He took stock of himself. He felt better than he had before his nap, but that wasn’t saying much. The smell of sweat and sex oozed from his pores. He desperately needed a shower. And to brush his teeth. And to take care of a few other maintenance issues.
Fuck it. Colette can be as pissed as she wants. I’m done for the day.
He was about to send her a halfhearted excuse when his phone buzzed in his hand. Colette had texted him again. He frowned. It was a photo this time. Why would she . . .?
He opened the message.
In case you need some inspiration, it read.
But Pete barely noticed the text.
The photo was of a young man, and the moment Pete laid eyes on him, he knew he was fucked.
Forty-five minutes later, Pete lurched up to a swanky house on Del Mar Boulevard in his derelict sedan. He started to double-check the address only to realize he didn’t need to. There was a conspicuous cluster of cars parked out front, including Colette’s red Mustang. It was safe to say he’d found the right place.
He parked his clunker by the curb and stepped out, not bothering to lock the doors. If someone stole it, the joke would be on them. The fading sun cast the street in hazy orange light interspersed with deep shadows. Out here in the suburbs, there were no monstrous buildings to block the sky, and so he had an unimpeded view of the sun’s golden crown as it dipped below the horizon. The cold seemed to make the colors more vibrant, the contrast more vivid. He would have appreciated the simple beauty of it if he were one iota less nervous.
Standing in the driveway, he smoothed his clothes and ran trembling fingers through his wet hair. He’d stopped off at home to shower, rushing to avoid being late. His shaggy brown hair was heavy with water, plastered to his angular face. He’d thrown on his favorite blue hoodie for luck without thinking. His red flannel shirt peeked out at the sleeves, clashing horribly with it. He probably looked like he’d tumbled out of a washing machine. Anxiety trailed a cold finger down his spine. Maybe he should blow off the audition after all.
The photo Colette had sent him flashed before his eyes. His feet began walking up the driveway of their own accord.
The house wasn’t a mansion by any means, but it made Pete’s place look like a roach motel. He approached the double front doors, trying to ignore his erratic pulse. When he knocked, one of them swung open on its own. He absently wondered if Hitchcock was directing this gig.
He stuck his head in and was met by the sound of distant voices. He entered a well-lit and pleasantly decorated foyer, sneakers squeaking on the polished hardwood floor. No one appeared to welcome him, so he followed the voices down a short hallway.
When he rounded the corner into a living room, it took everything he had not to visibly react. The room had cheerful, coral walls and modern décor. Gray throw pillows decorated two large white sofas, and a patterned rug covered the floor. The recessed lights had been dimmed, creating a relaxed and intimate atmosphere.
But Pete’s attention was captivated by six young men lounging on the sofas: his competition, undoubtedly. They were all lanky and waifish like Pete, with fair complexions and boyish features. Only someone had swapped out his gawkiness and replaced it with model-like good looks. There wasn’t an average one in the bunch.
Pete swallowed. Well, this was off to a fabulous start.
“Hi,” he greeted the room, raising a stiff hand. “The door was open, so I just, um. Yeah.”
Two of them glanced at him, but no one replied. His face burned. There wasn’t room on either sofa for him to sit, so he lounged in the doorway. Or at least, he attempted to. As was often the case, he had no idea what to do with his hands. He started to shove them into his pockets, but then changed his mind and crossed his arms over his chest. A moment later, he decided that looked too hostile. He let them hang at his sides, wondering if it were physically possible for him to be more awkward.
Voices to the right drew his attention to an open doorway he hadn’t noticed before. Through it was a formal dining room. Colette was seated at a marble-top table with a mountain of paperwork stacked in front of her. A middle-aged blonde woman was sitting next to her; they were deep in conversation.
Pete couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was willing to bet the woman was the owner. She kept glancing at the men in the living room with big, moony eyes. He’d seen that look before. Must’ve been her first time. She was probably signing a release form right now.
Before he could attempt to get Colette’s attention, a man strolled into sight.
“Are you done yet?” the man drawled. “I wanna get this party started already.”
Colette said something back, but Pete wasn’t listening. He froze even as his body temperature spiked. Though he’d never seen the man before, Pete instantly recognized him.
Christ. His photo hadn’t done him justice.
The man had a swimmer’s build: tall and lean. Pete could tell because he was wearing nothing but an unbuttoned black coat and gray briefs. Despite standing half-naked in a room full of people, confidence oozed from him. Pete wanted to reach out and see if he could actually feel it radiating from him like heat.
But if he were going to reach for anything, it’d be the man’s glossy brown hair. It had been swept up into soft peaks that begged him to grab a handful. Pete’s fingers tingled at his sides with the urge to touch it. The man had no body hair to go with it—porn stars seldom did—but he did have a hint of stubble on his sharp jaw, no more than a shadow. Pete could vividly imagine how it would feel scraping against his throat.
The man bent over the table to look at one of the papers in front of Colette, unwittingly highlighting the curve of his back. Fuck, if Pete had that body—and those cheekbones, for that matter—he’d be confident too.
Pete was staring. He knew he was, but he couldn’t stop. Part of him wanted to write Colette a thank-you note, but another, much more paranoid part wanted to ask if she somehow knew how much the man looked like him. Pete’s very own Evil Ex-Boyfriend. His Moby with an emphasis on Dick. Most people had a “one that got away.” Pete had a “one who hurt him so badly, he wished they’d never dated in the first place.” He still didn’t like to talk about what had gone down between them.
Though that certainly hadn’t stopped him from showing up for the audition. He must be some sort of masochist. Here he was, dead tired and looking like a mess, and yet he’d dragged himself out to the ’burbs for . . . what? A chance to confirm with his own eyes that his ex had not, in fact, become a porn star? Because that would have been hilarious, and so fucking hypocritical—
He shook his head, slamming a mental door shut on that train of thought. Regardless of who he looked like, his possible new costar was a five-alarm hottie. That was enough to pique Pete’s interest, even as his insides squirmed.
As if on cue, the man glanced up and locked eyes with him. Pete tried to look away—he really did—but was rooted to the spot. Maybe it was the light, but Pete swore he’d never seen eyes that dark before. Pupil and iris were indistinguishable from each other. While Pete stood there helplessly, the man’s gaze slid once, oh so slowly, down his body, and when he looked back up again, his eyes blazed.
Pete had been right. He was definitely fucked. It was as though the phrase tall, dark, and handsome had just been personally demonstrated to him.
The man turned to Colette—Pete could expound about the length of his neck—and whispered something. Colette’s head shot up, and she looked directly at Pete.
Well, I wonder who they’re talking about.
The man left as quickly as he’d appeared, though not before Pete got an eyeful of his plump ass. Jesus. His underwear might as well have been painted on.
When he was gone, Pete dragged his eyes back to Colette. She was watching him, her pink lips curled up in amusement.
Busted.
Colette turned to the blonde woman and said something he couldn’t hear. They stood up and made their way into the living room.
/> “Gentlemen,” Colette announced, “thank you for your patience. Joyce and I have tied up the last few loose ends, so if you’ve all got your IDs and paperwork ready, the auditions can begin.”
A cheer rose up from the potentials. Pete stayed quiet, however, ruminating. There was no guarantee he was going to get this part, but he suddenly wanted it very, very badly.
“Chris, Chaz,” Colette continued, turning to two of the men, “you’re up first. Darko is waiting for you in the bedroom.”
Darko? Like the movie? That was an odd choice for a stage name. Kinda gothic-sounding. Though it was light-years more interesting than Chaz. Sometimes he wondered what his colleagues were thinking.
Colette beckoned toward the door that Darko—was that his first or last name?—had just used. Chris and Chaz scrambled to their feet and disappeared through it. Judging by their eagerness, they’d also seen something they liked.
When they were gone, Colette made a beeline for him. She was grinning in a way that made Pete want to fall back a step. Like a lioness who’d just spotted a limping antelope. “Glad you could make it, Jaden. I had a feeling you would.”
“Well, that picture was hard to ignore,” he admitted. “But I’m sure you knew that.”
“I had an inkling. I take it you like my newest star?” She raised a suggestive brow.
Pete hoped the flush crawling up his neck wasn’t visible. “He’s pretty gorgeous. You said his name is Darko?”
“Kyle Darko, to be precise. He’s relatively new, but I have high aspirations for him. And for you, for that matter. Somehow, you managed to make an impression already.”
Pete’s heart thudded in his chest. “What do you mean?”
“When he spoke to me just then, he expressed a desire to work with you.”
Pete frowned. “That sounds . . . bland.”
“His exact words were ‘I’d hit that at Mach five.’”
Electricity crackled up Pete’s spine. His voice was embarrassingly breathy as he asked, “Really?”
“Yeah. Assuming you don’t blow your audition, I’d say your chances are good.”
Excitement flooded into him unchecked. Colette had wanted him to get his old spark back, and it seemed Kyle had already lit a fire within him. If Kyle could make him feel all this with a look, Pete could only imagine what actually touching him would be like.
So far, so good, though when the audition rolled around, he’d have to curb himself. If he appeared too eager, he’d look like a newb, or worse, a creep. Besides, he’d worked with some of the hottest guys in the industry. This was nothing new.
He needed to remember what was really important here: a chance to secure a steady paycheck for a couple of weeks. Every other job he’d booked had consisted of him showing up, having sex, and then leaving. If Colette was serious about having multiple filming sessions, this was going to be the most involved role he’d ever landed.
“I’ll do my absolute best,” he said in what he hoped was a casual way. “This role is a great opportunity. I really hope I get it.”
“Me too. We’ll see what Darko says after he’s finished with the others. Some of them have a lot more experience than you.”
“Is he picking his costar? I thought you were.”
“A little of column A, a little of column B. Obviously I value his opinion. The chemistry needs to be just right, so if he says a guy is out, he’s out.”
Pete whistled to cover the anxiety that pierced through him. “Wow, you must really want him to be so accommodating.”
“You’ll understand when you meet him. He has this . . . magnetism. Just you wait.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on how my new star is getting along with Chris and Chaz. It’s still anyone’s game.”
She sashayed away, leaving Pete with a strange, uncomfortable emotion churning within him. It was sort of like competitiveness, but more incorporeal than that. Whatever it was, it made him burn up inside.
A mental shake failed to dispel the sensation. Jesus. He needed a cigarette.
He poked his head into the dining room and spotted a sliding glass door leading out to a patio. Perfect.
Joyce was still standing nearby where Colette had left her. Pete waved to get her attention and then jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Do you mind if I smoke? I promise I won’t leave any butts in your yard.”
“Sure thing, honey,” she chirped. “In fact, if you’ll give me a minute to grab some wine, I’ll join you.”
“Oh, okay,” Pete said, surprised. “I’ll wait right here.”
“Want a glass?”
“No, thanks. I don’t drink on the job.” And I’m also not old enough.
She pushed open a door on the other side of the room, revealing a sliver of a neat, modern kitchen. Pete waited with his hands in his pockets, fiddling with his lighter and cigs. He caught one of the other men studying him out of the corner of his eye, sizing up the competition no doubt. No one attempted to speak to him. He’d forgotten how catty some porn stars could be when a gig was up for grabs. Not that he had room to talk. He wasn’t exactly organizing a group outing, and he was definitely coveting the role.
Joyce reappeared with a glass of white wine in one hand and a pack of fancy, organic cigarettes in the other. “Shall we?”
Pete slid open the door and gestured for her to go first. A burst of cold air blew his now-mostly-dry hair into his eyes, but he held his position.
“What a gentleman,” she cooed as she moved past him. She was dressed stylishly in a black cocktail dress and had thrown a short white jacket over her shoulders. If Pete had seen her at Murmur Inc., he would have assumed she was there to film MILF porn. Perhaps renting her house out was a way of getting her feet wet. That, or Pete had been in the biz too long, and he was starting to see porn stars everywhere.
Joyce led the way across the deck toward a set of tasteful patio furniture facing a wooden railing. A spit of moonlight-drenched yard lay just beyond it, ending in a tall fence. It was a clear, crisp night, though not a single star was visible. They seldom were this close to the city.
Joyce took a seat on a sofa and then patted the cushion next to her. Pete fell gracelessly into the space, all limbs as per usual. She handed him a lighter without speaking.
He took it. “Thank you, Ms. . . .?”
“Call me Joyce,” she replied. “What’s your name?”
“Jaden.”
“That’s a cute name for a cute boy.”
He almost choked midpuff on his cigarette. He handed the lighter back to buy himself time to recover. “Thank you.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit young for this.”
“I get that a lot, but I’m twenty, I swear. Plenty old enough. And we get ID’d and screened and all that before filming starts.”
She took a dainty drag on her cigarette and exhaled away from him. “That’s good to know. Thanks for not taking that wine I offered you.”
“No problem. Colette would have kicked me off set anyway if she’d caught me drinking.”
“Very responsible. Tell me, Jaden, why is someone your age doing this instead of . . . well, just about anything else?”
Pete restrained the sour expression that wanted to crawl over his face. Joyce meant well, he reminded himself. They almost always did. But man, was he tired of getting asked that.
“I do other things,” Pete droned, reciting from a script. “I’m a student, and I have a part-time job. Porn is something I do on the side to make ends meet. I’ve actually only been in thirty or so films in the year I’ve been performing.”
Joyce grimaced. “Sounds like a lot to me.”
“Trust me, it’s not. I have costars who have been in hundreds.” Granted, they were seasoned vets who put “porn star” on their taxes, but he didn’t mention that.
“My questions aren’t bothering you, are they?” Joyce asked.
“A little bit, yeah.”
Joyce stare
d at him, and in a flash, Pete realized she hadn’t expected him to say yes. He quickly amended, “Just a tiny, tiny bit. Barely noticeable.”
That seemed to mollify her. “I’m not trying to pry, I swear. I’m just curious. I’d never met an actual porn star before today, and suddenly I have a living room full of them.”
He grinned. “I thought as much. I pegged you as a first-timer when I walked in.”
“That obvious?”
“To me, it is. I recognize first-time jitters when I see them. Nervousness and excitement and a little edge of guilt, right?”
“Spot on. How’d you know?”
“That feeling is what got me into porn, more or less.”
Joyce laughed. “That sounds like a story I’d like to hear one day, when I’m not hosting the gay Olympics at my house.” She studied him again, eyes bright with curiosity. “You said you’re a student. What are you studying?”
“Computer Science.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you that, sorry. It’s one of those privacy things. If it got out to my classmates that I’m a porn star, I could get harassed. In fact, I would get harassed.”
“Ah. I’m guessing Jaden isn’t your real name, then?”
“Not even close. No one uses their real name in this industry.” Which means I’ll never know Darko’s real name. That was an oddly disappointing thought.
“Seems like there are a lot of rules. And here I thought I’d just have to wash my sheets after.”
“That might not be as big of an issue as you’d think,” Pete said. “Clean up, I mean. Condoms are common practice in gay porn.”
“No offense, but I’ll likely wash them anyway.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand, making a large diamond ring glint in the moonlight. “Is the money as good as they say?”
“Depends.” He shrugged. “This is one industry in which women absolutely make more than men, so there’s that. And you get paid more for doing the ‘harder’ stuff. Like group sex and double penetration and the like. A lot of guys end up doing gay porn as a result, regardless of their orientation. It pays way better.”
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