Acting Out

by Tibby Armstrong

  Quiet and drawn, Jeremy clutched his glasses in his hands so tightly that Kit noticed he’d splintered the frames.

  “Uh, Greg?”

  “Not now, Kit.” Greg didn’t bother turning to address him.

  A little afraid he’d find out the man had more bite than bark, Kit stepped fully into the room and flicked his gaze to Jeremy then back to Greg. “It’s important.”

  Turning with slow menace, water creating springy tendrils of usually soft waves in his hair, Greg presented the loose-tie’d picture of complete stress and emotional wreckage. Eyes hollow, face gaunt, he looked almost wraithlike. Haunted. If Kit didn’t know better, he’d say both Greg and Jeremy suffered from some emotional wasting sickness that took its victims slowly, painfully, and without hope of survival.

  “This had better be good.”

  “Can I talk to you outside?” Kit jerked his head to the door and glanced at Jeremy before widening his eyes at Greg. “In private?”

  “Fuck.” Greg practically pushed him out the door. “What the fuck do you want now, Harris? A gold star on your bedroom door?”

  Kit clenched his jaw so hard his teeth squeaked. Getting into Greg’s face, he said around lips stretched so tight he felt like a taxidermied version of himself, “Listen, you supreme fucktard, Jeremy’s family is downstairs. Does that count in your book as important? Or would you like me to find some other reason for disturbing you from your golden throne?”

  For the first time since he’d known him, Greg Falkner looked at him with flatfooted shock. Then respect. “Thank you.”

  “What would you like me to do about them?” Kit asked. “I think his…the person who did that shit to his back is with them.”

  The mere thought that the man who’d hurt Jeremy sat downstairs wasting space and breathing air made something dark and dangerous coil inside Kit. He’d never visualized so clearly someone’s death—its manner and results—at his hands. Fingers flexing, he could almost feel doughy flesh press against an Adam’s apple as he squeezed and crushed the evil fuck’s windpipe and witnessed his last blue-faced, rattling wheeze.

  “I’ll handle this.” Going back into the room, Greg leveled a stare filled with sad knowledge and a sense of some heavy burden at Kit. “You just take care of him after…later. Use the master.”

  Kit used the back stairs, avoided the front hall, and made his way to the dining room. Wondering exactly what Falkner had planned, he took a perch just inside the door where he could see and hear the entryway without being observed. Behind him, the film crew set up their shots. The actors playing Jeremy’s parents had already taken their places and were being filmed for close-ups. The woman didn’t have any lines, but the father had to toss his napkin to the table and push his chair back violently. They did the take several times, each report of the chair toppling to the floor making Kit flinch.

  In the front hall, Jeremy’s male relatives mingled and paced while the woman wrung her hands and stared at the ticking grandfather clock. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Kit saw the man glance at the stairs and consider going up. The younger boys wandered in and out of a coat closet just off the foyer, apparently having found something to play with in its dark confines.

  Scene completed, the director called Greg’s cell to let him know they were ready for Jeremy. Kit’s abdomen clenched, and he felt a sharp, sick surge of adrenaline. Why hadn’t Greg had Jeremy’s family removed yet? He’d see them when he came down the…

  Oh fuck no!

  Kit sprang to his feet, leaped over some cables, and sprinted down the hall. He skidded to a halt in the foyer in time to see Jeremy’s face as he stopped dead on the stairs and saw his family staring back at him. Blood colored his pale cheeks in a rushed flush that disappeared with mottled slowness. Red mouth forming an O of surprise, he gripped the banister so hard the section of wood creaked beneath his fingertips. A choked sound—halfway between a croak and a gasp—escaped him.

  What in God’s name had these people done to him?

  Instinctively, Kit stepped forward to place himself on the bottom step between Jeremy and his family. In three-quarter stance, he tried to keep Jeremy in his line of sight at the same time he blocked as much of the bottom landing as possible from access. In his peripheral vision, he saw Greg place himself at Jeremy’s back, a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?” Jeremy asked, finally finding his voice.

  Kit gave Jeremy a steady look that told him he’d back him up no matter what he chose to do.

  “We thought you’d have called us.” The timid comment came from the woman Kit assumed was Jeremy’s mother.

  “I’m working, Aunt Lori,” Jeremy said.

  “How right is it, boy?” The large man slid a wet cigar between his dimpled fingers and put it to his mouth. Speaking around it, he continued. “We raise you like one of our own, and you don’t even tell us you’re in town? What will these people think of you?”

  The cigar glowed red as the man sucked hard with spittle-ridden lips.

  “You have to leave, Uncle Gordon.”

  Jeremy’s voice disintegrated before it made any real impact, but at least he’d said the words—made the decision that allowed Greg to step forward and say, “You’re trespassing. Leave.”

  The boys, mesmerized by the man who looked so much like their cousin, stood staring up at Greg. When nobody moved, Greg’s mask of bland authority cracked a little. His eyes hardened as he watched those lips sucking repeatedly on the fat stub of the cigar.

  Blowing out a stream of smoke, Uncle Gordon focused it in Jeremy’s direction. As soon as the acrid stench hit the stairs, Kit saw his lover’s knees begin to tremble, his knuckles whiten, as he held on tighter to the railing in an attempt to keep himself upright.

  “Get the fuck out,” Jeremy whispered, hoarse.

  Examining the cigar with narrowed eyes, Uncle Gordon tipped it forward, letting the long ash fall to the ground. Then he was gone. No one moved for a minute as gusts of rain blew in the front door, banging it open against the wall. Stepping around Jeremy and Kit, Greg pushed the door shut and threw the lock. Turning, he met Kit’s gaze. Guilty.

  “You did it on purpose!” The explosion of words seemed to propel Kit across the foyer into Greg’s face. “For motivation? You sick, heartless, self-serving bastard!”

  Silence fell in the next room, its sudden weight increasing the tension.

  “You can think what you like of me, but it was never my decision to make.” Greg’s response came quietly. Without anger or accusation. “This was Jeremy’s battle. Would you have denied him the right to slay his own dragon?”

  “No,” Kit sputtered. “I would have fought alongside him!”

  A small, sad smile played about Greg’s lips. “And isn’t that exactly what we did?”

  “You could have warned him.” Knowing he fought a losing argument, Kit still balled his fists and spoke through a clenched jaw. “You could have given him the choice of whether to see them or not.”

  “To what advantage? Yours? Mine?” Greg looked past Kit’s shoulder to the stairs. “His? What if he’d chosen to run away? To hide from this for the rest of his life?”

  “Then it’d be his choice to make.”

  “Sometimes…” Greg blinked and frowned at what he’d been about to say.

  “Sometimes what?” Kit pushed.

  “Sometimes you have to help people make the decisions they should have made all along.”

  Still raw with the knowledge he’d been helpless to render aid to the one person he’d known who sincerely deserved to be protected from his demons, Kit spat the words, “Do me a favor? If you ever get the impulse to help me? Don’t.”

  “Stop.” The one word, quiet, reminded Kit of Jeremy’s presence. Eyes hollow, expression painted with shock, he sat on the third riser, hugging his shins.

  Feeling like a complete ass, Kit crossed to the stairs and sat down. Tentative and gentle—unsure if Jeremy wanted to be touched—Kit w
rapped an arm around his shoulder and met Greg’s stare. Dark eyes shining with unshed emotion, Greg nodded once and left them alone.

  Jeremy’s head dropped to his knees. “I can use this. I can do it.”

  “Oh jeez.” Kit bristled, wanting to protect but finding nonsensical resistance to his efforts. “You can’t be serious about letting him manipulate you that way?”

  “I have to.” Jeremy lifted his head, shook it, then stood. Resolute. “I want this. More than anything. Give Greg a break. He’s not manipulating me. His intentions were good.”

  Knowing at the end of the scene he’d have an even bigger mess to clean up—smaller shards of Jeremy’s sense of self to glue back together—Kit smothered a strangled growl. Things had always come easy to him, yet he couldn’t change this. He found the idea galling and dismaying as he watched Jeremy walk away from him onto the set.

  “Take six.”

  Cameras trained on the table from three angles. One focused on the whistling downstroke that never actually touched Jeremy’s back. The other on his face to record his silent grimace. In the larger frame, the chauffer held him down as his father caned him. With each stroke, Kit saw the rolling flinch of Jeremy’s back muscles reacting as if he’d actually been struck—just the sound and force of air enough to make him respond.

  “Jesus. Stop,” Kit whispered, and the director made a cutting motion with his hand.

  Chewing his lips until he tasted blood, Kit did his best to remain silent through the rest of the take.

  Eight…nine…ten… Why did they need so many strokes? They’d have to cut half in the editing room.

  Raising his head from the table where he’d been restrained, snot running down his nose, tears staining his face, Jeremy finally screamed his line—the first sound his character made in the scene. “I’m sorry! Please. I’m sorry!”

  Bending close, the actor playing his father whispered, “Accepted,” and walked out of the frame.

  One camera followed Jeremy as, released, his limp form slipped from the table, bringing napkins and silver with him onto the floor. Wracking, silent sobs tearing at his frame, he crawled on all fours under the tablecloth and out of view.

  The director looked around at a cast and crew stunned to white-faced silence. Even the cameraman hadn’t stopped rolling. Frozen, they stood there as Kit gradually realized Greg had been absent the entire time. Remembering his marked disappearance from the graveyard-fight scene the second week of filming, Kit realized he didn’t have the stomach to watch as what he’d written came to life. With new eyes, Kit looked at the dining-room table and realized Greg had likely been beaten in this house. Right where Jeremy had stood.

  When Jeremy didn’t crawl out from under the table after three full minutes, the director cleared his throat. “We need to go again.”

  “No!” Kit stepped into the scene. “You got what you needed. He’s done.”

  “Perhaps we would have, Mr. Harris, if you hadn’t spoken during the take.”

  “I’ve been in this business for seventeen years.” Kit looked around at the crew who all looked somewhere else. “You can do what you need in the editing room, and you know it. He’s done.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Body wrapped around Jeremy’s back, holding him tight, Kit lay curled under the table for over an hour. While Jeremy’d stopped crying relatively quickly once he’d joined him, he didn’t move, and Kit knew better than to try to make him. Let the crew think what they would, Jeremy needed someone—needed him.

  After a while, the sounds of cleanup gave way to the insistent push of the wind rattling windowpanes and pelting gusts of rain on tin roofed porches. If he never saw New England or its weather again, it would be too soon. Kit voiced his thoughts, and Jeremy huffed—a wry sound of agreement. They were quiet for another few minutes before Jeremy rolled over and buried his face in Kit’s chest.

  “You want to talk?” Kit asked when Jeremy finally looked up at him.

  Blotchy and puffy, Jeremy’s face had a bee-stung look to it that makeup would never be able to repair tomorrow. It looked like Greg’s production schedule would take another hit, and served him right.

  “I want—” Jeremy’s damaged voice cracked. Eyes closed, he shook his head and tried again. “I want you to make me forget.”

  “Make you…?”

  Oh hell no. Not now. Kit couldn’t hurt Jeremy now. He’d been hurt enough. Cupping his cheek with his hand, Kit traced the pad of his thumb along the line of Jeremy’s cheekbone. Holding his haunted gaze, liquid with the sheen of so many tears, Kit dipped in for a nuzzled kiss. Soft. Tentative. He suckled tender lips with his own, aware but not caring that anyone who passed through the dining room now would hear Jeremy’s sigh and Kit’s answering hum of approval.

  Moving over him, Kit pressed Jeremy’s back to the floor and gazed down, wanting to say something to make everything better. In this situation words weren’t enough. Right here, right now, Kit needed to show him how to be loved. Fingers trailing from the hard ridge of Jeremy’s jaw, he explored the corded length of his neck. Delicate and deliberate, he traced sensitive pulse points under whisper-soft earlobes, investigated outlines and dips of a softly bobbing Adam’s apple, and moved lower to part Jeremy’s silk tie from his shirt with a gentle tug. His every slow, sensual movement executed with quiet care, Kit held his lover’s stare and reassured him with his touch.

  Buttons slipped from their holes with encouraging ease, and Kit drank in ivory skin and pink points of flesh against a backdrop of dark red areolas. Harsh and drawn out, Jeremy’s breath said he’d succumbed to the spell Kit wove. Glancing to his face to be certain, Kit smiled in quiet appreciation of glistening lips. With pupils so large they turned soft brown into black, Jeremy stared back at him and lifted his head.

  A rush of warm breath caressed Kit’s cheek, and he leaned in. Moist and sweet, softly insistent, lips and tongues melded in a supple dance. Hand sliding over Jeremy’s chest, Kit soaked his heartbeat into his palm. Breaking the kiss, he dipped to lave salty skin, latched on to a rigid nipple, and suckled it until Jeremy arched and dug his fingers into Kit’s scalp.

  Moaning pants escaped from Jeremy’s lips, filling the air, making an intimate nest of their surroundings. Ignoring the throbbing insistence of acute arousal—a rigid pulse of blood and flesh that usually demanded his immediate attention—Kit shifted himself in his jeans, then focused on undoing Jeremy’s ruined trousers. Leather slithered against leather, then wool against Oriental carpet, as he freed Jeremy’s hard length. Not stopping there, Kit tugged Jeremy’s trousers from him completely. Lightly massaging muscled thighs, Kit slid low and used the crook of his arm to push back one long leg. Bent it and shouldered its weight to hold it out of the way.

  He expelled a focused stream of breath on the exposed sweet spot where the dark rose pucker of Jeremy’s anus met the flesh of his groin, heating sensitive nerves. Abdominal muscles pulsing with the force of his panting breaths, Jeremy let out a long groan. Kit smiled to himself and doubled his efforts. He licked two fingers—wetted them thoroughly—and pressed them to Jeremy’s heated entrance. As his fingers slid inside with liquid friction, Kit flicked out the point of his tongue. Jeremy’s hips lifted from the carpet, his body instinctively seeking release.

  “Not yet,” Kit whispered.

  Slowly, he slid his fingers in and out of the tight ring of muscle and turned his head to nuzzle the inside of Jeremy’s thigh—gave the flesh there licking, gentle nips that in no way approximated pain. Rather, they were designed to stimulate nerve endings and distract Jeremy from his intentions. Nipping a little harder, at the same time, Kit curled his fingers and wiggled them with gentle insistence against Jeremy’s male G-spot.

  A stream of guttural sounds ripped through Jeremy’s chest, and he jerked hard against Kit’s hand. Truly panting now, his cock weeping sticky fluid in a glistening river that pooled at the base of his shaft and nestled in his balls, Jeremy seemed primed to go off at the slightest p
rovocation. Kit undid his jeans and pushed them low, wet his cock with ample spit, and settled his weight on Jeremy. As he pushed forward, he kept himself raised on one arm and looked down into wild eyes, stark with need and drunk on passion…all without an ounce of pain. Emotional or physical. Heat gripped him, and Kit clenched his teeth as silken tissues teased sensitive nerves on a measured withdrawal. He pressed forward again, settled his skin against Jeremy’s cock, and gave him a taste of friction.

  Strong arms gripped him, pulling him low. Forehead to forehead, he and Jeremy locked gazes. Inhaling and exhaling, entering and retreating, they found a meditative state where orgasm hovered just out of reach—heightening the sense of connected contentment. When they came, Kit coasted on a blissful wave and let it lap over him in a repeated gentle caress.

  Kit rolled to his side and faced Jeremy to share gentle breaths and soft, lingering kisses—quiet motions designed to cement his lover’s feeling of safety. Never in his life had bringing someone else pleasure given Kit so much. In this moment, he felt complete.

  A refrigerator door opening and closing. The splash of running water and hiss of a gas stove. Cabinet doors closing with the sharp resonance of wood on wood.

  “Tea?”

  Still cocooned in a velvet haze of unreality, Jeremy failed to recognize the question, but the sound of Kit’s voice made him aware he sat in the kitchen. Rummaging for dinner. Or rather, Kit rummaged while he stared into space. A pile of catered sandwiches, plastic wrap peeling at the edges of the platter, lay within arm’s reach along with some cookies and a bowl of chips. He stared at it, trying to remember when it had appeared.

  “You in there, Jer?” Speaking around a mouthful of tuna on rye, Kit held up the kettle.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Tea sounds good.”

  Awareness expanding as he drifted back into his body, Jeremy took in more of his surroundings. The butcher-block table and white enameled stove had seen at least one World War, if not two. Tarnished copper pots hung from an iron rack, and a gigantic cast-iron radiator pinged softly along one wall. Tracing a dark line in the old oak table, Jeremy thought of the sparsely furnished third floor and its bevy of tiny bedrooms, probably for staff. None included radiators.