“Tell you what?” Kit asked.
Jeremy nodded. “Yeah?”
“I’ll do this for you. And I’ll even enjoy it.” Straddling him, Kit pushed Jeremy’s back against cold glass, and he shivered. “But you’re going to answer me before we’re through.”
Voice catching as his breath hitched, Jeremy answered, “I’ll try.”
Rough lips captured his, nipping and suckling. Thumb under the pulse point in his neck, Kit forced Jeremy’s head back and exposed his jaw as he plundered his mouth. Moving lower, he suckled the skin roughly. Bruising. Punishing. Jeremy grasped Kit’s shoulders, and he arched into the painful bites. Grasping the length of Jeremy’s impossibly hard, acutely throbbing cock, Kit pulled with enough pressure to get his attention.
“Stand,” he growled in Jeremy’s ear.
Jeremy complied. A haze formed, and the emotions plaguing him quieted. Wrapped in a cocoon, he existed only on the physical plane and nowhere else. Dimly, he realized he trusted Kit in a way he’d never trusted anyone. Asked for things—needed things—from him that he’d consider hell from someone else.
Kit pivoted him, deftly pushing him into the wall of river rock. Hands clawing at the stones, Jeremy gasped as Kit slapped a gel-like substance between his ass cheeks. Biting hard at Jeremy’s nape, Kit entered his ass in a rough push. Sensitive nerve endings sparked a chain reaction of pain and pleasure. Rending gasps and harsh breaths echoed off glass and stone, surrounding Jeremy in a well of sound that pulled him deeper inside himself.
“Tell me why,” Kit demanded, abs slapping on the upstroke. “Tell me why you like it.”
Unable to form words, Jeremy shook his head and babbled something incoherent.
“Tell me, or it stops.”
Jeremy bobbed to the surface of awareness long enough to say. “You make it go away.”
“Make what go away?”
“Everything.” A deep sob welled in Jeremy’s chest, and he fought to push it down. Choking on the repressed emotion, he gasped, “I don’t feel or remember…anything. W-when there’s pain, I go somewhere else.”
Kit stilled, his hard length embedded deep.
No no no. He couldn’t stop. Not now.
Jeremy reached behind him, clutched at Kit’s ass, and dug his fingers into the muscled globes. Willed him to continue. A low growl rumbling from him, Kit tensed and slammed forward, rocking Jeremy on his toes. He slid his hands up the slick plane of Jeremy’s stomach to his nipples and twisted, sudden and hard. Lights flashed behind Jeremy’s closed lids, and he arched backward, almost taking him and Kit to the ground.
Kit’s fingers curled around Jeremy’s cock. Cupped his balls. Squeezed none too gently. Swelling pulses of breath-stopping need made Jeremy clench his jaw. Lips curling, muscles cording, he came in hot spurts. Waves of his orgasm punched through him, leaving him barely able to stand in the end. Kit sat, bringing Jeremy with him onto the bench, then cradled him until the water ran cold.
Chapter Fifteen
“I don’t care if I have to call in the National Guard. You’re getting a pedicure today.”
Pausing as he wrapped the bath sheet around his hips, Jeremy took in Kit’s curled lip and grinned. Kit left and returned a few minutes later with a pair of designer jeans—tag still on them—and a soft brown tee with stitching so fine it almost didn’t appear to have seams.
“Put these on before Tony gets here.”
Jeremy stilled midreach. “Tony?”
“My stylist.” Kit shoved the clothing at him.
Jeremy grasped the hangers and groaned.
“I need to save my money, Kit. I can’t afford—” Turning to look over his shoulder as he popped his head through the shirt neck, he saw Kit had exited the bathroom. Fuck. “And I need some underwear!”
A pair of boxers sailed into the bathroom from the bedroom. Jeremy shot out a hand to catch them, then eyed the yellow-and-white-polka-dot material with distaste.
“I don’t know how you wear these things. They bunch.” He dangled the underwear from his fingers as he strode into the bedroom to find Kit rubbing gel in his hair. It had grown a little longer since the initial buzz cut—as the film demanded—and now stuck up in mischievous spikes all over his head.
“They let me breathe, unlike those chastity belts you call briefs. Speaking of which, get your skivvies off my kitchen floor, or I really will make you feel some pain.”
In the kitchen, Jeremy saw Kit had laid out toast and jam as well as some freshly sectioned oranges. He snagged an orange slice and popped it into his mouth as he looked around for his jeans and underwear. Spying his briefs, he scooped them up and padded back to Kit’s bedroom and stopped short. An extra room had appeared where he hadn’t known one existed.
The dark teak wall opposite the bed slid back to reveal a room full of mirrors and racks of clothes. Drawers lined the bottoms of the walls, while clothes hung above. Some drawers tilted outward to reveal loafers, sandals, boots, sneakers, and other shoes Jeremy couldn’t name. Others—more shallow—lay open to reveal tie tacks, cufflinks, earring studs, ear cuffs, rings, chokers, and other glittering items. This closet was easily three times as large as the one in the guest bedroom.
Jeremy whistled. “Jesus H. Christ. You’re a freakin’ girl.”
Shooting him a glare, Kit lifted a tie. “Shut up, or I’ll show you what else these are good for.”
A buzz sounded from the front entry, saving them both. After all, Kit’s cock had to smart as much as Jeremy’s ass.
“Where are my jeans?” Jeremy asked as Kit brushed by him to get the door.
“I threw them in the incinerator,” Kit called over his shoulder.
“You what?” Jeremy pounded after him, reaching him just as Kit flung open the door.
“Hey, man.” Kit held out his palm for a cool-guy handshake with Tony. “Thanks for coming.”
“The guys are grabbing the racks. Let’s see what we have to work with.”
Waves of inky hair to his shoulders, a gazillion dollars’ worth of Versace, or some other designer Jeremy couldn’t pronounce, on his back, Tony stepped into the room. Jeremy had no doubt from the square angle of that darkly stubbled jaw, the straight line of his nose, and those sweeping brows, that the guy had been a model.
Fighting the impulse to find a dark corner somewhere in the back of Kit’s closet to hide, Jeremy instead stepped forward. Nobody made introductions, so he stood there as the man circled him like he viewed a piece of sculpture.
“Not bad,” Tony said as he circled Jeremy. “Where’d you get the Hilfiger? It’s not officially part of the line yet.”
“A friend knows someone on his design team,” Kit answered.
Swallowing, glad he hadn’t eaten more breakfast, Jeremy continued to stand rigid in the center of the room. If he could get through countless auditions and the now daily makeup sessions to cover his scars, he could stand some prodding and undressing for Tony. Especially with Kit here, it’d be all right.
Two assistants, equally glamorous if not as expensively dressed, rolled four large clothing racks into the room and went to retrieve more. Kit’s living room filled with clothes until it looked more like a street in New York City’s garment district than a Westwood-area condo. Measured to within an inch of his life, Jeremy didn’t speak. Didn’t move—not unless told to lift his arms or step into a pair of trousers. Every piece of clothing—every button-down, T-shirt, jean, or loafer—he slid on or off, Kit handed to him or took away, somehow always managing to stay between Tony and Jeremy. Not once did the man catch a glimpse of his bared back.
“I think he’s a little rougher around the edges than that,” Kit said when Tony slipped a casual suede suit jacket over Jeremy’s oxford-and-jean ensemble.
Sockless, Jeremy wore softly distressed brown loafers. Tugging down his shirt cuffs, he stared at himself in the mirror they’d rolled in from Kit’s closet.
“Wait for it,” Tony said, opening a suitcase and handing Jeremy a pai
r of thick-rimmed black spectacles.
Slipping them on his nose, Jeremy blinked at himself through the non-prescription glass and thought of Buddy Holly. Only less geeky. The glasses seemed to form a shield between him and the rest of the world, and he straightened. One shoulder dropping, he propped the frames on the edge of his nose and waggled his brows.
Kit barked a laugh and clapped him on the back, prompting Jeremy to execute a little dance spin.
“Omigod, Tony,” Kit said as Jeremy spun to a halt. “You should have seen him on the floor at the Viper a few months back. Fucking amazing.”
Skepticism written in the quirky crinkle of his handsome brow, Tony cocked his head. “Where’d you learn to bust a move, Jer?”
Being addressed for the first time in several hours shocked him a little, but with the glasses on his face, Jeremy let confidence run down his spine to the tips of his fingers and felt a sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced since his sophomore year of high school.
“I learned it on the street the old-fashioned way. I—” He glanced to Kit, who watched him intently. “I made my living that way for a while.”
Dance had let him be in his body and lose himself in a way nothing else offered besides acting. Fighting for prime performance spots or running from cops wanting to see a permit, however, eventually took its toll, and he found bussing tables much more reliable on the finance front once he moved to LA.
“Can I have more?” Jeremy changed the subject, pointing at the case containing about a hundred pairs of glasses. “I’m comfortable with the look.”
Kit’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he shot Jeremy a knowing smile. He’d found his shtick. The thing that’d allow him to hide in plain sight while strutting his stuff for press and…fans. His stomach plummeted, then bounced to dizzying heights at the thought. Someday soon he’d have fans. Maybe not many, but a few. They’d love him. Want to be him. He’d have power…and the security that came with that.
“Sure. The black rim looks good on you, but they’re a heavier look. When you really want to call attention to your face to balance out something less edgy. Sometimes you want to let the clothes take center stage.” Tony spoke as his hand hovered over the case. Searching. “Then, wear these….or these.”
“Thanks.” Jeremy took the glasses from him and tried on a pair with floating frames and another with titanium rims.
“Oh, and shades.” Tony held out a pair of aviators.
Classic and cool, their mirrored surface reflected Jeremy’s face as he held them up. Tony seemed to be going for preppie with an edge. Jeremy said so, and the stylist nodded.
“Given the part you’re playing right now, especially.” Tony shrugged elegant shoulders. “You want people to see you as reliable. Trustworthy. Yet cool and confident.”
Jeremy examined Tony’s face for signs of judgment but found none. Just matter-of-fact awareness of what they might be up against politically and socially when the film came out.
“What have you heard about No Apologies?” Kit asked from the kitchen where he’d been popping open some beers.
“Just that it’s an edgy flick likely only to play at independent art cinemas.” Tony flicked a glance at Jeremy and then to Kit, who leaned forward on his elbows against the open-concept counter. “And that it’s Greg Falkner’s attempt at financial suicide.”
Rumors had been circulating for a few weeks now that the film, while running within budget, required too many locations and too many extras to be financially safe. Recently, Greg made the announcement that he’d put up a multi-million dollar property in Connecticut as collateral for more financial backing. A property they’d be using to shoot a number of scenes in the coming weeks. Things around Greg’s house and on the set had been tense, to say the least—each little screw-up earning actors and crew alike a dressing down from the screenwriter-cum-producer.
Kit pushed up from the counter and grabbed the three beer bottles by the neck. The rest of Tony’s crew gone on errands, their intimate group fit side by side on the sofa, Jeremy in the middle. Knees spread, Kit dangled his beer bottle between his fingers as they all stared at the racks of clothes in tired silence.
“You have a nail-and-facial person who makes house calls?” Kit asked after a while, never bothering to address the rumors Tony had heard.
Silent, Tony lifted Jeremy’s hand to examine his cuticles. Oddly, Jeremy didn’t flinch. Letting his hand drop, Tony peered at him close enough to climb inside Jeremy’s pores.
“Ugh.” Sitting back, Tony dug his cell from his pocket and dialed a number. When the person on the other end picked up, he said two words. “Major emergency.” Then, “Kit Harris will pay you double to be here in thirty.”
Jeremy flushed. “You guys really can’t be serious.”
“Your boy Kit wants you to look good enough to eat. Right now, I wouldn’t even apply the five-second rule to your skin.”
Shocked, Jeremy whipped his head to look at Kit.
“You said that?” he asked, ignoring the insult to what he considered his more than adequate personal hygiene. For a guy.
Sitting up a little straighter, Kit brought his beer to his lips and spoke into the neck. “Cameras pick up everything, dude.”
“You have some press lined up?” Either Tony didn’t get that Kit and Jeremy were an item, or he didn’t care.
Remembering the messages on his phone, Jeremy shrugged. “I’ve had some calls.”
“Please tell me you answered them and didn’t leave them hanging?” Kit asked.
Catching Jeremy’s blank look, Kit closed his eyes and banged the back of his head a few times on the sofa cushion. Pulling out his phone, he speed-dialed someone and spoke fast when that someone answered.
“Stu?” Cradling his forehead with his palm, Kit held the phone to his ear with the other hand. “I need you to retrieve and respond to the messages on Jeremy Ash’s cell phone. Then call Falkner’s PR person and clear some appearances with them. Get the rundown on the angle for responses on the difficult questions.”
Lifting his hand a fraction, Kit gave Jeremy an I-can’t-believe-you look before rattling off his number. “Then I need you to coach Jeremy. Can you do that for me?”
The security buzzer rang, and Kit pushed himself off the seat to answer the summons as he finished the call. Feeling more than a little in shock, Jeremy watched as the clothing people entered along with the nail-and-facial guy. Everyone zoomed around him like highly caffeinated bees, and he realized he’d have to pay dearly for all this attention. Trying not to think about the sucking sound in his bank account, he submitted to stinging face scrubs and some brushes that tortured his feet.
“We need to wax his—”
“No!” Jeremy shot out of the chair he’d been sitting in for the past two hours.
Kit stepped forward, a slow, evil smile spreading across his face. “It’s okay, guys. I have a waxing kit he can use for the essentials.”
Oh holy shit.
All at once, Jeremy’s cock lengthened along his leg in the boxers, and he realized why Kit liked the looser underwear. He felt every twitch of his stretching skin and tightening balls as they drew closer to his body.
“At least let’s do between his brows,” the facial guy said, pressing him backward with a palm to his chest.
Holding Kit’s gaze, Jeremy groaned and complied. The facial guy looked between them, apparently catching the obvious spark in Jeremy’s gaze.
“You guys an item?” he asked, waving his tweezers in an arc between Jeremy and Kit.
Jeremy’s mouth went dry as the light went out of Kit’s eyes.
“Only on screen,” Kit replied and spun away to busy himself elsewhere.
Knowing they’d agreed to keep things on the QT for a while, Jeremy tried to shrug off the hurt at Kit’s dismissal. Submitting to the hot wax brushed on his face, he focused on the burning pull of the hair from his skin rather than the nettles stinging his heart.
“Let’s go to Rodeo and
grab you some stuff after we’re done here.” Kit slipped a half a peanut butter sandwich into Jeremy’s dangling hand.
Jeremy opened his eyes to watch Kit munching the other half sandwich, and read the quiet apology in his gaze. Nodding, he decided not to be bitchy about the slight to their budding connection. They’d work out the tough stuff later. For now, they’d just enjoy one another in whatever capacity they both felt comfortable.
“Sure,” he answered, intrigued despite his money jitters. He’d always been curious about the posh avenue of shops but never felt himself worthy to darken one of their doorsteps. “But I’m not sure what you have in mind other than fifty-dollar-a-pair underwear.”
“How about fifty-dollar-a-pair socks?” Kit teased.
Jeremy bit into the sandwich, eating half in one gulp, and realized he’d been starving. “With a side of dinner?”
“Sure. We’ll go to some outside café and have a burger.”
Understanding dawned. “You mean we’ll go to some outside café and get snapped by the paparazzi?”
“Exactly.” Kit dusted his hands and looked to Tony. “We done here, bro?”
“You bet. I’ll leave the stuff that fits and have the tailored pieces delivered later in the week.” Nodding to Jeremy, Tony finished with, “Good work, man. Can’t wait to see the picture.”
An hour later, strolling the line of shops, a rented car and driver rolling alongside them in case they needed to dump off packages, Jeremy wondered at his change in fortune. How, precisely, had his life transformed so quickly? Still, as Kit led him into a jeweler’s, he swallowed down a bite of fear about his finances.
“Dude.” He whispered the word out of the side of his mouth, trying to be the cool and collected platonic friend he knew Kit wanted him to appear. The word came out sounding artificial and strange. So strange even Kit looked at him funny.
“Yeah?”
“I have to stop spending money.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered this afternoon,” Kit said.
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