“Yeah.” Jeremy breathed the confession. It didn’t count as a lie. Not really.
“Doesn’t count as family, but the law is for shit.” He snapped the chart shut. “Have a seat. I’ll see what I can do.”
Jeremy grabbed a magazine from a side table and slouched into a chair in the waiting room. Several families with kids mingled, talking in hushed voices. Flipping from page to page, not seeing the articles, he let his feet bounce up and down to alleviate his nervous energy. When that didn’t work, he tore little strips from the back cover.
“Mr. Ash?”
Jeremy looked up. Donovan frowned down at him. Following his gaze, Jeremy realized most of the magazine lay in a shredded pile between his feet.
“Sorry.” Jeremy stooped to scoop up the mess, then threw it into the trash.
“Follow me.”
Swallowing down a mixture of panic and relief, Jeremy asked, “How is he?”
“Pretty hazy, but he’s all right. A few more feet, though…”
He’d come so close to losing Kit tonight, in a way that really mattered. Even if they didn’t stay together, knowledge he existed somewhere in the world made everything easier. Bearable.
“Thanks for this,” he said to the nurse.
The sandy-haired guy paused. Shrugged. “I get it.”
“He’s expecting me?”
“Yeah.”
They shook hands, and the guard stood aside as Jeremy entered. Open blinds showcased the city lights. The beep and hum of machines sounded, low and eerie, in the dim room. Kit lay on his back. A suture beneath his right eye appeared bruised and angry, a disinfectant solution turning it a sickly yellow around the edges. His right arm, in a cast, rested in a sling across his chest.
Standing next to his bed, Jeremy gazed down at closed lids, golden lashes fanned along the ridge of high cheekbones, and pale pink lips parted in shallow breaths. His heart constricted, and he made a choking sound. Kit’s eyes opened—so heavy. They closed again, but Kit hummed and licked his lips.
“Thirsty?” Jeremy whispered, taking in the parched, cracked skin.
Kit barely nodded, then grimaced, tight lines carving into the flesh between his brows.
A pink plastic jug and cup full of ice chips stood on a side table. Not seeing a straw, Jeremy grabbed the ice chips and scooped one up. Pressed it lightly to Kit’s lips. His tongue darted from his mouth, taking in the tiny chip and letting it melt on his tongue.
Jeremy pulled up a chair.
“More?” Kit croaked.
They passed a half hour that way, the hospital wall clock ticking away the seconds. Donovan entered, checked Kit’s blood pressure, and smiled at Jeremy, who continued administering the ice chips whenever Kit parted his lips for more.
“You want a peanut butter sandwich?” the nurse asked.
Jeremy’s stomach rumbled in response. He hadn’t eaten today. Too nervous. “Yeah. That sounds good. Thanks.” Jeremy paused. “Is he okay?”
Donovan turned. “Officially, I’m not supposed to talk to you about this.”
Kit made a grunting sound, then said, “’s okay.”
“All right, then.” Donovan closed the door and stood at the end of Kit’s bed. “He’ll be fine. The MRI showed no TBI.”
“TBI?” Jeremy asked.
“Traumatic brain injury,” Donovan explained and lifted Kit’s chart to peruse the pages. “He has a broken rib, a broken arm, some muscle contusions, and a nasty case of road rash.”
“Why are they keeping him?” Jeremy asked, knowing his cousins had been sent home from the hospital with some of these injuries many times.
“He has great health insurance and a high profile.” Donovan shrugged. “Most people we’d keep overnight for observation. He’ll probably be here a few days.”
Kit groaned. “No way.”
Jeremy took his hand and squeezed lightly.
“He’s really lucky,” Donovan said.
Looking up from Kit’s face, Jeremy realized Donovan wasn’t referring to the accident. He smiled and turned to leave. “It’s shift change. I’ll leave instructions you’re his designated next of kin and bring you the sandwich on my way out.”
“You okay with that, Kit?” Jeremy asked.
Kit nodded and squeezed his hand lightly.
“The drugs’ll keep him pretty out of it,” Donovan explained. “Pull two of those chairs together. I’ll bring you an extra blanket.”
Still holding Kit’s hand, Jeremy tried to settle into the chair. Kit tightened his fingers.
“Get in.”
“What?” Jeremy frowned at him.
“Don’t make me talk. Hurts.” Kit peeled his eyes open. Pinprick pupils made him look completely alien and very vulnerable. “Lie down.”
Curling into Kit’s uninjured side, Jeremy smiled. Almost laughed. Life. What a strange little play it turned out to be.
Helping Kit up the stairs to his condo proved almost as frustrating as keeping him in the hospital had been after they’d bumped down his pain meds. Almost six months to the day from the last time he’d left for Vietnam, Jeremy punched the code into Kit’s keypad and unlocked the door. Shouldering the duffel full of their dirty clothes and Kit’s ruined motorcycle helmet—still mourning the loss of his beloved Monster, he refused to part with it—Jeremy held the door open.
Kit wandered through and went straight to the couch. Gingerly, he lowered himself to the cushions and put his head back. They still hadn’t spoken about what happened at the premiere. Now didn’t seem the time, but as Jeremy looked around the intimate confines of Kit’s inner sanctum, he felt an awkward tension stiffen his muscles.
Opening the duffel, Jeremy pulled out the pile of Kit’s mail he’d gathered in the lobby on the way up along with the jewelry box containing the diamond stud. The box he put in his pocket; the mail—a few magazines and a large manila envelope—he placed on the side table. As he did so, a feminine script on the envelope caught his eye. Amber’s name peeked out from the top left corner.
“Fuck.”
Kit opened his eyes. “What?”
“Your girlfriend sent you a love letter.” The words came out bitter. Accusing.
“It’s not a love letter.” Kit pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Open it.”
Shooting him a bemused glance, Jeremy lifted the envelope and ripped open the top. A plastic case slipped into his palm.
“It’s a DVD…” he said, looking at the label. “It says, Insider.”
Kit blew out a breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Plastic ridges abraded Jeremy’s thumb as he pinched the case open. “What is it?”
“That there is revenge, dude. Stone-cold revenge.”
“Revenge?” Jeremy crossed the room and handed the DVD to Kit with a frown.
Turning it over in his hand, he stared at the disc before bending it. Sharp pieces of plastic and metal paint fragments exploded everywhere. Shocked at the display of temper, Jeremy took a step back.
“Amber was blackmailing me with a video she took the night you and I first went to the Viper.” Kit sounded tired. Defeated.
It took Jeremy a minute to understand, but when he did, he sat, letting himself fall into a cowhide occasional chair. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Looks like you got your wish. I’m out.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Jeremy tried not to be angry—tried not to be hurt—and failed. “Are we such a bad thing?”
“No. We’re not,” Kit snapped.
“Then what?” He held up a palm, then let it fall to his side when Kit shot him a glare.
After the intimacy of taking care of him the past few days, Jeremy didn’t expect this discussion. At least not now. It seemed to be headed in the direction of their argument at the premiere, and that bewildered him. Scared him. Made him wonder if Vance and Greg were right. He shouldn’t have bestowed his love on Kit. Again.
Kit heaved himself up from the couch and winced. Jeremy followed him to
the kitchen.
“Get me the flour, will you?” Kit asked.
Jeremy took the glass jar from the cupboard and placed it down in front of Kit. Then grabbed his hand. Tugged him around to cup his face gently. “Talk to me.”
Blue eyes skittered. Kit looked away. “You’ve had years to figure all this out about yourself. I’ve had what? Eleven months? Ten?”
Jeremy let his hand drop. “I’d never… It never occurred to me.”
And it hadn’t. He’d assumed that once a person knew who he was, he just accepted it. Embraced it. Never having questioned his own sexuality—at least so far as he remembered—he didn’t have a point of reference for Kit’s experience. While he’d never been truly out, he’d always known about himself. He couldn’t imagine not knowing…then having to convince yourself.
Kit turned away, and Jeremy sat on a stool to watch him gather up ingredients. He slammed the measuring cups onto the counter and whirled, suddenly. Then winced at the pain the rapid movement caused.
“You. Amber. Greg. Everybody.” He spat the words, his eyes sparking with anger. “You’re all so fucking sure of who I am. But how can you be? Until recently, I wasn’t even sure. Shouldn’t I be the one who says it first? Shouldn’t I have a fucking say in who I am?”
More ingredients made their way onto the counter as Jeremy watched. And waited. He knew Kit hadn’t finished. Not by a long shot. Flour made its way into a glass mixing bowl. Then baking soda. Some chocolate powder. All the dry ingredients. Fingers shaking, Kit cracked some eggs into another bowl, then beat them, his shoulder muscles bunching awkwardly.
“I had a lot of time to think in that hospital bed. Maybe too much time.”
Jeremy made a noncommittal sound to affirm he listened.
Kit dumped butter into a bowl, slipped the bowl in the microwave, then slammed the door shut. The beep-beep of the buttons carved into the relative silence of the kitchen. Then the whir of the appliance filled the room. He gripped the counter with his good hand and stared at the floor.
“I love you, Jeremy, but don’t ever try to force my hand like that again. I’ve had all the shit I can take. From Amber. From Greg. And from you.”
Whatever Kit said after “I love you,” Jeremy heard but couldn’t digest. Not until he wrapped his head around the first part.
“You have to trust me when I say I’m not ready to do something.” Kit went on, not realizing he’d upended Jeremy’s world. “Not think I’m just being a coward or a dick. I have my reasons, and I’ll try to communicate them. But I’m human, not a god like you and everyone else seems to think. To expect. I have needs too. Sometimes those needs include privacy.”
The microwave beeped its finish, and Kit opened the door. Slid out the butter and poured it into the eggs along with some sugar. Lifting the bowl, he shoved it at Jeremy.
“Stir this.”
A little in awe of this new, open, and self-aware Kit, Jeremy took the bowl and stirred together the butter, sugar, and egg.
“Aren’t you supposed to cream it together, not melt the butter?” Jeremy asked, looking down at the soupy mixture.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll just be flat.” Kit handed him the flour mixture. “Here. Stir this in.”
“Kit?” Jeremy stopped stirring mid-stroke, the weight of the conversation crashing into him all at once. He’d never meant to be selfish, and he’d caused Kit so much pain.
Kit turned and caught his expression. It must’ve been something close to stricken, because he dropped his tea towel and crossed the kitchen in two strides. With his good arm, he took the bowl from Jeremy and set it on the counter, then pulled him close.
Feeling small, Jeremy wound his arms around Kit’s middle and buried his nose in his neck. Nestled, he realized how close he’d come to pushing this relationship apart with his demands—how he’d only seen what he wanted to see and never questioned the illusion. He’d created his own private Hollywood and his own living hell.
“I do wish you’d told me about Amber,” he said after a while. “She really blackmailed you?”
“Yeah.” Kit pulled back—looked down at Jeremy, who sat on the kitchen stool. “If I’d known myself better at the time, I would have told you. I just…”
“Needed time,” Jeremy finished.
Red-faced, Kit nodded. “I’m sorry for the things I said.”
“I’m sorry too. For everything.”
Emotion hung thick in the air. They both swallowed hard and looked away from one another at the same moment.
“Wanna fuck?” Kit asked, breaking the tension.
Jeremy choked on a laugh. “What?”
Kit shrugged the shoulder of his good arm. “I haven’t gotten laid since you left.”
Feeling his world narrow, Jeremy took in Kit and the scent of butter and brown sugar.
“We can’t use cookie dough as lube,” he answered, eyeing the mixture on the counter. “And I think you might end up back in the hospital if we tried.”
Kit’s face fell. “Yeah. I’m pretty busted up.”
“C’mon,” Jeremy said, slipping from the stool and taking Kit’s hand. “I have a solution.”
THE HUSHED DARKNESS of the bedroom cushioning his senses, Kit lowered himself to the bed. Jeremy lay down beside him and brushed the hair from Kit’s forehead in an intimate gesture.
“What about you?” Kit asked, understanding where Jeremy went with this scenario.
“I can wait.” Jeremy pressed a kiss to Kit’s temple, then rumbled in his ear. “Right now, it’s about you…Kristofer.”
Kit smiled. “I like it when you call me that.”
“Didn’t anyone ever?” Jeremy moved his hands to Kit’s jeans; fingers brushed against his stomach as he undid the top button and paused for Kit’s answer.
A little dazed—whether from the pain medication or arousal, he didn’t quite know—Kit shook his head. Licked his lips. “No. Nobody.”
Jeremy slipped dry, warm fingers under the band of Kit’s boxers, beneath his unzipped jeans, to grasp his hardening cock. Sighing, content, Kit let himself get lost in the feeling of being taken care of. Of being loved. Intimately. For himself.
“Can you lift your hips?” Jeremy asked.
Kit complied, ignoring the twinge in his ribs, as Jeremy tugged off his clothes. Antibiotic-soaked bandages covered his right leg to keep the road rash clean. Jeremy glanced at them and back to Kit’s face.
“Does it hurt bad?” he asked, fingers hovering over the plastic-covered bandages.
“Not with the medication. It’s the ribs mostly.”
“If this starts to hurt?” Brown eyes, corners tight with concern, studied him. “Tell me.”
Kit reached out his good arm and tugged Jeremy down by the back of his neck. “Just get busy.”
Jeremy laughed, crawled up the bed, and murmured against Kit’s lips, “First things first. I have something for you.”
“What?” Kit smiled.
Jeremy withdrew a small velvet box wrapped in gold ribbon from his pocket. The ribbon looked mangled, as if he’d been carrying the case around for a while. Taking it with a bemused glance, Kit tugged at the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside glittered a brilliant diamond ear stud.
“Are you proposing?”
Catching the teasing glint in Kit’s eye, Jeremy grinned. “Shut up.”
“It’s great.” Kit lifted the stone and admired its faceting and platinum setting. “Glad you learned how to spend your money…on me.”
“Just say thank you, Kit,” Jeremy said with an eye roll.
Placing the stud in his lobe, Kit cleared his throat and tried not to look like too much of a dork when he leaned in to capture Jeremy’s lips. They kissed. Tentative, brushing strokes of lips and tongues that turned slowly insistent. Breaths and hands woven together, they rediscovered their rhythm after so many months apart. Kit wondered if it’d always feel like this—the tug of liquid need low in his belly, the hitch in his chest—as he got to know Jeremy’s
taste and scent all over again. There would be so many times they’d be apart in the future, but he always wanted to feel together. He always wanted them to feel like this.
“I need you,” he panted against Jeremy’s lips.
Jeremy began to slide downward, mistaking his meaning, but Kit grasped his arm. He looked up, expression quizzical.
“I need you,” Kit said again, this time looking him in the eye.
Understanding, Jeremy paused as he dipped in to capture another kiss. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”
Finished with the romance, Jeremy inched downward until his breath panted along Kit’s shaft. Nibbling his way up from base to tip, he caught every sweetly sensitive spot between his lips. At the top, he darted his tongue. Caught the precum glistening there and squeezed with his thumb and forefinger up the shaft to milk more.
Closing his eyes, Kit surrendered to the sensations. Heat, pressure, and a measured sucking had him jerking his hips in time to the gentle rhythm Jeremy set. Tight strokes. Tender fingers cupping his balls, exploring their weight and their seam. Deeper now. To the back of Jeremy’s throat—the humming, sucking pressure of his mouth working to pull Kit’s orgasm from him in long, languid waves. Gentle pulses of heat and light brought him home. Into his lover’s arms.
Jeremy tugged the covers over them both. Kit sighed, content.
“You need anything?” Jeremy asked.
“Just you.” Kit replied, already drifting off.
“You got me, Kristofer Harris,” Jeremy murmured, pulling him closer. “You got me.”
Epilogue
Aaron slid over as Jeremy climbed into the stretch limousine for the ride to the Kodak Theatre. Kit, up for best actor, and Greg, up for best screenplay—both for No Apologies—eyed one another in tense silence.
“All hail the homo-mobile,” Greg muttered at him.
Kit busted out laughing, and even Aaron choked on his “One.”
Catching Aaron’s eye, Greg grinned all out. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”
“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Aaron said, honeyed darkness lacing his tone, then nodded to Kit. “Let’s switch places. Apparently someone’s feeling needy.”
Acting Out Page 23
