by Jay Lygon
“Supermodel Anna Kuvolowski, your ex-girlfriend, said in an interview that you’re gay,” someone in the back of the mob shouted.
“Anna and I broke up? Someone should have told me. Where’s my publicist?” Harris hammed it up, glancing wildly around the room. “Someone is supposed to keep track of these things for me.”
A few people laughed.
The English journalist asked, “Is it true? Anna says she dumped you when she caught you with a man.”
That remark broke through Harris’ armor. He quickly recovered, but his aura didn’t. The other journalists seemed to sense blood. They inched closer to the table and shouted more questions about his personal life. Though he kept smiling, I could see panic spreading through Harris’ aura.
“Come on, guys. I just found out I broke up with a supermodel. Give me a moment.” Harris clowned his way through a moment of dramatic grief.
“So she didn’t catch you in bed with a man?”
I never understood why, but the English seemed to love to tear people down for daring to be successful. That kind of slimy journalism pissed me off, so I used a little God power to make my voice heard over his. “Mister Smith! This movie is a bit of a departure from the characters you usually play. Did you find that change difficult?”
Those blue eyes sought me out in the crowd. I pushed some of my power toward Harris, like draping him in a protective cloak. His eyes widened only slightly, but I knew he felt it. I nodded, encouraging him to take the chance to change the subject.
Once again, he was all easy-going charm. “Yes, this picture was a departure for me, but change is good. It was very interesting to see how they created the ancient world.” He leaned closer to the microphones as if letting us all in on a secret. “If you ever need to lose twenty pounds in a week, put on a suit of armor and go film battle scenes out in the Australian desert.”
“Is that where Anna caught you with your gay lover?” the English guy asked.
Oh good Gods! Couldn’t they let Harris be? Did they think they could bully him out of the closet? I was all for being out, but that was a personal decision. I hoped he didn’t cave in to the pressure.
Shoving forward again, I asked, “I heard you had to take martial arts classes in preparation for this movie.” Even though I didn’t shout, I made sure my voice was heard above the rest.
Harris didn’t turn to me that time, but his assistant watched me and jotted notes in a little flip pad. “We trained with a martial arts expert for several months before we began shooting. It was probably the hardest work I’ve ever done before a picture, physically at least. Those swords weigh a ton.”
The last ten minutes of his press conference felt as if they lasted hours. I was amped up on adrenaline with no outlet for it. People shoved and shouted. It was hard to resist shoving back.
Poor Harris smiled through the rest of the interrogation as if the constant questions about his sexuality didn’t bother him. Part of him withdrew, though, and I didn’t blame him one bit. I wondered if the other journalists could tell that he was acting. They couldn’t see the damage to his aura the way I could, but if they had, they probably would have been even more ruthless.
When it was over, I sighed in relief for him. As he left the room, Alberto sprinted after him. I sent a burst of power to slam shut the door immediately behind Harris and bolt it. Alberto tugged on the handle. The other paparazzi shoved him out of the way and tried to pry it open. Alberto glanced over at me. Then he looked at the door with a bemused smile on his lips. He inclined his head. I gave him a curt nod and headed out the French doors leading to the hotel gardens.
***
By the time I staggered into our room at the hotel that evening, all I could do was leave a trail of discarded clothes behind me as I headed for the shower. Hector reclined on the bed and watched me with raised eyebrows. Fine. He could punish me. But first I had to rinse off the sweat under a steady stream of cold water.
Twenty minutes later, when I dragged myself back into our room, he was still on the bed, but my clothes had been picked up. “Thanks, Sir,” I mumbled. I put my laptop on the small table and collapsed into a chair.
Hector walked over and kissed the top of my head. “Rough day, Baby?”
I could only nod.
He didn’t interrupt me while I wearily made my blog entry. It was hard to pick out the important stuff to talk about. I was a film critic, not a reporter. I figured that people wanted gossip, so I mentioned the stars I’d seen and the press conferences I’d been to. Walking the fine line between popular culture and the artistic snobbery of my editor wasn’t easy.
After I posted my entry, I crawled onto the bed beside Hector and rested my head on his bare chest.
“Tell you what. We’ll skip the plans I had for us tonight. We’ll just stay here and cuddle. How does that sound?” Hector asked.
“Like you’re a genius. Find me a drink with ice cubes in it and I’m your bitch.” I flung the white towel I’d wrapped around my waist to the floor.
Hector chuckled. “I always knew you were easy, Boy, but I didn’t know you could be had for ice cubes.” A tall glass of lemonade appeared in his hand. Huge chucks of ice and slices of lemons floated in the liquid. Condensation slid down the glass and over his hand. “You know, you could have summoned this for yourself.”
I gulped down the cold drink. When it was empty, I rubbed the glass across my chest. “It seems so wasteful to use power for something like that.”
“But it’s not wasteful when I do it?” he asked.
Grinning, I set the empty glass on the nightstand. “No. You’re getting something in exchange for it.”
“I have you anyway,” Hector protested.
“I know. That’s the beauty of it from my standpoint.” As I put my mouth over his nipple, Hector sucked in a breath. I blew on his nipple until it was a hard, brown pucker hiding under the fur on his chest. “What did you do all day, Sir?”
“I went on a tour of the Doge’s Palace, crossed the Bridge of Sighs, and saw the old prison. Other than that, I just walked around the city and got my bearings. I found some places I’d like to take you.”
“Mmm. I can think of some places I’d like to be taken.” I crawled across his body and sucked on his other nipple.
“Slut.”
“That’s Mr. Bitch to you, Sir.”
Hector slapped my ass. “You must be feeling better, because you’re getting sassy. Maybe you need a little attitude correction.”
“Maybe I do. I’m exhausted, but I’m amped up, too. I can’t believe the people I met today. You would have been proud of me. I talked to complete strangers and only stuttered a little.”
“Good boy.” He mussed my hair.
My hand trailed down Hector’s stomach and stopped at his groin. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for sex, but I didn’t mind fooling around a little. As my hand slid under the waistband of his boxers, someone knocked on the hotel room door. Since I was naked, Hector zipped up his pants and went to answer it.
“I’m looking for Mr. Samuel Dewey. I was told to deliver something to him,” a male voice said. The accent was American
“Sam’s busy,” Hector told him. “I can take it.”
The guy made a fussy queen noise. “It’s not a thing. It’s a message.”
If I’d talked to Hector like that, I’d be in for serious punishment. Hector seemed to be considering putting the haughty little messenger over his knee.
I yanked on a pair of jeans and padded over to the door. “I’m Sam Dewey.”
The boy at the door would have been cute without the annoying sneer. Only people who made minimum wage in Hollywood could wear that brand of nasty and think they fooled anyone. Still, he took his time ogling my bare chest before he said, “You’re invited to a private party at Club Masque tonight.”
“I’m sorry. Who are you? Should I know who’s throwing this party?”
For a moment, I thought the little queen was going to choke on i
ndignation. Hector and I exchanged a glance. From the tremble of Hector’s lips, I knew he was close to laughing in the guy’s face. I had to look away to stop from cracking up myself.
He rolled his eyes and pointed to the logo on his shirt. “Outback Films.” He gave Hector a nasty look. “No guests.”
While I would have slammed the door in his face, Hector gently closed it after the queen sashayed down the hallway.
“What’s Outback Films?” Hector asked.
“They produced Harris Smith’s latest picture. He had a rough press conference today. I tried to keep the focus on his film and not his personal life. I think the invitation is their way of saying thanks.”
“Baby, it looks like you’re going out tonight after all.”
I couldn’t believe he’d do that to me. “But, Sir--”
Hector raised a finger. “Not a word. This is for your work. I know that you’re tired, and I know we had plans tonight, but I’m not going to allow you to plead slave duties to get out of this. Go be charming.” He stood back, squinted, and looked me over before consulting his watch. “It’s too late here, of course. Thank goodness we can phase into a different time zone. I think New York will do.”
My eyes narrowed. I had a bad feeling about the way his face lit up. “For what, Sir?”
“To go shopping, of course. You don’t think I’ll let you go to that party wearing just anything, do you? Tonight, you have to look--”
I winced, waiting for the dreaded word.
Hector winked at me as he mimicked the queen’s voice perfectly, “Fabulous.”
***
Except for the light at the far end, the street was quiet and dark. Since the Venice streets changed name at every intersection, I knew that the club had to be in that short block, but the exact location was a mystery because I couldn’t see an address anywhere. Except for the metal shutters pulled over a doorway and the dusty windows of a store that must have gone out of business two years ago, the rest of the street was fronted by blank walls. Suspecting that the invitation was a hoax, I was about to give up and return to the hotel when I saw a familiar figure turn the corner.
“Alberto! Am I ever glad to see you. I’m trying to find Club Masque. Do you know where it is?”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t hide the sign again, did you?”
He clutched his chest in an exaggerated show of innocence. “No. There isn’t one. They expect that anyone who is anyone simply knows where to go.”
“Well, I’m not anyone, so I don’t know where it is.” I frowned at the blank, brown stucco walls around me.
“I’d hardly call you a no one. You got an invitation, didn’t you?” Alberto gripped the extended lens of the camera that hung around his neck. “Would you like for me to show you?”
“I’m not even sure I want to go,” I grumbled.
“Everyone wants into these parties. Most couldn’t get an invitation in their wildest dreams.” He ran his fingers down my chest. “But I bet you have some pretty wild dreams.”
Smiling, so he wouldn’t think I was angry, I gripped his hand and moved it away. “Don’t touch me without permission.”
Instead of being abashed, Alberto lowered his gaze and smiled. “But it’s such a great shirt! You must have a friend at a design house.” Alberto’s flirtatious manner sent mixed signals rushing through my brain. The way he gazed up at me made me stand straighter and grin down at him like a tolerant big brother. I wasn’t sure if I hated that or if I was flattered. It was unfamiliar territory for me. Hector would probably laugh with me when I told him that some twenty-year old made me feel like a junior Daddy. I wondered what my therapist would think. “Do you forgive me?” he asked.
For some reason, instead of simply saying yes, I gruffly told him, “Maybe, but only if you show me where this damn club is.”
Alberto’s grin widened. “Yes, Sir! Follow me.”
Oh man, did I ever feel stupid. I’d been standing only ten feet from the entrance of the club that entire time. In my defense, it wasn’t a traditional doorway. Instead, Alberto opened a narrow, wrought-iron gate. He tapped on the small brass sign on the gate as we passed through it. How the hell was I supposed to be able to read that in the dark?
Beyond the gate was a narrow pathway between buildings. Overgrown plants crowded the stepping stones and shaded the dim lighting. If the path had been much longer it would have made me claustrophobic. Thankfully, as soon as we passed the plants, we entered a small courtyard. It, too, was dark -- so dark that I didn’t see the bouncer standing near a door until the man moved.
“Name!” the bouncer said.
“He’s Sam Dewey,” Alberto said.
The bouncer tapped a finger behind his ear and mumbled my name. I supposed that clipboards were too passé for him. He wore sunglasses. It was the middle of the night. I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes.
“You’re not on the guest list.” The bouncer widened his stance and folded his hands over his steroid paunch as if preparing for trouble.
Alberto rubbed his shoulder against mine. “He got a last minute invite. Check again.”
The bouncer looked at me, or at least I assumed he did. Surprise transformed his face. “Mr. Dewey! I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you. Please come in.”
“See what a little fame can do for you?” Alberto asked me.
“I hate playing these little games,” I grumbled, as the bouncer held the door open for me.
Alberto gazed up at me. “You’re so butch when you talk like that. What games do you like to play?”
It took every ounce of strength I had not to burst out laughing. Silly boy. He should have known better than to try to flirt with the God of Sex. After all, I wrote the book on manipulation -- or at least Hector claimed I did.
“I only play with Hector.”
He sighed dramatically. “Story of my life. All the good ones are taken.”
“Very taken.”
His grin turned impish. “Things can change.”
Not if I had anything to say about it.
We headed into the door, but the bouncer grabbed Alberto. “Sorry. Mr. Dewey might be on the guest list, but you aren’t.”
“But… but… but.” Alberto’s bottom lip trembled as he turned his puppy-dog eyes on me.
I took pity on him and leaned close. “Don’t be silly. Just phase inside.”
The bouncer was getting impatient with me, so I went through the door he held open.
In the sky blue foyer, two women sat on the bottom step of a staircase, speaking languidly in monosyllabic Venetian. One of the women leaned toward the wall to make a little room for me to pass, but the other one stared into her drink. Maybe they worked there. The small coat check station was deserted.
At the top of the stairs, the room was much wider, as if the club only had half the bottom floor, but much more of the upper ones. The white room was a lounge with square ottomans in white leather and mod, sixties-style lamps and black pop art on the walls. Beyond that was an orange room with a dance floor. The DJ spun house music. No one danced.
Maybe it was my imagination, but every person I passed seemed to be appraising my rank. Was I important? Was I worth noting? For once, I was so very glad that Hector made sure I dressed right. Still, the scrutiny made my skin crawl, so I went up the next flight of stairs to the top floor.
Harris Smith stood by the bar in a violet room. He was surrounded by models and actors. There was s secondary circle of film folk hovering near the models, and beyond that, the professional hangers on. The queen who’d delivered my invitation was there. He looked right through me.
I’d always wished for invisibility. I wouldn’t have minded it if the way the other guests ignored me hadn’t been so studied. They watched me, but turned away if I met their gazes. I think I finally understood what snubbing felt like. Or maybe it was shunning. Whatever it was, those people had the art of making me know I was being ignored down to a science.
> Well, I’d been to the party. Hector couldn’t fault me for not going. I looked at my watch I’d been gone from the hotel about an hour. That had to be good enough. All I had to do was find a place private enough to phase away.
Past the bar was a small balcony that was painted as dark as the night sky. A lone red spotlight shone down on me. Despite the stifling air in the club, no one stood out there. I breathed in the fresh air and took in the view.
