Acting Out

by Tibby Armstrong

  “Did you plan all that?” he asked. “Was it for research? For me?”

  “I saw an opportunity and took advantage.” Greg’s answer, spoken from behind the stainless-steel fridge door, seemed a little too pat until he popped his head up and finished. “It was for you…and for me. I’ve never kissed Aaron in front of anyone before.”

  “N-never?” If Jeremy’s brain had brakes, there’d have been skid marks on Greg’s polished floor.

  Greg shook his head.

  Still stunned, Jeremy asked, “Why?”

  Closing the fridge door, Greg looked out the window, a faraway gaze in his eyes. “Read the script.”

  “You’re really striking together,” Jeremy observed.

  He didn’t know why he said it, but knew he’d done the right thing when brown eyes warmed to shades of amber and a full mouth widened to form the most perfect smile he’d ever witnessed. Fascinated with the sudden change in expression—so incongruously lovely on Greg’s normally turbulent countenance—Jeremy approached him and stared.

  Blatant affection lining his expression, Greg traced Jeremy’s features with his gaze. Explored the line of his nose and swoop of his lower lip. Paused over the dent in the middle and lowered to the prominent roundness of his chin. Traveled up his jaw and over the curls along his forehead. Jeremy recognized each feature reflected back at him and felt a little dizzy at standing outside himself. Observing himself as observed.

  “I never thought I was good-looking before,” Greg murmured, still captivated. “Aaron’s right. I am a narcissist. With you.”

  Jeremy licked his lower lip and wondered at the marked lack of arousal amid his own fascination. He had to know. “Do I turn you on?”

  Cocking his head, Greg considered the statement. After a moment, he huffed, amused. “No. Not a bit.”

  Relief replaced anxiety. “Yeah. Same here.”

  Greg went back to pulling coffee cups from the cupboard to place on the island. “Why don’t you read through the script changes? Let me know what you think?”

  Two strides brought Jeremy to the table, where he lifted a packet. Besides the script, it contained the treatment, the production schedule, a list of the other actors and the crew, along with key phone numbers for each, as well as location addresses.

  He settled into a chair and thumbed through the script. The scent of coffee tantalized his nostrils, and he relaxed, enjoying the quiet. A few minutes later, Greg plunked a sandwich platter on the table.

  Jeremy glanced up. “How come nobody else is here yet?”

  “This is Hollywood.” Greg looked at his watch, then back to Jeremy. “Nobody’s on time except Aaron…and you.”

  “And you,” Jeremy guessed.

  Greg gave a wry snort. “Just don’t tell Aaron. He thinks I have my own time zone.”

  “My lips are sealed.” He flipped to the next page of the script and noticed something strange. The names—Aaron’s name now read Alan and Greg’s read Grant. “You changed the names.”

  “I’d always intended to.” Grabbing a petit four, Greg considered the delicate icing before separating the tiny layers of cake with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Did you wait to do it on purpose?” Jeremy asked. “To make it more intimate while you wrote?”

  “Jesus,” Greg said, swallowing the morsel he’d popped into his mouth. “You notice everything. Analyze everything. If you weren’t an actor, you’d be a writer.”

  A mechanical growl caught Jeremy’s attention, distracting him from asking whether or not the observation came from Greg’s personal experience. His head snapped toward the driveway, and he watched as Kit zoomed up on his motorcycle, took off his helmet, and unselfconsciously shook out his hair. Dressed in artfully ripped jeans and a white surfer’s tunic with a braided leather thong at his neck, he looked more like Aaron Blake than ever.

  “Does it ever creep you out?” Jeremy asked, still staring at Kit.

  Rearranging the sandwiches, Greg paused and followed Jeremy’s gaze. “That you two want to do each other so bad when you’ve barely met?”

  “No,” he said, a little too defensive. “That he looks so much like Aaron?”

  “Aaron’s appeal, if I may…” They both stared as Kit walked along the side of the house to the beach and tore off his shirt. “Aaron’s appeal is in how unaware he is of his beauty. How…willing he is to be selfless in everything he does.”

  “Kit gave me a ride.” The actor’s pants were off now. Jeremy groaned as his cock decided to be very interested in the fact Kit had no tan line. “Brought me home with him when he found out I’d been evicted.”

  “Bloody exhibitionist,” Greg murmured. Then, “Yeah. That’s nice. Bad-boy Kit does good. It’ll look great in the papers. So where are you staying? Not with him, obviously.”

  Coloring at the memory of his drunken stupor and its consequences, he sank in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Kit waded waist-deep in the Pacific before Jeremy forced out the word, “Shelter.”

  Greg leaned against the counter to study him. “And you never said a word when you called. Why not ask for an advance?”

  “I didn’t earn the money yet.” He flicked his eyes back to Kit. Muscled forearms cut through green-blue waves. “Besides, I’m moving to a hotel tonight with the money from my day job.”

  “Like hell. You can’t afford more than a fleabag flophouse near UCLA without more cash.” Greg closed his eyes on a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll give you the advance, and you’ll stay here until we start filming. I’ll slit my wrists if I have to endure more auditions to find your replacement because you’ve been shot by some junkie.”

  Kit emerged from the waves, cock dangling long, and shook the water from his hair. Jeremy barely managed to tear his eyes away long enough to say, “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to kill that…not so little…prick.” Greg choked on a laugh. “He’s going to have the press swarming the house for sure.”

  Striding to the wall by the back door, Greg flipped a metal panel and pressed a button. Immediately, the windows turned opaque, the fog between the panes cutting off the view of the outside.

  “At least he’s clean,” Jeremy said, not knowing what else to safely comment on. And I might have fucked him and some chick he brought home hovered on the tip of his tongue when a knock sounded on the beachside door.

  “It’s open,” Greg called.

  The back door swung inward, and Kit stood silhouetted in the doorway. Barefoot, wet hair cascading to his shoulders, tan torso glistening with water droplets, he looked all Greek god. Poseidon, maybe. Tongue darting to his lower lip, Jeremy imagined licking at the saltwater running in rivulets down his pecs.

  “Nice show, Kit. Towels are in the bench on the deck,” Greg said. “Get my floor wet and I’ll break your pretty ass.”

  “Thanks, man.” Kit ignored the threat as he let the door swing shut and presumably went to dry off.

  “Word of advice?”

  Jeremy’s chair swiveled and he found himself facing Greg, who leaned over him, hands braced on either side of the armrests. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t. Go. There.”

  Stomach dropping, Jeremy opened his mouth to say he didn’t like Kit that way, but closed it again. Was he that transparent? Staring back at his mirror image, he made a promise he knew he couldn’t keep when he answered, “I won’t.”

  Chapter Seven

  “No Apologies, an ode to the little white cock sock,” Kit mumbled after reading aloud the line, “I’m gonna be on you every minute we’ve got left.”

  Several of the actors around the table chuckled, but not Greg, who said drily, “I don’t recall writing that, Mr. Harris.”

  Kit shifted, uncomfortable, in his seat. Greg had been on him all afternoon—annoyed—while heaping Jeremy with praise and attention.

  “What’s a cock sock?” Jeremy asked.

  This time the entire table burst out laughing, even the actress playing the part of Grant’s
grandmother, “Gan,” Eugenia Dovecote.

  “It’s a sock used for modesty during love scenes”—Eugenia leaned back and looked directly at Greg—“of which there are plenty in this film, I might add.”

  Greg scowled. “This isn’t a skin flick. It’s an exploration of first love.”

  “And teenage boys are horny,” she finished, obviously loath to let go of the bone she shook.

  The director, Nick Jorgensen, a man with owl-eyed glasses and thinning blond hair cut bluntly to his chin, straightened from his perch on a stool. Mostly, he’d been observing and taking notes for the last hour. Greg, as the financial backer, had an unusual amount of say for a writer over how the characters were played. Probably he’d have directed it himself if he had more experience.

  “We’ll have plenty of time for observations and discussion after,” Jorgensen said. “Moving on to the next scene…”

  Nodding, Greg read the scene directions, “Interior. Dorm room. Early evening. Grant takes off his shirt, preparing to go to the locker room for a shower as Alan watches from the bed.”

  “Grant.” Kit put a husky edge in his voice, and Jeremy met his eyes from across the table. The physical proximity to the kid annoyed him, and he struggled to keep focused on the role.

  Apparently, Jeremy had no such trouble. His glare seemed authentic enough as he read, “You have to stop calling me that.”

  The climax of the scene occurred when Alan tried to kiss Grant, and the two were discovered by their arch nemesis, McHugh. Thank God Greg didn’t require them to act out the part during the read. Still, the idea of the number of times he’d have to touch Jeremy to get through filming made Kit’s stomach go funny all at once. Or maybe he’d eaten too much of the pâté?

  Either way, he felt more than a little ill by the time they read through the scenes illustrating the gay bashing their characters endured as a result of being outed. From this point on in the script, each scene seemed more brutal than the next, from Grant’s isolation at the hands of the administration to the taunts and jeers he endured from his classmates. Then, when it seemed things couldn’t get much worse, the character got the shit beaten out of him by a gang of students while a teacher watched.

  “I need some air,” Kit said, standing.

  “Sit!” Greg grabbed a napkin and some water. “You’re going to pass out.”

  Kit’s legs gave out, and he put his head between his legs as black spots swam before his eyes. The cold cloth pressed to the back of his neck focused his attention on something besides the urge to be sick.

  “Sorry.” The word came out slurred, and he wondered if he was getting the flu.

  “It’s an intense few scenes.” Greg crouched down and brushed back Kit’s hair in a gesture at once comforting and confusing. The guy never did anything this nice.

  “Jeremy?” Greg asked, softly. “Can you take Kit outside for some air?”

  Kit heard the slide of the chair and felt a cool pressure on his arm.

  “Can you stand okay?” The quiet rumble of Jeremy’s voice caressed Kit’s ear.

  Embarrassed to be so coddled by a neophyte, Kit shrugged off Jeremy’s hand and stood. Out on the deck, they sat shoulder-to-shoulder and watched the surf ushering in high tide. The smooth redwood boards of the deck stairs pressed into the back of Kit’s knees. A salt-tinted breeze teased his face, and he pushed back his hair with shaking fingers as he took a steadying breath.

  “You okay?” Jeremy asked finally.

  Kit shook his head but said, “Yeah. I just didn’t expect there to be this level of violence in the script.”

  The explanation seemed inadequate given the harsh words and raw anger on the pages. He couldn’t quite believe that people went through that shit in the real world. It had to be a Hollywood creation—or maybe Greg’s reality—because if people experienced this every day, someone would have to do something about it. Wouldn’t they?

  “Why’d you leave?” Kit changed the subject, wanting something else to think about.

  For weeks, he’d wondered and worried about Jeremy. Even went so far as to call the cops to make sure he hadn’t landed in trouble. This afternoon, when Kit walked into Greg’s place, Jeremy’s expression seemed so shut off, and it threw him. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he hadn’t thought to feel like the enemy.

  Jeremy cleared his throat and twisted his fingers together before answering the question with another question. “What happened that night?”

  Was that what this was about? Oh holy fuck.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kit meant the words to come out teasing. Instead they sounded mean.

  “Yeah, actually.” Jeremy grabbed a handful of pebbles from Greg’s potted palm and chucked one toward the water. “It’s why I asked.”

  Truth plain and simple, Kit didn’t remember. He had vague recollections of watching Jeremy undress and finding it disconcertingly hot. He remembered hands on his cock, but couldn’t say whose. A mouth on his back, a tongue trailing his spine to the crack in his ass alternately confused and tantalized his memory. Recalling at some point the suspiciously masculine taste of salt and scent of musk, he almost bet on Jeremy but couldn’t rule out Amber. Ultimately, if pressed, he couldn’t say who’d done what to whom.

  “What? You weren’t sore?” Kit asked, wanting to press for more information without giving away his clueless state.

  Jeremy went very still. “You fucked me when I was totally obliterated?”

  “I—” Kit realized his mistake too late. He ran a palm along the back of his neck and wished for a sinkhole to swallow him up. “I don’t remember.”

  “You…don’t…fucking…remember?” Whispered words never packed such a punch.

  Elbows on knees, Kit hung his head. “Sorry. No.”

  Jeremy exploded off the stairs and strode toward the water, footprints marking his passage through the newly groomed sand. Kit watched him go and rubbed at a foreign tightness in his chest. Well, this exchange spelled nothing good for their filming relationship.

  The door opened, and Greg stuck his head out. “Better?”

  Kit leaned backward on his elbows to look at him upside down.

  “I am.” Kit sat up and pointed to Jeremy, who’d reached the water and seemed to be railing at a seagull. “But I think he might’ve lost it.”

  Greg frowned into the sun and said, “Well, make him unlose it. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Since when is he my job?” Kit muttered before Greg completely shut the door.

  The man’s tousled head appeared again. “Don’t make me hurt you before the first day of filming.”

  Pushing from the stairs, Kit made sure Greg couldn’t see his eye roll as he crossed the beach to collar his costar.

  Nearing Jeremy and the seagull, he saw the kid gesticulate wildly—a slice of his hand to the air—and heard him ask, “…am I s’posed to say? Well, gee, I don’t know my status? See, I might have accidentally fucked Kit Harris? No! That’s the thing, see? I really don’t remember what should’ve been an incredible, special, amazing moment of my life because Harris is…is…”

  “Really, really sorry,” Kit cut in.

  Whirling, Jeremy spat the question, “Do you even know if you’re clean?”

  “Huh?” Sincere confusion overtook him. “I took a shower today…and I went for a swim before—”

  “No, dumbass. Your HIV status.” The waves crashing to shore had nothing on Jeremy’s anger. Eyes sparking dark fury, he snarked, “Communicable Disease isn’t the name of a heavy metal band, you know.”

  Cold water lapped at Kit’s sandals, and he stepped back. Jeremy thought they’d fucked. Had they actually fucked? Pushing his hands through his hair, he tried for the millionth time to remember and couldn’t.

  “Look,” Kit mumbled. “I don’t know what happened, but if it helps, my health tests last month for Greg’s film production insurance came back clean. And they included all that stuff, since we’ll be macking on one another so
much.”

  Jeremy pushed him hard with both hands against his chest. Kit went down in the wet sand on his butt. A wave came in, sloshing up his nose. By the time he stopped coughing, Jeremy had already mounted the steps. Kit watched his retreating back and frowned. People didn’t get angry with him. Not really angry. Sure, he had tiffs with friends over stupid stuff, but nothing serious. He mulled over Jeremy’s words as he made his way back to the condo. A heavy feeling in his gut told him he’d really fucked up, but by the time he dried off with another of Greg’s beach towels, he’d managed to shrug off the discomfort. After all, no real harm had been done, and he’d apologized.

  Inside, he automatically glanced at Jeremy, whose beet-red face and clenched fists spoke volumes.

  “Let’s pick up from where we left off. Jeremy, your line,” Greg said.

  Kit slid into his seat and grimaced as his wet jeans plastered more firmly to his thighs. Focusing on the white pages before him, he tried to understand why Jeremy still seemed so upset. If losing his virginity were the issue, then Kit came up empty, because only girls were supposed to worry about that sort of thing. Sure, he remembered his first time, but mostly because he’d come too fast and the girl cried a lot. Certainly the experience had been nothing to write home about, nor was it something he cared to remember.

  The rest of the table-read lasted an hour and a half and went without incident, with Jeremy reading his lines with rabid intensity—packing an emotional punch with each and every word. Kit fed off the energy, using it to inform his own performance. Where Jeremy played angry, he played softer, quieter, drawing him out and using his character’s own inertia against him. The exchange of lines went so well the rest of the table’s focused interest further buoyed the performance. As they came to their final lines, the sun-bleached hairs on Kit’s arms stood on end. A stunned silence reigned for one beat, and in the next came clapping and cheers of adulation.