of the previous night but retrieved only a blur of sound and motion. He seemed to recall the feel of male flesh under his hand—flexing ass cheeks and the taste of salty skin.

  More soap. He needed more soap. He poured liquid cleanser from a clear bottle into his palm. Mint, sharp and pungent, stung his nostrils and then his skin as he scrubbed. Then his scalp received a sandalwood shampoo treatment, not once but twice. Finished washing away every last odor from last night’s ill-considered activities, he stepped from the shower and used the thickest, whitest towel he’d ever held to dry off. Even its luxurious knap abraded his sensitized skin.

  Towel secured around his hips, he found the pain relievers, drank a shitload of water, and went in search of his duffel. He pulled out his own jeans—as ratty as they were, at least they were his—put them on, and relished the normal fit and comfortably worn seams. With a gray T-shirt and his black leather neck thong on, he almost felt like himself again, if massively hung over.

  Looking around at the guest room in the light of day, he saw exactly how stupid he’d been to take Kit up on his offer. He didn’t fit in here. Anger rushed over his skin, reheating it, as it occurred to him Kit’d known about his sexuality and still coerced him into bed with a woman. Might’ve done it to try to turn him straight. Another, saner voice, told him Kit might’ve done it to make himself feel better about being attracted to Jeremy. No guy sported a boner like his during a male-male love scene without more than a passing interest. How Kit managed to hide his orientation from himself for so long seemed insane.

  He tiptoed back to Kit’s room and watched the actor’s peaceful repose. Golden hair peppered the arm slung over Amber’s middle. His perfect ass—sculpted with a lovely dent at the side of each cheek—tapered to muscled legs and toned calves. Jeremy looked away and spied Kit’s cell on the side table. Walking to it, he picked it up and examined the numbers and names it contained. This device spelled access to Falkner and freedom from the situation he found himself in. Glancing back to Kit, he pocketed the phone and turned his back. He’d return it when they saw one another again. On equal footing. As professionals. Until then, neither his ego nor his heart could bear to look Kit Harris in his beautiful face.

  Chapter Six

  Seven Weeks Later

  For such a private man, the amount of Greg’s world potentially visible to the outside seemed incredible. His beachside condo seemed a sparkling mirage amid an island of white sand. Every exterior wall made of glass, the building appeared to be made up of an endless reflection of cloudless sky.

  Jeremy rang the bell. A blond man approached the door, and Jeremy tensed, thinking Kit had already arrived for the table-read. Broad shouldered and tan, the man possessed Kit’s self-assured balance but none of his swagger. Recognizing the distinction, Jeremy relaxed. This must be Aaron Blake—Falkner’s lover. Blue eyes, the deep indigo of the sky-kissed ocean, blinked back at him as Aaron opened the door

  “Can I help you?” A buttery-smooth drawl caressed the air.

  “I’m Jeremy.”

  “Jeremy…Falkner?” A fine V appeared in the flesh at the bridge of Aaron’s nose.

  “Uh…no. Jeremy Ash.” He held out his hand.

  “Y’all are relations?” Aaron shook his hand and stepped back to invite Jeremy inside.

  “Um, no. No relation, Mr. Blake.”

  A platinum promise ring glinted in the sunlight as Aaron ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Greg, what are you up to?”

  He didn’t know about the film? “Is he here?”

  “No. I just stopped by to…” Aaron looked at the glass dining table, where scripts lay in front of each seat in lieu of a place setting. “Y’all are having a read-through?”

  Jeremy thought it odd Greg’s lover didn’t know about a film that so intimately pried into a fictionalized version of his life, but on instinct, he kept his thoughts to himself. Whatever reasons Greg had for keeping his lover in the dark were none of his business.

  Aaron crossed the room to the dining table, his stride resolute. If he opened that script, the guy would see his own name for sure. Long fingers, tanned and strong, lifted the story treatment from the place at the head of the table.

  Running feet sounded on pavement. Jeremy whirled to see Falkner come crashing through the front door and race past him to the table.

  Aaron turned, eyes wide, and Falkner tore the pages from his hand. “What the fuck, Aaron?”

  “I have your dry cleaning for tonight,” Aaron answered calmly, as if being hollered at were nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Jesus.” Falkner flung the treatment to the table. “Don’t do that again.”

  Aaron frowned down at the pages. “What? Pick up your clothes?”

  “No.” Greg placed a yellow-lined pad over the top of the sheaf of papers. “Come over without calling.”

  “I’ll respect the new rule, Greg.” Aaron glanced at Jeremy, who barely dared to breathe as he watched the argument unfold. “But I’m a little curious as to why it’s coming now.”

  Greg followed Aaron’s gaze and smirked. “Happy birthday, Aaron. I thought you might like some younger meat.”

  Everything went so still even the waves seemed to freeze-frame.

  “One.” Aaron whispered the word. A threat.

  At the sound, Greg’s energy snapped from mocking anger to something sexual. Electricity thickened the atmosphere in the room, sharpening the oxygen with ozone.

  “Fuck off, Aaron.” With his voice huskier now, almost soft, Greg’s insult lacked conviction.

  “Never known you to want an audience.” Aaron tensed like a cat, ready to spring. “But that’s two.”

  Jeremy drank in the scene with a combination of arousal and professional interest. Crossing his arms over his chest, mutiny in the set of his jaw, Greg rumbled a wordless challenge.

&n
bsp; “Three.” In a blur of motion, Aaron had Greg over the edge of a white sofa. Forearm pressed into his back, holding him down, he used his free hand to tug Greg’s head up. “I’m gonna leave, and you’re gonna be ready on time for once. Seven o’clock or you’ll hit four…and I know how much you love four.”

  Jeremy gaped.

  “Say yes, Greggie,” Aaron whispered.

  “Fine.” Greg gritted the word.

  “Good enough.” Aaron stood. “C’mere.”

  Red-faced, sparks of anger and arousal in his eyes, Greg complied.

  Aaron grabbed the back of Greg’s neck and pulled him in, owning his mouth in a display of dominance that hardened Jeremy’s already interested cock to painful readiness. He stared as Aaron tongue-fucked his boyfriend. Visions of Kit doing the same made Jeremy’s tongue sting as if abraded against ridged molars and sharp canines.

  “Aaron.” Greg gasped. “Company.”

  Forehead to forehead, the two men—light and dark, yin and yang—embraced. Chests heaving, each fought for breath and self-control. Jeremy knew he should look away, but he stood, riveted, as Aaron stared deep into Greg’s eyes and said, “I love you.”

  A beat followed. It felt like Aaron held his breath.

  “Yeah.” Greg looked away. “See you at seven.”

  Ice crackled, cooling the room by at least thirty degrees. Jeremy watched as Aaron pulled a mantle of Zen-like calmness around himself. After lifting his car keys from a hall table, he left without a backward glance.

  Fixing coffee in the kitchen, Greg ignored his lover’s leave-taking.

  “Did you get all that?” he asked, several minutes later.

  Expecting an offer of coffee, Jeremy asked, “Huh?”

  “Did you get all that?” Greg repeated.

  “The…the kiss?” He didn’t know how else to describe the interlude.

  Greg shoved the pot under the faucet. “Yeah, the kiss.”

  Noting the implied quote marks around the words, Jeremy wondered what reason Greg possessed for wanting him to see the private display. Hell, they’d practically fucked one another in front of him—and he probably wouldn’t be much more surprised if they had. Jeremy jammed his hands in his back pockets and stared out at the moody gray-blue waves.