Acting Out Page 3

  “How do you do it?”

  Kit…Aaron…looked up at him, and Jeremy…Greg…glanced at his lips, wanting to kiss him. Unsure if the gesture would be welcomed after their argument earlier in the afternoon.

  Aaron caught the fleeting look and quirked one corner of his mouth. Settling back, he tilted his head to one side. “Do what?”

  Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Greg looked down at his fingernails—reluctant to admit a weakness. “Stay so cool?”

  Papers rustled as Aaron gathered his thoughts, considered his words. “I like myself. I don’t give a shit what anyone says.”

  Aaron leaned forward to take his hand. Warm skin. A light squeeze. Strong fingers that could do so many things in so many places. Blue eyes deepened to indigo. Breath quickened almost imperceptibly.

  “How? How come?” Was it really possible for someone to sincerely like himself?

  “How come I like myself?” Aaron echoed his thoughts.

  Greg nodded.

  Cheeks coloring, Aaron blew out a breath. When he spoke, he looked at the floor. “Until recently, I’d not done anything to dislike myself for.”

  Shame didn’t sit well on Aaron’s normally confident, friendly features, and Greg found himself wanting to poke at this strange new emotion his lover exhibited. “Like what? What’ve you done recently?”

  Dropping Greg’s hand, Aaron looked away for a moment before meeting his eyes with steady grace.

  “Like losing it with you in the graveyard.” He sighed. “Not thinking of another way to get McHugh and the others off your back.”

  It was Greg’s turn to look away. A thousand hateful responses churned in his head. That night had been hell—his beating at the hands of his classmates a humiliation he’d never forget as long as he lived. Anger simmered, but with the memory of their afternoon argument fresh, he tamped down on emotion for once and pretended to study his class notes.

  Silence stretched longer than it should. Greg felt Aaron’s eyes weigh on him but refused to look up until he heard the telltale inhale that signaled he’d won this battle, at least.

  “Want to know how to avoid a fight? Even when you’re pissed?” Aaron asked.

  “Sure.” Greg tried to sound bored.

  “One of two ways.” Aaron reached forward and mussed his hair playfully.

  “Quit it.” Greg slapped Aaron’s hand away and combed his fingers through the unruly strands.

  “Don’t taunt your adversary,” Aaron mocked.

  “Oh, ha fucking ha,” Greg shot back, suddenly getting the point of the hair mussing.

  Aaron ignored the sarcasm. “Or, in more immediately dangerous circumstances, turn the tables on him with your smarts.”

  Greg mulled that over for a minute and looked up to give Aaron a shit-eating grin. “Well, with McHugh that shouldn’t be too hard. He’s dumb as rocks.”

  Swooping in, Aaron captured Greg’s mouth with a sweet suckling pull of lips and a brush of tongue. Greg’s cock sprang to life. The kiss—lingering, moist and a little mournful—overwhelmed his senses with the taste of cinnamon and the scent of salt and sunshine. When Aaron pulled back, Greg blinked up at him, dazed.

  “And whatever you do, just don’t throw the first punch,” Aaron whispered and brushed his thumb along Greg’s lip.

  “And…cut.”

  Jeremy’s attention widened, taking in the audition room again, and visions of the military dorm room receded. Kit stood and crossed the room, leaving Jeremy alone on the chair in front of the camera. Jeremy looked at Vance. Then at Falkner, whose impossibly white skin had gone a new shade of pale.

  “Oh shit.” Jeremy breathed the curse, knowing he’d been set up to fall in love, have his heart broken, and watch his career take off into the stratosphere all in one glorious mind-melding moment—all because Falkner had penned a script that had reality written all over it. Without contemplating the consequences of his words, Jeremy stared at Falkner and said, “This script is about you and your lover, Aaron Blake.”

  Chapter Three

  Kit faced the conference room wall and silently cursed his agent. Fucking bastard thought he could remake a childhood actor with a high profile, controversial project or two. Well, he’d found one film guaranteed to make the critics sit up and take notice, all right. The question centered on whether or not Kit’s fandom could survive the bait and switch from boy wonder to art-film fag.

  Kit didn’t dare show his trepidation about acting in a gay-themed film in front of Falkner. He didn’t come here today with a death wish. If Kit so much as looked at Falkner the wrong way on this one, he knew he’d be paying for dental work. The guy might not be out, but everyone in Hollywood knew he’d dated producer Aaron Blake for years.

  “Let’s go again,” Falkner said. “Same scene.”

  Christ.

  “I have a photo thing at seven.” Kit glanced at his watch, expression deliberately neutral. His years in Hollywood taught him how to lie and lie well.

  “We’ll only be another ten, fifteen, or so.” Vance shot his lunch bag at the trash can and missed.

  The dark-haired kid—Jake? Justin?—scooped up the bag and tossed the crumpled ball into the basket. He wasn’t half-bad as an actor—definitely trainable—and from what Kit knew of Falkner and Stone’s wish list, a good fit for the part.

  Red pencil slashing at the script, Falkner scribbled changes to the dialogue. Stone looked over a pile of headshots for other parts, and the kid picked at the remains of his water-bottle label with his fingernail. Kit moved closer to watch him worry the thing down to the glue.

  “It’s dead,” Kit said finally, unable to stand the scraping sound any longer.

  “Huh?” He looked up, his brown eyes showing surprise at having been addressed.

  “You killed it.” Kit jerked his chin first at the bottle, then at the trash. “How ’bout you bury it?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He put the bottle under his chair and jammed his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

  Kit tilted his head to one side and studied the guy’s face. The similarities between him and Falkner were undeniable. They could’ve been brothers—from the unruly lock of hair that seemed to delight in teasing the wide expanse of his forehead to the pillowed cleft in his bottom lip.

  “What’s your name again?” Kit asked.

  His potential costar pushed the hair off his forehead and mumbled, “Jeremy Ash.”

  Kit held out his palm—least he could do if they ended up sucking face four or five times a day. Jeremy slid his hand into Kit’s with a cool pressure, and their gazes met. Black lashes, thick and long, framed deep-set eyes, lending a versatility of expression Kit both envied and found unsettling. Jeremy gazed up at him with a self-effacing openness. The kid might be gay, but he didn’t need to let himself get eaten alive—and that was exactly what stood to happen if he kept that expression on his face in this town.

  “Pleasure,” Kit said after a too-long pause.

  He turned away and grabbed his water. The kid’s taste still lingered on his tongue—a hint of orange and spice he found unsettling. Especially since they’d managed to find the rhythm of their roles so easily.

  “Try this.” Falkner folded away his black-rimmed reading glasses and handed Jeremy the changed script.

  Apparently there were no changes to Kit’s lines, and he found himself with nothing to do but study the other actor. Head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes, Jeremy mouthed the lines with a mesmerizing intensity. The movement of his lips focused Kit on the one part of the guy he most needed to forget.

  Kissing Jeremy hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared. He’d managed to remain professional. In character. Which probably explained why he’d felt his heart race and his palms sweat at the contact. The tentative brush of tongue shouldn’t have made his cock swell, but it had—something he needed to find a way to counteract. Kit rolled the ridges of the plastic water-bottle cap between his fingers as he contemplated his strategy.

  Going
over the scene this time should be easier. Not so much of a surprise. He’d be a little more aggressive and see if that helped. Something about the soft, romantic approach he’d taken felt too much like Jeremy was his girlfriend. A more macho stance would remind Kit of his power. His hetero leanings.

  “When you’re set,” Stone said, glancing at his watch.

  “Sure thing.” Kit turned to Jeremy. “Ready?”

  Jeremy nodded and held out the edited script. “You want to use it?”

  Kit gaped. He’d heard of actors with photographic memories, and after years in television, he could memorize a script fast, but not that fast.

  “The changes were for you,” Kit pointed out.

  “I know.” Jeremy tilted his head to one side.

  “Your funeral.” Kit took the curled sheaf of papers.

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Jeremy glanced at Falkner.

  “More anger. At yourself,” Falkner said, reading the silent question in the quirk of Jeremy’s brow.

  Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking Falkner’s walled-off posture. Dark brow lowered, angled jaw hardened, he assumed the character he’d apparently intuited from the page and Falkner’s person.

  Kit glanced at the dialogue and then in silent question to Stone who said simply, “You love him.”

  “Great,” Kit muttered, his stomach clenching in a way it hadn’t since his first breakfast-cereal audition.

  They ran through the lines. Again, time and place telescoped to project a new reality on Kit’s inner screen until he forgot who he was. Where he was. And then came the kiss.

  Gazes clashing, he and Jeremy came together in a crash of wills and mouths that rocked Kit’s world. Upended it. Made him fight for every ounce of control he’d ever claimed. With his mouth, Kit owned his on-screen lover. A fistful of hair. A tug at the back of his head to angle it just so. He stole Jeremy’s breath and breathed it back when he deemed fit. Pressure increased the intimacy of his cock with his zipper, biting deliciously into his flesh, making him aware of the exhilarating thrum of adrenaline as he gave chase and brought down this decadent wounded animal of a man.

  “Cut.”

  The plunder of tongues and scrape of tender flesh against canines. The tinny taste of blood. Every sigh, moan, touch drove his ardor higher. The rub of tentative fingers against his nipple had him tearing his mouth away to gulp cool air into his lungs.

  “Jesus Christ.” Falkner’s voice sliced through Kit’s arousal.

  “Cut! Cut!” Stone shouted.

  Kit pulled back and wiped his arm across his mouth. At some point, he’d stood. Loomed over Jeremy. Bored down on him with the violence of the kiss.

  Jeremy stared up at him, eyes glazed, cheeks mottled with heat.

  “Fuck.” Kit fell into his chair.

  He shook his head and breathed deep before he glanced around to find everyone staring at him. Falkner looked smug—his lips pulling at the corners, eyes sparking with an emotion that on anyone else Kit would’ve called humor.

  “All set?” Kit asked, wishing for a cool cloth for his face.

  “Yeah.” Stone cleared his throat. “All set.”

  Jeremy stood.

  “We’ll be in touch.” Stone directed his words to the kid.

  A different kind of color brightened the actor’s face, tinting his ears pink. Jeremy nodded once and pivoted on his heel. Kit tensed, expecting the door to slam, but it only clicked shut. Clearing his throat, Kit tugged on his pant leg.

  “We still good?” he asked as he stood.

  “Yeah. We’re good,” Stone said. “Right, Greg?”

  Tapping his steepled fingers against his lips, Falkner nodded once.

  “You gonna hire him?” Kit asked.

  Falkner slid his gaze to the left to glance at Stone.

  Stone quirked a sandy brow. “The chemistry’s good,”

  A bark of laughter served as Falkner’s only answer. The display of humor tilted Kit’s world hard. At a loss, he glanced at his watch.

  “Gotta mosey,” Kit said, knowing nobody could come to a decision in this town without having a colonic and three martinis. Occasionally at the same time.

  Stone waved him out the door.

  Sunglasses securely in place, Kit found his motorcycle around the corner. A white ticket flapped in the early evening breeze. He pulled the paper from the seat and tore it up before he started the motor. A satisfyingly masculine growl thrummed from the engine, and he smiled. Yeah. He was good. Life was good. No worries here.

  Swooping around the corner, he ran a light and careened onto the Boulevard. Maybe he’d get good and wasted tonight. He hadn’t been clubbing in a couple weeks. Probably should make an appearance before his publicist got on him for being too invisible. Maybe a fight with the paparazzi would toughen up his image?

  Spotting a cop in his mirror, Kit stopped at the next red light and scanned the pedestrians. One form in particular caught his eye. Broad shoulders, trim hips. A chest that said I press your weight in iron. Dark hair. Pale skin. The kid walked down the sidewalk, head bowed, fists balled. Something foreign tugged at Kit’s conscience, and without thinking, he roared up behind him.

  Jeremy’s glance darted from Kit to the motorcycle and back.

  Safely ensconced behind his glasses, Kit nodded his greeting. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” The kid shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Where ya headed?” The motor idled low, but Kit still had to raise his voice. God he loved his Monster.

  “Culver.”

  Kit jerked his head. “Hop on.”

  “Isn’t that out of your way?” Jeremy’s frown made Kit wonder what it would take to make him smile.

  Feeling magnanimous, Kit shrugged. “No biggie.”

  The bike dipped a little lower as Jeremy got on the back. Used to having women riding with him, Kit had to take a moment to adjust to Jeremy’s weight. He pulled away from the curb and headed south.

  “You were going to walk all this way?” he hollered to Jeremy.

  Jeremy shrugged, and he tightened his arms around Kit’s middle with the motion.

  Kit rolled his eyes. There were some seriously rough neighborhoods in parts of LA, but if traversed carefully, he supposed Jeremy would have been okay. He seemed like someone who could handle himself, at any rate. Relatively light traffic had them in Culver City twenty minutes later.

  “Turn left here,” Jeremy said.

  Kit leaned them around a tight corner onto a narrow side street lined with wire fence on one side and modified bungalows on the other. It seemed like a run-down neighborhood but not dangerously so—though the missing tires on one of the older cars said otherwise.

  “Three houses up—” Jeremy jerked his arms reflexively around Kit’s waist.

  Gaze darting to the left, Kit took in the scene as they pulled close to the house. A pile of furniture, clothes, and bags lay strewn on the curb in front of the house Jeremy indicated. Kit pulled up slowly to the shapeless mass of shabby items. The neck of a guitar in the pile appeared splintered, and someone had dumped what appeared to be motor oil on the clothes.

  Jeremy stumbled off the motorcycle and stared at the junk.

  “Yours?” Kit asked.

  Jeremy lifted the guitar, then let it drop from his fingers. It landed on the pavement with an ugly twang. After lowering to his haunches, he rifled through the pile of clothes and pulled out a pair of jeans, some underwear, and a duffle. He shoved the clothes inside and rummaged for anything else that fit into the bag. Some boots, swim trunks, and a photo album.

  Several minutes later, Jeremy looked over his shoulder and squinted into the sunlight. “Sorry. I thought you’d gone.”

  At a loss, Kit shook his head.

  “I’m all set. You can go. Thanks for the ride.”

  “How will Falkner and Stone get a hold of you?” Kit asked, finally realizing Jeremy must’ve been evicted.

  “I didn’t get the part, so it doesn’t really matter now,
does it?” Jeremy shouldered his bag and walked away.

  “Wait!” Motor revving, Kit tried to keep to Jeremy’s pace along the sidewalk. He cursed as the bike wobbled, its engine champing to go faster. “Will you hold up?”

  Jeremy stopped.

  “I think you did get it,” Kit said, “if it helps any.”

  “Don’t fuck with me.” Brown eyes—so dark they almost appeared black—bored into him.

  “I asked.”

  Jeremy’s gaze darted. Wary. Desperate. “Yeah?”

  Kit jerked his head in affirmation.

  “I guess…if you don’t mind…you could give them my family’s number back East,” Jeremy said finally. “I should be able to scrape together enough money to check in with them next week.”

  People who looked as clean-cut as this kid actually lived like that? Without enough money for rent? Or to phone home? Kit frowned, not quite able to believe things like this actually happened outside of the movies. But they must…because Jeremy wouldn’t be leaving all his worldly goods on a sidewalk in a low-rent district of LA given any other choice.

  “Um. Sure…”

  “Forget it.” Jeremy stalked away.

  “No! Wait!” Goosing the motor, Kit screeched forward and hopped onto the curb, skidded to a halt, and blocked Jeremy’s path.

  Looking into Jeremy’s listless eyes, he saw shock and marrow-deep depression. Kit’s world didn’t usually include rescuing anything, except maybe the bar tab when his friends ran it too high. Jeremy’s predicament seemed novel enough to be interesting. Bored with his usual role, he made a split-second decision to cast himself as a knight errant.

  “Come home with me,” he said.

  “What?” Full lips mouthed the word, making a breathless sound of the wh.

  “C’mon,” Kit prompted, holding out his hand for Jeremy’s bag.

  Deflating a bit, Jeremy gave over the duffel. Long fingers brushed his, and Kit felt a zing of electric awareness—sexual yet not purely carnal. Jeremy reminded him of something warm and flannel, sustaining and home cooked. As sexy as sin and as reliable as apple pie. You didn’t see quaint often in this town, so it tended to stand out.