Prince of the Playhouse: A MM, Coming Out, Secret Identity, Theater Romance (Love in Laguna Book 3)

by Tara Lain

  After shaking a lot more hands, he took off out of the Playhouse and walked down Broadway toward the ocean. The moon hung low in the spring sky. He loved the walk, especially on Art Walk nights. And especially when he wanted to dream about Gray Anson. The idea of meeting the man, touching him, gripped his brain somewhere between ecstasy and terror. His cock, on the other hand, had no such confusion.

  Ahead of him the shops glistened with lights, and people clustered around the doors with wineglasses. He sauntered down Forest, where most of the real shopping occurred, and stopped in to his favorite men’s clothing store. Yes, it was coals to Newcastle, but he loved clothing in all its permutations. Ru grabbed a sauvignon blanc and browsed through the wonderful collection of dress shirts—blue stripes with white collar and cuffs, teal and gold stripes, even a pink polka dot with black collar and cuffs. Brilliant. When the owner, Herman, finally puttered over, Ru thrust three of the shirts, including the polka dots, at him. “Mine, darling. Wrap them up.”

  Herman stepped back. “Look at you. What a masterpiece. That suit is heaven. Did you design it?”

  “Yes.” Ru ran his hands down the deep teal gabardine suit with its tight jacket and floppy-legged pants. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t have time for men’s commissions, but I just adapted it from a woman’s style I created.”

  “Who else could carry it off? And the suspenders add that zoot-suit touch. Just great.” He carefully folded the shirts in tissue and slid them into a bag. “Did the event go well?”

  “Wonderfully, I’m told. Lots of money for AIDS research.”

  “And lots of good exposure for you, I hope.”

  Ru smiled. What would Herman say if he knew about Gray Anson?

  He paid and carried his bag out onto the sidewalk, turned right toward the ocean again, and pointed his nose toward home. Art Walk was almost over, and some of the shops had already closed.

  Swinging his bag, he drifted as he walked back up the sidewalk toward his cottage. Gray Anson. Gray. Like his eyes. Lord knew, Ru wasn’t given to fantasy. He’d worked his ass off to get as far as he had from less than nothing, but Gray. That was a dream he couldn’t resist. He shivered. Touching him, even for a second. Scared to wish it. If I get home fast and grab the car, I could make the late show.

  He crossed the PCH again at the light and started uphill toward his neighborhood. Nobody walking here. On the side streets, few streetlights invaded the dark, and the contrast to the bustling downtown gave him a spooky feeling. He glanced over his shoulder—and froze. Carefully honed instincts kicked in like a son of a bitch.

  Don’t stop walking. He forced himself not to speed up. The shadow of the guy across the street fell on him for a second, then was gone. Probably nothing. Just somebody going home, like me. This is Laguna Beach. You’re Ru Maitland. Don’t get jumpy.

  “Hey, buddy, what you got in the bag?” The voice had a whispery quality that slithered up Ru’s spine.

  Kid, don’t do this. Don’t. You’ll be sorry.

  Chapter Two

  “Looks like you been shopping. Buy something for me?” The guy stepped closer. Thin, pale, probably drugs.

  Ru stopped and faced the man. Not much older than he was. Twenty-four? Twenty-five? But lots of hard living. I know about that. “No, I didn’t. Why? Are you hungry? Need food?”

  The man frowned. “No, asshole. I need your money, so why don’t you reach in those fancy fag pants and toss me your wallet?”

  Frozen calm. Jesus, he remembered the feeling so well. Too well. Walk away. Get out of here. “No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” He tossed his hair out of his eyes. “You should know that I’m not as easy a mark as you’re expecting, so you’d do well to just leave, okay?”

  “Oh yeah? And why the fuck would I do that, pretty fag boy?” He swung his hand wide, and the moonlight glistened off the blade of a knife.

  Automatic pilot. A streak of adrenaline shot up Ru’s spine. He dropped the bag while his other hand slid deep in his pocket. The guy’s eyes widened at the nasty snick of the switchblade in Ru’s hand. In one move Ru stepped forward, wrapped an arm around the guy’s throat, and pressed the edge of the blade against it. “Drop it or you’re going to bleed, esé.”

  “Shit.” The man’s body trembled and jerked. He smelled like sweat and garbage. Ru pressed the knife harder. The kid’s fingers loosened on his weapon, and it clattered to the pavement.

  Ru took a breath. I could kill him. Easier than figuring out what the fuck to do with him. Think. You’re Ru Maitland. Think. “Sit on the curb. If you run, I’ll chase you, and you won’t like the outcome. Do you doubt I can catch you?”

  The guy’s head moved a fraction side to side.

  Ru eased his knife away and pushed the guy down to sit on the curb at his feet, then grabbed the other knife from the asphalt. He put one expensive shoe on either side of the kid’s thighs and reached for his phone. Shit, cops. Do I want to do this?

  You’re Ru Maitland. Just do it.

  911.

  “Emergency.”

  “Yes, I’ve caught an attempted armed robber on Hightower Street in Laguna Beach. Cross street is Pacific Coast Highway.”

  “Caught?”

  “Yes. But get here quick. He’s ruining my suit.”

  “Sir, is this a hoax?”

  The kid leaped forward. Ru snapped a knee around his neck and hauled him flat on his back on the ground, then pressed his shoe hard to the kid’s throat. He felt like a frigging pretzel. “Lady, he’s got a knife. If I let him go, he’ll steal another one and use it on someone else. Get here now. I can’t really take him home.”

  “Thank you, sir. An officer will be there in two minutes.”

  “Hurry.” He clicked the phone, shoved it in his pocket, and squatted down next to the would-be robber, balancing the switchblade in one hand and the guy’s fixed blade in the other. “Sorry. I’d let you go if you hadn’t used the knife, but you’re a nasty piece of work.”

  “Shit. What’s that make you, man?”

  There was the question. “Badder and meaner than you, darling. Run again and you’re dead.”

  The guy’s eyes widened so far they consumed his skinny face. He believed Ru would do it, and baby, he might be right.

  “Get yourself off drugs and maybe you can clean up your vicious tendencies. Otherwise, there’s not much hope for you in this world.” The siren wailed as the cop car raced up the street. Ru shuddered. Scenes from Compton flashed in his mind. Bernardo and his brothers stomping some bangers into the earth. Teaching little Roberto to fight. Screaming at him the cardinal rule—No fucking cops. He shook his head to clear it. Forget it. You’re Ru Maitland. He stuck his own knife in his pocket but held on to the kid’s. Black-and-whites still gave him a sick stomach. “Don’t move. I’m really fast.”

  The guy sighed, nodded, and sat up, staring at his worn sneakers. Clearly not a very successful thief. Still he snarled, “You’re gonna be sorry. I got connections.”

  The policeman climbed out of his car, weapon drawn. Ru’s grip tightened on the handle of the knife. One flick, and bye-bye blackbird. “Evening, Officer.”

  The cop was short, stocky, and probably as mean as the robber, but with a license. “What happened here?”

  “I was walking home, and this man accosted me and demanded I give him my wallet. He threatened me with this knife. I objected, took it from him, and the results are as you see. Will you please restrain him?”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “Rupert Maitland. I live up this street at 426. If you’ll take this asshole off my hands, I’ll show you my ID.”

  The policeman pulled the failed robber to his feet, yanked his hands behind his back, and began reading him his rights as he handcuffed him. Still, the cop kept glancing at Ru as if he had to be guilty of something. Good instincts. Ru fished his wallet from the floppy pants and tossed the long-in-front hair that fell in his eyes. He held the wallet out to the cop.

  “Remove the I
D from the wallet, please.”

  Should have remembered that. He pulled out the license, and the cop looked at it while holding on to the robber’s handcuffs. “I have to ask you to come down to headquarters with me and file the complaint.”

  “I could walk up the hill and get my car.” He glanced at the cop’s name badge. “Officer Johns.”

  “No, sir, you’d best come with me.”

  Hellfire. There went his chances of making the late show.

  The perp was roughly shoved into the backseat, and Ru climbed into the passenger side. Jesus, he could still smell the guy on his clothes. Maybe I’ll burn this suit.

  As the cop walked to his door, the robber’s voice oozed from the backseat. “This ain’t over, fag.”

  Don’t rise to his bait. “Fine by me.” The words pushed like acid over his tongue.

  Two miserable hours of questions he didn’t want to answer later, the cop pulled the cruiser up to Ru’s cottage. “Here you are, Mr. Maitland. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  His tone had backed down from full-on assholic surliness, since the chief of police had recognized Ru’s name, having just come from the AIDS Research benefit.

  Ru nodded. “Of course. Sorry you had to go out of your way.”

  “Couldn’t have you walking.” Officer Johns smiled, but it didn’t light up his eyes. “That’s how you got in trouble to begin with.”

  Ru smiled back. The fiction the cops seemed to want to hang on to was that the robber was just a junkie who stumbled and fell when Ru blew on him with his pansy breath. Good. He’d just as soon keep that thought going. “I appreciate your help.”

  “You may want to be careful.”

  “Oh?” Ru raised an eyebrow.

  “Things may be swinging your way politically, but there are still a lot of haters out there.”

  “My way? I see. Doesn’t that suggest that you should arrest the haters rather than warning me to be careful in my own neighborhood?”

  A crease popped out between his brows. “Maybe tone it down a little.”

  “Just as a woman who wears a low-cut dress is asking for it?”

  He shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

  Ru laughed. “My business is fashion, Officer Johns. This is toned down. Have a good evening.” He turned toward the door and opened it.

  “Spend much time in LA, Mr. Maitland?”

  Ru froze. “Not much.” Take a breath. “I’m in fashion, so I do attend events there occasionally.” Shit, where did that come from? Johns had spent some time with the asshole he took in. What had the guy said?

  “How long you lived in Laguna?”

  “Quite a while. Thanks again for your help.” He slid out the door, slammed it, and headed toward his house. Don’t look back. Don’t hurry.

  Mrs. O’Grady, complete with brilliant floral kimono and bright green hair, ran out of her house next door with her two giant poodles, Flopsy and Mopsy, bounding at her heels. “Ru, is everything okay?”

  “Not a problem, Mrs. O. Some guy attacked me, and I had to go file a complaint.”

  “Attacked? What the hell? Did he get away?”

  “Nope.”

  “The police caught him?”

  “Uh, sort of. Anyway, he’s in jail.” He bent over and petted Flopsy and Mopsy.

  “You don’t even look mussed, sweetie.”

  “I’m fine.” If you don’t count overly inquisitive cops. Mopsy, the white poodle, stuck out her chin farther for scratching. “Hey girl, how’s tricks?” Flopsy, so named for his very prominent balls, butted him with his fuzzy black head. “Okay, here’s some loving for you too.” He scratched at the base of his tail, which relaxed him as much as the dog. Keep breathing. The dog got a look that should have been confined to porn videos. Though the pooch would have let him scratch all night, Ru stood. “Sorry, fur persons, I’m whipped. I have to call it a night.”

  “You poor dear. You must be exhausted.”

  “Yes. But the benefit went really well.”

  “Glad to hear it, dear. I’m just happy you’re not hurt.”

  “Me too.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then gathered up his somewhat bedraggled shopping bag and let himself in the house.

  He sighed as he flipped on the lights. Home. A place he loved, full of all the things he wanted to define his life, and missing all the things—and people—he’d consciously rejected. Only Bernardo even knew where he was. The rest? Nada. He dropped the Roman shades, since Mrs. O was a great friend but a nosy one.

  In his bedroom, he unwrapped the shirts and set them aside for fitting later, then stripped off his ankle boots and the suit. He stared at it. Would it always remind him of the asshole with the knife? Oh come on, dear, you can’t afford to be tossing out thousand-dollar suits. He dropped it in the hamper in his walk-in closet—a luxury he’d had to engineer out of a small bedroom in the old house—then yanked off his boxer briefs. In the bathroom across the hall—as close to an en suite as he’d been able to manage out of 1950s architecture—he took a quick shower, then wrapped himself in a pale gold chenille robe. He smiled. The cop should see him now. Fagginess confirmed. Wonder why he asked about LA? Should I call Bernardo? He shuddered. Shit, don’t panic.

  In the living room, he flopped on the yellow couch. Yes, it was late, but he didn’t have to get up early tomorrow. He’d missed his movie. He needed a video reward.

  With a quick click of the remote, he plunged into the middle of his saved video collection. Fortunately he lived alone, or any roommate would have had him locked up for obsession. He had every movie Gray Anson had made in his six-year career. It had taken Ru a few years to discover Gray, but then—crack city. He’d bought the movies like popcorn. Not enough to just download. He’d searched for DVDs. Unlike most actors, Gray didn’t have any small movies. His first performance had hit big, and every film since then qualified as blockbuster material. Ru’d seen most of them more than a dozen times—yes, thank you, he was nuts—so which one did he feel like jerking off to tonight? Oh yeah. Misty Madness.

  He clicked the Play button and fast-forwarded through the few credits. This was Gray’s one “serious” movie, where the titles ran at the beginning and the first scene didn’t include an explosion or a car chase. The heroine was pretty but more androgynous than a lot of the action-film girls. Gray was good too, showing more vulnerability than in his action roles. There was a sweetness that slipped through.

  But right now Ru didn’t need plot. Just a good jerk-off scene. As the film approached the sequence he liked best, he reached into the end table drawer and pulled out the lube. Under his couch throw he hid a towel he could use to keep the suede on the sectional clean. Yeah, there it is. On the screen, Gray lay in bed, obviously naked under the sheets, a half view of his perfect, hard-as-iron buttock dominating the foreground of the shot. I can definitely work it out to touch those buttcheeks while I measure him, I bet. Sweet Jesus, that got his cock going.

  He slicked his hands with lube, used his forefinger to open the robe, and grabbed his Anson-freak penis with both hands. He settled his head back and started stroking as the very short-haired girl crept through Gray’s bedroom window. She carried a knife in her teeth. Stealthily she slipped across the floor and switched the knife to an offensive position, ready to strike. As she reached the bed, Gray grabbed her hand, making her drop the knife, twisted her in an arc so she rolled over his body, and pinned her to the mattress. Before she could scream, he kissed her. Ru’s hands pumped harder.

  For seconds she fought him, until—yes, predictably—her arms wrapped around him and she kissed him back. Oh yes. Ru switched to one-handed jerking while he wet his other forefinger and slid it into his asshole. Here came his favorite part.

  The girl pulled out of the clinch and slid down, taking the covers with her. Man, several inches of naked groin. Then she reared up on her knees, and her head started bobbing over Gray’s hips, her short, floppy hair playing right into Ru’s fantasy. There he was, sucking the ju
ice out of Gray Anson, giving him a blowjob the likes of which he’d never had. The camera moved close to Gray, capturing the ecstasy all over his face, then back to the girl’s bobbing head. Ru shoved his finger farther up his hole and started pumping it in time to his cock jerks, letting the fire build, gritting his teeth to keep from coming until that moment of—oh shit! From tons of practice, he grabbed the towel just as his cock exploded in shot after shot of cum. Blinding white heat flashed through his balls, then blazed into his head like a bolt. His hips bounced on the couch, trying to contain the waves of pleasure. When the shock waves slowed, he let the edge of the towel touch his oversensitive dick to capture the last of his ejaculate.

  The movie kept playing, but he knew it by heart, so he didn’t watch. Slowly he sat up and closed his robe. The sticky mess in the towel matched the ones he had stacked in his hamper. He often washed most of them before his housekeeper got there for her one day a week. It was stupid, but he hated her thinking he couldn’t get a guy to do that for him. He could—probably. But no real man measured up to his fantasy world. Yes, he was twenty-four and needed to grow up. Well, maybe grow back up. He’d had to grow up when he was four. If he wanted to enjoy being a stupid adolescent now, he fucking well could. Bernardo had paid for Ru’s right to a childhood.

  He stood, turned everything off including the lamps, walked into his bedroom, and dropped the towel into the hamper with the others. He crossed to the bathroom, peed, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and headed for bed. Only the bedside light stayed on as he pulled off his robe and draped it over the bench at the foot of the bed. As he reached for the lamp, he caught the movement in his floor mirror. Don’t look. He sighed.

  Straightening, he gazed over his shoulder at his back—the back he never showed to anyone, making the practice of having sex with real humans a bit tricky. Across his shoulders stretched two black tattooed wings, and at the junction was scripted Angel del Diablo. One of the edges of the wings was blurred where he’d tried to have it removed and then given up in despair. The scarring looked worse than the tat. No lovely, smooth, gay-boy skin for him. Instead he got to spend his life wearing T-shirts under his clothes, never going in the water without a cover-up, never showering in the gym with other people, so that no one—not even his best friend—would know his back advertised the name of his gang.