by M. J. O'Shea
Fans came every day to wait for them to get autographs and pictures. There were only a few at first, locals mostly, who Blair knew by name after so many months, but the crowds slowly grew until there were hundreds of them on any given day—men and women, teenaged boys and girls, waving signs and notebooks for the cast and even the crew to autograph. They’d driven down from Miami or had flown in, making a vacation of it. The whole thing was surreal. Blair was mystified by their interest but still grateful—after dawn. In the dark, when he was practically late, he just wanted to slog his way through.
Sander outright laughed at him. “How do you get through this on your bike?” he asked.
“I don’t have to come in the main entrance if I don’t drive. Carter from security will check me and my bike in at the back gate. They don’t let fans get near there.”
“Must be rough, movie star.”
Blair scoffed. “Yeah. Movie star. That’s exactly what I am.”
“Aren’t you?” Sander winked.
Blair nearly choked at the damn wink, but he managed a reply. “Totally. I’ll get back to you when Scorsese is pounding on my door.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Blair rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Sander as they pulled through the gates into the makeshift staff parking lot. He ran through the scenes he had to film in his head that day, among them one where Ryder had to attempt to seduce Mack. Talk about awkward. He’d gotten pretty close with Flynn over the past few months, but brother close. Hitting on him—even if it was all for show and calling him by his character’s name—was still going to be mega awkward. Right up there with kissing Tony. Blair didn’t think Ryder and Joey were going to have a romantic plot line in the near future, but honestly with the completely random twists they’d put in place so far, you could never tell. He hoped not. Blair hauled his bike out of the back of Sander’s car and walked it over to where he usually put it. He’d probably be so brain-dead by the end of the day that having his bike in a different place would throw him for a loop. He waved at Sander and trotted off to wardrobe to get preppified.
IT WAS late when Blair left that day, but not as late as some. They’d made it through their scenes really quickly, mostly due to the professionalism of the actors around him. Blair still felt like a complete amateur in pretty clothing trying to act like a spoiled rich boy. Wasn’t easy to stay in Ryder’s mindset when he rolled out of the compound on his rusty, eight-year-old bike every night.
The fans must’ve finally caught on to the back entrance and snuck past the beefy security guard. There were a couple of them there, giggling and nearly hiding in the bushes. Blair walked his bike out and honestly wondered if they’d recognize him. His ratty flip-flops, T-shirt, and old cargo shorts looked nothing like Ryder’s costume, and his hair, still stiff from all the product Eugenia had caked into it that morning, was shoved under a beanie.
He heard them whispering his name before they came any closer.
“That’s Blair Fletcher…. That’s Ryder…. I swear it is.”
Blair waved at them. “Hey, guys. How are you tonight?”
Two of the girls let out quiet but rather high-pitched screams. “Can we have an autograph?” one of them asked.
“And a picture if that’s okay?” the other added.
“Sure.” He did a quick round of grinning selfies and autographs on T-shirts, and then he hopped on his bike, still amazed, after a good four months of decent fan traffic, that any of them wanted to talk to him.
“You really ride a bike?” one of them asked.
Blair chuckled. “I live close and it’s a nice night. Might as well not put more exhaust in the air, right?”
“That’s so nice that you care about the environment,” the first girl said. “Just like Leonardo DiCaprio.”
Blair nearly snorted out loud at being compared to Leonardo DiCaprio, but he smiled at the fans and waved again, even blew a kiss at the little pack of them, which of course led to another round of muffled screeching. He laughed as he peddled his bike off the property and toward home.
BLAIR MADE it through a shower and dinner with his mom and had taken a forbidden beer out to the veranda to sip on in the balmy night when Sander’s truck came rolling in. It was nearly midnight. He had to be bushed. Blair waved at him from his perch on the pink Adirondack chairs his mother had put out a few summers before. The chairs were peeling and needed some basic upkeep, much like most of their house, but they were still comfortable. Also like most of their house.
“Long day, huh?” Blair called quietly.
“You have no idea how good that beer looks,” Sander said. He looked completely exhausted. His hair was slipping out of the hairband in corn-silk tendrils. Blair itched to tuck them behind his ear.
“Tell you what, I’ll go grab some chips and another one. You put your stuff away, and I’ll meet you back out here?”
“That sounds fantastic. Thank you.”
Blair simply shrugged.
A little bit later, Sander came limping out of his house in basketball shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt, and some flip-flops. His hair fell loosely around his face, which was rare. It was damp like he’d jumped in the shower for a few minutes.
“I feel better,” he mumbled sinking into one of Blair’s mom’s chairs. He reached for the beer Blair had gotten for him and took a long pull, his neck muscles working. Blair could practically see the path of the liquid running down the sturdy column of Sander’s throat. It was nearly impossible not to stare. His skin was just so golden and pretty. The tips of his collarbones stuck out from the loose neckline like they were begging Blair to bite on them. It wasn’t freaking fair that he didn’t get to touch.
Talk. Talk about work. “Did you guys get your set done?”
“Yep. Just in time for filming Friday. The paint will barely be dry.”
“That’s fantastic, though. You guys are really fast.”
Sander snorted. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”
“Hey, us too. I mean it’s better than I was doing waiting tables. A lot better. But I’m not buying one of those huge mansions on the water anytime soon.”
“How’s it going with the acting thing? Getting your mask on?”
Blair groaned internally. “Honestly? It’s a lot harder than you’d think.”
“No, I get it.”
“I told you I was having trouble with Ryder’s queen-bee attitude. And I’ve tried to pretend I’m him, that I’m terrified of people finding out I’m human, and so I mask it with attitude, but I think I just come out looking flat-out terrified, not terrified with a crust of haughty.”
“Yeah, it’s a tough balance. I’d think Ryder in real life wouldn’t show the vulnerability. He’d just be all surface, but since it’s a character and you want people to like him, that’s gotta come through or they’ll just think he’s a dick.”
“How’d you do it?”
“Do what?” Sander cocked his head to the side.
“Like… be that guy.”
Hurt flashed across his face. “You thought I was a dick?”
“Well, not like in a bad way, but kinda. Yeah. You think I’d have ever dared to talk to high school Sander like this?”
“Maybe high school Sander wanted to talk to people who weren’t on the soccer team or at the popular lunch table.”
“I would’ve never known that. And I need to know how you did it.”
Sander shrugged. “I guess I did a lot of acting. Maybe you need to start there. Don’t worry about showing Ryder’s fears yet, just be the shell.”
“The shell who thinks he’s better than everyone else?”
“Which guards the squishy inside of someone who probably feels ten times more insecure than the people below him. He doesn’t want people to get to those insides because that’s how they can hurt him.”
“It’s easy to say that stuff, not as easy to do.”
“I can help you, if you want. It’s been a while, and I’m far
from king of the world these days, but I think I can bring it back if you need help getting there.”
“Yeah. Really? That would be great, Sander.”
Sander nodded. “Then I’m in. Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Tomorrow is great.”
Sander drained the last of his beer and smiled at Blair. “Probably way past both of our bedtimes. I have a 5:00 a.m. wake-up call tomorrow, I don’t know about you.”
“I’m actually not filming tomorrow. I’ll be around whenever you get home. If you still want to do the lessons. You know. Yeah.”
Awkward, awkward, awkward. Shut up now.
“Of course. I said I would. I’ll see you then.”
Blair smiled and tried to look casual. Sure, he and Sander had talked more, shared a few beers, relaxed on his veranda. That didn’t mean he was ready to be up-close and personal with him, pretending to be Ryder, pretending to be Sander himself back in the day. Blair thought it was easier to do it with a million cameras and lights crawling down his throat than in front of Sander. Still, it was his best chance to learn from someone who used to be a master. He would have to be a moron not to take it.
“Night, Sander,” he said quietly and waved as Sander crossed the divide between his house and Blair’s.
“Night, man. See you tomorrow.”
Yes. See you tomorrow. Man.
When Blair passed out on his bed that night, it was with a belly full of butterflies and a bit of bubbles from the beer. Sander. Shit. Sander.
No problem. I’ve got this. I’m cool. I’m Blair freaking Fletcher.
Of course in the grand scheme of things—nerves, old loves, and otherwise—that really didn’t mean much of anything.
Chapter Seven
“RYDER, I need that money. Like, tonight.”
Ryder rolled his eyes and hauled his prized handbag up closer to his body. He’d never let Robbie know that he actually scared the hell out of him. Nope. Never. He’d roll his eyes and stare him down and sneer like the bitch everyone knew he was.
“I’ll get you money when you get me some product that isn’t shredded paper with some green dye on it.”
“My product was good and you know it. You owe me.”
Robbie had Ryder up against the wall on the back side of Coconut Cove High School. Nobody would see them back there, not unless Robbie had another customer in the next few minutes. Ryder didn’t like to be alone with him. He was scared to even look him in the eye. He still made himself do it, of course.
Robbie’d slicked back his hair—typical—and he had on low-slung jeans, big clunker boots, and a freaking motorcycle jacket in the middle of the eighty-five-degree heat. Ryder half expected him to have a cigarette on the back of his ear. Cliché as hell. He clenched his jaw and tried to sound calm.
“I don’t have the cash on me. I can’t help you right now.”
Truth was, Ryder hadn’t even tried any of it. He never did. The last thing he needed was something that made him hungry in front of other people. Or made him lose his guard. He never wanted to lose his guard. Instead, he’d given it to Charlotte and Hudson like he was some sort of benevolent weed fairy. It never hurt to buy a little favor sometimes, and of course he made sure Kelly knew he was partying with different people. Problem was, his allowance hadn’t been put in his bank account just yet, so his tiny little act of benevolence and revenge, well, it wasn’t quite financeable until Wednesday at the earliest. He just had to hold off Robbie until then.
“Get me the damn money, princess. You really don’t want me to follow through on my threats.”
Ryder rolled his eyes and stared Robbie down. “Please. What can you do to me? You’re nobody.”
“CUT!” XARA called from the side of the set. Blair relaxed and Levi with him. Levi hauled off his leather jacket and fanned himself.
“It’s so damn hot out here,” he groaned. “I’m dying.”
“Sorry,” Blair mumbled.
“Not your fault,” Levi said. He clapped Blair on the shoulder gently.
“Ryder I need more attitude from you. I’m getting scared kitten. Sure, he’s scared of Robbie, but he’ll never show it. I don’t want to see weakness on his face, okay? Just disdain.”
“Yeah. Got it.” Blair didn’t have it. He felt like there’d only been a few perfect moments since he started filming months before. He’d done a few run-throughs with Sander in the past week, worked on only showing his shell. He wasn’t sure how much it was helping. “I can be harder.”
“Fantastic. Let’s run this scene again. Levi, I want you to crowd him but don’t get too close. Remember that you don’t like his kind any more than he likes yours. You just want your money.”
“Okay.”
Xara counted them in and shouted, “Action!”
THREE HOURS later, Blair dragged his tired, wrung-out body through the door of his house. His mom had made him a big salad and some grilled chicken. Whitney had been on him about his “trousers getting a bit tight around the hips,” so he was back on his puritanical diet for a few weeks, lose some of the squish he’d managed to gain with his near-nightly covert beers and nachos with Tony.
He took his chicken and salad outside. It was a nice night, in the upper sixties, not hot or particularly cool. Felt good after a day under the heat of the sun and lights of the studio. He heard Sander’s feet crunching up the gravel drive before he saw him appear on the steps to Blair’s porch.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
Blair grunted around a mouthful of spinach and chicken. “Mmmph.”
He gestured for Sander to sit. The message must’ve gotten through, because Sander sat in the empty chair. His big-shouldered golden body looked a little funny on Blair’s mom’s baby-pink chairs, but somehow it was good. Comforting. Blair didn’t know how to explain how the most intimidating guy he’d ever met had somehow turned into a comfort. He swallowed and took a drink of his water. No more beer for him.
“Hey there. Sorry. Chewing.”
Sander made a face at Blair’s dinner. “That looks enticing.”
“Better than the green juice smoothie I had for breakfast.”
“Why are you torturing yourself?”
“Wardrobe getting a bit tight. Too many beers and nachos.”
Sander shook his head. “That’s gotta suck. Your body is perfect anyway. Why are they making you lose weight? I’ll never look like you guys.”
“Please. You look like some Norse god of the sky just like you did back in high school.”
I can’t believe I just said that. I can’t even pretend I’m drunk.
Sander chuckled. “Did you just call me Thor? Like, for real.”
“No,” Blair mumbled. “Not actually. But I’m sure you’ve gotten it before.”
“I have. Don’t worry.” Sander took a swig of the beer he’d carted up the porch stairs. Blair noticed he had another. It looked cool and delicious. Too bad it was full of—no, no beer. Carbs. Carbs were the devil. “I’d offer you this, but….” Sander chuckled.
“Yeah. Rub it in. You want some spinach salad?”
Sander just laughed more. “So how was Ryder-ing today?” he finally asked.
Blair shook his head. “I think Levi was about to kill me. I’m still not getting that hard-shell thing. I guess I’m still playing him like he’s me. I react instinctively with vulnerability rather than spite.”
“Did you just come up with all that?” Sander raised his gold eyebrows.
“No.” Blair blushed. “It came from Xara. She pulled me aside today and told me that she’d finally gotten it out of me, and that the vulnerability will come in handy later, but for now she needs hauteur, and I’m not giving her that.”
“Okay, so we work on ‘hauteur.’” Sander did air quotes and grinned. “And that’s probably the first time in my life I’ve said that word.”
“How do I be haughty?”
“Listen, think of how I used to walk down the halls at school.”
Blair closed his eyes a
nd remembered Sander, letter jacket, posse of jocks and cheerleaders following him like a giant high school movie cliché. It looked like the sun shone on him somehow through a solid ceiling, he glowed that much. Nothing could touch him. He wouldn’t let it.
“You were a god.”
“There you go with that Thor crap again. I was a scared seventeen-year-old who didn’t know how to be his real self. I reacted by becoming untouchable.”
“Yeah, but how do you just become untouchable? It’s a lot easier said than done.”
“Fortunately for you, you don’t actually have to do it, just act like someone who has.” Sander propped his elbows on his knees, wove his fingers together, and rested his chin on them. “So, take Brooke. Or Charlotte. Whoever you have more scenes with. Those girls are your shield. Maybe a guy like Ryder would play it safe in real life and have a girlfriend. Brooke and Lizzie can perform the same function. They can reflect Ryder’s untouchable nature, show the world they should be afraid to piss him off. I see you playing with those characters like that already. Just amp it up.”
“Yeah. Damn. I guess I never thought about it that way.”
“No, but you’re still doing it anyway. You just have to do it more.”
“Maybe you should be in the show.”
Sander chuckled. “Right. I’m a TV star.” He reached across the small gap and took Blair’s hands. “Okay, just think of shields. What does Ryder hide behind?”
“His money?” Blair squeaked out. How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on finding Ryder when Sander was holding his damn hands?
