Star Bright

by Shelly Greene

  Nudging his coffee cup into Julian’s free hand, Rafi used both his own hands to cradle and surround Julian’s face—and went all in. Nothing forceful or demanding, just warm slow enthusiasm, lavishing Julian’s lips with the tender affection they deserved.

  He felt Julian go through several stages of reaction. Cool acceptance, a startled stiffening when he realized this was no quick smooch just for show, then stoically deciding to play along…The stoicism began to fray, melt at the edges, Julian leaning—almost falling—forward into the kiss, returning it with tiny hesitant movements that were nothing like his usual polished imitation kisses. Rafi felt the two cups of coffee press against his shirt, as if Julian would have liked to grab him if his hands weren’t full.

  It was going wonderfully until Rafi pushed a little further, the tip of his tongue teasing at Julian’s lips—and Julian stepped back with a gasp.

  A chorus of “ooohs” was rising from kids on the set behind Julian; one of the makeup artists wolf-whistled. Julian flipped her off without looking, making her cackle.

  “Come now, Rafi, not in front of the children,” he said, his voice cold—but his cheeks were pink, eyes dilated, and when he turned to face the man who was approaching them, he actually swayed a little on his feet.

  Rafi made no attempt to not feel smug about it.

  “Is this gentleman bothering you, sir?” The approaching man wore a suit and sunglasses, and looked familiar to Rafi; ah, Uncle Eddie’s bodyguard from the beach, Lyle.

  “Will you shoo him off if I say yes?” Julian took another step away from Rafi and sipped his coffee, prompting another grimace.

  Lyle made a show of checking out Rafi’s biceps. “Let me just call for backup first. Maybe air support.”

  Julian chuckled. “Fortunately, Lyle, it’s not my body you’re here to guard.”

  “True, sir, but since Tasha is, er, handling my duties, I thought I might as well return the favor.” Lyle jerked his head toward the other side of the set, where Aaron was offering a bottle of water to bodyguard Tasha. Initially stiff and skeptical, her body language shifted when Aaron gave a courtly, cape-swirling bow, presenting the water as one might a precious jewel. An indulgent smile escaped the edge of her mouth, and she accepted the bottle.

  Julian rolled his eyes. “You are here to spy on me, and Tasha is here to swoon over the Pratt. Is there no one without an ulterior motive?”

  “Unlikely, sir. Shall I tell your uncle you discovered tongue today, sir, or leave it at a more general ‘inappropriate public display’?”

  “Sloppy and inappropriate public display should be sufficient.”

  “So that’s Tasha’s type, huh, young and haughty?” Rafi said, still watching Aaron and Tasha. When Aaron said something to make her burst out laughing, Tasha suddenly didn’t look as much older than him as Rafi had thought. Still…“This is someone you trust to watch your back, with that kind of judgment?”

  “Oh, Aaron’s not so bad,” Julian said. “My uncle encourages the worst in him, just as he does with everyone. Mostly Aaron is just screamingly jealous of the attention I get from Uncle. It’s one of the great ironies of my life.”

  Aaron began to walk off, but Tasha pulled him back, frowning in concern at something on his wrist. Aaron’s demeanor transformed from haughty to bashful, an expression Rafi couldn’t have imagined on his face a moment before.

  “All right, folks, we’ve got an equipment issue,” came a call from the set. “I’m calling it a night. Go get some sleep.”

  The children cheered; Rafi hoped they had not actually been here all day, as he was pretty sure that was illegal, but clearly they’d been here longer than they wanted to. Julian, whom Rafi suspected of having a deep fondness for hats, hooked the panama fedora off Rafi’s head and dropped it onto his own at a rakish angle.

  “Take me out to dinner?”

  “I could eat,” Rafi said, and gave Julian his arm to escort him out of the studio, pretending not to see the grinning production assistant recording them on his phone.

  * * * *

  Julian was going to be bad tonight, and no one could stop him. The unaccustomed notion floated in his chest like a soap bubble, lighter than air, slick with rainbows.

  “This is where you want to get dinner?” Rafi was staring through the windshield at the flashing neon sign above the restaurant Julian had directed him to. Well, ‘restaurant’ wasn’t really the right word. ‘Greasy spoon’ was closer.

  “Are you too good for this establishment, Rafael?” Julian asked, straight-faced. “Does it violate your rockstar aesthetic? Offend your capitalist-princeling sensibilities?”

  “Says the man whose apartment looks like the Baroque period threw up in a Khardashian’s handbag.”

  Julian laughed—more bubbles, spilling invisibly out of his mouth. “Oh, it’s terrible, isn’t it? And I’ve done what I could to make it worse. You should see my uncle’s face any time he comes over. Although now that I’ve changed the locks,” he realized, “I could do something about the décor.” What an idea. He could do anything he wanted.

  “Wait, is that what you meant when you said ‘performative art’? All of that is just to irritate your uncle?”

  “He chose the apartment. Decorated and furnished it himself. Bestowed it upon me, without permitting my input at any stage in the process. I couldn’t bring myself to actually take a dump on the rug, but I figure cigarette butts are close.” Julian wasn’t sure why he was telling Rafi all this, but he couldn’t think of a reason not to. It felt good to say it out loud to someone.

  Someone who’d gotten his coffee order right. Someone he’d been so glad to see that he flubbed a line.

  Someone who’d kissed him like…he didn’t know how to describe it. He shied away from thinking about it. Like a soap bubble, it might pop if he touched it, and be gone forever.

  “What would you actually want your apartment to look like, then?” Rafi asked.

  Julian shrugged. “Not that.” He hopped out of the car, and Rafi hurried to follow.

  The night was too warm for the outfit Julian had changed into—scarf and leather jacket over a button-up and tight leather pants, all in shades of black and grey. He always preferred to err on the side of too much rather than too little, when it came to clothing. The more layers between him and watching eyes, the better.

  Something flashed in his peripheral vision as Julian looked over his shoulder, impatient for Rafi to catch up; Rafi reached out to catch the little braid at the side of Julian’s face.

  “You have a sparkly,” he said.

  “Do I?” Julian pulled the braid until he could see the little crystal at the end of it, brushing Rafi’s fingers in the process. “So I do. Well, it’s not as if Frankie doesn’t follow me home anyway.”

  “Yeah, you were pretty intense on set,” Rafi said, opening the diner door for them. “Do you always get so into your characters?”

  “That’s the point of acting.”

  Inside was a long bar with red-cushioned stools, but Julian steered them toward the privacy of a booth instead. Springs groaned under Rafi’s weight as he sat; Julian brushed crumbs off faux-leather and took a quieter seat.

  “What can I get you gentlemen?” asked a young waitress, her perky service voice failing her at the end of a long shift. She showed no sign of recognizing them. No one expected Julian Gault and Rafael Reyes to show up in their diner in the middle of the night, after all. For the moment, they were just Mr. Messy Bun With Scarf and Mr. White Shorts With Hat.

  “Coffee, please,” Rafi said.

  “Same here,” said Julian. The coffee wouldn’t be anything like his usual order, but at least it would be hot.

  “Sure thing.” The waitress handed them slightly sticky laminated menus and bustled off.

  “You were saying something about the point of acting?” Rafi nudged, looking over the menu.

  “Yes…” It was hard for Julian to tear his attention away from the menu options. All of them open to h
im, now. For one night. “The point of acting is to be someone else. I learned that when I was thirteen. Prince Henry had his share of problems, but they weren’t my problems.”

  Prince Henry of The Golden Crown had been his first big role, almost his first role of any kind. Filming had started on the five-month anniversary of his family’s deaths. That was the day he had learned the joy and relief of putting Julian Gault aside and making room for someone—anyone, anyone—else.

  “Plus, Henry was a stunning and intolerable brat,” Rafi said, mouth crimping. “That was probably fun to play with.”

  “Mm. I channeled a lot of things through Henry.” Julian didn’t look up from the menu. “What are you going to order?”

  Rafi made a considering noise, wrinkling his nose a little at the menu. “This is all so heavy. Bacon, butter, steak…People always expect me to go for that, I guess because I’m big, but I’m much more of a veggie guy. Maybe one of these melts. What about you?”

  “You’re right, everything here is fried, covered in cheese, or both. Ooh, and they have all-day breakfast!” Julian grinned. “Look at this! What won’t they put on a hash brown?”

  The waitress reappeared with their coffees, and Julian watched Rafi’s eyes go round as he rattled off his order—hash browns with everything, a waffle with strawberries, sausage, cheesy eggs, grits, toast, a large hot chocolate with whipped cream, and the fried mozzarella appetizer.

  “Sure thing,” the waitress said, unfazed. “And you, sir?”

  “Tuna melt,” Rafi said, “and a defibrillator for when my boyfriend has a heart attack.”

  “We’re fresh out of defibrillators. Interest you in a slice of pie instead?”

  “Key lime,” Rafi sighed.

  “Pie sounds excellent,” Julian said. “Apple for me.”

  “Coming right up.”

  They handed in their menus, and Julian began fiddling with the sugar packets.

  Rafi was watching him with narrow eyes. “Uncle keeps you on a short leash, huh? What, baked chicken and sprouts seven days a week?”

  Julian felt his teeth clench. He hadn’t expected Rafi to hit the nail so precisely on the head. “It’s nothing unusual,” he replied, willing away the tension in his jaw. “My looks are the tools of my trade. I also forgot to eat on set today, I often do.”

  “Yeesh. That’s got to be, what, twelve hours since you’ve eaten?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Rafi shook his head. “You’re going to make yourself sick, dumping all this grease into your system.”

  “How fortunate that you have a hat for me to vomit into.”

  Rafi moved the hat pointedly out of Julian’s reach. “Barfing man in diner: a role I’d rather you didn’t play.”

  Julian laughed, adding sugar and creamer to his coffee. “No, I’d never play anything so close to my real life. I want to act, not just…be filmed.”

  “Isn’t it easier to play characters you have more in common with?”

  “Maybe for some actors. Not for me.” More creamer, more sugar; his coffee was khaki-beige. He hated the taste of coffee, Julian realized with a start. He drank it, because that was what people did—what grown-ups did—especially grown-ups who kept hours as strange as his, but he’d never once enjoyed it. “The point is to…disappear. To be someone else. I can’t disappear into myself.”

  Rafi opened his mouth, brows drawing together, but the first wave of Julian’s food arrived before he could speak. Rafi watched in what seemed to be fascinated silence as Julian tore into the basket of fried mozzarella.

  “Try one, they’re amazing,” Julian said, and Rafi reached for a cheese stick—cautiously, as if afraid Julian might bite his hand by accident.

  Julian decided he was enjoying himself too much to feel self-conscious. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something hot and greasy and fatty and substantial and it tasted incredible. He reached the bottom of the basket almost before the cheese sticks could stop steaming.

  “Enough about me, darling,” Julian said, wiping his mouth delicately. “Tell me about your day.”

  “My day,” Rafi grumbled, taking the first bite of his tuna melt. “My day was frustrating. Heard the rough mix of a new song I tried to record, and talked the producer into scrapping it because it’s crap.”

  “What did you go and write a crap song for?”

  “It’s not the song that’s crap, just my performance of it. Turns out I really suck at singing about how much I love Bo these days.”

  “Shocking,” Julian said. “So change the name.”

  “There isn’t a name involved, it’s just…I know what it’s about.”

  “Change what it’s about.”

  “Sure, that’s easy enough,” Rafi said, rolling his eyes. “After that fun time, I had a meeting with lots of lawyers. My former bandmates are out for blood, and my own legal team is a little frustrated that I’m…not.”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  Rafi spread his hands, mouth thinning with annoyance. “He’s my brother. And she’s my…”

  “What?” Julian cocked his head. “What is she to you, now?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t pretend she’s not something.”

  Julian nodded, digging into his scrambled eggs. “And she—they—are fighting the terms of whatever contract you all had?”

  Rafi winced. “We didn’t…really have a contract…Don’t look at me like that!”

  “You’re like a child,” Julian said, rubbing his temple. “What did you do, pinky-swear?”

  “It was my brother and the woman I loved! Why would we need a contract?”

  “I doubt your label accepted pinky-swears.”

  “No, of course not. We have a contract with the label. But that contract is with Distant Kingdom, defined as being the three of us, and that’s a band that doesn’t exist anymore, so that contract might collapse if we don’t come to a swift agreement about who keeps the name. And between the three of us, things are a lot less clear.” Rafi took an aggressive bite of his tuna melt.

  “As anyone could have told you they would be. Idiot.” The word fell from his lips more affectionately than it should have.

  “It’s not idiotic to trust your family,” Rafi said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Julian stared at him. “Genetic similarity is not the same thing as love.”

  Rafi made a noncommittal noise. He reached his fork across the table and snagged a bit of Julian’s strawberry-topped waffle. “Mmm. Wow, that’s good.”

  “It’s so kind of you to test my food for me.”

  “You’re so welcome, Julian, and you’ll be glad to know the strawberries are definitely not poisoned. Here.” He plucked one off the top of the waffle, complete with its little bed of whipped cream, and lifted it toward Julian’s mouth.

  Julian rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. The offer of the strawberry continued; finally he leaned forward and took it from Rafi’s fingers, lips barely brushing Rafi’s skin.

  A flash went off across the street.

  “Ugh, really?” Rafi said

  Julian peered narrow-eyed into the darkness. “It’s those same ones security kicked off the set earlier. Must have waited for us.”

  Perhaps emboldened by the knowledge that they’d already been made, two figures darted across the street and up to the diner window, cameras clicking away. One looked Rafi right in the eye and gave him a cheery thumbs-up, gesturing toward Julian as if urging him to go on back to what he was doing. Rafi gave him the finger.

  “For the record, I did not summon these,” Julian said. “I was depending on techs and extras with cell phones.”

  “Great, so they’re even less likely to—what are you doing?”

  “Packing up to go.” Julian glanced up from where he was wrapping sausages and toast in napkins. “Help yourself, I’m clearly not going to finish.” Fully half the waffle would fit in his mouth, he discovered. He reached for the hot chocolate to wash i
t down.

  Bemused, Rafi took another mouthful of waffle. “We could get a to-go box…”

  “Too unwieldy.” Julian stuffed the napkin-wrapped tidbits in his jacket pockets, drained the hot chocolate, and wiped whipped cream off the tip of his nose. Counting off a considerable stack of bills onto the table, he arched an eyebrow at Rafi. The soap bubble, he was pleased to discover, was still inside him. “Are you ready for a game of hide and seek?”

  * * * *

  They dashed through a storage room and out the back door of the diner before the paparazzi could react, but Julian could hear cursing and scuffing of shoes around the corner as the door closed behind them. It wouldn’t take the paps long to catch up. Rafi followed Julian’s lead, racing down one alley that crossed with another—

  —and dead-ended.

  “They saw us turn down this way, Julian—Julian!”

  Julian was already climbing the fire escape of the dingy little shop beside them. His heart was racing, and he leaped into the adrenaline rush, a dive from the highest platform without so much as checking that there was water in the pool.

  “Come on!” he hissed down at Rafi, who was staring in disbelief. Possibly Julian’s grin was scaring him a little. “Or do you think the weight of your beautifully defined six-pack would break this thing?”

  “Not if it’s already supporting your massive ego,” Rafi shot back, and threw himself up onto the fire escape after him.

  He had just caught up with Julian on a landing when the paps rounded the corner into the dead-end alley. They both froze, Rafi holding his breath, Julian trying not to vibrate in place with excitement.

  “Didn’t they come this way? I thought I saw them!”

  “No, I definitely saw them, it had to have been right here.”

  One photographer pulled out a flashlight with a beam that could have sent messages to outer space. It swept over walls and trash cans and the edge of the fire escape—