Baja Honeymoon

by Roland Graeme

  “Um, I think you may underestimate yourself. Celebrities have always embodied our fantasies. Given us something to focus on and to distract us from our own boring little lives.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Anyway,” Rick said dismissively, “the tabloids aren’t really interested in me. All this nonsense started when Eva and I announced our engagement.”

  “Eva is your fiancée?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t recall you mentioning her name until now.”

  “Didn’t I? She’s Eva Angelokva.” Something about Rick’s facial expression and tone of voice seemed to imply that Ken should recognize the name. Feeling a bit guilty because he didn’t, Ken searched his memory.

  “Wait a minute. Even though I don’t really keep track of such things, I think I have heard that name before. Is she an actress too?”

  Rick smiled. “No. Eva is what they call a supermodel.”

  “Look at you. You have the most obnoxiously smug look on your face. So what you’re telling me is, while most guys can only fantasize about dating a supermodel, you’re actually—”

  “Having sex with one.”

  “You pig. I was going to be a gentleman and just say ‘you’re actually going to marry one.’ Shame on you. At least leave something for my imagination to fill in.”

  “Eva is very beautiful. And very sexy.”

  “I hate you. If you hadn’t called me, I’d still be sitting at home alone on a Friday night. You don’t have to rub it in by telling me all about your fantastic love life. But Eva Angelokva is a pretty name. Is that a stage name too?”

  “No, it’s her real name. Eva is from Bulgaria, originally.”

  Bulgaria? It was too much of a coincidence. Could Eva possibly be the “Bulgarian bimbo” in the tabloid headline Ken had seen at the newsstand?

  “Is she dark haired, with these sort of incredible Sophia Loren eyes and big, sexy lips?”

  “That’s her.”

  “I have seen a picture of her, and recently. She’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Rick had a smirk of self-satisfaction on his face, and Ken could’ve also sworn that Rick’s chest rose visibly under his shirt, swelling with macho pride. “Want to see another picture of her?” Rick was already pulling out his wallet.

  “Of course.”

  The small wallet-sized photo was a candid shot in which the young woman smiled almost demurely at the camera. “I took this one myself,” Rick said. “On one of our first dates. I know it’s hardly professional quality, but I like it.”

  “Other guys must hate your guts for having landed such a beautiful girl.”

  “Let ’em hate me.”

  “What’s she like? I mean, behind the façade, the public image? When the professional cameras aren’t rolling, and it’s just the two of you?”

  “That’s an interesting question, Ken. The truth is, she’s kind of vulnerable. Innocent and naïve. I know those are hardly the first words that come to mind when most people think of her. But it’s true. And maybe that’s what attracted me to her in the first place. God, if we could only get away from all this publicity crap and just lead a normal life.”

  “A house in the suburbs and two-point-five children?”

  “Exactly. Isn’t that what everybody secretly aspires to?”

  “Maybe. Not me.”

  “Oh? Why not you, Ken?”

  Ken hesitated, but for no more than an instant. “Now that you’ve told me your secret, Rick, I have a confession to make to you too.”

  “Yeah? This ought to be interesting.”

  “I’m gay.”

  “Really?”

  “You didn’t suspect?”

  “It never occurred to me. I mean, it’s not as though you’ve been checking out my ass or anything. You know, giving me certain signals, the way some guys do. Are you sure you’re gay?”

  “The last time I checked, all the signs were there.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It doesn’t seem to make a difference to you.”

  “It doesn’t. Why should it?”

  “For some straight guys, it’s kind of a deal breaker.”

  “I meet a lot of gay guys. And not just because I’m in the entertainment business. This is Southern California, after all. Sometimes I think you guys are the majority.”

  “Have you ever, ah…?”

  “No. I know it’s fashionable to be bisexual, but I’m afraid I’m hopelessly old-fashioned. Women are more than enough for me to handle. I can’t imagine complicating my love life, such as it is, by screwing around with both sexes. What about you? Do you have any bisexual leanings?”

  “None whatsoever. There are too many attractive men I’d like to get around to first.”

  “I gather you don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Not at the moment. Just the occasional trick or fuck buddy.”

  “You say that so casually.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? What is there to be not casual about?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not all that experienced, sexually, myself. That’s why I’m curious about people with, ah, alternate lifestyles. Explain to me the difference between a trick and a fuck buddy.”

  “A trick is a one-night stand. A fuck buddy is a guy who starts out as a one-night stand, but then he comes back for more. Either way, it’s just sex, with no strings attached.”

  “You sound rather cynical, Ken.”

  “Do I? I’m just being honest. And realistic. You can’t have an active sex life if you keep your expectations too high.”

  “You mean you can’t have a varied sex life.”

  “Right. And a varied sex life is the only kind worth having.”

  “You’ll sing a different tune once you meet the right guy and fall for him.”

  Their plates of fish were delivered to the table, and they dug in. Rick dipped one of his french fries into the little paper container of tartar sauce that was served on the side.

  “I’ve never seen anybody do that,” Ken commented.

  “Try it. You’ll like it.”

  Ken did try it. “It tastes good, actually.”

  “See? I’ve taught you something new already.”

  “I’ll have to return the favor. There are a few things I could probably teach you, Rick.”

  Rick laughed. “Let’s not go there—assuming you’re going where I think you’re going.”

  “Spoilsport. You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “I know some nice gay guys at the studio. I could set you up with one of them.”

  “Now you’re talking. Actors?”

  “Sure. Actors, camera operators, prop men, makeup artists, stunt men.”

  “Stunt men? Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Now you’re really talking.”

  “Do you like ’em macho?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “What’s so fascinating about it?”

  “It’s just that you’re kind of macho yourself. I’ve always assumed that opposites attract.”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve always reasoned that if I’m going to fuck around with other guys, the sex might as well be as masculine as possible. You know, hot, sweaty, muscular bodies banging together hard enough to leave bruises,” Ken specified. He was deliberately being a bit provocative, to get Rick’s reaction and gauge just how far he could go.

  Rick, to his credit, snorted with laughter. “So if some pretty, effeminate boy threw himself at you, you’d turn him down?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. How pretty are we talking about?”

  Rick seemed to ponder for a moment, and then he came up with the name of a currently popular boy-band pop singer. “I met him at one of those boring publicity events,” Rick said. “He came on to me. Which wasn’t particularly flattering, because he was stoned out of his mind and he also came on to every other guy in the place.”

  “Oh, him I’d fuck in a heartbeat.
It’d probably help to make a man out of him.”

  Rick shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with your ego, I see.”

  “Nothing whatsoever. How’s your fish fry, by the way?”

  “Delicious. I’m glad you introduced me to this place. Get the waitress’s attention, if you can. We need more drinks.”

  Their conversation progressed through a variety of topics. Rick had a wry, self-deprecating sense of humor, which Ken liked. Because he’d be walking home, not driving, Ken drank a bit more than he ordinarily might have.

  He and Rick argued over which of them would pick up the check.

  “You’re in my neighborhood,” Ken insisted. “You’re my guest. Let me take care of this.”

  “All right, but only if you let me return the favor next time. Let me leave the tip.”

  “I wonder if your buddies, the so-called gentlemen of the press, are still lying in wait for you outside?”

  “I’ll go take a look.” Rick went to reconnoiter, glancing discreetly out the pub’s front window, and came back to report that “The sons of bitches are still there, all right, sitting in their car. I’m afraid we’ll have to pass through the gauntlet again on our way out.”

  “Not necessarily. Why don’t we sneak out the back way?”

  “Is there a back way?”

  “Through the kitchen. They know me here. I’m a regular customer, so they won’t mind. There’s a back door that opens onto the alley behind the building.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Ken led Rick into the kitchen. “It’s my buddy’s first time here,” he announced to the sweating kitchen crew. “He wanted to congratulate the chef on the fish fry.”

  “Yes, it was excellent,” Rick said.

  The “chef,” who was still in his teens, beamed at the compliment. “Thank you, sir. Glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Hey, do you mind if we duck out the back door?” Ken asked.

  “No, go right ahead. You aren’t running out on your check, are you?”

  “No, we paid it,” Ken said with a laugh.

  “Come again, gentlemen.”

  “We will,” Rick promised.

  He and Ken went out into the alley, then circled around the block and took a cautious look around the corner. The photographer and journalist were parked in their heap, where they could keep an eye on the entrance to Gallaghers, and they were both smoking—tobacco, Ken assumed, although there was always the possibility that they were indulging in a stronger stimulant.

  “Come on,” Ken urged Rick. “If we head down this way, they can’t possibly see us. Then we can double back.”

  Rick was obviously delighted at having eluded his pursuers. When he and Ken reached the intersection at which they had to go their separate ways, he offered Ken his hand.

  “I’ve really enjoyed this, Ken. I want to do it again soon.”

  “So do I.” The two men shook hands.

  “Good night.” Rick moved closer to Ken and gave him a quick peck on his unshaven cheek.

  “Careful,” Ken warned his new acquaintance. “You might get me going.”

  Rick chuckled. “Somehow I don’t think it takes much. Good night,” he repeated.

  “So long. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Ken walked home in a pleasant, alcohol-fueled daze. He liked the fact that Rick had kissed him good-bye. It was the kind of chaste, man-to-man kiss that an actor probably thought nothing of giving another man. But Ken certainly enjoyed being on the receiving end of it.

  He liked Rick. He liked him a lot.

  I’m not going to let myself get into all sorts of fantasies about a straight guy, he told himself. Not even an exceptionally attractive straight guy like Rick. What am I, still in high school? Developing a crush on the captain of the football team? Hardly! I’m not going to let myself get a hard-on for Rick. That would be crazy.

  Still, he is awfully hot. I hope he wasn’t just being polite to me tonight. I hope we do become friends. That would be nice. I want to see him again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NOTORIETY

  IN THE days that followed his night out with Rick, Ken did a surprising thing. Or more accurately, it was what he chose not to do that was surprising. He told no one about Rick.

  Ordinarily, his encounter with a minor celebrity would have been a suitable topic for conversation. Ken could hear himself remarking to one of his casual acquaintances, Guess who just moved into the neighborhood?

  He could imagine himself bragging to one of his friends, You’ll never guess who I had dinner with the other night.

  Alternately, if he happened to be out on the town some evening, making the rounds of his two or three favorite gay bars, he might not be above a little name-dropping as a conversational icebreaker. Hey, do you know that guy on television, Deke Rowe? The one who’s engaged to a supermodel? I happened to meet him the other day. He’s kind of hot, isn’t he?

  Ken could hear in his imagination the conversational give and take that might result, beginning with a debate about whether Rick was gay or at least bisexual. And Ken now had inside information. He could testify that Deke Rowe claimed to be straight, and that he certainly behaved as though he was. The fact that Ken had gone out to dinner with a popular TV actor, who was the fiancé of the even-more-famous Eva Angelokva, might not make Ken a more desirable prospect for a one-night stand. But on the other hand, it couldn’t hurt.

  But he kept his relationship with Rick, such as it was, all to himself. There was an innate modesty and reticence about Rick, which suggested he didn’t take his celebrity too seriously and that he placed a high value on his privacy. Ken respected that.

  There was also a strange selfishness and possessiveness in Ken’s feelings toward his new friend. He didn’t want to share Rick with anybody else just yet. Rick was his discovery, his secret, which he hoarded and cherished the way a miser protects his accumulated wealth.

  Ridiculous, Ken told himself. I’m not about to develop a crush on a straight guy. That would be a complete waste of time and energy. What am I, the kind of silly little queen who falls for every hot body and nice face that comes along? I know better.

  Curiosity soon got the better of Ken, who spent two evenings in a row educating himself about Deacon Rowe and his glamorous fiancée. His main source of information was the Internet, but he supplemented it by making a trip to the newsstand, where he bought a stack of tabloids and entertainment magazines. Feeling like a young male virgin who was getting his first good look at pornography, Ken sequestered himself in his apartment and looked through his cache of material.

  At first he felt guilty, as though he were literally spying on Rick. But there were such things as guilty pleasures, and he soon found himself caught up in a typical pop-culture saga. Ken rationalized his prurient interest by telling himself that Rick was an actor, after all. When he chose that profession, he must have guessed he might become what the libel laws referred to as a public figure.

  Ken quickly discovered that he had quite a lot of catching up to do. Apparently, he belonged to a tiny minority of people to whom every detail of Deacon Rowe’s and Eva Angelokva’s daily activities was not only common knowledge, but a matter of vital importance.

  Deke Rowe’s story seemed to be the more straightforward, at least until recently.

  Rick, Ken discovered, had certainly paid his dues. He’d done his share of stage work. When it came to breaking into television and the movies, like any ambitious, unknown young actor, he accepted just about any part that was offered to him. He appeared in a couple of low-budget horror films and in a few even-lower-budget independent productions.

  Then Rick got the proverbial first real break, in his case under unusual circumstances. An eccentric Russian film director was putting together a project typical for him, a gritty drama set in contemporary Kiev. The script included the character of a young American exchange student. Rather than trying to find a Russian actor who could spea
k a few lines in American English and many lines in English-accented Russian, the director insisted on importing an American actor. The director had a reputation for being difficult, and the film was to be shot on location in the Ukraine in the dead of winter. Rick got the part more or less by default, after several other actors turned it down. The film won several awards, and Rick got good reviews for his contribution.

  The Russian director insisted on casting Rick again, this time in a pet project of his, a film version of a Rimsky-Korsakov opera called May Night. The actors lip-synched to a prerecorded sound track. Rick played the male lead, a guy named Levko. There was some controversy in Russia about the director’s having hired a foreigner for this prestigious assignment, but the film was somewhat surprisingly a hit, and not just among opera fans.

  A couple of decent supporting roles in Hollywood movies had followed. These were also well received, earning Rick the standard labels “young and promising,” and “upcoming.”

  And now he was starring in a successful sitcom on cable TV. If nothing else, he was demonstrating his versatility.

  As for Eva, she came from humble origins, in a small town in Bulgaria, where she married a local boy. After being discovered by a talent scout, however, she broke into the European modeling scene, where her rise was meteoric. The explanation for her success was simple and obvious. The camera loved her. She seemed incapable of taking a bad picture, no matter what the angle or the lighting. She even looked great on the rare occasions when a photographer caught her wearing no makeup. She could look innocent or sultry on demand. And she wore clothes in a way that made even the more bizarre creations of high-profile, innovative designers look good. As a model, she was undeniably good at her job.

  Her real talent, however, seemed to be attracting the attentions of wealthy men. After dumping her Bulgarian husband, she had been involved in a succession of liaisons. None of these romances seemed to last very long. The men kept getting richer and more famous, and Eva kept getting more notorious.