Acting Out

by Tibby Armstrong

  “Don’t apologize to me.” Raising a brow, Greg looked at Jeremy before returning his brooding scowl to Kit. “He’s the one you should be on your knees for.”

  Visions of himself as a kneeling supplicant, Jeremy fisting his hair, left Kit’s central nervous system numb with shock and lust. Gaping at the screenwriter’s retreating back, he scrambled to put his world in order as he slowly faced Jeremy. A quiet smirk on his face, the actor leveled a knowing gaze at him. When their eyes met, Jeremy’s darkened to a velvety black.

  Averting his face, Kit drew his sunglasses from the V of his shirt. He opened one arm and began to twirl them between his thumb and forefinger. Circling round and round, they reflected the industrial lights, sending flashes in a dizzying circle. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know how to handle something…someone.

  “You’re going to give me a fit,” Jeremy said, grabbing his wrist.

  Kit stilled, wishing he could figure a way to exit the scene gracefully. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “Look. I know you think I have something to apologize for. I’m just… I’m not sure what it is.”

  “You just don’t get it.” Jeremy’s faint tone of sadness discomfited him more than Greg’s anger.

  “No. Okay?” Kit threw his hands into the air and let the empty one fall with a slap to his thigh. “I don’t get it. I’m sorry. And I don’t see why it matters so much. You’re not the one in trouble with the cops. You didn’t just get, basically, told to kneel and suck by Greg Falkner. What the fuck am I to—I mean…shit. What the fuck is it to you what happens to me?”

  “You’re someone I care about. And I’m scared for you.” Jeremy answered both questions. Kit tried to turn away from the admission, but Jeremy touched his arm, stilling him. “I’ve heard the news stories about your scrapes. This isn’t the first time. Are you going to run yourself headlong into a brick wall before you see you’re mortal like the rest of us? That you can be killed like the rest of us?”

  Earnest eyes, steady and more than a little pained, resulted in a tug to Kit’s midsection. No one had ever looked at him with such feeling. The humanity in that heartfelt connection sent him reeling in a polar opposite direction from the emotional Molotov cocktail of Jeremy’s You’re G-A-Y speech. As if he could scry his future in the arches and angles of Jeremy’s visage, Kit stepped closer. Tried to discern what meaning their relationship held for him now and in the future. Staring at wine-red lips, he didn’t come to any conclusion save one. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

  Passing the glistening point of his tongue over his bottom lip, Jeremy swayed toward Kit. Caught himself, blinked, and stepped back. “Then stop being a prick.”

  The verbal slap acted as a splash of cold water. Clenching his jaw, Kit jammed his shades back onto his shirt collar. “I said I was sorry. And now I’ve gotta go before I’m late.”

  “Kit?” The heat of Jeremy’s hand on his biceps made him stop, but he didn’t turn around. “This world isn’t all about you. The whole world doesn’t focus on what Kit Harris wants. As a matter of fact, there are starving people in Ethiopia who don’t even know your name.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that the next time I’m on Letterman.” He shrugged off Jeremy’s hand and went to get into costume for one role, at least, he knew how to play.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jeremy’s cell phone buzzed for the sixth time that hour. Another number he didn’t recognize. He shoved the annoying device in his pocket, dug back into his sandwich, and returned his vacant gaze to the television. Tired. He’d never been so tired. Not even after a double shift waiting tables two days in a row.

  All week he’d fallen out of bed at three a.m., mainlined some caffeine, and waited for it to jumpstart his brain as Greg drove them along swoops of highway and dark LA streets to the studio. At noon, if he got lucky, he broke for lunch in his trailer where he mostly didn’t eat but slept for an hour instead.

  The beds on the dorm-room set beckoned more than one actor when not in use. From the grumblings among the cast and crew, he understood Greg’s production schedule was sadistic even by Hollywood standards. The more tired the screenwriter became, the more short and sharp his comments—the more unforgiving his temper. Currently, an argument raged between the two lovers in the next room, and Jeremy listened to it with half an ear as he flicked the stations on the television.

  “I can’t just leave my set to kiss your ass. This isn’t one of those times when you say jump and I say how high.”

  Aaron snorted. “Yeah. That’d be real novel, Greg. I might drop dead of shock if that happened.”

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  “Do you think you could at least call if you’re not going to show up? Is that too much to ask?”

  As they’d filmed over the last several weeks, and he’d gotten to know Greg and Aaron better, Jeremy came to understand this film constituted a love letter of sorts. Everything Greg couldn’t say, he poured into this script. All the love he had for his partner, he devoted to this film. Until, in the end, ironically, no scrap of time or attention remained for Aaron.

  Even before Greg replied, Jeremy understood he’d feel underappreciated and beaten up, while he thought he worked his ass off to create the most romantic of all masterpieces to showcase his devotion. This argument couldn’t end well unless it ended in sex.

  “…lunching with actor Kit Harris. Louisa?” The entertainment-show host’s voice on the television caught Jeremy’s attention, and he turned up the television to drown out the lovebirds in the next room.

  Greg pounded on the wall.

  Jeremy rolled his eyes and lowered the volume a notch as video of him and Kit exiting the Mexican restaurant played on the screen. His sound bite about Harris being great to work with played. Then the journalist’s voice-over cut in.

  “Newcomer Jeremy Ash is making quite a splash in Hollywood filming an edgy new drama about a relationship between two high school friends turned lovers. Critics are calling his choice of role gutsy and inspired. Our sources have been unable to find his agent or discover what other parts the young man has played, but given the rumors coming off the No Apologies set, Ash is a rising star to watch for. Back to you, Brandon.”

  Stunned, Jeremy let the remote clatter to the TV table and dug his phone out of his pocket. He checked his voice mail and found he had three offers of representation by top Hollywood agents and several requests for interviews. One for an exclusive entertainment magazine. He jumped up from the bed, almost knocked over his milk, and paused to steady the tray. He had to tell Greg.

  A thump in the next room, followed by a growl and a low moan of pleasure, stopped him in his tracks. While curious about Aaron and Greg’s special brand of sex, Jeremy didn’t think Greg would appreciate him playing voyeur.

  He grabbed the keys to the car he’d only just purchased on Wednesday, snagged his wallet, and slipped into his shoes.

  “Going out!” he called, but nobody answered.

  The drive to Kit’s house seemed a little surreal. At eight p.m., the traffic streamed at a steady pace. The freeway spat him out near West Hollywood, and he navigated streets he’d never driven. Pulling up in front of the thick-walled, cheerful yellow condo, he peered up to the top floor. Lights shone in Kit’s living room. Still awake. Good.

  As he bounded up the front steps, Jeremy realized he should have called. He and Kit hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms since their argument. While he’d missed the daily visits to his trailer, he sensed more than knew that Kit needed time to come to terms with whatever thoughts their argument had jarred loose in his head.

  Pressing the bell, he recalled the isolation of the last few days. The scenes they shot made up parts of the film where he and Kit barely spoke except to antagonize one another. Life never seemed truer than art as Kit, apparently looking at his security feed, asked, “Call first much?”

  “I wanted to see you—to tell you…” His voice squeaked in his excitement. L
ame. So lame. “Look, can I come up?”

  “Sure.” Kit sounded tired, and Jeremy imagined him leaning wearily into the buzzer.

  The lobby felt different at night—less welcoming. Its dark skylight ate up the glow of the chandelier. Marble echoed Jeremy’s footsteps back to him as he crossed the foyer. Suddenly, he felt cold—lonely—with an aching awareness of how much Kit’s company had come to mean to him. Without him, he’d be left sharing these moments with a bowl of peanuts and a bartender. A surly writer and his long-suffering companion didn’t count. A mentor Greg might be, but he couldn’t replace—

  The elevator dinged, and he stepped off on the third floor, glad to stop thinking before he pictured Greg naked. Giving Aaron head. He groaned as he realized he’d actually gone there.

  Framed in his doorway, black T-shirt scrunched up and showcasing his muscled midriff, Kit waited for him. Yawning, he stretched one hand over his head. “What’sa matter?”

  Light spilled from his apartment, casting a corona around his head. Stepping closer, Jeremy made out white powder around his mouth and recoiled. Was he doing coke?

  “Nothing’s the matter.” He eyed Kit’s lips. Reached out a finger as he smelled warm cinnamon wafting from the condo.

  Lids lowering to half-mast at the contact, Kit stood absolutely still as Jeremy tested the silky substance. Bringing his finger to his lips, he tentatively tasted the…confectioner’s sugar.

  “Are you baking?”

  Kit’s lips twisted in annoyance. “Why are you here, Jeremy?”

  Thrown, Jeremy furrowed his brow as he struggled to remember the reason for his visit. A buzzer sounded, and Kit pivoted, leaving the door open.

  He followed Kit to the kitchen. Scattered around the counters and island, an explosion of dishes and ingredients cluttered every surface. Frosting dripped from a flat spatula onto the floor. A half-dozen iced sweet rolls were arranged on a cooling rack on top of the stove. Kit bent to retrieve another tray from the oven, and Jeremy’s eyes went to the softly faded denim pulled tight against his ass.

  Baking.

  Amused, Jeremy snorted. “I thought you were doing lines.”

  The cookie sheet hit the counter with force, and Kit threw the potholder down next to it. “I don’t do drugs.”

  Stepping backward a measure, Jeremy held up his hands at the wave of anger his statement elicited. Heat from the oven combined with the heat of Kit’s glare to warm Jeremy’s face.

  “Sorry,” he said, realizing he’d offended Kit with the implication he might be an addict. Of course, with his mother’s problems, he’d be sensitive about the subject. “I didn’t think about it…before I said it.”

  Unmoved by the apology, Kit stared at him. “I repeat. Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to thank you.”

  Kit’s fists fell from his hips to his sides. “For what?”

  “You got me a load of media attention with your offer to the press the other day. They’ve been calling for hours.”

  “Oh.” Expression flat, Kit grabbed the spatula and began to ice the rolls.

  “I guess it’s pretty routine to you.”

  Focused on making artful swirls of the white frosting, Kit only shrugged. Jeremy stared as muscles bunched in minute movements under the tight fabric of his shirt. He struggled for something to say—something that would crack Kit’s icy demeanor and bridge the distance between them.

  “What did I do?” he finally asked. If he couldn’t figure it out, he might as well ask.

  When Kit didn’t answer, he sighed, started to say he’d go, then shut his mouth. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay here and lick the powdered sugar from the kicked-up corners of sardonic lips. Suck hard on extended fingertips until he sated himself on the taste of vanilla icing and smoky cinnamon.

  “I want you.” Husky. Low. The admission made Kit’s hand pause midswirl.

  “Do the dishes.” Kit jerked his head toward the sink.

  Knowing it was as much of an invitation to stay as he’d get in Kit’s present mood, Jeremy pushed up his sleeves. Rinsing dishes, racking them in the dishwasher, he let warm water soothe his lust-frayed nerves as he listened to Kit moving about the kitchen behind him.

  Flitting in and out of Jeremy’s peripheral vision, Kit placed bowls and utensils on the counter at irregular intervals. Each time Kit moved close, Jeremy fought the urge to orchestrate physical intimacy with a nudge of his hips or brush of his shoulder.

  Dishwasher filled, Jeremy bent to look under the sink for detergent. Peering into the dark cupboard, he stilled when Kit’s hands rested on his hips and pulled his ass backward into his waiting erection. Sharp tines of lust stabbed at Jeremy’s midsection, activating seldom-used nerve endings, all the more sensitive for disuse. He stood with infinite slowness and turned into the band of Kit’s arms.

  Kit tugged Jeremy’s head backward and bit hard at the tendon in his neck. Jeremy hissed at the jolt of pain-laced pleasure and dug his fingers into muscled shoulders. Giving over control, knowing in some dim recess of his mind that Kit needed to feel very male and very powerful in this act, Jeremy let himself be spun face-first to the counter and bent over its cold granite surface. Skillful fingers pinched the snap of his jeans open. Wide palms shoved denim downward until it slithered to a heap around his ankles. Reaching backward, he found Kit’s ass and pressed him forward—encouraging—until the thick-seamed fabric of his trousers bit into tender flesh. Kit groaned and sagged over Jeremy’s back to nip his neck. Hands moved away, then returned, and Kit backed away a fraction. Rough fingers separated Jeremy’s cheeks, dipping and probing to smear a slightly cool, sticky substance along his crack and into his hole.

  Frosting.

  Hot air hit his asshole in a focused stream, and Jeremy clenched. Hands held him apart while Kit’s jagged voice commanded him to, “Relax. Let me at you.”

  Flitting, tentative, Kit’s tongue found his anus and sank inside. Moist lips sucked hard, slaking the sticky substance from every crevice until Jeremy’s legs shook with unabashed need. Cock straining against the cold edge of the counter, he rocked forward as Kit’s fingers spread an even larger glob of frosting along his crack, shoving it into him with forceful thrusts of two, then three digits. Jeremy grunted as the confection filled him, melted, and ran in sticky rivers down the insides of his thighs.

  The sound of a zipper lowering alerted him to Kit’s intent, and Jeremy reached forward to grab the opposite lip of the counter. Stomach somersaulting, he gasped as fiery flesh probed his entrance, the wide head of Kit’s cock stretching him. Tentative at first. Then insistent.

  Again Kit said, “Relax.”

  Leaning over him, Kit threaded his fingers between Jeremy’s knuckles and pushed forward with his hips. Skin tight along the backs of his hands, rough stone corners digging into his palms, Jeremy forced himself to push backward with his hips and relax. A popping sensation sent a burning slice of heaven into sensitive tissues. Stretched by degrees, he grunted as Kit seated himself inch by inch with staggering slowness until Jeremy felt like the most decadent dessert rolled out for his lover’s pleasure.

  How had he lived without this for so long? This burning sense of belonging to? Belonging with? The meditative rocking of Kit’s cock in and out of his ass sent shivers of exotic awareness up Jeremy’s spine, where they settled at the nape of his neck. Tendrils of need curled to his limbs. To his cock. Sweat rolled down his thighs. Past tight calves and down to the insteps of his widely spaced feet.

  He smelled frosting and musk. Felt each slap of Kit’s abs against his ass. Sticky squelches and stretching fullness seemed to meld until his awareness ceased to separate them. Until each bump and grind focused repeated shocks into the swiftly tightening sacs of flesh swinging between his legs.

  Arching upward, tendons in his neck burning with overreach, hips rocking forward, he cried out. “Kit!”

  Hands convulsed, gripped the webbing between Jeremy’s fingers, and squeezed as Kit came with h
im. A long time later, his sweat cooled to create a chilly slab of the countertop, and Jeremy shifted uncomfortably under Kit’s weight.

  “I can’t believe you fucked me with frosting.”

  “Lube was too far away,” Kit murmured, pushing upward.

  Jeremy chuckled. “That tempting of a target?”

  “Shower.” Kit leaned in with a sticky kiss, tasting of vanilla. “You’re dripping frosting out your ass.”

  “That’s all you,” Jeremy teased, then winced as he stood and muscles he didn’t know he possessed protested the movement.

  Kit led the way to the back of the condo, and Jeremy followed through familiar rooms of dimly lit masculine elegance, until they arrived at the master bath. A palatial natural-stone shower dominated the space. The press of a button sent a stream of pulsing water over a floor of river rock. Kit shed his clothing, stepped inside, and Jeremy followed suit. Artfully concealed jets filled the glass enclosure with steam, filtered the light, and transformed the little room into a cloudlike haven. Moving under one of the two showerheads, Kit tilted his head back. Water sluiced over shimmering pecs, creating a muscled waterfall punctuated by the length of his dangling cock. Reminded of the day he’d seen Kit emerge from the ocean, water streaming from his shoulders, Jeremy reached out in wonderment to press a palm against smooth skin stretched taut over unyielding flesh.

  “I can’t believe I’m allowed to touch you,” Jeremy said, mesmerized.

  Kit leaned out of the spray and shook his head. “Don’t make me into your idol. I was enjoying being human for once.”

  Jeremy cupped the back of Kit’s neck and drew him close for a kiss. “I was referring to how hot you are,” he said against wet lips. “I couldn’t care less about the fame.”

  Huffing, Kit grabbed a bar of dark green soap from the shelf. “Everybody cares about the fame.”

  Bubbles trailed along sun-bronzed flesh as Kit worked lather over his pecs, then turned to let the jet rinse it from his skin. Jeremy pried the soap from his hands and got his back. Slick with suds, the skin slid under his hands, heightening every bump and line of taut muscle and corded tendon.