by Tara Lain
“Would you like to?” The slightly accented voice came from behind him. Merle turned to stand eye to hairline with a breathtakingly handsome movie actor he’d seen in a couple of recent films. The guy might be vertically challenged, but he was so good-looking otherwise, producers were happy to supply boxes for him to stand on. He extended a hand. “Darren Lincoln.”
“Hi. Merle Justice.”
“Of course, I know. We all watched the Emmys. Shaz made it required viewing.”
Merle made a face and Darren laughed, though the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, want to dance?”
“Sure.” He followed Darren’s slim figure into the next room, where the dance floor had been set up amid the makeup and styling tables of Shaz’s business. Darren turned and started to dance, bobbing and weaving awkwardly, but he seemed to think he was Gene Kelly, so Merle just followed along subtly. Dancing was definitely one of Merle’s strengths, but he didn’t want to show up Darren. No use making enemies.
When the music changed to something slow, Darren pulled him in close and started to lead. Sure, what the hell?
“You’re a decent dancer, Justice. Maybe a few lessons and you can put it on your resume.”
Merle sighed very softly. Man, I hate this shit.
Darren twirled him with a heavy hand, feeding him out until he bumped another couple. Merle grimaced. “Sorry.”
Darren pulled him back close. “Too bad about the award thing. Otto’s just so talented and a serious actor, after all. I do think it’s great that the committee decided to bend to public opinion and give a token nomination to one of the kid’s series.”
A muscle in Merle’s jaw jumped. “Just to prove to the viewers that they’re not total idiots, I assume?”
“Yes, exactly.” He nodded enthusiastically. Not big on the recognition of sarcasm, apparently. Darren leaned back and looked into Merle’s face. “I’m sure the awards producers have to get the masses watching their show, just like anyone on the small screen.”
Just then, like a cue from the gods, the band switched to a Maroon 5 song, and the singer made an effort to match Adam’s high voice on “Don’t Wanna Know.” Darren started his jerky movements, and Merle let a flash of pure disdain wash over him as he started to dance. He dubstepped, he dabbed, he whipped. People around them clapped like crazy, and another younger guy leaped in between him and Darren and started dancing with Merle. Merle jumped and twerked his ass toward Darren. Put that on your resume, asshole.
Darren frowned, stopped dancing, and said, “I’m getting a drink.”
The kid wanted to keep at it, but somehow the fun left with the revenge. It was just one more night in the Hollywood game. He raised his hand to the dancing boy, smiled, and walked off the floor into the outer room where it was a little cooler but still stuffy. A waiter with champagne walked by, and Merle grabbed one, then stood by the front door.
Hell, maybe a little air and quiet.
He took a mouthful of bubbly, set it on the cocktail table nearby, then slipped out onto the sidewalk. The cool breeze from the ocean called to him, and he followed it like a trail down Ocean Avenue toward the beach, only three blocks away. At the corner, he waited for the light to change before trotting across the Pacific Coast Highway. A short walk over the patch of grass led to the boardwalk. He stopped there and stared out beyond the sand to the frothing of waves. Nice.
Perching on one of the built-in benches, he pulled off his patent-leather shoes and his socks, rolled up his pant legs—no way he wanted to wreck this tux—and stepped onto the beach. Such a weird feeling at night. The top of the sand held a little of the heat from the sun, but the cold and damp from beneath lurked like a deep chill waiting to slither up his feet to his heart.
He walked a few feet toward the water—just until he could forget there were Hollywood people and expensive cars and houses with television sets. Inhale. The pound of the surf covered the street noises, and the brilliance of the moon drowned out the lights on the buildings. For a second, he felt alone.
“Hey, man, don’t I know you?”
“Yeah, Larr, I think that dude’s famous.”
A bolt of beach chill shot up Merle’s spine. Ignore them and they’ll go away.
“Hey, buddy. We’re talkin’ to you. Aren’t you that vampire dude?”
Okay, ignoring won’t cut it. He turned. Oh, bad. Four young guys, mostly drunk. “Did you say something?”
The smallest of the four men, redheaded and mean-looking, said, “You’re that guy from TV, right?”
“I’m on TV, yes.”
The guy laughed and looked at his friends. “See. I told ya.” He turned back, and his eyes narrowed. “I heard you’re a fag.”
Merle tensed but didn’t reply.
One of the other dudes, overweight and sweet-faced, said, “You sure, Ritchie? He kisses girls on that show all the time.”
“It’s an act. Jesus, these homos fake it big-time and suck women in as fast as they suck cocks.”
Merle started walking as quickly as the sand allowed back toward the boardwalk.
Wrong move. Small, mean Ritchie ran and grabbed Merle by the shoulder. “Think again, fag boy. Having people like you on TV is bad for American kids. They think it’s okay to be a homo, and kids start trying to be like you. It’s bullshit, man.”
Merle shook off Ritchie’s hand and backed up a step, clenching his fists. No, he wasn’t the world’s most experienced fighter, but he was in good shape and had to practice a lot of physical shit to do his own stunts. Maybe he could take Ritchie—if his friends stayed out of it.
Sweet Face said, “Come on, Ritchie. Let’s go get ice cream.”
Merle glanced at him. “I recommend rocky road.”
Ritchie stepped forward pugnaciously. “Better we should make that pretty fag face into rocky road first, right, guys?”
No way he could turn and run. They’d catch him before he got three feet.
Sweet Face said nothing, but sadly the other two guys who looked like brothers, overdressed for the beach in black leather jackets, nodded. Brother One spit on the dark sand. “One less cocksucker will do me fine.”
Brother Two smiled, and it wasn’t reassuring. “How about we get him to suck our cocks before we drown his ass?”
Merle snarled, “You want it bitten off, asshole, give it a try.”
That shook Brother Two’s confidence but not Ritchie’s. “Don’t go acting like some fag yourself. All we gotta do is show this homo fag that flashing his sick self on our big screens ain’t cool.”
He stepped forward and threw a punch at Merle’s head. Merle ducked and slammed his fist up into Ritchie’s gut. The guy staggered back for a second but then thrashed forward with fists flying. One of the wild punches landed on Merle’s cheekbone. Shitfire, that hurts.
Merle slugged back, but Brothers One and Two moved in on either side of Ritchie—worst-case scenario. Brother One threw a punch at him, and as he feinted and punched back, Brother Two grabbed him around the throat just in time for Brother One to slam a fist into Merle’s stomach.
White bursts of light flashed in front of his eyes and a river of burning bile filled his mouth, oozing around the pressure of the big asshole’s arm on his neck. Damn. Damn. Who the fuck wants to die on the beach in a tuxedo?