“Uh-uh.” She waggled a finger at him. “I already uploaded it to my e-mail…and other places.”
Kit clenched his fist and breathed against the urge to hit her. When he looked up from under lowered brows, she took a step backward. He felt a growl start from low in his chest. “What do you want?”
“I’m your girlfriend, Kit.” She shrugged. “I only want the respect due to me.”
“You want money?” The offer galled him, but he made it anyway. Anything to loosen the noose before the floor dropped out from under him.
“Sure. I’ll take money.” She pouted at him. “But we’re not breaking up.”
“I’m not marrying you.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t marry you.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Folding his arms over his torso, he sat back and glared at her. “Why’d you hold on to that for so long?”
She sat opposite him, hip perched on the coffee table. He hated it when people sat on his tables, but he pictured her crashing through the glass, and it comforted him. A little.
“I knew it’d come in handy.”
“How long is this for?”
She examined her gold-tipped nails and seemed to consider his question. “Until something better comes along.”
Jeremy would shit. Kit groaned and thudded his head against the leather, wishing it were a harder surface. If he knocked himself out, he wouldn’t have to think about the things he’d done to set this moment into play all those months ago. God, he’d been so stupid. So blind. Now he had a choice between a ruined relationship and a ruined career. Which was really no choice at all. He’d be fucked either way. Unless… He opened his eyes.
Amber’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no. You’re not telling your lover boy about this. I don’t care if you keep fucking him. He’s too virtuous to keep this to himself. He’d ruin everything—probably go to the press all on his own.”
Though Kit hated to admit it, she had a point. A roiling sensation welled in his stomach, and he clenched his jaw against the urge to be sick. “Get out.”
“We’re going to dinner tonight,” Amber said and picked up her designer handbag. “Then to the Sky Bar. There are some people there I want to meet.”
Watching her sashay to the door in her skintight minidress, Kit never hated anyone so much in his life. Not even Greg Falkner.
“Pick me up at eight.” The door clicked shut behind her.
Kit stared at the teakwood laminate of his front door from his slouch. How long could he keep this a secret from Jeremy? Four months, at least… As long as he didn’t bring Amber to the premiere, he might be able to keep it mum longer. But when he found out? Closing his eyes, Kit pictured the explosion and cringed. The pain in Jeremy’s eyes killed him the most. There’d be no forgiveness this time. Hell, he wouldn’t even forgive himself.
Absentmindedly fingering his cell phone in his pocket, he took it out, opened it, and scrolled to Jeremy’s number. It rang and rang. He snapped the phone shut when it went to voice mail. Then he called his lawyer. The secretary answered on the first ring.
“This is Kit Harris. I need to speak with Barry.”
“One moment.”
“Kit, what can I do for you?” He heard the wary note in the man’s voice and pictured him calculating bail money.
“I need to know what to do about someone blackmailing me.”
Silence showcased the man’s surprise. Then he said, carefully, “Why don’t you come to my office and we can talk about it?”
Rolling his head to the side, Kit looked longingly toward the kitchen. He wanted to make chocolate chip cookies. They’d smell good and taste better. “Let’s talk now.”
“All right. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Kit rattled through his story and ended with, “And I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re gay?”
Kit sat forward and clenched the phone to his ear. “Can we focus on the blackmail, please?”
His lawyer blew out a breath and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like career suicide. Then said in more audible tones, “I’ll look into it, but unless you’re willing to let her throw you to the wolves, then sue her, there’s not much I can do.”
“Great. Fat lot of help you are, Barry,” Kit snarled and threw the phone across the room.
It clattered across the floor and came to a skittering halt under a sideboard. Of course it began to ring almost immediately. On his knees, Kit fished it out.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Kit. You there?” Jeremy asked.
“I’m here.”
“You there?”
Shit. He’d broken the goddamned phone. “I’m here!”
Nothing.
Jeremy hung up. Tried back again. This time Kit didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he went into the kitchen and did what he always did when life tried to drown him in her all too frequent misery—he baked.
Jeremy lounged in a hammock as he stared at some snaps of himself and Kit from No Apologies in a pop-culture magazine. With the premiere only weeks away, he tried not to wonder if the woefully behind-schedule Drafted would end production in time for him to spend a few days with Kit before he had to begin the whirlwind of appearances scheduled for both films.
They spoke once a week, usually on Kit’s Saturday / Jeremy’s Sunday since they were separated by the International Date Line. He called using the sat phone in the production trailer. Six a.m. Vietnam time. Nine p.m. California time. Nobody came into the trailer until at least eight on Sundays, so they had a few hours to talk. Except they never spoke for longer than ten or fifteen minutes. The echo annoyed them both, and Kit always sounded tired. Distant.
Sweat trickled down Jeremy’s neck, and he glared through the mosquito netting at the sun peeking through the trees. He was tired of the sound of gunfire, the smell of smoke, and the taste of mud in his mouth. He wanted to go home. He turned a page, and a full-color photo of Kit and Amber at the Sky Bar made him jerk upright. The hammock flipped over with the sudden movement, and he found himself face-first in the dirt.
He snatched up the magazine, war drums pounding in his pulse, and stormed past tents and trailers to the production office. Throwing open the door, he played the diva for the first time in his life. “Get out. I need to make a call.”
The sound and editing guys gaped at him but slid back their seats and complied. Connecting the call, Jeremy gritted his teeth. The phone rang three times before Kit fumbled it to his ear.
“’lo?”
“What the fuck?” Jeremy shook the magazine as if Kit could see it.
“Jer?”
“I thought you broke it off with her the day I left?” His voice echoed back at him, anger giving it a jagged, surreal edge.
Silence. Then, “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Seething, too angry to be hurt, Jeremy dropped the magazine to the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You lied to me.”
“I—” The sound of a hard swallow. “I’m going to the premiere alone.”
“You broke it off with her?” Jeremy’s rage subsided a little, but he still found the situation suspect, and he let it show in a sarcastic snort. “Really?”
“Yeah. I told her we were through the day you left.” Kit cleared his throat. “She’s still around, though, ya know?”
“Sorry.” Jeremy deflated as his anger cooled. “I saw this photo of you two at the Sky Bar. The blurb said you were an item. But… It’s the press.” He looked down at the magazine and picked up a pencil, began to erase Amber’s eyes. “I should have figured.”
“’s’no problem.” Kit’s yawn echoed with the satellite delay. “How’s filming?”
“The crane got stuck. We’re waiting for them to rescue it before we can start again for the day.” He stared down at the effect of the plastic surgery he’d performed on Amber. Zombie suited her. “I’m bored out of my skull.”
Kit laughed. “Yeah. A lot of hurry up and wait. That’s show bi
z.”
“I was never bored on set with you.” Jeremy let his voice go low and suggestive.
“Mm-hm…” He pictured Kit, his arm flung over his eyes, lying naked in the dark.
“God, I’m getting hard thinking about you lying there.”
“Yeah. I’m hard,” Kit said, his voice gravelly with sex and sleep.
Jeremy breathed deep through his nostrils. A knock sounded on the trailer door, and he jerked around, guilty. “I hafta go. Catch you Sunday?”
“Sure. Sunday.”
He hung up and rolled the magazine. Clenching it in his palm, he exited the trailer. The director gave him a funny look but didn’t say anything except, “It should be another fifteen.”
“Thanks.” Jeremy went back to his hammock in the shade. When he called Kit two days later, the crane remained sixteen inches deep in the mud.
Chapter Twenty-One
Whistling, Kit tied his bow tie. Stared at the geeky guy in the mirror, then ripped the thing off and unbuttoned his top button. Nobody but Greg would care if he didn’t wear a tie. Besides, it’d make it easier for Jeremy to get the shirt off him later.
Jeremy… He’d been back in LA for six hours—had only three of them to sleep off the jet lag. Kit breathed shallow, short breaths when butterflies danced in his stomach. They’d meet at the premiere. Then after—
The doorbell rang, and the skipping feeling in his stomach intensified. Thinking perhaps Jeremy’d stopped by to surprise him, he flung open the door without looking through the peephole. Amber, dressed in a golden, clinging gown, swept past him into his condo.
“We don’t have a date tonight,” he said.
“Sure we do.” She swept her gaze around the living room. “You alone?”
Kit nodded, his mood going into a free fall. “I thought you were in New York.”
Amber whirled to face him and smiled. God, but her mouth made him want to stuff something down her throat. Gobs of wet cement sounded good. He stepped into the room, and she narrowed her eyes.
“Stop looking at me that way,” she said. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep it in your pants.”
Couldn’t. Couldn’t keep it in his pants. For the last six months, all he’d done was keep his pecker tucked away, and goddamn her but tonight he wanted to use it.
“Get out of here and I’ll take you to the Oscars with me,” he lied.
She smirked. “You’ll take me anyway.”
“Amber…” he growled. “For fuck’s sake. Can’t you give me a break?”
“I’ve never been to a premiere.” The click-click of her nails running along her beaded clutch made him grit his teeth. “Tonight seems like a good time.”
“Fine.” Kit pushed his hand through the fall of his hair. “I’ll get you in. I’ll even order you a limo.”
“No! We’re going together.” She stomped to the door. “Now.”
“Listen to me, Amber.” Kit jerked her to face him, and her green eyes widened when she saw his expression. “I’ve had enough of your shit. Do what you want with the video. Just know this. I’m going to sue your ass and make sure you never model so much as a pinkie ring. Ever. Again.”
She yanked her arm out of his grasp and slapped him. Hard. “No. You listen to me, you fucking queer. We’re going together, and you’re breaking it off with your boyfriend. Tonight.”
Kit, ear still ringing, opened his mouth to tell her which orifice to shove it in, but Amber cut him off.
“No. You do it, or I destroy him.” Her eyes looked as mean as a tomcat’s as she yowled her threat. “I’ll say I saw him give date rape drugs to you, and the film was my way of protecting you. You don’t remember anything. He’ll go to jail. Game over.”
“Wh-what?” Kit stumbled backward, his back hitting the wall. He stared at her triumphant, ugly face, and his thoughts flatlined. No comeback, no solution, came to him. Only numb shock greeted his repeated attempts to access his brain.
“Tonight,” she said, taking his arm, “You get to give the performance of your career.”
Kit squinted against the flashes popping from the fan gallery and made his way up the red carpet with Amber. Squeals and shouts from the crowd crested, and he stiffened as he caught the name “Jeremy Ash.” Against his will, his head turned, then his body with it.
Tanned skin and dark hair that brushed sturdy shoulders in thick waves—streaks of lighter brown mingling with dark black. Jeremy’d spent a lot of time in the sun…a lot of time doing heavy physical activity. He looked good. Real good.
Jeremy’s face hardened. “You said you were coming alone.”
Long nails bit into Kit’s arm, reminding him of Amber’s threat and her presence. Kit schooled his expression and prepared himself to push Jeremy away—for both their sakes. They each needed to move on. To live their lives and strengthen their careers. Besides, it wasn’t like Kit identified as really totally gay. He liked girls. He’d make it work. And Jeremy? Well, he’d find someone else.
“Dude, we’re in public.” Kit pulled his James Dean swagger around himself like a shield. Sinking into the part—hiding behind it until he no longer recognized himself—he spoke from behind his smile. “Chill.”
Looking as if he might punch him—fists balled at his sides—Jeremy stepped forward. Got in his face. “Coward.”
The word acted like a punch to Kit’s midsection, momentarily breaking through his shield of calm indifference. He was not a coward. Fuck Jeremy for not understanding. Fuck Amber for pushing him around. Fuck both of them and their demands.
Jeremy shouldered past him, and Amber grinned at him, sly. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” Kit continued the charade. She wanted to play it that way? Fine. “Just Ash being a dick.”
They made their way up the carpet to the press area, stopping every so often to shake hands or let a television commentator ask about their fashion choices. Amber gushed about her vintage Valentino while Kit tried not to look bored. Dimly, he heard someone say his name. They called again, louder this time, and he looked over his shoulder. The sponsor gallery—they were taking pictures of Jeremy and wanted Kit in on it.
Great. Just great.
Only good thing about standing shoulder to shoulder with Jeremy? Amber wasn’t invited. Leaving her on the sidelines, he pushed forward to step in front of the banner where Jeremy already smiled and posed. His face looked tight. Too tight. Their energy clashed, and Kit felt himself losing his own theatrical footing. Apparently sensing the problem as well, Jeremy stepped in closer and slung his arm around Kit’s shoulders. Surprised, Kit stiffened.
“Chill, dude.” Jeremy mocked him. “You’re just hangin’ with the homo.”
Despite Kit’s attempt to play it straight on the red carpet, he bristled at the notion Jeremy considered him a complete homophobe. Seething inwardly at Jeremy’s unfairness, Kit wrapped his arm around Jeremy’s back and mugged for the photographers. The little bit of contact—the knowledge that Jeremy’s muscles didn’t just appear harder but actually were considerably harder—made Kit’s body hum with electric awareness.
“Hey, Harris!” One of the paparazzi waved from the sidelines, and Kit glanced his way. “Give us a preview!”
Fucker.
Kit laughed. Brittle.
Jeremy’s arm tightened around Kit’s shoulder, and he grinned. “A preview of what?”
“Kiss!” another journalist demanded.
Oh, hell no. Not that again.
Kit scowled and met Jeremy’s too-calculating gaze. For the second time that night, he found himself trapped between Jeremy’s demands and Amber’s machinations.
“Afraid your girlfriend’ll have your balls?” Jeremy spoke out the side of his mouth, then cocked his head at Kit. “Sorry. I forgot. You don’t have any b—”
Forcing a laugh, Kit yanked Jeremy to him and gave him a smacking kiss. The taste of honey and spice tingled along his mouth, and he pulled back, sharp.
“That’s not acting!” one
journalist goaded. Kit shot the man a glare when he finished, “Unless you’re playing a dead fish!”
He’d just kissed a man in front of all of Hollywood, and this asshole critiqued his performance? Kit opened his mouth to tell the man to pony up his money for the porno place down the street if he needed something to jerk off to, but suddenly Jeremy appeared in his face. Yanked him forward by the lapels. The other actor searched his gaze for a moment—something like regret simmering just below the surface. Then tilted his head to the side and met Kit’s open mouth with the tip of his tongue. A deep sweep told him the honey and spice formed part of a more complex orange bergamot. Hollywood winked out, and Jeremy replaced the center of Kit’s universe. Meeting the kiss with equal urgency and demand, Kit felt his star persona slip away—felt the thread connecting him to Jeremy hum back to life.
Jeremy pulled away, and Kit stared at him, more than a little stunned and very breathless.
“How’s that for acting?” Jeremy asked.
Kit stumbled backward out of Jeremy’s grasp while the press laughed uncomfortably. Stinging, he gathered the shreds of his bravado around his shoulders.
“Amazing for a newcomer, isn’t he?” Kit squeezed Jeremy’s shoulder as a substitute for a punch in the mouth. “With so much experience to call on for the part, he couldn’t help being a natural.”
“Done here!” Vance Stone, the casting director, pushed his way through the press. “Gotta get these fellas inside.”
Kit jerked his shoulder away from Vance and strode hotly off the carpet. The casting director caught up to him and ushered him into an unused coat checkroom.
“I’m going to kick both your asses,” he threatened.
Trying to look bored, Kit failed utterly when Jeremy got in his face. “What the fuck, Kit? Why are you doing this? Denying us? Denying who you are?”
Rage shot through Kit. Black and sticky, it pulled at his sense of right and wrong, drowning it in a morass of hatred and frustration. He’d been pushed, pulled, prodded, threatened, and blackmailed. For what? So Jeremy could berate him? Try to mold him to fit his alternative lifestyle? He’d had enough. He didn’t know what he wanted, but fuck him if it was this.
Acting Out Page 21
