by Lanyon, Josh
Yeah, this I knew how to do, sucking him with soft wet heat and then hard. I murmured encouragingly—not really an act, come to think of it—and tugged with my lips. Sweet and soft. Tight and hard.
Dan’s breathing went slow and deep, fingers fluttered over my ears, the base of my skull, urging me closer, but not forcing—never forcing.
The water sluiced over his shoulders and rained down on me. I tasted shower gel and clean skin and the salty tang of pre-cum. His swollen cock throbbed between my lips; he pushed deeper into my mouth. I relaxed my throat muscles and took more of him. A muscle in Dan’s cheek jumped. He looked down at me, and his eyes seemed dazed.
I made soft sounds, inciting him to riot.
Groaning, Dan braced his hands on the granite tiles. His legs trembled.
I backed off a little, laved the cleft in the head of his cock with my tongue, took him back in and sucked hard.
“I’m going to come,” he warned throatily.
His cock jumped and he began to come. Hard.
Not a problem for me. I liked this part. I swallowed enough to show I cared, then buried my head in his belly, nuzzling his genitals. He twitched and shivered. Petted my wet head, stroking the hair back from my face.
I smiled, watching him. After a few moments he shook his head like a wet dog and gave a shaky laugh.
“You are one crazy guy.”
“Hey.”
“Hey, you.” He reached up and turned off the tap, drawing me to my feet. Energized. And how the hell that worked, I had yet to figure out.
There were dents in my knees from the granite floor, and my legs felt wobbly with my own need. He pulled me against his long strong body, one hand cupping my balls. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his clean wet skin. The hair on his chest tickled my nose. Just the feel of those steely fingers handling me…
I guided his hand to where I needed it to be. He wrapped his fingers around my cock.
“I like that little sound you make,” he whispered.
The bedroom phone rang.
“What the hell!” I opened my eyes.
“The machine will get it.”
I nodded absently, listening. Dan’s heart was settling back into its normal rhythm. The phone rang again. Dan’s hand slowed. I rested my hand on his, urging him on. He tightened up a bit, and I caught my breath. Big brown capable hands. Good for all kinds of things: gripping a gun or shaking cocktails or…driving me to total distraction.
The phone rang a third time, and then the answering machine picked up.
“Dude!” the tinny voice of Steve Kreiger, my manager, drifted from the other room. For an eerie minute it was like he stood in the doorway watching us; I could picture him scraping the lank red hair out of those mournful basset-hound brown eyes. “You there? T.J. Hooker got you handcuffed to the bed or what?”
“Damn! I’ve got to take it.” I popped open the shower door and abandoned that sweet steamy warmth, sprinting for the bed and the night stand beyond. I heard the shower door close behind me.
I bounced on the white duvet and stretched, grabbing the phone off the receiver. “Hey.”
“Hey. So you are still alive.”
“Yep. Alive and…uh…kicking.” I sucked in my breath as two hard hands wrapped in a plush bath sheet closed around my waist. Dan toweled me down with hard efficiency, blotting shoulders and ribs and butt through the folds of the oversized towel. He rubbed my head briskly. I put the phone against my ear, listening through the fluffy cotton.
“I got a copy of The Charioteer script. I was planning to drop it by this afternoon,” Steve said.
“Roll over,” Dan ordered quietly.
I rolled over, the Naturlatex mattress molding to the contours of my body. The duvet felt damp beneath my back. I stared into Dan’s blue eyes.
He smoothed the towel over my chest, sliding down to my groin. My dwindling erection made a pup tent of white towel.
I closed my eyes and expelled a shaky breath as Dan’s fingers wrapped around my dick once more. “Er…great.” And it was great. I’d been hounding Steve to get me a look at the script for weeks. You wouldn’t think that the screen adaptation of a minor gay classic would require security clearances worthy of the Pentagon—especially given the typical indie film production budget.
Dan’s hand slid up the length of my cock. Slowly slid down. I gritted my teeth to keep from moaning.
From a long, long way away Steve said, “Yeah. But there’s a problem. Lenny Norman is directing and he doesn’t want you.”
I sat up, dislodging Dan’s hand. “You’re kidding!”
“Nope.”
“I’ve never even worked with him. Why doesn’t he want me?”
“For one thing he thinks you’re too good looking for the part of Laurie.”
I glanced across at the reflection of myself in the mirror hanging over the bureau dresser: tall, lanky, brown eyes, brown hair. “I’m not that good looking,” I protested.
“I agree. I don’t think you’re so good looking. In fact, I think you’re butt ugly. This is his opinion.”
I gnawed my lip, ignoring these witticisms. “That’s it? He doesn’t want me because of my looks?”
Steve said, a little more serious now, “That, and he thinks you’re not gay enough.”
“What? What the hell does that mean?”
“Hey, I’m just telling you what was said.”
“But what does that even mean? I’m gay. I’m out. What more does he want?” Dan’s hand closed around the nape of my neck, his fingers knowledgeably prodding the muscles knotting up. I felt a spark of annoyance; I could practically hear him telling me to take a deep breath, relax. I didn’t feel like relaxing. This was business. This was my career.
“It’s not like we had an in-depth discussion. I think it’s a political thing with him. He feels like you’re walking a line with straight audiences, that you’re not openly gay. You play it too straight, that’s what he said.”
“Well, so does Laurie! So does Ralph. I mean, it’s historical drama. It’s World War II. Nobody was out. What’s this idiot planning to do, portray them as a couple of flaming queens?”
“Chill, dude. Don’t kill the messenger. I’m just letting you know what you’re up against. He went ahead and FedExed me a copy of the script, so you’re not totally out of the running.”
I was silent. Dan scraped the back of my neck with his fingernails and I shivered. Never mind the P-Spot. Apparently I had an N-Spot.
I made myself focus.
“Do they have someone else in mind?”
“For Laurie, no. For Ralph I think they’re looking at Peter Grady.”
I swore. The last film I’d done with Peter Grady had earned us the title of “The Gay Tracy and Hepburn” in the queer press. I loved working with the guy; we had major league screen chemistry—one more reason I so wanted to do this project.
Steve soothed, “You haven’t read it yet. Maybe you won’t like the adaptation. Maybe you won’t want to do the film. Let’s not worry about it anymore ‘til you’ve seen the script. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you around two.”
“See you.” I hung up and flung myself back against the mountain of pillows.
“So who’s the bastard with the bad taste not to want you?” Dan inquired. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, putting his watch on, so apparently we had lost our window of opportunity.
“Oh.” I grimaced. “Lenny Norman. He’s directing that film I told you about. The adaptation of The Charioteer. He doesn’t want me. He thinks I’m too good looking.”
“The guy must be blind.”
It barely registered. “It’s that goddamned People magazine article. “People’s 50 Most Beautiful People.” I was number 49 or something.” I brooded over this for a moment. “And he thinks I’m not gay enough.”
Dan’s brows rose. “You seemed gay enough to me five minutes ago.”
I gr
inned reluctantly. “Maybe you could vouch for me.”
He got off the bed, the squeak of floorboards giving voice to my inner protest. “I’d have preferred to do something else for you, but now I’m running late.”
I shot him a quick look. He sounded regretful, not annoyed; his smile was rueful. “Sorry,” I said. “I kind of had to take that call.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I had the uncomfortable feeling that he did. Well, hell. I was out of practice at having relationships. Actually, who was I kidding? I’d never had a real relationship. Not like this. Not living together 24/7 with a for-richer, for-poorer, in-sickness and in-health option. The closest I’d come was when Steve and I roomed together for about a year after college. That was when Steve had still been trying to make it as a comic. Before he’d decided that managing my career would be easier and more lucrative than having his own.
I watched Dan move around the room dressing. Casual wear: khakis and a black T-shirt. Not the beautifully tailored suits and expensive ties he wore on duty. You couldn’t afford suits like that on a cop’s salary, but Dan supplemented his salary by working as a consultant for the film industry—which was the other reason he had snagged the bodyguard gig with me.
I tried to think what I would do all day. Now that I didn’t have to worry about being taken out by a potentially homicidal fan I’d have to find a new hobby.
Maybe I’d go for another swim after I worked out in the weight room. No problem going by myself now. Just like a big boy. Maybe I’d see if I had a copy of Renault’s The Charioteer here at the beach house and reread it. Or no, maybe that would interfere with my reading the script. Maybe I’d just put on some music and catch some rays. Sunshine was supposed to be good for depression—not that I was depressed. Exactly.
“What time will you be back?”
“About five.” Dan slid the leather badge-wallet into his pocket, double-checked the fit of his khakis in the bureau mirror. “You want me to bring something home for dinner?”
Home. That was kind of nice. I gave his question the careful deliberation it deserved. “I’ll cook. Could you pick up some scallops?”
“I’ll do that, chief.” He bent down over the bed and gave me a quick, hard kiss. “Have a good day. And don’t worry about anything.”
I answered with one of Steve’s favorite lines. “What, me worry?”
“You’re right,” said Dan. “That’s my job.”
Chapter Two
As usual Steve was late.
He showed up at a quarter to three, trudging around the back of the house to the deck where I sat sunning myself and flipping through the latest issue of Food and Wine. Duke Ellington’s “New Mood Indigo” floated through the open sliding door, sailing up to where the gulls wheeled overhead.
“Dude, you changed the lock on your front door,” he announced, tossing a powder blue-bound screenplay onto the patio table. “You never even used to close the windows. Was that Dan the Man’s idea?”
“Sort of.” The truth was I’d changed the locks after the first time Paul Hammond showed up uninvited in my living room. Steve had to be thinking of the old days—back when I’d believed I was the only crazy person to worry about.
He went into the house and reappeared a few moments later with a Corona. Pulling out one of the wooden chairs, he sat down.
“Where is he?”
I didn’t need to ask who. “He went into town to pick a few things up.”
He nodded noncommittally, took a long swig from his beer. “So how are you doing?”
“Good.”
“Yeah?”
I grinned. Steve’s answering grin was lopsided. He was my age, medium height, compact build, and an attractive freckled face. We’d been friends since college, practically as long as we’d been business partners.
He reached for the ring I wore on a silver chain around my neck. I put up a protective hand.
“Isn’t this moving kind of fast?”
I shrugged. “Feels right to me.” I could have explained the ring. It wasn’t what Steve thought. Dan and I had been in an antique shop. I’d seen the ring and said it was pretty, which it was: old-fashioned setting and “chocolate” diamonds. Dan had bought it for a couple of dollars. Mostly as a joke. It didn’t fit me or anything.
“So he’s moved in?”
“Not officially,” I admitted. “But we haven’t spent a night under separate roofs since he took the bodyguard gig.”
Steve’s smile was wry. “Well, you’re the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time.”
“I am.”
“Just…fuck, I don’t know.”
I studied him curiously. “You don’t like Dan, do you?”
He reached over and shifted the screenplay next to his elbow a fraction to the left. “I don’t know. He’s okay. I mean, he’s a great looking guy and he seems to really care about you. He makes you laugh, which is good.” He grimaced. “Maybe I’m jealous.”
“Nah. Come on. What is it?”
Steve’s brown eyes met mine. “He seems a little controlling. Possessive.”
I considered this. “He does?”
Steve raised a shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe it’s a cop thing.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
Steve drank more beer. “Hey, listen. I know you’re hot on doing this role, and I respect that. It’s a good script and a great role, I have no doubt. Just remember, it’s the kind of part that’s liable to get you typecast, which until now you’ve avoided. And that’s a good thing, regardless of what that asshole Lenny Norman thinks or says.”
“Duly noted,” I said.
“Peter Grady has already expressed interest in working with you again.”
“He has?”
“His people called your people.”
“You mean his agent called you?”
“Yep. And Winston Marshall, who is producing the film, is definitely interested in you—which I think is how we managed to score a copy of the script. I think he put pressure on Norman.”
It was all I could do not to grab for the screenplay then and there.
“Just keep in mind that working with a director who didn’t want you wouldn’t be a good thing. Especially for you.”
“Come on, Steve,” I said.
“Hey. I’m just saying. There are other considerations.”
“Like the fact that I wouldn’t get my usual fee? Such as it is.”
“Bingo.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
“It is when you need it.”
We talked a while longer and I invited Steve to dinner. He declined on the grounds that he had previous plans, and took off not long after. I wondered if he really had plans or if this was about Dan. It would be awkward as hell if Steve really disliked Dan.
I wondered what Dan thought about Steve. Or if he thought about him at all.
Rising, I got myself another beer from the fridge, changed the record to Frank Sinatra’s Only the Lonely and settled back in the lounge chair with the screenplay for The Charioteer.
FADE IN
EXT. DUNKIRK—DAY
The sea air worked its way into the script as I pictured the chaos of Dunkirk: the sprawl of the dead and dying beneath the black pall of smoke in the windless sky; the makeshift armada of ships and boats and skiffs and rafts and anything that could float; the exhausted and shamed British troops. Ice cold water, the whistle of shells overhead, the smell of guns and brine and blood and death—Laurie Odell with his kneecap blown off, out of his skull with morphia and pain and seasickness.
Sort of put my own problems into perspective. How the hell did anyone hold it together under those conditions? And how the hell were they going to convey the magnitude of the disaster of Dunkirk on a shoestring budget?
I had just reached the part where Ralph Lanyon realizes that the blood-drenched soldier he is asked to pronounce dead is Laurie Odell, a man who holds a special place in his boyhood memories, when I got that prickly feelin
g you get when you know you’re being watched.
Looking up, I expected to see Mrs. Wiggly on patrol. Nothing. The white beach was blindingly empty in the afternoon sun. A few boats dotted the distant blue glitter of the water.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head, staring up at the hillside behind the house. A man stood on the flat-topped rock that overlooked this private stretch of beach.
He was too far away to make out his face, but I recognized the shaggy blond hair, the baggy Hawaiian shirt, the black sunglasses.
Paul Hammond.
My mouth went dry. My heart started slugging hard against my ribcage.
It can’t be, I thought. Don’t flip out over a coincidence. This is a beach town. Half the guys around here have shaggy hair. Half the guys out here wear sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts.
I blinked. The guy on the rock was still looking my way. Or maybe he was just facing my way. Don’t start imagining things, I told myself.
Shading my eyes with my hand, I tried to get a better look, and as I stared—trying not to be too obvious about it—he waved to me.
I short-circuited, incapable for several long seconds of thinking what my next move should be. Finally, shakily, I stood and walked into the house. From inside the doorway I stared back at the hillside.
The man was gone.
He couldn’t be gone, gone. He must have moved on down the hillside where I couldn’t see him from where I stood.
“Maria?”
Maria Martinez, my housekeeper, withdrew from the oven, holding up her inky-stained orange plastic gloves. “Sí?” She gazed at me with her beautiful, solemn olive eyes.
“When you cleaned up the breakfast dishes, what did you do with the postcard that was on the table?”
“I didn’t see no postcard, Mr. Fairchild.”
“There was a picture postcard on the table. Right next to the jam pot.” I could hear the agitation rising in my voice despite the silliness of the words.
Maria was staring at me, slowly shaking her head. “No.”
“Yes.” I made a little square with my hands as though that might refresh her memory. “There was a postcard.”