Beautiful Liar

Beautiful Liar by J. M. Snyder

Amber Quill Press www.amberquill.com

Copyright ©2008 by J. M. Snyder

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Beautiful Liar by J. M. Snyder

CONTENTS Also By J. M. Snyder BEAUTIFUL LIAR J. M. Snyder Amber Quill's Rewards Program ****

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Beautiful Liar by J. M. Snyder

BEAUTIFUL LIAR By J. M. SNYDER **** Amber Quill Press, LLC www.amberquill.com

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Beautiful Liar by J. M. Snyder

Also By J. M. Snyder All Shook Up Beneath A Yankee Sky The Bonds Of Love Crushed Matching Tats On Company Time Persistence of Memory The Powers of Love The Regent's Knight Under A Confederate Moon With This Ring The Positions Of Love Series, Books I-XII [Back to Table of Contents] 5

Beautiful Liar by J. M. Snyder

BEAUTIFUL LIAR It's been seven years since Johnny Thomas last sat in this chair, at this desk, across from this man. He'd been fifteen then, precocious, and one of the hottest names on prime time TV. Every teenybopper magazine had his picture splashed across the cover; every teenage girl from New York to LA had his pictures taped to her wall. He went by JT Pierce then, a rising young star with the world at his feet and nowhere to go but up. From appearances, manager Lou Merrin's office hasn't changed much since Johnny's last visit. The movie posters lining the walls have morphed from the early 90's films Johnny remembers to last year's Oscar winners, and there are a few more signed celebrity photos scattered around the bookshelves, Lou in every single one of them. Each photo shows him shaking hands with A-listers in the industry and smiling for the camera. Though Lou only manages actors, there are quite a few musicians in the pics, Johnny notices, but a lot of singers make the transition to actors nowadays, and vice versa. Johnny thinks maybe he has an album in him somewhere, once he gets back in the public eye. Nothing like a Top 40 single to give his career a much-needed boost, is there? On Lou's desk sits the same family portrait, a studio shot of the man, his wife, and a son who must be in college by now but looks all of ten in the frame. Johnny met him once but can't recall the kid's name. Samuel? Stuart? He should 6

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ask but he doesn't want to remind Lou how long it's been. He's lucky the manager agreed to meet with him after all this time. Leaning back in his patent leather chair, Lou crosses his ankle over one knee and props his elbows on the arms of the seat. He steeples his fingers in front of him, then peers at Johnny over his fingertips. "JT Pierce," he drawls, each syllable a separate word. "J. T. I didn't think I'd ever see you again." "It's Johnny now." He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter, his head cocked to the left to keep his long bangs out of his eyes. "Johnny Thomas." Without dropping his gaze, Lou murmurs, "Johnny." He's old enough to be Johnny's father. In many ways, that's exactly how Johnny thinks of him—it was Lou who saw him at the mall all those years ago, when he was just a toothy eight-year-old with a mop of dark brown hair, clear gray eyes, and a wide grin that made hearts flutter. Lou who approached his mother, business card in hand, with the promise of making her little boy a star. Lou who walked him through auditions, who screened his scripts, who finally landed him his first television spot. A handful of commercials later, it was Lou who got Johnny a returning role on a popular Nickelodeon after school program, and after that, Lou snagged him the coveted lead in Fox's Friday night hit series Zack's Back, as well. Johnny owes the man so much, he knows. And here he is, like an ungrateful son, asking for more. 7

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For a moment, they stare across the desk, each gauging the other. Lou with his balding pate, combed over with fine strands of reddish-orange hair. His narrow face, his gaunt cheeks, his dark, unreadable eyes. Johnny forces himself to sit still, but despite his best efforts, one knee shakes nervously. He keeps his hands clenched together in his lap and waits for Lou to speak again. Let him run the meeting, he reminds himself. I need his help; he doesn't need me. "Johnny." With a sigh, Lou uncrosses his legs and surges forward to rest his elbows on the desk between them. "It's been what, five years?" "Seven." Johnny clears his throat again to keep his voice from cracking. "I'm twenty-two now." Lou gives him an indulgent smile. "So why are you here?" "I want a comeback," Johnny says, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. "I need the limelight, Lou. You told me to wait, remember? And I waited. Seven years I waited. But the calls stopped coming and the scripts dried up, and I haven't had an offer in I don't know how long. I just can't wait any more. I want back in the business. I want you to bring me back." Holding up one hand, Lou cautions, "Wait. You're how old?" When Johnny starts to answer, he talks over him. "Have you gone to college?" Johnny shakes his head. "No, I—" Lou interrupts him again. "Acting school? Done any stage work? Any bit parts or paying gigs since Zack?" "No." 8

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Johnny knows that sounds bad—he hasn't done squat with his life since his show was canceled, but that wasn't his fault. He was a star, damn it, and wouldn't settle for commercial spots or sidekick roles. He wanted—he wants—the lead. "Lou, please," he tries. "You're the best in this business, and I need the best. You took a nobody from Bum-fucked, California, and turned him into a household name, remember? You took me and made me a star. So they already know who I am. They loved me once. How hard is it going to be to make them love me again?" But Lou doesn't look convinced. "Disney has the corner market on kids' TV nowadays," he points out. "The Olsens, High School Musical, Hannah Montana? You can't cash in on that without selling out to the system." "I'm not talking Disney." Johnny sighs, exasperated. "I'm twenty-two here. I don't want to settle for TV, alright? I want something more, something bigger. I'm talking adult films." Lou holds up both hands now, backing away. "I don't touch those, Johnny, and you know it. I'm above board all the way—" "I don't mean porno." Johnny laughs and runs a hand through his long bangs. They fall back into place and he has to shake his head to the left so they don't hide his eyes. "Jesus, Lou. What kind of guy do you think I am?" He doesn't like the dark look the manager throws his way. "I've heard stories about what happened at your sweet sixteen."

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A twinge of fear spikes through Johnny, but he shrugs it off. "Rumors, that's all. Nothing happened. God, it was so long ago anyway." "Yeah, well." Lou gives him a distrustful look, one Johnny doesn't care for much. "Rumor or not, that sort of shit can make or break a career these days and you know it. You see the tabloids. Just because it's the twenty-first century doesn't mean middle America embraces the idea of queer leading men." Johnny starts, "I'm not—" Now it's Lou's turn to laugh. "Please, Johnny. We both know you're not that great an actor." Johnny falls silent, a sullen pout tugging at his lips. This meeting's taken a turn he didn't expect. Suddenly he's half ready to play the diva and storm out of the office. What will Lou do then? Find someone else. Johnny hates to admit it, but it's true. There's a line of hopefuls in the waiting room outside, each yearning for a chance to take what I once had. And it's mine, damn it. I'm not giving in just yet. Lowering his voice, Lou says, "Look, kid. It doesn't matter to me who you sleep with. I've been in this business long enough to have seen it all. But you're not trying to sell yourself to me." "I'm not selling myself to anyone," Johnny mutters. He picks at a loose thread in the seam of his jeans and refuses to meet the manager's gaze. "I want to act again. On the big screen, this time. I want—" "Johnny." 10

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His name in that stern voice, so quiet, so commanding, makes Johnny's words dry up. His mouth snaps shut and he pouts again, harder this time. He feels twelve years old, sitting here in Lou's office waiting for an angry lecture on why he shouldn't cuss on the set. Maybe he should've picked a different manager this go 'round, someone who doesn't know him so well, doesn't know which buttons to push or how to bring him down with just a word, a look, a tone of voice. When it becomes evident Lou isn't going to say anything else, Johnny says, "What." "Listen," Lou sighs. "Ninety-three percent of moviegoers in this country are women between the ages of twenty-five and forty. That's your market base. That's your audience. All those girls who grew up swooning over your pictures in Bop and Teen Beat are graduating from college now, getting married, having babies. They're getting jobs and raising families, and finally beginning to realize maybe they aren't going to snag the celebrity they used to fantasize about growing up. So they're perfect for you. They're poised, ready and waiting to fall in love with you all over again. With your persona. With who they want you to be." Grudgingly, Johnny nods. Women love him; he's always known this. Lou continues. "The gay market is growing, don't get me wrong. But it's still very marginalized. Brokeback aside, America wants traditional romances. Women want to be able to imagine they're Kate Winslet, promising they'll never let go. They want to be Romeo's Juliet, Sid's Nancy, Jack's Sally. Movies are an escape—from chores, from kids, from everyday 11

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life. And if their leading man's kissing on another dude, what's in it for them? Where do they see themselves in that picture, hmm?" "I don't want to do gay films," Johnny mutters. "I want to do blockbusters—" "Exactly." Lou sits back, the leather chair creaking beneath his weight, a smug smile on his face as if he's just made his point. Johnny frowns, unsure of what that might be. Rolling his eyes, Lou sighs. "Fame isn't how many films you've done—look at what's his face, that guy in Amistad. The man's been in just about every movie that's come out of Hollywood since 1970. But who knows his name? Who cares? The media sure doesn't. And without news articles or headlines, or candid pics, he's nobody. See what I mean?" The frown on Johnny's face deepens—he has no clue who Lou's talking about. He doesn't watch foreign films. "Who—" Lou cuts off his question with another sigh. "It's the papers you have to cater to, Johnny. The tabloids you have to woo. Rachael Ray was a bubbly little girl working at HoJo's a few years ago and now you can't turn without seeing her face somewhere—on the TV, in the magazines, on a set of steak knives. That's what's called publicity. That's what's called kissing ass when you have to, smiling pretty for the camera, and letting the media have its day. You want the paparazzi to follow you around, I'm telling you. Sure, Britney's not churning out hit songs anymore, but everyone still knows who she is. You get me?" 12

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Johnny nods, dubious, then thinks better of it and shakes his head. "Not really." "How does the public get to know you?" Lou asks. "Not Johnny on the big screen but Johnny the actor? The face behind the movie? Because believe me, they want more than just headshots anymore. They want intimate details of every little aspect of your life. Go to the supermarket—half the magazines and newspapers on the stands are candid photos off the streets of Hollywood. Christina shopping for baby clothes, Hilary having her latté at Starbucks, Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or whatever the hell he's calling himself these days playing in the park with his kids. Housewives eat that shit up. They want to know you, the real you." He gives Johnny an arched look. "For that, they turn to the tabloids." Johnny hasn't thought of it that way. When he was in the business earlier, he had a modest security force who would go in ahead of him, clear out a McDonald's, and lead him through a crowd of screaming, crying girls just so he could order a Big Mac. But the only photographers taking his picture were hired to do so. The paparazzi he's seen on the streets of LA just weren't there then. A sudden panic grips him. Have they been trailing him all along? Snapping pictures when he's not aware? How many crazy photos of himself are there online anyway? Flirting with the UPS man who delivered his flat screen TV, or adjusting his crotch as he watched the other guys in the weight room of Bally's Gym, or hell, picking his jeans out from the crack in his ass as he got out of his car? Not to mention the nameless guys he paired off with in the clubs. Is nothing sacred? 13

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Lou must see the scared look on his face because he gives Johnny a tight-lipped, sympathetic grin. "You want to be a star, again. Fine. I can do that. You have that classic, allAmerican look about you, those eyes, that hair, and God, that smile of yours is enough to get you front row seats at the Oscars, believe me. It won't take much to get you back out there, I know. But you have to want it—" "I do," Johnny assures him. He sits up straighter, leans forward, eager. "Lou, you just don't know..." Lou speaks over him. "And you have to live it. I don't care what you do in the privacy of your own home but in public, you're straight." When Johnny opens his mouth to protest, Lou holds up a hand to stop him. "Uh-uh. Listen to me now. Every minute you're out where someone can see you, even if there's no one around, you have to stay in character. You can't go picking up guys on street corners or making out in the back rooms of clubs or holding hands in line at Starbucks." "I'm not like that." Except the clubs bit, Johnny adds silently. Is that a lucky guess or does Lou know something Johnny doesn't? "Find a female friend," Lou advises. "Someone you can drag to award shows, someone pretty. No palling around with one guy, even if he's been your best friend since birth. Ricky Martin brings a male escort to the Grammy's one year and where's his career now? You tell me. I'm serious here, Johnny. You want back in, you need to pay the dues. And that means acting like you don't like dick. Got that?" 14

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Johnny glares at Lou. After a moment, the manager's face softens. "I'm not out to bust your balls, son. I'm just telling you like it is. It's their game; you play by their rules. Or you resign yourself to indie art house films that will never make you a star. If you want this, I'm behind you a hundred percent. Make your mark now, while you're still young, and you can chase after pool boys when you're retired. What do you say?" In truth, Johnny doesn't know what to say. Yes, he likes guys—he'd suspected it for years before his sixteenth birthday party, when he hooked up with another actor his own age. They hid in a closet during most of the party, kissing and touching in the dark, nothing more, but it'd given him a taste of something wonderful, something forbidden, something real he's been searching for since. And where was that other actor now? The guy grew up in the limelight, unlike Johnny, and seemed on his way to making a big name for himself, until he came out a few years back. After a couple Advocate covers, he sort of faded from the scene. So maybe Lou's right. Maybe America isn't ready to separate the private from the public—maybe his sexuality would hurt his career. At the moment, it doesn't matter much anyway. Johnny has no steady boyfriend, no one he's interested in ... when's the last time he was with a guy? Last weekend, maybe, someone anonymous at a club. He'd give that up, if he has to. Anything to be famous again. The determination must shine in his eyes because when he looks at Lou, the manager gives him a slow grin, then offers a 15

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hand across the desk for Johnny to shake. "Alright then. Welcome back." **** Before Johnny leaves, Lou gives him the name of a publicist to call and an appointment for early next week. "Get a portfolio together," the manager advises. "All those photos you did years ago, throw them away. By the time I see you again, I want new pics and at least the beginning of some sort of idea about what you want your image to be. Give this some real thought, Johnny. This is the rest of your life we're talking about here. Got that?" Johnny already knows what he wants—doesn't "superstar" count as a career choice anymore? He stuffs the publicist's number into his back pocket and gives Lou a big grin as he shakes the man's hand on his way out. It's not exactly a binding contract, but he does have another appointment, right? So that puts him a step above the schmucks still lining the hall, glaring jealously at him as he strides toward the elevator. At least he's coming back. To celebrate, he calls in sick to work. What's an evening shift at a fake bake tanning parlor when he's going to be in movies soon? He wants to go out, get drunk, share his good news with the rest of Hollywood. Sure, Lou told him to lay off the clubs, but Johnny doesn't think he meant immediately, did he? Tonight's one of his last nights of anonymity. He plans to take advantage of that. 16

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He has a small apartment downtown, a place he can barely afford but he's always liked to stay close to the scene. For years now he's felt like a forgotten satellite, spinning in an off-kilter orbit, circling the fringes of popular society. He sees the paparazzi trailing other celebrities and wonders why they don't bother with him. He eats at the same restaurants, hangs out at the same clubs, shops at the same specialty boutiques and no one seems to notice. No one cares. Johnny won't settle for that, damn it. His star still burns, he knows it, and he wants nothing more than to eclipse the sun again. At home, he heeds Lou's advice and walks around the cluttered apartment, closing blinds and pulling curtains, until the rooms are draped in late afternoon shade. In the bedroom, he changes into a tight pair of jeans—no underwear—and a clingy shirt that barely reaches his belt. The shirt is made from a shimmery, metallic fabric that changes colors when the light hits it, now blue, now green, now a dark silver that sets off his eyes perfectly. A palm full of gel is rubbed brusquely into his hair, giving it the tousled, bed-head look that's big these days. One last glance in the mirror—his hands smooth down the shirt and he turns, those hands propped on his hips, then cupping his ass—and he's good to go. In another few months, when he hits the clubs like this, maybe he'll have an assistant who can page the paps ahead of time, let them know he's on his way. He's seen the cameras flash at other celebs, each bright white shot pinning them for all eternity like a captured butterfly in the pages of a collector's scrapbook. That could be him. 17

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It will be. **** At the last minute, he changes his mind and veers offcourse, away from the gay-friendly pub he usually frequents in favor of the more newsworthy Viper Room. As he drives past the club, he wishes again he had an assistant, someone who could drop him off at the front door then park the car while he navigates through the gauntlet of cameramen lining the entrance. But he's alone in the car—for now—and has to fork over a twenty to squeeze into a private parking deck. A ten-minute walk back to the club puts him behind the cameras, not where he wants to be. He has to bully his way through the paparazzi, and not one of them bothers to snap his picture. Just you guys wait, he thinks, flipping his ID at the bouncer who guards the door. This time next week, once Lou's circulated his headshots, once he has headshots, these same men shouting out the names of passing celebrities in the hopes of having them look their way will wish they'd bothered with Johnny. They'll be crawling all over him, he just knows it. At least, they better be. Isn't that why he's paying Lou in the first place? Inside the club, the air is close and smoky. The crowd moves like the tide, flowing from one side of the room to the other, catching Johnny in the undertow and pulling him along until he's washed up against the side of the bar. He's seeing stars he only dreams about meeting one day and he stands with his back against the bar, watching them bob past him 18

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like ships in the night. All the big names are here, and he feels his own status burn a little brighter just being this close to the others. This is what he's missed all these years. This is where he should've been, where he belongs. Someone bumps into him. He moves aside to make room but the stranger presses against him, clinging to his side. He feels a strong hand ease around his arm to settle somewhere in the small of his back, and hot breath curls into his ear. A masculine voice sighs into him, "Hey." Johnny spares a glance and finds himself staring into deep eyes the color of rich chocolate. His gaze flickers to take in short brown hair, lighter than his own, streaked by the sun and standing up from a tanned, sweaty brow. A strong, aquiline nose above too-red lips. A small gold hoop earring in one ear and, around a slim neck, a black cord with a handful of white puka shell chips like all the surfer guys wear. The shells fall in the hollow of the stranger's throat, accenting his dusky skin. One thought crosses Johnny's mind ... Fuck Lou. He isn't famous yet, right? His grin must be encouraging, because it makes the stranger grin back. Leaning against Johnny, he shouts to be heard over the music and the crowd. "Anyone ever tell you that you should be a model with a smile like that?" Johnny laughs. "Is that your best line?" "I'm serious. Brett Cary." The stranger holds out a business card for Johnny to read. Freelance Photographer. "With your looks? I could make you a star." 19

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Taking the card, Johnny jokes, "That seems to be the general consensus today. You do headshots?" "I'll do whatever you want," Brett says. His suggestive look says he's not only talking about photos, either. And suddenly Johnny's evening goes from just alright to hell yeah. "You come here often?" Johnny shakes his head. "I'm usually at the Den downtown," he calls out, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. The Den ... only Hollywood's hottest gay club. Johnny watches Brett smile, a slow, sexy grin that says he got the hint. Closing the distance between them, he leans down over Johnny's shoulder, one hand brushing the soft skin on the inside of Johnny's elbow. The touch is ticklish but Johnny doesn't pull away. Instead, he studies those dark eyes and imagines they're shadows he could disappear into tonight. Brett's mouth curves into a bemused grin. "Can I buy you a drink?" His gaze flickers past him and Johnny turns to see the bartender, waiting to take his order. When he moves, his back presses against Brett's arm—warm, firm, strong. With a coy glance over his shoulder at Brett, he suggests, "How about some Sex on the Beach?" The photog's eyes widen at his brazen words, but a moment later, they soften and the smile's back. One hand drifts to Johnny's waist, nimble fingers easing into the band of his jeans. "You want to wait that long?" he teases. "I was thinking the VIP Lounge upstairs..." 20

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Now it's Johnny's turn to feign surprise. "How can you get in there?" "I know people," Brett says with a shrug, like it's no big deal he has access to the hottest off-limits party in the world. "You want to head on up?" Though they're already tight, Johnny takes a half-step closer, his body molding alongside Brett's. Narrow hips jut out, pushing his crotch into Brett's, and an adventurous hand drops from the bar to cup the start of an erection through Brett's jeans. With a playful poke, Johnny purrs, "Then why are we still here?" "Drinks first," Brett tells him. Johnny doesn't care. VIP is where he belongs, and he'll do anything to gain access. With his head on Brett's shoulder, he breathes, "I think I love you." That earns him a laugh, a drink, and an arm around his waist to hold him close. **** Three strong drinks later, Johnny leans against Brett, legs weak, feet clumsy, hands unable to stay in one place for long. They find the buttons on Brett's shirt and slowly work them free, one by one, starting at his waist and moving up, until they smooth over the flat, tanned swath of belly above his jeans. Johnny's fingers are insistent, picking at the button fly, as well. He gets the first button undone and manages to rub the faint hair that trails from Brett's navel down into his pants, but he doesn't move much farther before the photog catches his hand. "Not here," Brett says, but his body seems 21

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to disagree. It's in the way he steps closer, the way he bends down, the way his lips close over Johnny's earlobe as his tongue licks out to wet the hidden spot behind his ear. He is officially all over Johnny. "Upstairs." That's what Johnny wants, more than the bulge in Brett's pants or the heat of his kiss. Access to the VIP lounge, a chance to hobnob with the rich and famous, a glimpse at the life he deserves. The life to come. Downing the last of his drink, Johnny leaves the glass on the bar and takes Brett's hand. With the photog in the lead, they wind through the undulating crowd, hips bumping into strangers, bodies swaying with the beat. Johnny finds himself moving in rhythm with the crowd around him, dancing his way through. A tight grip keeps him on track, trailing behind Brett, who moves ahead like an unseen guide leading a wayward traveler. Hands reach out, arms brush over him, legs and asses and torsos grind into Johnny. He feels like he's in the heart of a living, writhing creature, and every touch cranks up his libido another notch, until his dick is raging in his pants, aching for release. With the hand that isn't attached to Brett's, he fondles himself through his jeans, pushing the erection there, rubbing the coarse denim against his sensitive skin. His cock throbs, and his balls pound in time with the music. When he finally breaks free from the crowd, following Brett up a narrow staircase, which leads to the lounge above, his hand is fisted at his crotch, his fingers squeezing, his whole body eager to come. A bouncer blocks entrance to the VIP section of the club. Brett flashes something—a badge? His card? Johnny can't tell. 22

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He stands behind the photog on a lower step and, when Brett stops, Johnny leans his forehead against his ass. Beneath the cottony smell of denim, there's a faint odor of musky sex that drifts over Johnny, spurring his desire, and he buries his nose against the seam that runs between Brett's buttocks. He shakes his hand free from his friend's and grabs those cheeks, kneading them through the jeans, lifting, separating, his breath hot and fast. His teeth slide over the worn denim, seeking purchase. His tongue licks out, wetting taut fabric. If the jeans were gone, and they were alone, he'd be nipping at the doorway to paradise. Suddenly Brett turns, and Johnny stumbles up the stairs. Strong hands catch his arms, hauling him to his feet. "Are you through kissing my ass?" Brett jokes. His steady grip keeps Johnny from falling. "I wasn't..." Damp lips cover his. It's just a quick kiss, but it silences Johnny and takes his breath away. "It's much more private in here," Brett purrs, leading Johnny through a door held open by an impassive bouncer. The man ignores them, his gaze surveying the crowd below. Johnny glances down at the surge of people and feels faint. Brett takes his hand to steer him away from the stairs. His other hand is now on Johnny's waist, now on his elbow, pulling him into the VIP lounge. Johnny lets himself be led into a darkened corridor that curves into a mezzanine above the dance floor. Tables edge the railing on his right, overlooking the stage and bar; the wall to the left is lined with one long seat, the red patent leather like dark blood in 23

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the low light. More tables are pushed against the seat, making a narrow path along the balcony. With Johnny's hand in his, Brett starts down the aisle. Johnny teeters on his feet, head swimming, eyes unable to focus on any one face for long. All the stars are here, all the names he reads in the tabloids, all the people he envies because he no longer lives like they do. All the hot stars, the pretty starlets, the singers, the athletes. The superstars, each glowing with an internal light, each an individual sun revolving within a private galaxy. Individual rulers, minute kings and queens, basking in the adoration of private entourages, bevies of hangers-on. Here are the dreamers, Johnny tells himself, and here are the dreams. Here is where he is meant to be. He follows Brett to the far end of the lounge, where the wall-length seat curves around to meet the railing. There's an empty spot in the corner, overlooking the dance floor below, and Brett drops into place, then scoots over to make room for Johnny. He pats the seat, right next to the railing, but it's unnecessary—Johnny stumbles over himself to sit down. The drinks he's had conspire against him, and he falls like a graceless fop, sprawled halfway into Brett's lap. "Sorry," he says, snickering. When he leans back against the railing, the room spins dizzily. Sure fingers brush up his inner thigh, over his crotch, to tug at the zipper on his jeans. Brett leans down over him—in the darkness of the lounge, it's hard to see the photographer's features, and Johnny's already begun to forget the exact shape of his face, the curve of his jaw. Cute, 24

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he remembers, and that's about it. Light from the floor below glistens like starshine in Brett's eyes. "Hey," he sighs, his breath like fire igniting the kerosene of sweat sheathing Johnny's skin. "Hey," Johnny whispers. He likes it here. He doesn't want the night to end. The fingers at his crotch have worked his zipper down an inch, two, and the AC-cooled air of the lounge nips at heated skin, exciting his dick. Being here, in public, with the rest of young Hollywood, only heightens his desire. Fisting his hands in Brett's shirt, he pulls the photog down to steal a kiss as he arches his hips away from the seat, against Brett. At the sweet pressure that spikes through him where his cock grinds between them, he moans, "Yes." Brett needs no further encouragement. His mouth grows insistent on Johnny's, pinning him back to the seat, the crown of his head pressed up hard against the railing. A warm tongue fills Johnny, licking him, staking claim. His jeans are fully unzipped and fingers twine through trimmed hair, circling his cock, grasping his balls, stroking along his length. "Commando," Brett breathes. Johnny feels him smile against his lips. "Nice." Johnny bucks beneath him, lost in an alcoholic haze of lust and greed. The hand on his dick gives a gentle squeeze, and Johnny's body shivers in response. As Brett kisses him, Johnny scoots back, sitting up a little, legs spread wide. His jeans stay in place, sliding down his thin hips, and the leather seat feels hot and alive against his backside. His dick juts from his crotch at an obscene angle, the shaft hidden in 25

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Brett's fist, the bulbous tip like a ruddy mushroom that has bloomed in the darkness of the lounge. Leaning against the railing, Johnny throws his head back and lets out a guttural growl that sounds playful and kittenish. He can't believe he's doing this, here, not in some sleazy gay bar on the outskirts of town but here, among stars. "Please." "You're so damn sexy." Brett's words are mere breath on Johnny's chin, and his kisses chase after them, down Johnny's jaw, down his throat, over his Adam's apple. Each kiss is punctuated by a mind-numbing tightening of the fingers around his dick. His heart beats in his cock, drowning out the music thudding through the club. "These bitches have nothing on you. How lucky did I get tonight?" Johnny doesn't know—he's pretty damn lucky himself. He lays back as Brett massages his dick, lips suckling his neck. Brett's thumb has found a tender spot just beneath the tip of Johnny's cock, the nail tracing up and down the slit with maddening ease. Johnny's breath quickens, coming in short pants, words of affirmation intermingled with unintelligible gasps of delight. "Yes," and "please," and "God," the words mean nothing but more. He sets his head back on the railing, stares at the ceiling far above, and savors the waves of pleasure crashing over him with each little kiss, every stroke, Brett's very touch. At the first bubble of pre-cum, Brett moves back and Johnny feels that harsh mouth close over his cockhead. The tongue is softer than he imagined, the lips like velvet, hot and wet and so unexpected that Johnny digs his heels into the seat, raising his buttocks up to drive as much as he can into 26

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that willing hole. He gasps, "Yes, yes," clutching at the railing, the table beside them, the wall, as he fucks into Brett. A hundred shiny eyes seem to watch them, but as Johnny glances around, no one meets his gaze. Below them, the music swells, the crowd continues its ancient dance, laughter drifts over to their darkened corner, turning the moment unreal. Then Johnny meets Brett's gaze. He's taken Johnny's length in completely, and Johnny's pubic hair looks like a dark beard on the photog. Inside that mouth, Brett's tongue swirls around Johnny's cock, the thick muscle massaging the hard shaft, guiding it to release. "Please," Johnny whispers. The word is lost in the noise around them. As he watches, Brett's hand drops between Johnny's legs to fondle his balls, and one inquisitive finger dives deeper to breech Johnny's puckered hole. He comes in an explosive rush that sets the whole world spinning out around him. Yes. **** Johnny's never bothered to reconnect with anyone he's met in a club before. He rarely takes their number, never gives his own. But he needs a portfolio before he meets up with Lou again, and he doesn't know any other photogs in town. Not to mention that the earnings he made years ago are rapidly dwindling down to nothing, so he hopes to maybe get some sort of discount from this Brett Cary guy. And who knows where things might lead between them? Johnny may 27

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not be looking for a man, but if one just sort of found him, he's not likely to kick him to the curb. There is a scary moment when the phone stops ringing, before Brett says a word, but he recognizes Johnny's voice and the world starts spinning again. "I've been thinking of you all day," he says. "Why didn't you tell me you were famous?" "We didn't really get much chance to talk," Johnny points out. Part of him preens to think someone recognized him, but a little voice inside wants to know who else might have, too. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Lou. At least there were no paps inside the club. Johnny and Brett left separately so when the cameras started to whirl, they wouldn't be caught in the same frame. Not that any of the paparazzi seemed to clue in to who he was. "JT, right?" Brett laughs, an infectious sound, and Johnny remembers how he tasted at the club, fresh and heady, spearmint gum and a hint of rum. "Man, I used to have wet dreams about you." That has to be the best thing anyone's ever said to Johnny. He's heard dozens of girls say they loved him when they were little, but none of the guys he's ever been with really seemed to care. He can't stop the stupid grin that tugs at his lips. "Really?" "Listen," Brett says, "I'm in the middle of a shoot right now, but maybe we can hook up tonight, what do you think? Dinner, a movie, get to know each other a little better?" 28

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There's something seductive in his voice that makes it hard for Johnny to say no. As if he would. But he needs pictures, and soon. "Actually, I wasn't kidding about the headshots last night. I'm trying to get back in the game and my manager says I need an updated portfolio. I was wondering, if maybe you weren't too booked..." "I'm free after two." Lowering his voice, Brett purrs, "I don't usually mix business with pleasure, but there's always the exception to the rule." "Then maybe we can do something afterwards," Johnny says. A hint of suggestion creeps into his voice, and he has to shift from one foot to the other to dull the sudden ache at his crotch. Brett was hot, from what Johnny remembers, and damn, that voice of his just seems to curl up inside Johnny's ear and trickle down the back of his neck like warm honey. "Let's get the business out of the way first, then move onto the pleasure." Long after he hangs up, he still hears that voice in his mind. I've been thinking of you all day. Johnny decides that's a much better come-on line than the one about modeling, and he's glad he gave the man a chance. **** He reaches Brett's studio at ten till two, but because he doesn't want to seem overly eager, Johnny walks around the block once, twice, three times, then crosses Sunset Boulevard to grab a latté at Starbucks. From a perch in the café's window, he sips the hot coffee as he watches the old fivestory brownstone bearing the address on Brett's business 29

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card. Quite a few people enter through the revolving door, but no one famous, no one Johnny knows. Once he's finished his drink, he glances at the clock over the counter—two-thirty now—and weaves through traffic on his way back across the street. Nothing like being fashionably late, no? The studio is on the fourth floor. Alone in the elevator, Johnny studies his reflection in the mirrored walls, glancing from the corner of his eye to check out his profile and try to catch a glimpse of his backside. These jeans make his ass look high and taut, he loves that, and his tight ringer T-shirt bunches at his waist, showing off the goods. Why guys insist on wearing baggy clothes to hide their bodies, Johnny will never know. He may not be buff but he's slim, with a bubble butt he's not afraid to display. Here in the elevator, he cups his crotch to adjust his dick, and gives it a little squeeze to perk it up. Then he tugs his shirt down over his flat stomach, runs a nervous hand through his hair, and bares his teeth at the mirror to make sure the coffee hasn't stained them. He'd like some water now to wash that down, and maybe a mint to kill the aftertaste. There's an old Jolly Rancher in his pocket that he pops in his mouth just as the elevator stops. He drops the wrapper on the floor before the doors open. Brett's office is at the end of the corridor, a nondescript door with a plaque that reads Cary Studios and, beneath that, QUIET! Shoot in Progress. For a moment, Johnny hesitates, hand on the doorknob, torn between knocking and just busting up in there. The guy's expecting him, right? He did say he was free after two. And it's so far after two, it's almost 30

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three. But when he tries to turn the knob, he finds it locked. Sullen, he knocks, two quick raps, then waits. Brett was expecting him, wasn't he? So why the hell is the door locked? He's just about to knock again when the door opens and Brett's there, backlit by the early afternoon sun that streams into the studio through a wall of windows. The hair is a lighter shade than he remembers, longer too, though the front still stands up in spikes. The eyes are darker, the lips fuller. Damn. Johnny feels like he's gotten lucky all over again. "Hey stranger." He shrugs, a move that makes his shirt rise up off the waistband of his jeans just an inch to expose his pale belly. "Invite me in." "I thought you'd be here sooner." Johnny sort of just shrugs again; he has no answer to that. But Brett steps back and lets him into the studio, and there's no real hint of malice in his voice. Johnny tries to see everything at once—the room is open and airy, with a high, unfinished ceiling and those huge windows overlooking the city. A handful of desks huddle in one corner by the door, laden with computers and printers and cameras, with the rest of the space given up to the art of photography. In another corner sits a mirrored vanity, a full-length mirror behind it, a tall stool in front. Makeup and brushes litter the vanity top. Nearby, vibrant clothes dangle from rolling racks, and various backdrops are tacked onto the walls or stand clustered together out of the way. Free-standing lights, their bulbs dark, stare blindly at one makeshift scene—a daybed set against a white backdrop, a bedside table nearby, pillows and 31

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feathers scattered about. Following his gaze, Brett explains, "Sorry about the mess. I had a CK shoot earlier." "CK?" Johnny asks. "Calvin Klein." Ah yes. Which would explain the photos Johnny can see on one computer monitor, half-naked men cavorting in their underwear as they pillow fight over a woman who watches from the daybed. Is it just him, or are advertisements getting gayer? How can Lou think coming out would be bad for his career? I want to act, not model, he reminds himself. In movies, not TV, and sure as hell not commercials. Without warning, Brett leans in and plants a chaste kiss in the corner of Johnny's mouth. "I didn't think I'd see you again," he breathes. "You said two," Johnny reminds him. The exasperated look on Brett's face tells him he doesn't mean that. But it's a subtle reminder of just why he's here in the first place, and Brett picks up on it easily. "My assistant's gone for the day, but you've got pretty flawless skin already." He should know—he's inches from it. "I started in makeup. I'm sure I can get you camera ready. You brought stuff to wear?" "Some." Johnny hefts the messenger bag he carries slung over one shoulder. Inside are two shirts, the nicest he owns, and a pair of black twill pants that are part of his uniform at the tanning salon. He doesn't have another pair—everything else is denim. 32

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Brett eases his fingers under the strap and catches Johnny's hand in his own, a quick touch before he takes the bag. "I have some things from the CK shoot, if you want to try those on, as well. Let's get you into makeup, what do you say?" The phrase sends a thrill through Johnny—that's how they used to say it on the set, "into makeup." It makes him feel like he's actually doing something to get back into the business. With eager steps, he follows Brett, who leads the way to the vanity. **** Brett knows just what to say to make Johnny feel good. "Oh, that's perfect," he tells Johnny, watching him pose through the eye of his camera. "Damn, you're a sexy boy. Give me that pout again. Make me want you." Johnny doesn't think that's hard to do. "Gorgeous." Brett snaps off another two or three shots, Johnny moving subtly with each frame. The camera's digital, connected to the closest computer by a long, thin cable that snakes across the room, and over Brett's shoulder, Johnny can see images of himself pop up onto the screen, each slightly different from the last. They use a cloud-covered backdrop for the first series of shots, close-ups mostly, in which Brett directs Johnny through a myriad of emotions, from flirtatious to angry to heartbroken. Johnny acts his way through each one, determined to prove he still has game. "Awesome," Brett says, camera clicking away. "Give me that pout again. Run your hand through your hair, you're trying to 33

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get your way here, show me some puppy eyes. Yes, like that, yes." After about twenty minutes, they move into the bedroom scene, where the daybed still looks rumpled and feathers from the pillows still litter the floor. "How about something a little different?" Brett suggests. "Different how?" Johnny starts to peel off his shirt, but the moment it's over his head, obscuring his vision, he hears the tell-tale click of the camera. Tugging off the shirt, he glares at Brett. "What the hell? I'm getting undressed." "I'm just testing the setup," Brett says. He's not looking at Johnny—he's setting the camera onto a tripod, but there's a hint of a smile on his face and Johnny knows that shot wasn't an accident. "Come on, man. I'll just erase it." Yeah right. Johnny can see the photo from here, the concave curve of his bare chest an almost erotic pose. It's a great shot, if he says so himself, but if Lou saw it? Holy shit. Brett continues to fiddle with the camera, correcting the settings for the new backdrop. "You getting changed or what?" A pair of CK boxers waits for him on the bed. Grudgingly, Johnny unsnaps his pants and eases down the zipper, moving slowly to see if Brett plans to take a picture of that, too. But the photog doesn't seem to be paying him any attention, and the camera is silent. Still, Johnny half-turns as he begins to pull down his pants. Once again he's sans underwear, and the last thing he needs is to see a picture of his dick on the front page of the National Enquirer. As the waistband slides down over his ass, he glances over his shoulder... 34

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Another click; this time, the flash blinds Johnny and he stumbles in his haste to pull up his pants. "Hey!" The smile Brett gives him looks sincere. "Johnny, trust me. No one sees this, I swear." The corners of his mouth turn up a little, seductive, and Johnny catches a hint of the lust he tasted last night. "I'll erase it when we're done. You can erase it yourself, I'll show you how. What do you say?" Johnny knows what he should say, but those eyes, that grin, they turn him on all over again—who's he kidding? He's been hard since he walked into the studio, and he's loved being objectified through the lens of Brett's camera. He loves being watched, being seen, and his cock has been at halfmast all damn afternoon. The thought of doing a nude photo shoot with this man? Hearing Brett's encouragement as he writhes on the daybed, the sheets twined around him? Touching himself as Brett watches? Or—God forbid—having Brett join in? Sweet Jesus. That's better than dinner and a movie any night. With a coy smile of his own, Johnny starts, "I don't want to be the only one having fun..." Brett makes one final adjustment on the camera, then steps around the tripod, his hands drifting to the fly of his jeans. "Thought you'd never ask." By the time he reaches Johnny, his jeans lay on the floor, his shirt is off, and the bulge at the front of his boxer briefs leaves no question how he feels about their time together. Behind him, the camera clicks, another picture pops up on the computer screen, and he laughs at the surprised look on Johnny's face. "It's on a timer. Have you ever watched yourself having sex?" 35

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"No." Johnny tries to laugh but the sound comes out warbled and anxious. He shouldn't do this, he knows—hello? How many celebs have been laughed at and mocked when their homemade sex tapes showed up on eBay? What if these pics end up online? What if Lou sees them? I'll delete them, he assures himself. Brett steps closer, catches the front of Johnny's pants in both hands, and kneels to kiss the trembling skin that peeks between his open zipper. A hot tongue licks out, swirls around his navel, then trails down to disappear into his pants. He wants this. As Brett spreads his fly wider, the fabric presses down on Johnny's stiffening cock with a sweet ache. He needs it. Lou be damned. Leaning back, he vaults up onto the daybed. His pants stay with Brett, sliding down Johnny's legs, releasing his dick. The meaty shaft swings up for its cameo at the same moment the camera fires again. As if spooked by the flash, Johnny's cock jerks to attention, hard and thick. He grabs it in one tight fist and squeezes, sending a thrill through his body. "Brett..." The photog needs no prompting. He drops the pants to the floor and places his hands on Johnny's knees, spreading them apart, as his tongue licks over the soft sac of Johnny's fuzzy balls. Johnny lays back, legs wide, as those lips kiss his nuts, then that tongue traces the contours of his hidden spaces, down below his sac, to taste the quivering hole at his center. "Yes!" Johnny cries, arching his hips off the bed as he grasps at the cool metal rails behind him. "Oh God, oh yes, fuck me, yes." 36

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Click. Another photo, him spread wide, his anus puckering, his knees weak. Click. Click. Brett's breath is hot and feathery along Johnny's inner thigh. "Turn over," he says as he stands. "You want to do this?" Johnny lies on his back a moment, his heart racing, his blood on fire. "Yes." "I'm not your first, am I?" There's a worried furrow in Brett's brow that smoothes out at Johnny's quick laugh. "God, no. Just fuck me already, will you?" Brett grins. "For this, your photos are free." "You don't have to," Johnny says. "I've got money—" But Brett leans over him and silences him with a kiss. "I want to." His hand brushes over one pert nipple and Johnny shivers with delight. "Maybe it'll entice you to come back." "I haven't come yet," Johnny points out. Brett's hand drifts to his crotch, where it closes over Johnny's tender cockhead. With a gentle tweak, he purrs, "Let's remedy that." In the top drawer of the bedside table, there's a bottle of clear lube Brett says his models use when he needs a little shine on their skin. He has a condom tucked away in his wallet, which he fishes out. Johnny flips onto his stomach and positions the pillows under his belly to lift his ass into the air. He's grown used to the sound of the camera, and watches the images appear on the screen—himself on all fours on the bed, his hard cock jutting out from his crotch like an arrow; Brett's back obscuring the shot as he puts on the condom; Brett's 37

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ass spread invitingly as he climbs onto the daybed, one foot on the mattress, the other still on the floor; Brett behind him on his knees, Johnny lying on the bed, the pillows crammed under him. Brett's hands on his hips, the lubricated tip of his cock pushing against the cleft of Johnny's buttocks. Johnny's mouth wide and eyes shut in pleasure as that hard dick is thrust into him. The burn of entry steals his breath, and his hands clench at the bed's railing, his teeth bite into the bed sheets, his ass rises up, his body rocks back, to meet Brett thrust for thrust. His own dick is chafed against the sheets, trapped between his body and the mattress, their motion rubbing him toward orgasm. Yes. His mind whirls. Yes, yes, YES. The camera snaps away in time with the litany. Click, click, click. Yes. **** The next time Johnny's in Lou's office, his portfolio is spread out on the desk between them. None of the nude pics made it in there. Johnny deleted them off Brett's computer himself, after they snickered over them. He's decided he quite likes the faces he makes while being fucked. He's been to the studio twice since then for similar sessions. None of those pictures are in the folder Lou's glancing through, either. Instead, there are the required headshots, a few full-body poses, a couple "come-hither" close-ups that Brett called grade A jerk-off material. One of those close-ups now hangs 38

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in the tiny bathroom of Brett's studio, tacked right behind the toilet for easy daydreaming. Johnny laughed when Brett padded barefoot across the studio, nothing on but a pair of tight briefs, a large print of the photo in one hand and a roll of Scotch tape in the other. Now every time he has to take a leak when he's visiting, Johnny stares at himself and mimics the look in the photo, as if it's a mirror. But Lou doesn't like it. "Too sexy," he complains, tapping the pic with one blunt thumb. Before Johnny can speak, he pulls it from the folder and, with the flick of his wrist, sails it across the desk. "You want to do legit films, don't you, kid? Save that sort of look for Playgirl." Johnny catches the photo and sets it facedown on his lap. He tries not to think of the image on the other side, the pouted lips now planted on his crotch as if he's blowing himself. Because blowjobs make him think of Brett, which makes him glance at the clock like he's running late for an appointment. If Lou sees that look, Johnny can only imagine what the man would say. "Am I holding you up? I'm sorry, I don't mean to inconvenience you, but this is your career we're talking about here, not mine. It's nothing to me if you leave now. Don't let the door hit you on the way out." No, better not to get on Lou's bad side. Not when Johnny needs his help. "Nice," he announces, pointing at the only shirtless picture that made it into the portfolio. "Real nice. We'll send this one to DreamWorks. They have an open call Friday but I know the girl there, she says they'll take a look at you before they let in the public." 39

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Johnny's heart quickens. "Friday? So soon?" Inside, he wants to cheer. Yes. He's got an audition. Lou holds up a hand in caution. "You're not a shoo-in," he warns. "Not by a long shot. But I've got favors I can call in and I really believe in you, Johnny. I know you got it in you to come back." "But DreamWorks," Johnny says with a laugh. "That's a huge step up from nothing." "You ain't nothing," Lou reminds him. "You have talent, you have that spark, and hell, you already have your own page at IMDB so it's not like you're some bum off the streets. The minute you left here last week, I put the word out that you were back in the game and half a dozen reporters called me before the end of the day for the story. Within hours the news was on the street. Do you even look at the tabloids when you're in line at the grocery store?" Johnny shakes his head. To be honest, he hasn't been in a grocery store lately. His whole weekend was spent with Brett, either at the studio or eating out, going to the movies, just chilling. Getting to know each other better. Having sex. Lou sighs. "By the end of the month, your name will be in all the major celebrity rags, People, Us Weekly, OK. Little write-ups at first, nothing major, but we'll start scheduling interviews once you land your first role. Something to get you back in the public's eye, you know. Though it seems you might already be doing that yourself." "What do you mean?" Johnny sits up a little straighter—he doesn't like the dark look that flickers across Lou's face. "I haven't—" 40

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Interrupting him, Lou asks, "Ever heard of Z-23?" When Johnny shakes his head, Lou closes his portfolio and digs out a large manila envelope hidden beneath the calendar on his desk. "Largest gossip site online. It's like the love child of the worst tabloid you can name and the most invasive celebrity gossip show on TV, rolled into one graphic-intensive website. It's updated like every five minutes or so, around the clock, and everyone who's anyone is on there, doing anything." Johnny doesn't think he likes where this is going. He tries to remember if there were any paparazzi around, the times he and Brett went out. Or rather, more paps than usual. Who could tell? The damn vultures are everywhere. Lou's opening the envelope now, extracting a sheaf of paper. "Take a look at these," he says, handing the papers to Johnny. "Tell me what you think." The top page shows a high-quality photo of him at an outdoor café. This was taken Sunday morning, he remembers. He sits facing the camera, sunglasses on to hide bloodshot eyes, a bagel in one hand. Brett's hand in the other. Brett's back is to the camera, but there's no mistaking the fingers entwined together on the table top. Brett wears a ratty T-shirt and a pair of long cotton pants in a loud print that screams PJs. His hair is disheveled, as if he just rolled out of bed. Johnny peels the top page away and sees the next shot, this one two seconds later—Brett has pulled Johnny's hand off the table and placed it over his crotch, a move that set them both laughing. Johnny can still feel Brett's heavy 41

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cock through that thin material, the limp member fluttering to life beneath his touch. The next page has Brett leaning across the table, his face in profile, his lips puckered up. Oh God. Johnny's not sure what to say. He can't really deny the pictures—it's obviously him, and though he'd pushed Brett away before the photog could steal a kiss in public, the images still look pretty incriminating. He clears his throat, mind working in overtime; he never was any good at improv... Lou's voice is surprisingly gentle. "Who is he?" "Just a friend," Johnny says. Lou laughs. "Don't play coy with me. I'm your manager, Johnny. I need all the facts up front here. I'm the one they're going to call about this. You're just lucky the site's updated so damn often, and no one's really looking for shit on you yet. But the minute you're back on top, and they start Googling you? Don't you think someone's going to find these?" "We're just playing around." Even to his own ears, Johnny knows that sounds lame. "Are you serious?" Lou asks. Johnny glances up, confused, but Lou nods at the photos in his hands and asks, "With him? Is it something I should know about?" "Not yet." Then Johnny thinks a moment, and his voice drops to a mere whisper. "But it's getting there, I think. I hope." "You hope."

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For a moment, Lou is silent. Johnny frowns at the paper in his hand, unable to look his manager in the eye. Who took these pictures? Who knew? With an exasperated sigh, Lou mutters, "God damn it, Johnny. Not even female celebs can get away with grabbing their guy's crotch in public. That's the worst thing you can do, right there. Britney did it to her husband and people still called her a slut. How am I supposed to fix this?" "I don't—" "You're killing me here," Lou sighs. "Find a friend, I told you. A girl friend. And the next thing I know, there are candid shots of you grabbing some guy's dick on the internet. What'll it be next week? A gay sex tape? Cum shots?" Johnny starts, uncomfortable. No, he wants to say. I deleted those. Instead he keeps silent, a slight pout on his face. Can't they get back to the audition at DreamWorks? Why's Lou have to drag Brett into this? Lou waits for Johnny to answer, but when he realizes there isn't anything to say in his defense, he sighs again. "Look. You owe me, kid, so much you don't even know it. My son's girlfriend is an intern at Z-23, and she's sort of trying to break into the industry herself. I made a few calls this morning, got those photos deleted from the archive, and had the article taken down. This is like a do-over you never get in real life, you hear me?" "Thanks," Johnny mumbles. Lou talks right over him. "I want you in a movie, not some art house flick, but a summer blockbuster, you got that? So you keep your hands to yourself in public, and you ditch this 43

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playboy pal of yours for some pretty little brunette. One with tits and ass, something curvy to distract the cameras. What do you say?" Johnny clears his throat. "Thank you. For..." He ruffles the papers in his hand. "You know." Leaning across his desk, Lou steeples his fingers and pins Johnny in place with a steady stare. Johnny glances up, can't meet the intensity of that gaze, and looks away, but within a minute or two, he's looking back again. He can't help it. "Johnny," Lou purrs. "Listen to me. This may be the twenty-first century, and gays may be able to marry here in the Golden State. But earlier this year, a fifteen year old boy was shot and killed in school by a classmate because of his sexuality. So you're treading a very thin line here. You're putting yourself out there for the world to see, and you don't want to give them any ammunition to tear you down. Do you understand me?" Johnny nods. Perfectly. **** Thursday night, Brett stays over at Johnny's for the first time. It's hard to believe it's only been a week since they met—every little thing about the photographer excites Johnny, from the way his eyes light up when he smiles to the two inch black and red star tattooed on the inside of his left ankle. They go everywhere together—the grocery store, the post office, the studio. Johnny makes sure to keep a wide distance between them so no one thinks they're a couple, but 44

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the first moment they're alone in private, Brett drapes an arm around Johnny's shoulders and reels him in for a hungry kiss. When they have sex, their bodies meld together perfectly, Johnny's ass backed up in the curve of Brett's pelvis, those large hands strong on Johnny's hips, that big cock wedged deep within him. When Friday morning rolls around and Johnny wakes beside Brett, he studies the tanned brow smoothed out in sleep, the full lips slightly pursed, the shock of hair that stands straight up from Brett's temples. In the pale sunlight that falls through his window, Johnny feels a pang in his heart, so sudden, so unfamiliar, so real, that it terrifies him. He thinks he might be falling in love. Maybe it's just the impending audition, he tells himself. His stomach is a mess of nerves, writhing like snakes within him. He thinks he might be sick, and he suspects he'll throw up before he even leaves his apartment. He hasn't done an audition in years, and part of the reason Brett stayed the night was to help Johnny prepare himself for the role. They spent hours acting out the sample script Lou provided, Johnny playing through the gamut of emotions required for the part, and at one point he grew so frustrated, he tossed the script aside, pissed. Brett retrieved it, but instead of forcing Johnny through the scene again, he stood behind him, massaging the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders, and within the hour they were in bed, cuddled together, having sex. Making love. Johnny doesn't let himself go there. Curling into Brett's embrace, he traces one of the photog's eyebrows with his 45

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thumb. He watches the way those eyelids flutter in sleep, and that mouth parts in a barely audible sigh Johnny silences with a kiss. Nuzzling Brett's nose with his own, Johnny murmurs, "Wake up, sleepyhead." Brett's response is a slow stretch. He rolls onto his back, away from Johnny, his arms rising above them to bump the wall before falling to the pillow. His cheek now rests on the top of Johnny's head, and he moans, a contented sound that warms Johnny down to his toes. The tension in Brett's body fades as he drifts back to sleep. Johnny waits. When he's sure Brett's not getting up any time soon, he slowly extracts himself from his lover. The bed sheets slide sinfully over his naked body, caressing him in all the right places. His lower body tingles with the memory of their coupling, and in his mind, he's already standing over the toilet, masturbating away his morning wood, when a hand catches his beneath the sheets. He glances over his shoulder at Brett, whose wide eyes have no trace of sleep in them. "Where you running off to?" "I've got that audition," Johnny reminds him. But he lets the hand tug him back to the bed, and he falls easily into place in Brett's arms again. Picking at one pert nipple, Johnny snuggles against his lover and murmurs, "I can't be late." "You've got some time." Brett holds out his right arm to show Johnny the watch on his wrist—it's only a little after nine. "Where's it at again?" Johnny kisses the nipple, grinning at the shiver that runs through Brett when his teeth close over the tight bud. "I told you, DreamWorks." 46

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"No, I mean where." Brett gasps in delight as Johnny tongues his nipple, and he fists his hand in Johnny's thick hair. "Like physically where? Their studios? A hotel?" Johnny shrugs, settling himself closer to the photog. "I don't know." With one final bite, he lets the nipple go and wraps his arms around Brett's waist, holding him close. "Lou's sending a car." "Hmm." Brett's hand slips down to cup the back of Johnny's neck. His fingers feel ephemeral, like spider webs. "You want me to come along?" Here it is—the question he's been dreading. The answer is yes, of course he wants Brett there with him, but Lou said specifically that he should go alone. After those pictures online... He shifts uncomfortably. His silence answers for him. With a peeved sigh, Brett sits up and Johnny falls away from him. The magic of their touch evaporates in the morning sun. "Never mind." "Don't be like that," Johnny chides. "Lou said to play it down, you know? At least at first. No assistants, no bodyguards, no entourage." "I'm not a fucking hanger-on," Brett snaps. "I'm your goddamn boyfriend." He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, out of Johnny's reach. The sheets puddle at his waist, obscuring his genitals, but despite the anger that threatens to erupt like a summer storm around them, the bony nubs of his spine and his tan skin, so dark against the white linens, cut out an erotic moment from the flow of time. The word "boyfriend" 47

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hangs between them like a meniscus, waiting to be snatched up and analyzed, waiting to be poked and prodded and burst. It's the first qualifier either of them have used to describe what lies between them, and it both thrills and terrifies Johnny at the same time. He's glad he wasn't the one to say it. Reaching out, Johnny touches Brett's elbow. The muscles are taut beneath his touch, and his fingers work into the tenseness, trying to dispel it. "Brett, please," he sighs. He wants to call him "baby" but his mouth won't form the word. "Don't be like this." Brett's response is simply, "You should get in the shower. You're going to be late." Johnny rolls off the opposite side of the bed, an ignoble pout tugging at his mouth. "Now you're mad." "Not at you." Somehow, Johnny doesn't believe that. He lets the sheets fall away as he stands and stretches, ignoring the open curtains that stare out over the bustling street below. He doesn't have time for this, and God knows, he doesn't need it right now. He has to get in the zone, clear his mind, be the character if he wants to get the part. He'll deal with Brett later. But on his way to the bathroom, a hand snags his arm and his next step twirls him into the span of Brett's embrace. "Hey," his lover murmurs, kissing his forehead. "What?" Johnny asks, petulant. Their nude bodies press together, skin so soft this early in the morning. With a finger curled under Johnny's chin, Brett 48

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raises his face until they're staring at each other, and the anger he'd heard in Brett's voice hasn't spread to his eyes; they're warm like melted chocolate, and Johnny thinks he could drown in their dark gaze. "I'm not mad at you," Brett says again. This time, Johnny believes him. He kisses the tip of Johnny's nose and smiles. Between them, Johnny feels a familiar stirring at his groin. "Lou's an ass. No one's going to give a shit who you sleep with in this town. This is Hollywood, for Christ's sake." Johnny sighs. "He's just looking out for me." "So hire someone else," Brett suggests. "This place is crawling with managers and agents, any one of whom would cream themselves to get a shot at you." "Lou's all right." Johnny tries to turn away but Brett won't let him, and those lips touch his, wiping his pout away. "Let me get this part, okay? Once my career's back on track, I can shop around a bit. But he helped me the last time—" Brett kisses him again, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "Fine. We'll do it your way." Why doesn't Johnny buy that? **** The shower is quick—Johnny doesn't think to ask Brett to join him until he's turning off the water. He doesn't have the time to fool around anyway. Thankfully he doesn't need a lot of maintenance, but now that he's out of bed, the morning seems to be running away from him. It's already quarter to ten by the time he gets out of the shower. He wraps a towel around his waist and uses another to dry his hair; while he's 49

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rubbing it over his scalp, he reaches out with one foot to pry open the bathroom door. He's about to call out and ask Brett to get him some underwear from the top drawer of his dresser when the sound of his lover's voice draws him up short. "No," Brett's saying out in the bedroom—who's he talking to? "He doesn't know where it's at. DreamWorks, okay? There's an open audition today at noon. Call them if you have to." Johnny's hands freeze, the towel half-obscuring his vision. He pulls it back and peers through the crack in the doorway. Brett stands at the window, still naked, cell phone to his ear as he stares at the street below. His back is to the bathroom and he doesn't see Johnny. "He's leaving here in a half hour," Brett says into the phone. "Taking a limo, I assume. He should get there an hour before the public arrives. I want—" The bathroom door creaks beneath Johnny's weight and Brett whirls around. For a moment they stare at each other, faces devoid of expression. A heartbeat later, Brett smiles, and Johnny feels a sudden rush of relief for no real reason. "Listen, Tish. I got to go. I'll be there by eleven, how's that sound?" Tish. His assistant. That makes sense to Johnny. He resumes his rigorous rubbing to dry his hair, turning from the open door to watch himself in the mirror. A few seconds later, the door's hinges squeal as Brett enters the tiny room. "You shouldn't stand in the window like that," Johnny says to Brett's reflection. "People on the street can see you." 50

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"No one ever looks up." Brett tugs at the towel around Johnny's waist and the cloth falls away, exposing his still damp ass. With both hands, he begins to towel dry Johnny's backside. "Tish says to break a leg." Johnny grins. "So you're heading down to the studio?" Brett leans against Johnny's back, pinning the towel between them. His arms ease around Johnny's waist to hold him tight, and his chin rests on Johnny's left shoulder. The look he gives Johnny in the mirror is one of contentment, as if there's no place he'd rather be than here, with him. "I sort of hoped we'd catch up after I'm done," Johnny says. His voice is light and nonchalant, but his heart hammers in his chest and his stomach churns anxiously. It's the audition, he tells himself. Nothing more. Brett kisses his neck. "So swing on by. You know where I'll be." "I wish you could come." Another kiss, this one behind his ear. "Tell Lou," Brett says, "not me." **** Lou is waiting behind the wheel of an SUV that idles on the curb outside Johnny's apartment. The vehicle is huge, the kind of transports the military uses for crowd control in the Middle East. The windows are tinted so dark, Johnny can't see into the back seat, even standing right next to the door. The fact that Lou bothered to show up himself sort of pisses Johnny off—what, he can't be trusted to listen to his manager's advice and not bring Brett along? 51

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But at least he won't be heading to the audition alone. He feels good about that. As Johnny slides into the back seat, he finds a dog-eared script and a bottle of water on the leather cushion beside him. "How you doing, son?" Lou wants to know. He watches in the rear-view mirror as Johnny buckles his seat belt. "Ready to knock 'em dead?" "Ready as I'll ever be," Johnny mutters. The nervousness in his stomach cranks up another notch and he reaches for the bottle of water, anything to calm it down. He can do this. He's done it before. Lou revs the engine and puts the car into gear, but before he pulls away from the curb, he asks, "He coming, too?" Johnny hits the power button on his door to lower the window beside him in time to see Brett exit the door of his apartment building. The guy looks stunning in the sunshine— his hair stands up like dirty-blond grass, and his eyes and mouth are a tad too large for his face, giving him an almost anime appearance. His slim jeans hug his hips and thighs, and the shirt he's wearing is one of Johnny's. It accents the hard angles of his chest, shows off the thin muscles in his arms, and stops just above a slight bulge at his crotch. Mine, Johnny thinks with a slow grin. He said it first, didn't he? He said he was mine. "He has to work." Johnny raises a hand in greeting. Brett sees him and nods. He looks like he's going to say something, maybe call out to him, say goodbye, blow him a kiss, something, but his cell rings and the moment is gone. Johnny can hear the tinny jingle that Brett has set as his ring 52

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tone. "Yo," Brett says into the phone, his voice carrying to where Johnny sits. "No, it's not a limo. It's..." Then Lou eases the behemoth into traffic and Johnny doesn't catch the rest of what his lover says. A glance back shows Brett watching them as he talks into his phone, and he gives Johnny one last quick wave. Sitting back in his seat, Johnny sticks his arm out the window and waves wildly. The grin won't fade from his face. In the front seat, Lou gives a disgruntled sigh. "Can you at least look at the script?" His tone sobers Johnny fast. "I read it last night," he says, flipping through the stapled booklet beside him. "That was a sample script," Lou explains. "That movie came out last summer. They wanted you to do a cold reading this morning but I managed to wrangle a few pages out of the office assistant. Give it a read through." Now Johnny's worried. The script he read last night was frustrating enough, some stupid romantic comedy about a high school dropout meeting the guy of her dreams at a friend's party, only to discover he was in med school. The rest of the film defied logic as she pretended to be enrolled in the college to get him to fall for her. "Is this a chick flick, too?" "They're all chick flicks," Lou tells him. "The women who are going to pay to see these films are your target audience, and don't forget it. They're going to be snuggling up with their boyfriends while they fantasize about you up on that big screen." "I want to do real movies," Johnny mutters. 53

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Lou laughs. "No, you want to be famous. There's a difference." Johnny doesn't think so. Picking up the script, he frowns at the front page—Untitled Summer Blockbuster, it reads, and below that in even larger type, A Roxy Greene! Production. "Roxy Greene?" he asks. "Who's that?" Lou taps the brake in surprise and Johnny's seat belt locks as he's thrown forward. "You don't know who Roxy Greene is? Jesus, Johnny, where the hell have you been these past few months?" Before Johnny can answer, Lou guns the gas, pressing him back against the seat again. "She's Fox's answer to Hilary Duff. Or wait, don't you know her either?" "I don't pay any attention to girls," Johnny reminds him, though the name sounds familiar. "You mean that Lizzie McGuire chick?" "She sings now," Lou says, "like a grown-up Hannah Montana. Roxy's heading down that same path, only she's a bit grunge, a bit punk ... a wild child, so to speak. Out there just a little to appeal to the girls but still reined in enough to satisfy the moms. This is going to be her first major film, and the part they're casting for today is her love interest. They want someone sexy and cute, someone fairly new to the scene who won't overshadow their star, and someone Roxy's fans can fall for along with her. So you're perfect for the role." **** Johnny's only up to page thirty of the script when they reach DreamWorks' studios. The part he'd play hasn't even appeared yet, and that worries him. He thinks again about 54

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complaining to Lou—he wants to be a serious actor, damn it, not the love interest in some campy teenage skit—but he knows enough about the business to know summer movies are usually big draws. And hell, look at Will Smith. Who'd have thought all those years ago that the same dorky kid who rapped without cursing could ever become the box office monster Smith is today? And he did his fair share of crap movies, too. Hello, Wild Wild West? Lou slows the vehicle amid excited chatter and a steady click click clicking sound fills the air. Johnny looks up from the script to see a crowd of people pressing in around them. At first he thinks it's just the line for auditions, but then he notices the cameras pointing his way. He turns to glance out the window and a sudden flash blinds him. "Johnny!" someone calls out. "It's him, it's Johnny Thomas!" Another flash, and the crowd surges toward the SUV. "Damn it the hell," Lou swears. "What are they doing here?" He hits the power buttons on his door and Johnny's window rises between him and the blind lens of a camera staring him in the face. The locks engage on all the doors, sealing them in. The script falls off Johnny's knees to land on the floor, forgotten. His heart has begun to stutter in his chest. "What's going on?" "Paparazzi." Keeping his foot on the clutch, Lou steps on the gas to rev the engine. The cameramen in front of the vehicle scatter and Lou eases forward another few feet before they swarm back again.

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Johnny can see the flashes of light through the tinted windows. His name is coming from all directions now— "Johnny!" "JT!" "Over here, look over here, smile for me!" His hands grip the headrest of Lou's seat. "How are we going to get through them?" God, he can't do this. He can't go out there. They'll tear him alive... "Sit back," Lou tells him, "and hold on." He guns the engine again. The SUV leaps ahead, causing more men to move out of the way. Johnny ducks down in his seat, scared and for the first time wondering if this is what he really wants. This madhouse everywhere he goes? These vultures circling him every time he's out in public? Can he live like this? Does he want to? Lou parks as close as he can to the studio where the auditions are being held. "Hold the script up over your face," he tells Johnny, who hurries to comply. "Turn it around, don't let them see the front page. I don't want anyone knowing we have a copy of that." When he opens the door, Johnny grabs his arm. "Wait, Lou—" Lou shakes him off. "Just follow me." The door shuts, and for one blissful minute, Johnny's alone. The cameras and shouts outside seem a world away— he feels like he's in a submarine, far below the waves, and the noise out there is nothing but the water raging around him, wanting to get in, wanting to wash him out and drown him. God. He's going to blow this, he knows it. These paps have totally thrown him off his guard, and what little 56

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concentration he had is now shot to hell. He has half a mind to call this whole thing off... Then his door opens, and a hand reaches in for him. Johnny takes a deep breath as Lou's fingers close over his. "Stand back!" his manager shouts, opening the door wider. "Make room! Stand back or there won't be any more pictures today, you hear me?" Someone nearby calls out, "Aw, Lou!" Someone else laughs, but as Johnny steps from the vehicle, a gap widens between himself and the paparazzi and, miraculously, he isn't crushed. The flashes, on the other hand, are blinding as they snap around him, pinning him in their light. He starts to raise the script to hide his face, but Lou catches his arm and stops him. "Give them three seconds," he mutters from the corner of his mouth. "Smile, wave, whatever. Let them get their money shot." So Johnny stands there, a dazed grin in place. The cameras snap at him like hungry sharks, and when he waves, they go into a frenzy. An eternity seems to pass before Lou releases his arm and lets him duck under the script in some effort to protect himself from the flashes raining down around them. With Lou's hand still firmly in his, Johnny lets his manager guide him through the crowd and into the studio building. The paps fall back—they know their place, it seems, know just how far to go without overstepping their boundaries. Johnny hears his name on a dozen lips, called out in a dozen tongues, and the cameras flash without relief. Johnny keeps his head down and doesn't look any one person in the eye. 57

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Not that he can see the men behind the cameras, anyway. It's a sea out there, unrecognizable faces shiny with lust and hunger, cameras snapping away with eager abandon. When they reach the studio, Lou opens the door for Johnny. He starts to duck inside when one of the paps steps into his personal space, on his right side where Lou isn't standing. Hot breath curls down the back of his neck and he hears a familiar voice whisper his name. "Hey, Johnny." Brett? It can't be—it isn't. But Johnny doesn't know for sure because when he turns to look, a camera is shoved into his face and he's blinded by the sudden flash. "Brett?" he asks. Someone nearby hears him and latches on the name. "Who's Brett?" he calls out. Another photographer picks up the question and repeats it. "Hey Johnny, who's Brett? Lou? Do you know—" "No one," Lou growls. He pinches Johnny's arm as he pulls him inside. "We have an audition scheduled, gentlemen. Good day." Then the door is shut, but Johnny only gets a moment to savor the silence that descends before Lou whirls on him, face ruddy and livid. "What the hell did you bring him up for?" "I didn't—" "Don't talk to them," Lou says, anger blotching his cheeks. "Anything you say will be sucked up, picked apart, and spat out in a dozen different ways." Johnny glances at the closed door behind him. "I thought I heard..." But did he? Did he really? 58

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"Heard what?" Lou asks. "How'd you hear anything over that?" Johnny shrugs. Lou waits a moment, then grabs Johnny's shirtsleeve and pulls him along down the hall. "Never mind. We're running late. Who told the damn paps we'd be here early, I don't know. Probably that flighty office assistant. Never trust someone who bucks the rules for you, Johnny. Because you never know who else they're tipping off, too." With a last look over his shoulder, Johnny hurries to keep up with Lou. It hadn't been Brett, he tells himself. The guy had to get to work, he said so himself, and Lou's right—there was too much noise and confusion outside to know what he'd heard. **** There's an interview before the audition that Johnny blows. He can't concentrate—his ears ring with shouts and every time he blinks, he sees the afterimage of a dozen flashes of light. His eyes are dry, his retinas burn. He sits next to Lou at a conference table, facing three people whose names he didn't catch. Two women and one man, the guy so flaming, Johnny's surprised he doesn't spontaneously combust. And Lou's worried about him? Every other question, Johnny glances at his manager, fielding them his way. He doesn't know what the execs across from them want to hear. What's he been doing since his last acting gig? Working at a tanning salon, he starts to say, but Lou interrupts, glossing over that one to move onto the next. And the next. And the next. Damn, it's worse than a job 59

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interview. Johnny thought he'd get ten minutes in front of a small audience to work his magic and they'd be on their way. But no. After the interview, Johnny's asked to wait a moment while they set up for the auditions. A half hour later, he's led into a small room with nothing in it but the proverbial casting couch and three chairs. The execs each take a seat, leaving Johnny the couch. There's a copy of the script beside him, and he's given two minutes to read through the scene. His mind still chatters with the raucous crowd of paps that had bombarded him outside, and every time he thinks he's found his focus, that sinuous voice trickles inside him again. Hey, Johnny. The more he remembers it, the more it sounds like Brett. He wants to call the photog, make sure he's at his own studio and not hanging around outside this one, but he hasn't had a moment alone since he entered the building. The audition is the first time Lou's let him out of his sight, and now he has these three studio execs breathing down his neck... "Johnny?" one of the women asks, startling him. "We're ready when you are." Somehow, it all comes back to him—the lines are there when he opens his mouth, and his timing is flawless. He becomes the character without even trying, just loses himself in the part like he used to do. His head clears, his nerves dissolve, and he doesn't read from the script, he lives it. He lets the moment carry him and the words ring true, every last one. He nails it on the first try, he knows he has it in the bag, and when he's finished, both women daub at their eyes to keep tears from ruining their mascara. The man whose name 60

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Johnny hadn't bothered to learn even stands as he claps. "Why you ever got out of the business, son, I'll never know. But thank the Lord you're back." Johnny's grin threatens to split his face. "So did I get the part?" That sobers them up. There's talk of seeing the other auditions, and doing a screen test, and meeting with Roxy herself to make sure the chemistry is there. But Lou is ushered into the room and when he sits down on the couch next to Johnny, he claps a hand on Johnny's knee that tells him the role is as good as his. It's an old gesture Johnny remembers from when they worked together before—that hand signifies Lou thinks Johnny has it in the bag. Now start the negotiations. Lou begins speaking in tongues almost, contracts and clauses and addendums that make Johnny's head swim. Removing Lou's hand from his knee, he clears his throat and says softly. "Excuse me." Four sets of eyes turn his way, as if they had forgotten he were even there. Half-standing, Johnny asks, "Bathroom?" "Down the hall, sweetie," one of the women says with a smile. A second later, she's back to spouting studio-speak that Johnny can't follow. He slips from the room, one hand already fishing out his cell. He dials Brett's number and ducks inside the bathroom just as the phone starts to ring. And ring. And ring. And ring. When the voice mail picks up, Johnny ends the call, then hits SEND twice to redial. He watches himself in the mirror above the sink as he listens to 61

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the tinny ring in his ear. The voice mail answers again, and he hangs up a second time. And redials. This time, Brett answers on the first ring. "Johnny," he gasps, as if he's just run to answer the phone. "Babe, what's up? You know I'm in the middle of a shoot." "Sorry," Johnny says, sounding anything but. "We just finished the audition." Brett waits a moment, but when Johnny doesn't say anything else, he prompts, "And? How'd it go?" "All right." Silence. Johnny wants him to ask something else, or say something intimate, make him feel good, but he's busy, Johnny knows that, and in another minute or so, Lou's going to come looking for him. Finally Brett asks, "Well? That's it?" Johnny shrugs, a movement Brett can't see. He wonders if he should mention the paparazzi, but he doesn't think the cameras would have the same effect on Brett as they did on him. Still, he wants to say something unexpected, something to keep his lover on the phone. "You ever heard of some chick named Roxy Greene?" "That punk rocker with the TV show?" Brett laughs. "What's she got to do with this? No—wait. Don't tell me." A smile spreads across Johnny's lips. "The movie I auditioned for?" Brett laughs again, pleased. "No way. Johnny, that's great! I heard rumors they were going to film something with her soon. Is that what you read for?" 62

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"Yeah." Brett's laugh is infectious, and Johnny can't stop grinning. Apparently this girl's bigger than he thought. "Lou thinks it'll be good exposure for me." "No shit! That's awesome." Brett falls silent, and for a moment, they listen to each other breathe. Johnny's about to say something else, tell him the audition went well, tell him he practically has the part, when Brett clears his throat. "Listen, I'm really in the middle of things here. Are you still coming by or what?" Johnny's elation deflates, leaving behind a sour aftertaste he doesn't care for one bit. Beads of water rim the sink; absently he runs his finger over them, smoothing them out. "We haven't left yet." "Call me when you do. I have to go." Johnny flicks the water off his finger, aiming for the mirror. "I know." In his ear, Brett sighs. "Are you okay, Johnny?" "Fine," Johnny tells him. He decides Brett's voice sounds nothing like the one he heard earlier, and that cheers him up a bit. "Fine, Brett. The audition went well. Lou's in there talking semantics so I think I'll probably get the part." "That's great." Brett sounds sincere, but Johnny wishes he were with him now, standing here, holding him. He wants to look into those warm eyes, feel those strong hands on his body, taste that tender mouth again. "Listen, I really have to go." "I know." But still Johnny doesn't hang up, doesn't say anything to end the call. When Brett sighs again, Johnny 63

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swallows his pride and asks, "Will you stay with me again tonight?" He's afraid of what the answer might be, but Brett was the one who said they were boyfriends, didn't he? And the smile is evident in the photog's voice when he replies, "Do you even have to ask?" **** Johnny dreams of cameras, hundreds of them blinking at him, flashing in a staccato pattern of dark and light. He feels like an icon, an idol, placed on a pedestal and worshipped from afar. Each light is an offering to him, promising immortality. The glow is heady, and a million suns explode around him, delighting in his presence. But he's alone in the light. It's stark and lonely, and the pedestal shrinks as Johnny stands on it, the wide rim growing smaller, until he's standing on a piece of unsteady stone the size of a large dinner plate, then a tea saucer, then just the top of a narrow pillar, one foot on the other. He reaches out but no one's close enough to help him balance. There's no support behind him, no one but cameramen and their flashing lights. He totters and they step back, eager to keep snapping his picture, eager to watch him fall. Hey, Johnny. In the dream, the voice is Brett's. Johnny looks over his shoulder but finds no one there, no one at all. "Brett?" he calls out. When there's no response, he tries again, louder. "Brett?" The snap of a camera's shutter is his only reply. 64

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He stirs amid his bed sheets and the dream dissipates. "Brett?" he murmurs, his arm reaching across the empty expanse of the bed. He finds the pillow his lover used the night before and fists his hand in the downy material. The sheets smooth over his legs as he stretches awake. "Where..." An almost inaudible click startles him awake. His eyes flutter open. Brett kneels on the bed, his nude body a glorious stretch of firm, tan skin that coalesces into a thick thatch of sandy curls at his crotch. He has his digital camera in both hands, aimed at Johnny, and a faint smile appears on his face. "There you are. Say cheese." Click. For a moment Johnny lies there, stunned. Then the cool air pimples his bare thighs and he remembers he's naked, too. Grabbing the sheets to his waist, he scurries back against the head of the bed, anger seeping through his sleepy brain. "Brett!" he cries, hiding beneath the sheets. "Jesus, what the fuck—" "Calm down." Brett takes another picture of him, frowns at the image on the digital camera's display, then deletes it. "Do you know how damn cute you look when you sleep?" Johnny pulls his knees up to his chest and tucks the sheets in around his feet. "I am buck naked," he says, as if this little fact might have escaped Brett's notice. The photog only shrugs. "So? Me, too. What's the problem?" 65

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"The problem," Johnny starts, then he sighs. "Brett, if those pics get around—" "They won't," Brett assures him. He fiddles with some settings on the camera and doesn't quite look Johnny in the eye. They've been together long enough that Johnny knows he's mad. "I'm not stupid, Johnny. This is my personal camera, okay? No one touches it but me." "Still." Johnny pouts, unwilling to let his ire go so easily. "You should've asked." Brett reminds him, "You were asleep. You looked carefree and innocent and so sexy, what was I supposed to do? Wake you up to say hey, stay right like that, I want to take your picture?" True. Much as he hates to admit it, Johnny's secretly pleased Brett thinks he's sexy. Running a hand through his hair, he concedes, "Well, as long as no one else sees it." "Tish might, but don't worry, she's cool." The offhand way Brett says it makes Johnny laugh, surprised. He isn't sure if Brett's kidding or not—the slight grin on his lover's face is ambiguous. There's a twinkle in his eye, too, that says he might be joking. "A daily dose of dick might do her good now and then." Johnny grins, embarrassed. "Brett..." "Check out this fine cock." Still on his knees, Brett comes over to where Johnny sits against the headboard. He crawls into a tight space between Johnny and his pillow and holds the camera up for Johnny to see. The images of him asleep are sexy—the white sheets give his skin a dusky hue, and his dick looks long and thick, now stretched out between his legs, 66

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now draped over the top of his thigh, now pointing at his navel. Johnny's tousled hair looks windswept, and the morning sun streaming in through the window dapples his chest, accentuating muscles he normally doesn't see. He relaxes, easing an arm around Brett's shoulders. Brett scrolls through half a dozen pictures, each just slightly different from the last, and by the time they reach the final frame, his arm is draped around Johnny's waist and he's snuggled up close beside him. "Look at that dick," he says, turning to plant a wet kiss in Johnny's armpit. "Oh so lickable. That's my man." Embarrassed, Johnny buries his nose in the hair on top of Brett's head and breathes in the clean scent of his shampoo. His hand toys with the bangs that still stand at attention like soldiers along Brett's temples. Leaning against him, Brett sticks out his tongue to taste Johnny's pert nipple, a ticklish move that sets Johnny snickering. When he tries to push Brett away, his lover bites at the teat, catching it between his teeth. The sensation is maddening. "Stop," Johnny says, breathless with laughter. He squirms away but Brett holds him tight. "Brett—" "Kiss me," Brett breathes. He sits back, pulling Johnny with him. Their mouths brush over each other in a barely-there buss, then Brett tugs him down, trapping himself between Johnny and the headboard as his tongue licks Johnny's lips. Johnny delves into him, hungry, every inch of his body wakening at Brett's touch. His hands find the stiffening length at Brett's crotch, and suddenly the small space in the corner of the bed isn't big enough for 67

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them—he wants to stretch out, feel every part of this man against his body, savor the moment and the touches, the kisses, the love. He wants— Click. He opens one eye and can see the camera in the corner of his vision. It's raised and pointing at them again, at him. Brett's half-turned from their kiss to watch as he fires off another shot, and a third. "Brett," Johnny growls. "Put it away already, will you?" One final snap, and the camera falls to the bed. Brett takes control of the moment, pushing Johnny back to lay him down across the mattress. Their kisses turn heated, their breath comes fast and hot, and they pause only to retrieve a lubricated condom from the table next to Brett's side of the bed. On his back, Johnny spreads his legs wide, his feet on Brett's knees, as his lover rolls the condom onto his thick erection. Then Brett crawls over him, his dick poking between Johnny's ass cheeks, and his ardent kisses distract Johnny from the slow burn that spirals through his groin as Brett eases into him. They find a steady rhythm that knocks the headboard against the wall and makes them both moan with delight. Beside them on the bed, the camera stares as they couple, its lens unseeing, its shutter still. **** Brett has to work—that's his excuse when he disentangles himself from Johnny and rises from the bed. Rolling onto his stomach, Johnny wraps himself in the bed sheets and 68

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watches Brett as he dresses. Since he has nothing planned for the day, he asks, "Can I tag along?" Over his shoulder, Brett flashes him a regretful grin. "I don't think so, babe. I do some freelance stuff on the side, you know? Ads and photo shoots are nice but the real money's in candid shots. I have a roll full of film I have to turn in to one of my clients so I won't be going to the studio. I have to meet them at their office." "It's Saturday," Johnny points out. Who works on the weekend? "I'm sorry." Brett zips up his jeans, then leans down to claim a kiss. Johnny slips him a hint of tongue, and the quick peck deepens. Brett has to place his hands on the bed to catch his balance; when he pulls away, he murmurs, "I could fall into you right here, right now." "Why don't you?" Johnny rolls onto his side and pats the bed. "Can't your client wait?" With a sigh, Brett glances at his watch. "Not really. I'll see you tonight, how's that?" He kisses Johnny again, then once more for luck, and snags the strap on his camera as he heads out the door, leaving Johnny stretched amid the mussed sheets of his double bed. **** Monday can't come soon enough. All weekend long, Johnny's on edge—every time his cell rings, he's sure it's Lou with news from the audition. They want to schedule a screen test, or they've lined up a dinner to introduce him to the rest 69

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of the cast, or they've made their decision and when can he swing by to sign the paperwork? Twice he dials Lou's number and stares at it, his thumb hovering over the SEND button, sure his manager knows something he doesn't. Twice he closes the phone without connecting the call. Brett tells him not to worry. "Your headshots are amazing," he reminds Johnny. It's early Sunday morning and the two of them are barely dressed, Brett on the sofa watching the game and Johnny pacing aimlessly with his cell in his hand. Brett glances up every time he passes by. "Roxy Greene's going to take one look at them and say, 'This is him. This is the guy I want to fall in love with.' Trust me." Catching Johnny's hand in his, Brett reels him down to the couch beside him and leans in for a kiss. "It's not hard to do." Johnny's heart stutters in his chest, and for the first time all weekend, he forgets about the audition. He forgets about Lou, the movie, and anything that isn't the man next to him, holding him tight. Did he just say the L-word? Johnny isn't sure, he's never heard it before. It hasn't been long between them, true, but to Johnny, it feels like a lifetime since they met, and he can't imagine a day without Brett in it. He wakes on Monday with the thought that he'll go to Lou's office and sit in the lobby all day if he has to, anything for a bit of news on the part. Was he always this anxious in the past? He doesn't remember—after the audition for Zack, he never had to try out for a role again. Because he wants this job so badly, he tries to pretend he doesn't by planning what to do when it falls through. He'll ask Lou for a real role then, not some chick flick bit part, and maybe he'll smile 70

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more in the interview before the audition. Now that he knows there is one, he can prepare for it. He'll need to run through those questions again, see if he can't have better answers prepared... The ringing of his cell interrupts his thoughts. For a moment longer he lies in bed, listening to the ring tone, then he vaults out of bed and scrambles through the ticket stubs and receipts and change on his dresser until he finds the cell. Flipping it open, he glances at the caller's name before he raises the phone to his ear. "Lou? Hey." "Johnny." He hears the disappointment in his manager's voice and thinks the worst. I didn't get it. But Lou says nothing else, so Johnny takes a steadying breath and swallows down his fear. "Yeah? I'm here." He turns, sweeping the room with a glance, and for the first time realizes he's alone. Repositioning the mouthpiece, he calls out, "Brett?" "Johnny," Lou says again. "Pay attention, will you? Who'd you tell about the audition?" "What?" Johnny snags a pair of worn boxers off the floor and cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear as he steps into them. When the waistband snaps into place, he pads out of the bedroom, into the hall, heading for the living room, but he already knows Brett isn't there. "The audition? I don't know, why?" Lou answers with another question. "Who knew it was a Roxy Greene film?" 71

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"You." Johnny stops in the hallway and pouts into the empty living room. "Don't be a smartass," Lou warns. "Who else?" Johnny sees a note tacked to the door of his apartment. "I don't know," he admits. The note's from Brett, saying he has an early shoot and it was so hard to leave Johnny in the bed looking so damn hot, but maybe they can catch up later in the day? Call me. XOXO. Johnny grins at that. "Lou, why? I don't know who else knows about the film, all right? I didn't tell anyone." "Are you sure?" Before Johnny can reply, Lou hurries to explain. "I got the latest gossip off the Z-23 website first thing this morning. They posted pictures of you heading into the studio and the reporter claims, and I quote, 'A source close to the former child star gave Z the exclusive scoop that JT is auditioning for the male lead in the rumored Roxy Greene blockbuster, due out next summer.' How do they know that?" The question hangs unanswered between them. Johnny's mad about the phrase, former child star. It lumps him in the same has-been category as Gary Coleman, the Coreys, and every single one of the Brady kids. Honestly, he's an adult. Can't they drop the whole JT business and use his real name? "It's Johnny now," he grumbles. "You're missing the point!" Lou sighs, frustrated, and Johnny thinks maybe this isn't a good time to ask if he got the part. "This was top secret, Johnny. I told you no one else was supposed to know. And then you go and blab about it to that shiftless boyfriend of yours—" 72

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"I didn't!" Johnny cries. "Leave Brett out of this, Lou. I didn't tell him shit." But he did, didn't he? The memory washes over him like a slap of cold water, chilling him. In the bathroom at the studio, when he managed to get a moment alone, he'd called Brett and told him about the audition. He'd mentioned Roxy then, he knows he did. Fuck. Something in his sudden silence tells Lou all he needs to know. "Get down here," the manager growls. "We'll see if we can't smooth this over somehow. You weren't supposed to know, and I shouldn't have told you." "Have they called?" Johnny asks, hopeful. But Lou says, "Not yet. Maybe no one's seen it. I'll see if Sam's girlfriend can change the story or something, edit that bit out. Everyone knows those assistants practically run the office. Can you be here by noon?" "Sure." Johnny nods. He feels numb inside—did Brett tell someone about his audition? Who else would've known? **** By the time Johnny reaches Lou's office, he's decided he isn't mad at Brett. He didn't tell his boyfriend not to say anything, did he? And the guy works in the industry, rubbing elbows on a daily basis with stars and paparazzi alike. Chances are he was boasting about Johnny and it just slipped out. Part of Johnny is pretty pleased Brett would be talking about him to others. It adds a dimension to their relationship 73

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it didn't have before—it isn't just the two of them hiding away from the world now; others know. Well, Lou knows, but he's being an ass about it. Why can Ellen DeGeneres and George Takei parade through the society pages of the paper, lovers draped around their arms like the latest Louis Vuitton bag, and he can't even run into McDonald's with his guy? Who sets these rules, anyway? Seriously, Johnny thinks as he takes the elevator up to Lou's floor. Would the world come crashing to a halt and the stock market plummet if middle America knew he liked dick? When the lift doors open, Johnny raises a hand in greeting to Lou's secretary. She looks up from her computer screen, sees him standing there, and her eyes widen. "Heya," he says, leaning on the counter in front of her desk. "Lou told me to stop on by." Without a word to him, she lifts the phone and dials an extension. "He's here." Before she even hangs up, the door to Lou's office bursts open. Johnny's manager seems to swell into the lobby, eclipsing the doorframe. His face is a shade of red so bright, it makes the auburn strands combed over his bald spot look yellow in comparison. "Get in here," he fumes. Johnny cringes back—he's seen this anger before, once or twice, but his mother had always been with him to calm the manager down. "Lou, what—" "Now." That leaves little room for discussion. Like a kicked puppy, Johnny shrinks into himself as he ducks into Lou's office, keeping his distance from the man. Inside the room, there's a 74

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laptop open on Lou's desk, a celebrity gossip website open on the screen. Johnny sees the logo for Z-23 and groans. He's getting damn tired of that name. "What is it now?" he asks, dropping into one of the chairs in front of Lou's desk. Behind him, the door slams shut with such force, the pictures rattle on the walls. Johnny thinks maybe Lou's overreacting just a bit. So the press knows he auditioned for the Roxy Greene film—so what? No one keeps a secret forever, especially not in a town like Hollywood. And besides, isn't that why managers hired PR reps? To play down erroneous reports, cover up the wrong stories? Damage control? With his head down, Johnny watches Lou from the corner of his eye. The manager storms toward his desk and, for one heart-stopping moment, Johnny is sure the man's going to haul off and backhand him where he sits. He even scoots over a little, just to get out of the way, because he knows it's coming. Lou's too angry not to hit him. In a tentative voice, Johnny asks, "Lou? What is it? What's going on?" At the last possible moment, Lou sidesteps a collision with Johnny's chair and lunges across his desk to grab a handful of papers off the laptop's keyboard. Without a word, he tosses them at Johnny, who sighs as he turns them over. This is those photos of himself and Brett eating breakfast all over again. Then Johnny sees the first image and the floor drops out from under him. No, he decides. This is much, much worse. 75

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It's him, in bed, naked. His arms are stretched above his head, his fingers casually twined through his hair. The bed sheets are pulled down around his legs as if he kicked them away. His pale cock rests high across his thigh, flaccid, his balls dark with hair and shadow. He's sleeping, he knows—the photo captures a fleeting innocence about him, a moment that will be lost when his eyes open, but now it's here, in his hands, trapped for all eternity. For all the world to see. "Where'd you get this?" Johnny shuffles through the pictures but they're more of the same, him in bed, his dick the focus of each shot. He knows exactly where Lou got these—the last couple shots show Johnny cuddled up against the photographer, kissing him, hungry for his touch. Brett. He can't believe this. "These weren't meant to be seen." "Oh?" Lou's voice sounds tight, strained, as if he's holding back emotions Johnny can only guess must be whirling inside him. "You take a picture with a camera, Johnny, and it's going to get back to someone somewhere." Johnny shakes his head in disbelief. "We were just playing around. It was Brett's personal camera—" "What the hell does that mean?" Lou leans back against his desk, arms crossed before his chest, and glares at Johnny as if he could burn those pictures and the boy in front of him with that evil eye alone. "The man's a professional photographer, kid. He does this for a living. There's nothing personal about it." 76

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You're wrong. Johnny shuffles the papers together, placing the ones with him naked in between the ones with Brett so no one sees them. He feels violated, used, exposed. "How did you get these?" he wants to know. "Sam's girl." Lou's son, who's dating someone at Z-23. How did they get them? Johnny feels a helplessness well up inside him, suffocating. Suddenly he can't breathe, can't think. God ... "Were these online?" If so, he wants to die. But Lou shakes his head, the anger never quite leaving his face. "Tish got them off an employee's camera. She recognized you and sent them straight to me." "Tish?" Johnny's heart plunges, his skin feels clammy and cold, his head swims. This can't be happening to him. "Oh, my God, did you say her name was Tish?" **** The sign that reads, QUIET! Shoot in Progress, is back up on the door to Brett's studio. Johnny sees it when he steps off the elevator, and it looms toward him, growing larger as he storms down the hall. By the time he stops right in front of it, the stark black letters on that bright white paper seem to be shouting at him. Resisting the urge to tear it down, Johnny instead grabs the doorknob and twists as hard as he can. He hopes the damn thing is locked—he could use a few minutes' worth of senseless pounding on the door, demanding Brett open up. His mind is a blinding whirl of emotions, none of which he can pin down, and he feels like he's running in a million directions at once, even as he stands still. The pictures 77

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Lou gave him are curled in one tight fist; he wants nothing more than to ram them into something hard, over and over again, anything to blot them from his mind and dull the pain. But the knob turns easily in his hand and the door opens. He staggers unceremoniously into the studio. There is a shoot underway—Brett stands behind a camera on a tripod, snapping photos of some C-list celebutante as she cavorts on the pillows of the daybed in nothing but a see-through nightie. Her long blonde hair is done up in curlers, and she wears slutty high-heels with feathery pink pom-poms on her feet. Johnny doesn't know her name and doesn't care. He hates her, everything about her, and everything in this room. Including Brett. As he crosses the studio, Johnny accidentally catches his foot in the cord that connects Brett's camera to his computer. There's a screech as the computer tower is dragged across the desktop and everyone turns to look at him—the guys manning the lights, the woman on the daybed, Brett himself. Even without the camera pointed at him, Johnny feels like the center of attention, as if the lens is turned his way. He kicks the cord again just for spite as he closes the distance between himself and Brett. The pages crinkle in his fist. When he's near enough, he throws them at Brett, but instead of the dramatic explosion Johnny hopes for, they just flutter ineffectively to the ground. "No one else will see them, huh?" he asks, his voice cracking with anger and hurt. "It was your personal camera, isn't that what you said? You fucking liar." 78

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"Johnny?" Brett frowns, his gaze darting around the room. He looks everywhere but at the photos lying at his feet. "What are you talking about? I'm in the middle of something here—" Johnny cuts him off. "You were the one who called the paps out to the audition, weren't you? You were there. I knew it." Brett glances behind him—the cameramen, the woman on the bed, they hold their breath waiting for his response. He takes a step closer, creating an intimate space between himself and Johnny. "What are you talking about?" he asks. Though his voice is low, it still manages to carry throughout the studio. "Johnny, please. Can't you see I'm busy?" "You want pictures?" Johnny spits. He nods at the photos crumpled by Brett's feet. "There they are. Keep them, I don't care. That's the last thing you'll ever get from me." Now Brett glances down, and he sees the naked image of Johnny in bed. The color drains from his face as he bends to retrieve the photos. Kneeling, he shuffles through them and asks in a small voice, "Where'd you get these?" "Oh, I don't know." Johnny can't keep the facetious tone from his words. "Maybe your assistant? The bitch who works for Z-23? The one dating Lou's asshole son?" Slowly Brett stands. A perverse part of Johnny is glad to see the photog just as discomfited by the images as he was himself less than an hour ago in Lou's office. He wants to grab Brett's spiked hair, force his face down into the pages, and grind his nose in those photographs. What if Tish hadn't noticed them while she had been downloading pictures off 79

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Brett's camera? What if someone else had seen them, and uploaded them to that trashy website? Each hypothetical "if" makes Johnny's whole body trill with embarrassed rage. "Johnny," Brett sighs. "Jesus. I totally forgot they were on there." "Yeah, right." Johnny doesn't believe him. "Just like you forgot to tell me Tish works at Z-23? How long have you been feeding that site dirt on me? How many other pictures of me are in their archive, pictures I don't even know about?" "None," Brett assures him. "This was a mistake, Johnny, I swear it. I forgot to delete these pics before I gave Tish the camera, that's all." Johnny shakes his head in disbelief. "She works for Z-23!" Brett has an answer for that, too. "I told you I do commissioned work, didn't I? You know how I make my living." "Blackmailing me," Johnny snaps. "Fucking me over. Ruining my career." Hurt flashes across Brett's face. "Johnny, no. I never..." With a wave of his hand, Johnny dismisses his argument. "You know, I'm glad this happened—you know why? Because I don't need anyone like you in my life, trying to sabotage my career. I don't need this shit." With a grimace, Brett tries, "I'm sorry, Johnny. I've been trying to help you, don't you see? Yes, I got the paps out there for the audition, but it got you coverage, didn't it? They're beginning to notice you. Isn't that what you what?" 80

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Johnny hates to admit it, but he doesn't know anymore. What does he want? Lou off his back, his privacy intact, warm arms around him at night... And naked pics online, my dick out there for anyone to see, my name blacklisted by major studios over such trash. He wants to be famous—why is that so damn complicated? Johnny tries to hold onto his anger, but in truth, he didn't expect Brett to apologize. He thought the guy would come clean, admit he'd given the camera to Tish specifically to make sure those pics ended up online, but it sounds like it was an honest mistake. He forgot to delete them, and fortunately for Johnny, Brett's personal assistant had enough wherewithal to catch them before they went live. Why couldn't Brett just say he did it out of spite? Then Johnny could hold onto his righteousness, he could wash his hands of the jerk and return to Lou's office, ready to focus on his work. Only it had been a mistake, and the look on Brett's face tears at Johnny's heart. There's pain in those chocolate eyes, genuine hurt, and the grip Johnny has on his emotions slips a little when Brett lowers his voice to an intimate level and admits, "Johnny, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot these were on that camera. I was only joking about Tish finding them, really. Please." He gives Johnny a tortured look that shoots straight into his very soul, and when Johnny blinks, he's surprised his vision blurs with tears. "Please," Brett says again, one hand stretched toward Johnny. "Believe me. I never meant—" "Fuck you." Johnny steps back to avoid Brett's touch and trips over the camera's cord. His arms pinwheel as he tries to 81

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keep his balance. When Brett reaches to help him, Johnny pushes him away. "Don't you dare touch me." "Johnny." Brett glances over at his light crew and the model, who stare back, avidly watching the heated exchange. Taking a deep breath, he composes himself and folds the papers to hide the photos. Johnny's naked body disappears in Brett's hands. "Can we talk about this later?" he asks. "I'm in the middle of a shoot—" "There is no 'later,'" Johnny tells him. "There's no more 'us.' We're through, you hear me? And if those images show up anywhere, I'm suing your ass for libel. Lou has lawyers just waiting to take you on." Brett sighs. "Johnny, please. Let me—" "I'm done letting you." Johnny turns, kicking the cord aside as he heads for the door. Loud enough so Brett can hear him, he mutters, "Goddamn fucking liar." Somehow, he manages to hold back the tears that sear the breath in his throat. Only once the elevator doors close before him, when he realizes Brett isn't rushing down the hallway after him, when he's finally alone, only then does he cover his eyes with one hand and release the rein he holds on his emotions. He hates that Brett lied to him, yes, but more than that, he hates that it hurts so bad. **** Back at his apartment, he's surprised by the number of Brett's things lying around. Small empty canisters of 35mm film clutter the coffee table in the living room. In the fridge, a bottle of the Simply Limeade Brett likes to drink rests on the 82

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top shelf. In the bedroom, underwear and T-shirts twist among Johnny's clothes, both in his dresser drawers and on the floor, in the hamper. On the top of the dresser is a handful of change and receipts with the last four digits of Brett's credit card on them, and nearby Johnny finds a tube of that bubbly blue gel Brett likes to use to spike his hair. A toothbrush sits on the edge of the bathroom sink; a gray scrunchie loofah hangs beside Johnny's blue one in the tub. He's infiltrated every single room. Johnny feels like a stranger in his own home. From his closet, he grabs an old box that once held computer paper at the tanning salon; it now contains a mixture of his own crap, some comic books he used to read, a few paperback books, rolled up concert programs. Dumping the items onto his closet floor, Johnny tears around the apartment, the box in one hand, and scoops up everything that even remotely reminds him of Brett. The shirts and underwear, both clean and dirty. The toothbrush, and toothpaste for good measure. The film and camera lens and straps that litter his place. Even the condoms on the bedside table—they won't be needing those anymore. Once he's corralled it all, he opens the apartment door and sets the box out in the hall. He considers writing something mean on it—FREE SHIT, maybe—but he doesn't want to deal with any additional hassle. When Brett comes by looking for his stuff, and Johnny suspects he will, soon, tonight, then it'll be out where he can find it. They won't have to say two words to each other. Good riddance. 83

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As Johnny closes the door, he feels as if he's severed connections with that part of his life. The happy part, when he was himself, when he was... Was... He shakes his head; he won't say it. He wasn't, all right? He wasn't. Fuck Brett. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks—just when he'd thought he was all cried out. Damn it. He wipes at his face brusquely and locks the door. He won't cry over this, he tells himself, but his heart isn't listening. It feels bruised and his chest hurts. He just wants to lie down ... lie down and let this whole sordid affair sort itself out while he sleeps. Alone, a voice inside him says. His bed is too large for just one man. His body will ache for Brett's touch. And wake alone. Why did he let that asshole get so far inside him? Johnny fists his hands in his hair and tugs as if he could pull all thoughts of Brett out of his mind. Why did he let himself fall so damn hard? Across the room, his cell rings where he left it on the living room sofa. Johnny takes a deep breath, composing himself, but if that's him, he's not answering. He has nothing to say to Brett. In fact, he should just stand here, let it ring. That'd show him. Johnny's not his any longer; he can't be called like a pet dog. It might be Lou. That thought goads Johnny into action. He sprints to the phone, leaping over the coffee table to reach it before the call 84

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disconnects. A glance at the screen shows it is Lou, fuck. Flipping the cell open, Johnny presses it to his ear and sniffles to clear his nose and throat. "Lou? I'm here." "Johnny, damn," Lou drawls. "I thought I'd have to take out an ad in Variety to find you." There's a hint of a smile in his manager's voice, something that tells Johnny this isn't just a friendly call. But when Lou's in a good mood, he doesn't cut right to the chase; he likes to expound a bit, spread the feeling, then get down to business. Johnny doesn't feel like he's up for that just now. With a sigh, Johnny says, "I'm right here." "Are you sitting down?" Lou asks. Obediently, Johnny drops to the sofa beside him. "Yes, I'm sitting. Why?" Dread fills his stomach—what now? More photos? Maybe those ones they took the first time they made love, the ones Johnny thought he'd deleted. Had sex, he corrects silently. It was never love. Yeah, right. That's why it hurts, right? Because it was just sex? Johnny closes his eyes and hits the heel of his hand against his forehead as if that could stifle those thoughts. "Lou, what is it?" Another breathless moment—Johnny feels like he's standing on the edge of a curb, waiting to step off, waiting for just the right moment to move. He's about to prompt his manager again when finally Lou tells him, "DreamWorks called." "And?" 85

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"They have some stipulations," Lou says, "but Johnny, are you ready for this? You got the part." Lou laughs in his ear and some small part of Johnny soars at the news, but the rest of him is caught on something else Lou said. "What kind of stipulations?" "Oh, you know. Roxy has to meet you, and they have a few ideas about how to build some buzz between you two, nothing major. The good news is they cast you. This is going to be the biggest film next summer, I'm telling you now, and you're the male lead." The way Lou tries to gloss over Johnny's question tells him something's not quite right. "What do you mean, build some buzz?" Johnny asks. "Lou, what kind of buzz?" There's a disgruntled sigh in his ear, as if Johnny's deliberately being ornery. "Johnny, look," Lou says. "Roxy saw your headshots, okay? She thinks maybe it'd be a hoot to have some rumors leak out about the two of you prior to production, is all." "Rumors?" Johnny doesn't like where this is heading. Why does he feel two steps behind the conversation? "What kind of rumors?" Another sigh. "This is how all the studios do it," Lou explains. "They link the costars together romantically to get people talking—" Incredulous, Johnny cries, "What? You're saying I have to date her in order to get the role?" Then, just in case his manager forgot, he adds, "You know I'm gay." "I'm not asking you to marry her." Lou's voice hardens. "What's it going to cost you? I mean, in all honesty? So you 86

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two go out a few times, you buy her dinner, take her to red carpet events, hang at clubs. Have your photo taken with only the most popular up-and-coming star in Hollywood at the moment. Wherever she goes, you tag along. Soon the paps are going to be snapping pics of you just as much as they're angling for a shot of her. You'll be all over the gossip rags, the teeny magazines, everywhere, and by the time the movie premieres, you'll be a household name, just like we want." He waits a beat, lets that sink in, then asks, "Now is that so hard to do?" That damnable voice inside Johnny speaks up again. Who's the liar now? Lou must sense Johnny's discomfort in his silence, because after a long moment, he says, "Think it over, okay? Alone. You have to do this for you, Johnny, and I don't want you letting anyone else influence your decision. I told the studio we'd call them in a day or two, just to buy you some time, but I also made it pretty clear we're interested." "I..." Johnny shakes his head. He can't make this kind of a decision now, tonight. "I have to think about it." "I understand," Lou says, but Johnny doesn't really think he does. Still, his manager keeps talking, not letting Johnny get his thoughts in order. "This is how you have to do it, son. This is the way you play the game. With Roxy onboard, you've got the easiest ticket to superstardom there is, I'm telling you. Don't throw this away. He's not worth it." It takes Johnny a minute to realize Lou's talking about Brett. "I need to think," Johnny mutters. He looks around his 87

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apartment, his gaze catching on each place where he removed something of Brett's. "Can I call you back?" Lou gives him a generous laugh. "Sure. Any time you make up your mind, Johnny, I'm here for you. You have my cell?" At Johnny's murmur of assent, he adds, "I know this is a lot for you to digest right now, believe me. But sleep on it tonight and I guarantee you'll see things my way in the morning." **** Johnny doesn't want to see things Lou's way. He sits on the couch, the phone tossed on the cushion beside him, arms crossed defiantly over his chest. Why can't he have his own way already? Why can't he be the one making demands instead of this Roxy Greene? Yeah, he's not a star, not yet, but they're getting to that. Aren't they? When the afternoon light begins to fade, he stirs enough to click on the lamp beside the couch. While he's moving, he might as well turn on the television, too, but he only stares blankly at the flashing images. The sound washes over him, unheard. Lou's voice rings through his head, trying to talk him into taking the part at DreamWorks. He wants the role, badly. No, not really. It could be any role, really, not that one in particular. Any would do. As long as there are lines involved and it isn't just a walk-on cameo most movie-goers will miss. He doesn't care what kind of movie it's in, either—romance, comedy, action. Just make it something eye-catching, that's 88

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all he wants. Something big, something to get his name back out in the public again. Is that asking too much? Only now there's a price to pay. Not money, but his time. And, God, if he's being honest, he doesn't want to hang out with this Roxy girl. Even without a steady boyfriend of his own, he just doesn't want to commit to that much time with someone else. Someone he doesn't know and might not even like. He doesn't want to pretend he's straight. Jesus, didn't he do enough of that back in the day? He's no longer some confused teenager willing to curb his sexuality to make people like him. He wants to be accepted for who he is, and not live some goddamn lie... But hell, where's the harm in a little make-believe? Because Lord knows, he's single and free now. On the rebound, even. Maybe Roxy would provide the kind of distraction he needs to take his mind off Brett. Brett. Thinking of him makes Johnny grind his teeth until his jaw aches. How goddamn stupid could he be? Getting involved with a photographer, letting him take those pictures, letting him in, past his defenses, deep into his heart where Johnny has never allowed another, ever. Sure, it's just been two weeks, but this is Hollywood. Happily ever after happens every single day, and the lawyers clean up the details when the fantasy falls apart. Why'd he even hope to think this might be different? Unfortunately, no amount of time spent with a punk-ass little princess is going to chase away that pain. 89

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His mind vacillates between jumping at the role of a lifetime and staying true to himself. At what price does he want to be famous? If he has to bury everything he feels, watch everything he says, hide everything he does ... would being a star be worth that hassle? Why the hell did he go back to Lou in the first place? Surely he can find another agent, someone who will see his potential and work within his limits. What are his limits? He doesn't know. Sitting here, alone, in the sanctity of his own living room, he can make himself all the promises he wants. He can be cocksure and demanding, a real diva. Here he can take a stand and assure himself there's nothing that can change his mind. He works out what he'd say to Lou, how he'll phrase his refusal of the studio's offer, how he'll lay his own terms on the table for negotiation. And yet, he knows he's not strong enough to stand up to Lou in person. Maybe it's because of their history, and the fact that Lou still looks like a father figure to him, but the moment they're together, Johnny turns into a little boy around him, eager to please, willing to do whatever needs to be done to further his career. He'll cower before him, he just knows it. Without anyone behind him, without anyone's support, without— Without Brett. "I don't need him," Johnny mutters aloud, but the television drowns out his voice and once the words are free, he doesn't feel as if he's said anything at all. **** 90

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It's a little after six o'clock and Johnny's still sitting on the couch. He stares unseeing at the TV, trying not to think of anything in particular if he can help it, when he hears something kick the box of Brett's stuff he left out in the hall. Hitting the MUTE button on the remote, he holds his breath to listen. Another rattle outside. Someone's definitely out there, rummaging through the box, and Johnny thinks he knows who it is. This is the moment he's been dreading all afternoon. Clicking off the TV, he crosses to the door and stops just beside it. One thumbnail is caught between his teeth, which nervously nibble at it while his gaze is trained on the knob. Just take it, he thinks. Take it already and go. But no—it's not that simple, is it? Johnny hears the box being kicked across the hall, hears a muffled curse, then something hits the door from the outside. Johnny jumps, his gaze traveling from the knob to the deadbolt to make sure it's locked. It is. Then he hears harsh breath in the crack where the door meets the jamb. His name, growled low, in an almost pleading tone. "Johnny," Brett sighs. "Let me in. We have to talk." Johnny's first thought is to say nothing. Maybe Brett will think he's gone. Maybe he'll just take the box— Two seconds later, his cell rings across the room. He glances over at it. Damn. 91

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"Johnny," Brett warns. His voice rises, carrying easily through the thin wooden door. "I know you're in there. I hear your phone." Clearing his throat, Johnny mutters, "Go away." The knob rattles, twisting right and left, but with the deadbolt engaged, the door won't open. "Johnny, please. Don't do this to me." Brett's voice cracks—is he crying out there? Johnny steps up to the door, careful not to touch it, and leans in to peer out the peephole. All he sees is the top of Brett's sandy hair. He stands in the doorway, arms out at either side to lean against the frame, head down ... he looks like a human crucifix, hanging in Johnny's hall. "Please," he sighs, his mouth right up against the door, so near Johnny hears each ragged breath through the wood that separates them. "Let me in. Johnny, come on." Stepping back, Johnny raises his voice to tell him, "All your shit's out there. What do you want to come in for?" "I need to talk to you," Brett says. "We're talking now." Johnny crosses his arms in front of his chest as if to hold his fluttering heart still. "I have nothing else to say to you." Brett whines, "John-knee, please." When Johnny doesn't answer, Brett presses his cheek against the door—Johnny watches from the peephole—and lowers his voice to admit, "I was wrong, all right? I should've deleted those pictures, I know."

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"You should've never taken them in the first place," Johnny points out. Though in all honesty, he himself didn't exactly say "no." Brett concedes, "I know. I just totally forgot they were on there, and I didn't mean for Tish to see them, I didn't think she'd turn them over to Lou. It could've been a lot worse, I understand that, believe me, but I swear it won't happen again." "You said it was your personal camera," Johnny mutters. "No one else should've ever seen them but you." "I know," Brett says again. "But I'm a photographer, Johnny. It's what I do for a living. My personal camera just means it's the one I take with me when I do my freelance stuff..." Johnny makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "You're a paparazzi—razzo, rizzo, whatever you call them. You're no better than the goddamn vultures who prey on all the celebrities around town. You're the reason people like me have no privacy, Brett. You're the reason my picture shows up all over the internet." "Which only helps you in the long run," Brett reminds him. "Fans want those types of photos, Johnny. They like the candid, everyday shots. They like knowing their favorite celebs are human, too. Open the door and we can talk about this inside." "No." Johnny's resolute—he doesn't think there's anything that would make him open that door. "Go away, Brett. I don't need your kind of help." 93

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For a moment, he thinks Brett's done just that—there's silence in the hallway, not even the sound of breathing, but when Johnny has another peek through the peephole to ensure he's left, he finds himself staring straight into Brett's warm eyes. They're bloodshot, and his eyelashes clump together as if he's been crying. Over me. "Go away," Johnny breathes. On the other side of the door, Brett replies, "Let me in, just for a minute. I need to tell you something." "What?" Brett steps back from the door and glances down the empty hall. "You don't want me to say it out here. You don't know who might be listening in." "Then leave." Johnny also steps back, and turns away for good measure. Maybe if he turns up the TV loud enough, he'll drown out Brett's voice, and the guy will eventually get bored and go. "Whatever you want to tell me, I probably don't want to hear." "Johnny—" "You're sorry, I know." Johnny sighs—his head hurts. How's he supposed to give the studio's offer serious consideration when he's dealing with this shit? How can he stand up to Lou when his heart's torn in two? "Brett, I've heard it already. You keep saying it. But you know what? I don't believe you." "Johnny," Brett tries again. With a shake of his head, Johnny says again, "I don't, I can't. Leave me alone." 94

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Brett strikes the door with his fist; it shakes in its frame but the deadbolt holds it in place. "Johnny Thomas, I'm standing right here until you open this fucking door. I'll wait all goddamn night if I have to, I swear it. I'm not going anywhere until you hear me out." Under his breath, Johnny mutters, "Add stalker to your repertoire." Raising his voice, he warns, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't just call the cops on your sorry ass." He holds his breath, waiting. Outside his door, there's silence. Johnny just wants this to end. Then, out in the hall, Brett calls out, "Because I think I love you, Johnny." I love you. Those three words swell Johnny's heart with an emotion he can't describe. He's never heard them before, not said in such a sincere voice, not to him. Somehow, miraculously, they act like a balm over his feelings, covering the anger, the hurt, the pain. Soothing them, healing him. Those three little words brighten the dullness that has settled around him, around his life, and polish the very air itself. They bring fresh tears to his eyes as they commandeer his thoughts, his heart and soul. Without his consent, his body reacts to those words, I love you. He turns back toward the door, his fingers fumbling with the deadbolt, his blood quickening, his very breath caught in the tears that close his throat. I love you. And then Brett is in his arms, holding him tight. "No more cameras," he promises, whispering into Johnny's ear. His 95

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words are hot like a brand, burning a covenant between them. "I'm sorry, Johnny, I'm so sorry..." Johnny shoves against him, hard, then punches Brett's shoulder. "Don't you ever do anything like this to me again," "I won't," Brett promises, trying to pull Johnny close. "It was a mistake, I know. I'm sorry." Johnny punches him a second time, and a third, before Brett's hand catches his. "No more naked pictures." Brett nods in agreement; his eyes sparkle with fresh tears and there's a faint smile on his face that Johnny knows in his heart is sincere. Still, he wants to drive the point home. "I don't care how candid fans want their shots," Johnny tells him. "Some things stay between us. I don't want them out in public—" That smile strengthens as Brett asks, "So there is an 'us'?" Johnny's anger flares bright for a second longer before extinguishing. "Yeah," he sighs, smoothing a hand over Brett's bangs to lay them down. "There is." Brett turns his head to feel Johnny's hand rub over his scalp. "Let the other paps take all the pictures they want," he says. "I don't need photos; I've got what I want right here." His arms tighten around Johnny, who catches Brett's lower lip between his teeth. His gaze roams Brett's face, hungry for every beautiful feature that makes him unique. The eyes, that nose, those lips ... those eyes. "Tell me again," he sighs. "I love you," Brett promises. In a teary voice, Johnny chokes, "Really?" 96

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Brett's laugh rumbles through him as he hugs Johnny close. "How could I not?" Johnny knows he'll forgive Brett for the photos—he himself is just as much at fault, he could've said no—but if he lets this moment, this man, slip through his fingers? He'll never forgive himself. There will be other parts to play, other movies to film, but this here, this is the role of a lifetime, costarring in the life they've just begun to build together. With Brett beside him, Johnny thinks maybe he can stand up to Lou. Yeah, he still wants to be a star. But what he feels right now is worth more than a dozen gold-plated Oscars lining the top of his television and his mouth finds Brett's, eager to close the deal. [Back to Table of Contents]

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J. M. Snyder An author of gay erotic/romantic fiction, J. M. Snyder began self-publishing gay erotic fiction in 2002. Since then, Snyder has released several books in trade paperback format and has begun exploring the world of e-publishing, working with both Aspen Mountain Press and Amber Quill Press. Snyder's highly erotic short gay fiction has been published online at Ruthie's Club, Tit-Elation, Sticky Pen, and Amazon Shorts, as well as in anthologies by Aspen Mountain Press and Cleis Press. A full bibliography, as well as free fiction, book excerpts, purchasing information, and exclusive contests, can be found at: jmsnyder.net **** Don't miss Dirty Love, by Lacey Savage, available at AmberHeat.com! Isabel Warren wouldn't dream of defying the morality statutes that forbid women over forty from ever making love again. As a medical practitioner, she understands the need for laws preventing "dirty love." The S.O.S. virus of 2030 left most of the male population infertile and turned human DNA into something resembling a microscopic jigsaw puzzle. The virus itself is undoubtedly dangerous, but older women are perhaps the most significant threat humanity has ever faced. 98

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Yet knowing what's forbidden and keeping her feminine urges under lock and key are two different things. Especially when Isy's most recent assignment requires her to run intimate tests on Connor Flynn, a man sixteen years her junior, who seems determined to prove she's not the monster everyone else thinks she is. And if such delicious temptation wasn't bad enough, she's also got Trevor Jones to worry about. It seems he, too, is willing to risk everything to be with her. Two sexy men, and one woman who could destroy them both ... if they don't destroy her first... **** Don't miss the next Calendar Boys— September: A Simple Truth Available at AmberAllure.com! Charlie Labrecque has lived a lie for most of his adult life, choosing to marry a woman and father a child rather than come out of the closet. But now that he is divorced and sees his young son only half the year, he decides it is time to start being honest with himself. And his friends. Starting with his best friend, openly gay Bryce Hanson. Bryce responds with his encouragement, and promises to be Charlie's training wheels through the difficult transition. But now that both men feel like they can be honest with each other, new desires are found, new truths spoken. 99

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**** Don't miss Dressed For Dying by Janet Quinn, available at AmberQuill.com! In 1892, reporter Sean Madigan is pitted against the New York police when he's assigned his first high-profile murder story, the slaying of the wealthy Marshal Haversham, clothing industry mogel and sweatshop owner. While Sean hunts for the killer in order to prove his worth to his newspaper editor, the madman goes on a violent spree, burning down Haversham's warehouses and sweatshops and killing young women who work within them. Each victim is found dressed in a fancy ball gown that was secretly made within the sweatshops themselves. When Madigan's sweetheart, Bridget, becomes the killer's next target, Sean determines he will find the man and his connection to the ball gowns. But the murderer has other designs, and it soon becomes a race against time and the police to discover the fiend's identity before he silences Sean or Bridget ... permanently... [Back to Table of Contents]

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AMBER QUILL PRESS, LLC Quality Books, Print And Electronic Genre fiction at its best! www.AmberQuill.com

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