by R. Cayden
“Listen, Gray,” Declan said. “I know this isn’t what you want to do. But a really good job came across my desk, one you’re perfect for. And to be honest, I made a promise to your mom the last time I saw her.”
Gray gritted his teeth. His mother was down in Philadelphia, and he didn’t get to see her as often as he would have liked. Gray’s grandparents had raised both Declan and Gray’s mother in the same shitty world, where the family’s criminal business was more important than anything else. For years, his mom had tried to convince Gray to go straight and to get a regular job, swearing she couldn’t lose another family member to prison or worse. He’d always told himself he’d do it for her one day, just not quite yet, and not when his guys were still relying on him to pay the mortgage.
“What did you promise her?”
“That you wouldn’t die,” Declan answered flatly.
“So what, I’m supposed to move to Connecticut to play bodyguard to some rich people just so my mom can stop worrying at night?”
Declan stood up again. “Seems like a good enough reason to me. But I know you won’t go for a deal like that. You’re too addicted to chasing thrills.”
Gray frowned. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
Declan poured himself a mug of coffee, then grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the counter. He scrawled down a number, then dropped it on the table.
Gray looked at the number, which was either a very low yearly salary or…
“Per month,” Declan clarified. “To live in a mansion.”
Gray’s heart leapt. It was way more money than he’d dreamed of making before and definitely enough to provide for the guys for a while. But still, he couldn’t imagine being happy, living as someone’s muscle in a cheap suit, probably keeping a spoiled brat safe from nothing at all.
Declan sipped his coffee, then let out a satisfied grunt. “There’s one other thing. It’s not your average client, as you can imagine from the pay. He’s a… special person, I guess. You ever hear of Justin Sweet?”
This time, Gray’s heart leapt all the way to his throat, practically choking his words. “The movie star? Fuck yeah I’ve heard of him.”
He’d heard a million things about him, in fact. Just about every person on the planet had. Justin Sweet had gone from being the star of the hottest show on television to the star of the biggest action franchise in the theaters, a true teenage heartthrob who then disappeared from the screen entirely by the time he turned twenty. The last Gray had heard, he was turning into a total hermit.
Not that he really cared about gossip. The television show, Gray thought, was total crap. Just sentimental bullshit.
But the action franchise? That shit was amazing.
“Justin Sweet,” Gray whispered. “Whoa.”
“That’s right,” Declan answered. “And I’ll take that goofy look on your face for a yes. We’ll start training at my place the day after tomorrow, to give you a little time to put your things in order. And when you start doubting yourself and thinking you want to turn the job down, just think about me and your mother and every other person who gives a shit about you. Okay?”
Gray swallowed. He thought about the money, and he thought about how much he wanted to impress his uncle and make his mom happy. But mainly, he thought about his guys. And playing bodyguard for some spoiled movie star was definitely a different path than the one that the rest of his family took.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe I’m just too exhausted to argue, but I guess I’m in.”
“Great. Now come on. Grab your jacket. I want you to come back out to the garage with me.”
“Why’s that?” Gray asked, still dazed by his decision.
“You need to show me where the keys to that chopper went,” he said. “I’m taking a finder’s fee home with me.”
Jameson
Every other year, Jameson had to live through his personal hell: the West Town Reunion.
“Justin Sweet,” a delicate woman in her mid-twenties said, stepping forward and then resting a hand on his chest, just lightly. Backstage at the reunion show, he didn’t expect to see anyone but the familiar cast and their assistants, but he was certain the woman with strawberry hair was a stranger to him.
She titled her head to the side. “Now don’t say you’ve forgotten me? Doesn’t matter, I suppose.” She waved her hand in the air with a friendly smile. “And what have you been up to these past few months? At home in Connecticut, is it?”
Jameson frowned, but before he could put two and two together, security rushed forward. “This way,” the man in black said, taking the woman’s arm. “No press.”
Jameson sighed as the woman cursed her way out the door, then returned the practiced smile to his face. He was wearing a plain black T-shirt and a pair of casual jeans for the reunion, with a belt and watch combination that was supposed to be classy or something. It was all picked by a PR team, anyway, decided by market research like everything else having to do with the West Town franchise.
He sat down at a row of mirrors and stared blandly at his own reflection. Another beautiful woman in her twenties appeared beside him, also with strawberry hair, in fact.
“Hi, Cynthia,” Jameson said, straightening his back and smiling. She traced a finger through his hair, fixing a few strands, and he relaxed a little into his chair. “You know if you play with my hair, you’ll start the rumors up again, right?”
Cynthia laughed. “We did four years of will they or won’t they as America’s favorite teen couple. Will it never be enough for these people?”
Jameson laughed along. “Maybe it will quiet down after you and Krish get married.”
Cynthia tapped her lips. “We could speed it up, I guess. And how about you? I think we’re coming up on your three-year anniversary of leaving the screen, is that right?” She gestured to the rest of the backstage area, cluttered and chaotic as it was. “You still don’t miss it?”
“Hardly. I’ll do the reunion show—I feel like I owe that to the fans. But outside of this, you still hold my exclusive media contract.” Cynthia had made the transition from West Town to hosting a nightly talk show, which currently dominated the youth market. She was a hip young woman in a field dominated by older men, and Jameson was proud of her for the space she had carved out. “Anyway, if I get nostalgic, I can just live through all your magazine covers.”
She winked at him through the mirror. “Whatever works, Justin. I’m just glad you’re happy. And that I get to catch up with you now and then, even if it is always on camera.”
The chatted a bit longer, and when Cynthia strolled away, Jameson sighed to himself. Sometimes, he felt like he was lying to her, the way he always kept so much of his life a secret. But it wasn’t personal. He kept his life private from everyone. It was a necessity, in fact, a trick he’d worked out during the darkest period of his life, back when all of America was tuning in to watch him every Thursday evening.
Back when one horrible evening had taken everything that mattered away from him.
West Town wasn’t just a show; it was a cultural phenomenon. The family at the center of the hour-long drama fixated the country, and the romance between his character and Cynthia’s character had made them both into teen dreams. His role, Sam, was the familiar all-American boy type updated to the modern age. When the character graduated high school, The New York Times had said that watching him mature into a man was a landmark of modern television.
Jameson accepted a soda water from an assistant, then went to join the rest of the cast, all waiting backstage to be called to stage. The reunions had become their own tradition, with every cast member going on to very different and very fabulous careers that captivated the public.
Sparing one heartthrob, that was. His stint in action movies had confirmed his suspicion: that he didn’t actually enjoy being a movie star, and that he was much happier without a camera in his face.
Still, Jameson indulged the occasional appearance. Justin Sweet was as much
a character as Sam from West Town was, and he knew how to deepen his voice and fill out his chest to play those roles. He knew how to act like the man everyone wanted him to be. He was so good at it they gave him an Emmy.
“Good to see you, Justin,” said Melissa, the woman who played his mother.
He smiled over his shoulder and let his voice drop. “You, too. Make sure to tell your kids I said hello!”
Soon enough, they were all out on the stage, all sitting in a semicircle. Clips were shown from new projects, and everyone joked an appropriate amount about the old times, dishing out exactly what the fans wanted. Immediately, Jameson went into autopilot, but he knew that his signature smile was there, the light still shining in his eyes just like it needed to be.
“We have a question from the audience,” the host said, stepping forward. “Go right ahead.”
“Hi, this question is for Justin?” The woman looked like most of his fans, roughly his age and probably sweet as pie. Looking at her, Jameson guessed that she had his poster on her wall, probably the one where he was shooting a basketball, his shirt bouncing in the air and sweat dotting his face.
He held her eye and smiled wide. As weird as the whole thing felt, he appreciated his fans and never wanted them to feel bad. “Sure, go ahead. You’ve got such a great smile, you can ask me anything.”
The woman’s grin grew wider, and a soft, warm sound went through the crowd. “Thanks,” she said. Then her smile fell. “Well, I was just wondering. You still only make, like, one public appearance a year. Isn’t that weird?”
Jameson’s own smile almost cracked.
There weren’t supposed to be questions about his private life and definitely not accusations that he was “weird,” whatever that was supposed to mean. But then again, you couldn’t really control what audience members said.
Especially not on a live broadcast.
He smiled. “I’m just enjoying my peace and quiet,” he answered. “I still work with my charities, but otherwise, I’m happy with what we all accomplished together on West Town and my work with the Broken Dragon team, too. Who needs more than that?”
Everyone applauded on a cue from producers, and Jameson thought his canned response had gotten him through the rough patch. As soon as the audience quieted down, though, the woman spoke into the microphone again. “Yeah, but the gossip rags say you never actually do anything with the charities. And there’s a million rumors that you’re a sex freak.”
Melissa gasped audibly, and a jolt of fear shot through Jameson’s body, crawling under his skin. He’d never addressed the nasty rumors on camera. He’d never had to, considering he only appeared in controlled environments, places where the questions were supposed to be vetted.
Not a single one of the rumors online had any resemblance to the actual truth of who Jameson was or what he liked to do in his free time.
But truth had very little to do with what people said online.
“I’m sure we don’t need to entertain lies,” the host said brightly, cutting them straight through the moment. “But we do need to entertain Justin’s work with those charities. I was just about to ask—you brought a video to share with us, didn’t you Justin?”
Blood still rushed through Jameson’s ears, the whooshing sound it made loud enough to quiet any rumbling from the audience. “Thanks for asking,” he said brightly. Smiling while he panicked made him feel psychotic, but he kept going anyway. “We’ve spent the last year working with indigenous groups in Brazil and fighting to preserve the Amazon. If they’ve cued up the video I brought along, I’d love to show you…”
By the time the special ended, Jameson had recovered himself. He managed a solid hour at the small cocktail party afterward, exchanging small talk with the right people, letting a few media types snap his picture and grabbing a traditional reunion pic for Cynthia’s social media, this time each on their knees like in their iconic prom scene.
“I’m going to get a literal million likes for this,” Cynthia muttered. “You okay, by the way?”
Jameson took a sip of his champagne, then wrinkled his nose at the bubbles. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“No one from the show thinks the rumors are true, you know,” she said.
“I know,” Jameson answered. “But thanks.”
“Thank you for coming out.” Cynthia clinked her glass with his, then threw back the last of her drink. “The team appreciates it.”
Jameson laughed. “Anytime.”
By the time he headed out of the party, Jameson had almost forgotten why he put up with that nonsense anymore. He had more than enough money, after all, and zero interest in acting again. But then he took a detour through the outskirts of the reunion party, past the crew who were paying mortgages and college tuitions with the money from the West Town machine.
When he had been in the industry, he had been alone. He had no person to look out for him or stand by his side. But the crew had always done their best. They got him a cake on his birthday, and asked about his schooling, and did what they could to make his screwed-up life feel normal.
It was a tiny thing, but it was what he had.
Jameson sighed again. There was nothing like having your own parents die during filming to make a guy sentimental about a dry sheet cake and a few balloons.
“Justin!” one of his old tutors hollered. “You taking off?”
Jameson held up the watch that had been chosen for the event, tapping it. “Long ride home,” he said. “Lance in college this year?”
“Penn,” the man answered. “Have a good one, yeah?”
Jameson nodded, then headed outside. He just couldn’t keep up the act any longer that night, couldn’t play Justin Sweet for one more minute. It happened that way sometimes, all at once, like the weight of it got to be too much and his honest self needed to stretch, to be free again.
Stepping into the back of the car, with the privacy window already rolled up, Jameson threw himself across the seat with a dramatic sigh.
He might just have been holed up in a mansion, but at least there, he didn’t have to pretend.
Gray
Gray stood outside the big white gate, surrounded by wooded hillside as the road curved along. Between the bars of the entrance, he could see a sprawling lawn, but the driveway disappeared down a bend before any glimpse of the mansion inside was visible.
He kicked the pavement. For how many times he’d jumped the fence at a place like this, it felt weird as hell to come in through the front door. After another couple of minutes of waffling and debating how upset his uncle would be if he backed out, Gray finally punched in the code he’d been given, hopped back in his car, and rolled toward the new job.
Justin fucking Sweet.
He still couldn’t believe it. The star of the Broken Dragon franchise, some of the best action movies of all time. Gray still remembered the first time he’d seen Justin Sweet’s face on a magazine: “Hollywood’s youngest action star,” the “hero for a new generation.” He’d saved the world three different times before he could legally drink at the bar.
Seeing Justin back then had always sparked something in Gray. At eighteen and nineteen, Justin was too young for Gray’s interest, but Gray still couldn’t help but notice how tempting and full his lips were or the curve of his bubble butt when he jumped from one helicopter to another. It made him feel complicated things, things he was trying not to feel again as he parked his car by a detached garage, then hopped out to assess his new digs.
And okay, maybe Gray had fantasized about steering those helicopters with Justin and fighting alongside the Broken Dragon. Didn’t everyone?
The house was sleek and modern. It looked like someone had taken three slices out of the hill Gray was looking at, then filled the holes in with glass, brick, and wood panels. There were wide porches jutting out at sharp angles, and in the center, a pool of water sat perfectly still. Behind it, thick trees and a small pond made the property secluded enough so you could practically forget
the outside world was around the corner at all.
“Damn,” Gray muttered. “The Broken Dragon did pretty good for himself.”
Just as he took a step forward to approach the mansion, a shrill, sharp bark cut through the yard. Gray jumped backward with a start as a large dog with a heavy white coat and beady eyes charged his way. Panic shot up Gray’s spine so fast, he yelped and leapt backward, throwing himself onto the hood of the car while the beast plowed forward.
“Pickles!” a voice called out. “Stop that right now!”
The dog fell silent at the front of the car, then plopped to the ground. Gray stared down, his heart pounding, while the dog panted and rolled to the side.
“What the hell, Pickles,” Gray muttered, trying to compose himself. “Blowing up my game here.”
Which was when he looked up and saw Justin Sweet. Justin Sweet! He was standing there, a few feet down the driveway, with that exact same look Gray had seen a million times before, all over the television when that annoying show was still on and then the movie screens and the gossip rags. He had this perfectly confident, natural smile on his face. It made the smooth angles of his jaw and the soft curves of his cheeks even more perfect.
And it made Gray even more horrified that he’d just nearly pissed himself over a dog.
Gray tried to not to stare like an obsessed fan. Now that he was a little bit older, Justin was undeniably hot. He wasn’t quite as muscled as when he was an action star, but there was still a solid strength to his body. His eyes sparkled with some kind of icy green shine, and his dark hair was tousled casually, nearly long enough to fall over his eyes. And even though the jeans he wore weren’t tight, they still hugged his thighs enough that Gray was suddenly desperate to catch a glance of his ass and see if it was as legendary as he remembered.