by R. Cayden
Everything was looking good, and he was about to treat himself to a little TV time when his phone started beeping. He’d linked it with the security system, and the map that popped up showed an alert on the fence near the back.
Gray took off like a bolt of lightning. His muscles sprung to life, launching him through the trees and around the bend in the hill. His breath came out heavy and fast, and his boots slid against the muddy ground.
And sure enough, when he pushed through the last bushes, a man with a camera was climbing down the fence.
Rage flew through Gray, flashes of silver anger clouding his vision. Why the hell these assholes couldn’t just leave Jameson alone, he didn’t understand. He knew that it wasn’t just a photograph they were after. They would be happy to destroy Jameson, to sell his deepest secrets, and there was no line they wouldn’t cross to do it.
Gray grabbed the startled man by the shirt, then threw him against the fence. The photographer grunted as he crashed into the heavy bars, his camera swinging wildly off his shoulder. Gray grabbed it by the strap, tearing it away before he dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot.
“Private property,” Gray said, then stomped on the camera again, satisfied by the crunch. “You must be lost.”
The photographer stood up to full height again. He was bigger than Gray realized at first, with a solid mass behind his muscles and a square jaw. “That was my best fucking camera,” he growled.
Normally, that was right about the moment when Raiden would lunge at the guy, and Gray would have to jump on his best friend to stop things from getting ugly.
Except now Gray didn’t have his guys. There was no one to get his back, no one to grab him if he made a bad decision. He had to take care of things himself, and that meant playing smart.
“There’s nothing to see here,” Gray said through gritted teeth. “If you want a story, you’re wasting your time.”
The man smoothed down his jacket, then chuckled, clearly not bothered at all by Gray. “Whatever you say, champ. See you soon, I’m sure.”
The smirk on his face was so fucking rich; that alone could have made Gray snap. But then the photographer turned around to climb himself back over the fence. He hitched himself up in the air and left his ass just hanging there, like a piñata or something. “And tell Justin Sweet I send my love,” he added over his shoulder.
Gray swung his boot back, then sent it flying with a satisfied thump against the photographer’s rear. “Get your paparazzi ass out of here!” he hollered, then burst out laughing as the man yelped and climbed like he had hell chasing after him. “And don’t you fucking think about coming back!” he added, landing one more swift kick on the man’s rear as he disappeared up and over the fence.
Gray shoved his hands in his pocket, fuming as he stomped back toward the house. The spikes on the top of the fence looked intimidating, but it seemed like they were going to need an upgrade. At least he knew the alarm system was working properly. If he was going to secure the space that Jameson needed, he couldn’t let a single intruder through.
He rounded the corner back to the house, then paused beside a small stone path to the side. Curled around, not too far from his house, an old firepit sat, surrounded by wooden benches that were built into the hillside. It clearly hadn’t been used in ages, but it explained the piles of wood kept beside the guest house.
Gray rubbed the back of his head, staring at the firepit. He turned up to glance the mansion, then back to the spot, with that cozy-looking bench and the clear view of the sky above.
“Fuck it,” he grumbled, then headed toward the main house. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else going on.”
JAMESON
“Did he have a beard?” Jameson asked. He tightened his jacket, then stepped a little closer to the fire’s warmth. “If he was a big guy with a beard and with really bushy eyebrows, then he works for the supermarket tabloids.”
“Bushy eyebrows for sure,” Gray answered with a nod. “Really gross ones. Like he needed a weedwhacker.”
Jameson laughed with a nod. The public persona he had developed would never insult someone’s appearance, but he was allowed to laugh along when Gray made the joke for him.
And anyway, they weren’t in public, he reminded himself. They were in his backyard, by that firepit he never actually used, with Pickles at his feet licking her stuffed banana. When he had moved out to the mansion after leaving Hollywood, he had insisted his team install a relaxing space for evening fires. Jameson had all these romantic fantasies of being away from the city, but then the reality had just never quite matched up, and the firepit had sat unused for several seasons.
Leave it to Gray to come knocking on his door, asking about it.
“I’m just glad I caught him,” he said. He was wearing a blue flannel under his jacket, standing across the fire from Jameson with the light flickering in his face. “Plus, I found this old thing. There’s nothing like a fire to pass an evening.”
“I think so, too,” Jameson said. He bent down to lift his glass of wine, and when he held it up, he smelled the fruity aroma, mingling with the burning wood. “Fires are so relaxing.” They made him feel normal in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Exactly,” Gray said. He plopped down on the bench, then leaned back with his beer. “Back at my place outside Albany, me and my guys have a fire every weekend.”
Jameson shot to attention. He’d been reluctant to ask Gray about his life, knowing it would just open the door for his security guard to return the questions. But he’d been dying of curiosity. Gray was like a big floating question mark to Jameson or a book where all the pages were blurry. “Oh yeah?” he asked casually.
“Sure. I live with my buddy Raiden, and our friend Horatio is right down the road. It’s a hell of a lot better to spend a Saturday night around the fire, instead of wasting all our money at the bar.” He grinned at Jameson, sending a thrill underneath his skin. “Plus, you get enough drinks in my guy Raiden, and he ends up singing along to the radio all night.”
Jameson crossed his arms. “Am I supposed to believe you don’t sing along to the radio?”
Gray barked out a laugh. “Okay, it depends on the song, all right? I’m doing everyone a favor, though, when I keep my mouth shut. You don’t want to hear this singing voice.”
Jameson wasn’t so sure about that. “Everyone with a voice can sing,” he pointed out.
“Can you?”
Dee’s advice echoed in the back of Jameson’s head, encouraging him to share a little more of himself with Gray. It was ridiculous for him to loosen up, considering a photographer had nearly broken in that very afternoon.
Although Gray was the one who had kept things secure. He was the reason Jameson wasn’t intruded upon that day. It was another good reason to trust the guy, even though the grin he was shooting across the fire was pure mischief.
“I can sing,” Jameson admitted, then took another sip of his wine. “Kind of, at least.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
“What?”
“There’s no better audience than a fire, and everyone sounds good under the stars. Everyone but me and Raiden, that is.” He took a swig of his beer, then went back to holding Jameson’s eye. Jameson felt like the dark stare was reaching inside of him and taking hold, and he had an urge to give in to it. “I can get the radio, if you want backup singers.”
Jameson laughed with his perfect and practiced Justin Sweet laugh, fighting to hold his composure together when every instinct told him to give in. “I don’t think so, Gray. I’ll have to disappoint you tonight.”
And then Gray did something that Jameson did not expect whatsoever.
He pouted.
He turned down his mouth in a big frown, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And after I went to all the trouble of making this fire…” he grumbled, clearly teasing.
Jameson couldn’t help it—he blurted out an actual laugh, his voice lilting up before he
pulled it back down.
Gray uncrossed his arms, that grin filling his face again. “That sounded like a yes.”
“It did not,” Jameson objected.
Gray jumped to his feet. “It did. Be right back.”
Jameson sat there while Gray hurried off, disappearing back into the guest house. For a moment, he was outside all alone, and he listened to the crackle of the fire and the quiet his money and the large property had offered him. A smile played on his lips. Spending a night by the fire might not mean as much to Gray, he realized. But doing something normal like that meant everything to Jameson.
It made a whole different kind of life seem possible again.
Gray came back outside, then plopped a small stereo down on the path outside the guest house, its cord trailing back in. Beside Jameson, Pickles stirred at the noise and peeked her head over the bench. Gray fiddled with the radio for a minute, then cranked up the volume through the static as a radio voice announced nineties rock favorites. When he returned to the fire, he had a triumphant look on his face, like he’d just pulled something off.
“I’m still not going to sing,” Jameson said.
“You say that now,” Gray said, then nodded to the radio. “But the right song comes on, and I’ll get you.”
Another thrill shot up Jameson’s spine as he thought about all the ways he would actually love for Gray to get him.
Instead of indulging those thoughts, he settled back against the bench. “What do your friends do?” he asked in an attempt to change the subject. “Back in Albany?”
Gray plopped down on the bench beside him. “They run a mechanic shop and pull some odd jobs.”
“Odd jobs?”
Gray seemed to think a minute, rubbing his hand over his chin. “You know…” he said vaguely. “We used to get up to trouble and mess around a lot. Now my uncle’s got me working for his agency, and I’m thinking security might be my future.”
Jameson noticed the way he glossed over the question but didn’t ask. Considering the circumstances, it was only fair Gray have some privacy of his own. “You’re good at your job,” Jameson said. “I do feel safer, just having you here.”
Which was true, even though his heartrate kept spiking, like he was taking some risk just by talking to Gray.
“Thanks,” Gray grunted.
Jameson wasn’t sure what Gray meant, that he used to get up to a lot of trouble. It didn’t really bother him, though. He’d always wanted to act out more and to enjoy the kinds of fun that a lot of the other young actors enjoyed, but the weight of responsibility had stopped him. He didn’t have parents to come and clean up his mess. He just had himself, for better or worse, and things like wild Hollywood parties or exciting affairs or even simply dating had never seemed to be risks worth taking.
“Wait a second,” Gray said, holding his hand straight out. There were a few feet between them on either side of the bench, but when he leaned forward, Jameson still felt the pull of Gray’s body, the space closing with the gesture. “Do you hear that?”
Jameson turned his attention to the song. It was instantly recognizable, and he found the lyrics swirling through his memory, even though he didn’t recognize the musician. “Who is this?” he asked.
“Who is this?” Gray repeated the question like he was shocked. “It’s The Pretenders! This is, like, perfect campfire singing music.” He leaned forward on the bench again, inching a little closer, then dropped his voice, more like he was talking the lyrics than singing along. “So if you’re mad, get mad. Don’t hold it all inside…”
Jameson laughed, then turned his eyes back to the fire. “I recognize it,” he said, resisting the urge to sing, although he knew it would feel so good. His eyes locked on the flames, he let himself tap his foot, not wanting to leave Gray totally stranded. “I think we used it on the West Town soundtrack, during the second season.”
“It’s a fucking classic,” Gray said, then burst into song for just a minute. “Let me come along… ‘cause even if you’re wrong…” His singing voice had a low rumble to it, but still enough sway and bounce that it carried Gray’s energy. He was right that it wasn’t exactly a good singing voice, but somehow, it was perfect, too.
Jameson turned, a smile still tugging his cheeks up. At what was either the exact wrong moment or the exact right moment, he caught Gray’s eye, and the chorus to the song returned.
“I’ll stand by you,” Jameson sang softly, his voice dancing under his breath.
“I’ll stand by you!” Gray hooted at the fire, and they both burst into laughter.
“Won’t let nobody hurt you…” Jameson hummed, and finally, his last defenses fell, and he started to sing. He and Gray joined together, the song spilling out as the chorus repeated, and the radio crackled with static. Jameson had never bothered to figure out a singing voice for his Justin Sweet persona, neither of his signature roles having called for it. Instead, when he sang along with Gray, it was his natural voice that rang out, bouncing along with the music and then dissolving into laughter when the song reached its triumphant end.
“See?” Gray laughed. “You’ve got the perfect firepit for singing back here.”
“I guess so,” Jameson said, a blush pinking his cheeks. He was warm and tingling all over. Even more tingles than he usually felt after he sang a duet with Dee, Jameson realized.
Gray’s smile widened, and Jameson felt the thud of his heart behind his ribs. He wanted desperately to be in another universe, one where he could reach out right then and touch his security guard, to feel the dark hairs that curled on the back of his arms or taste his sweat.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Gray said. “Just like I thought. Do you have anyone special to sing to up there in the mansion?”
The fire snapped, and Pickles whined. The warm feeling faded, and Jameson remembered how chilly it was outside. He pulled his jacket a little tighter, the question sitting painfully in the bare night.
And that, he realized, was the reason he couldn’t let Gray in just a little. Dee was just being naïve when she suggested that. Because the second they started to connect, Gray would turn, and he would ask a question that Jameson couldn’t answer.
Not honestly, anyway. And by the fire, he knew that lying wasn’t an option.
Jameson fixed a steady smile on his face. It felt painful to give a scripted response, but he didn’t know what else to say. “I’m taking time to myself right now,” he said, “and not seeing anyone special. After seven busy years in Hollywood, I’m enjoying the quiet and seeing some old friends.”
Gray smiled back, but from the sting in his dark eyes, Jameson knew something had changed. It wasn’t surprising. A canned answer like that was appropriate for a reporter at the gate, but Gray suddenly felt like much more than that.
Anyway, Gray was too clever, too alert for a lie to sneak past him, and his wince only proved that he knew Jameson was withholding the truth.
“Right,” Gray said. “The compliment stands, either way. You really got a voice there, you know?”
Jameson nodded softly. “Thanks.” He lifted his glass, then finished the last of the wine. Having to shield himself from Gray had spoiled his mood, like the fantasies had turned to smoke right in front of them. “I should probably turn in for the night.”
“Sure,” Gray said. The radio was still singing out as they both stood. “I’ll put the fire out and clean up out here.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” Jameson said. Just because he was a bummer didn’t mean Gray’s night should be over. “We’ll say you’re keeping guard.”
Gray chuckled. “That works. Hey, Jameson, I wanted to ask…”
Jameson’s gut clenched. If he had to lie through his teeth to give Gray another scripted reply, he was going to throw up in his mouth. “Yeah?”
“You said you love the X-Men movies. Have you seen New Mutants yet?”
Jameson brightened, relieved by a question he could answer. “I was going to order a screener for it, a
ctually. Why? Would you like to see it? I could probably arrange it by this weekend.”
Gray shoved his hands in his pockets, bouncing a little in the cold. “I’m not surprised you can get a copy. But what about a field trip? A matinee at one of the little theaters around here? That’s how you like to watch them, right?”
Jameson shook his head quickly. “It really doesn’t work. I get swarmed anytime I’m in public.”
“Yeah?” Gray rocked back on his feet. “You haven’t tried it with me as your security, have you?”
“Oh, I’m not paying you for that,” Jameson said quickly. “You’re just supposed to manage the grounds here. I have other people for travel, and I wouldn’t want to ask you to take on extra work.”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering. And I want to see New Mutants, too, so it’s a win-win.”
Jameson bit down on his lip, indulging in the gesture even though it felt forbidden, too soft for his usual look. No one had ever asked him on a date. It was like celebrity had made him untouchable or something, but that was exactly what it felt like Gray was doing then. Like finally, someone was asking Jameson out.
“I don’t think you appreciate the challenge. I was literally swarmed by VSCO girls the last time I tried to go to a mall.”
“I might not have any idea what that means,” Gray said, “but I’ll bet everything I got that I can get you in and out of a matinee.” He held Jameson’s eye, not even blinking. “I’ll keep the crowds away, Jameson. I promise.”
With Gray staring at him, Jameson felt like his world had turned upside down, and the strangest things were going to just keep falling out of his mouth. “Thursday afternoon?” he asked. “My accountants are coming by tomorrow.”
“Thursday afternoon,” Gray agreed.
And just like that, they had a date.