This was so stunning. Christian Blakely.
God, he couldn’t get enough air in. Kevin dropped the magazine to the floor and sank onto his rack, staring off into space. He didn’t realize how much time had passed until there was a loud thump on the wall outside his room and Martinez announced himself.
“Yo, Gunny, we hitting the gym now?”
Kevin was trying to force an answer, but his tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. He really didn’t want to be thinking about this right now. It definitely wasn’t the right time and place.
Pushing to his feet, he grabbed the magazine from the floor and shoved it in his locker before pulling back the blanket door and telling Martinez he’d meet him at the gym. Kevin’s mind was swimming and he moved in a fog across the outpost to the lean-to covered in cam netting that served as workout central. He went through his sets silently with Martinez stealing questioning glances every now and then. With each rep, Kevin saw the picture of Christian kissing that Newland guy, followed by a mental snapshot of him five years ago in Cabo.
Miles away and years apart, it was still those eyes looking up through a fall of blond hair that swallowed Kevin whole.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Zane pulled on a pair of jeans and took a glance out the doors to the balcony. It wasn’t raining, but there was a fair amount of fog; Loren would like that for the morning shots. The roads were wet and the few cars that drove past reflected in all the puddles. It’s like the world outside mimicked his world within the walls of this hotel room, eerie and fogged up.
Gross. Zane was getting poetic.
He was up before his wakeup call and no big surprise, but he’d never really fallen asleep. How could he when all he wanted was to tug Mark into his chest and hold him close; really make love to him? Instead, he stared at the ceiling, out the French doors, at the clock, and mostly at Mark. Twenty minutes earlier, he’d given up, texted his bodyguards and drivers and got up.
The phone on the bedside table warbled and Zane snatched it up before the ring completed. A smart, British voice informed him of the hour and then the call was promptly ended. Efficient. Mark didn’t stir so Zane tiptoed to the bathroom trying to be silent. He shut the door quietly behind him and only then did he turn on the light, blinking against the glare.
He looked like hell. Like leftovers forgotten on the counter for, like, a week. Sway was going to have his balls. Zane shaved and brushed his teeth, not bothering to do anything more with his hair than run a hand through it—it would be plastered to his skull with grease in a couple hours. Damn, if his fans could only see him now. That “Sexiest Man Alive” title would be yanked right out of his hands.
Zane flipped the light switch and continued his stealth maneuvers across the room to grab his socks and boots. He was hopping around in the dark, yanking on the black leather and trying not to topple over an arm chair and the coffee table when Mark rose up in bed like the undead—moaning and everything.
“Shit!” Zane hissed, super jumpy.
Mark said something that might have been “What’s going on?” but Zane wasn’t sure because it was gibberish.
“I’ve got to go in. Early call, remember?” Zane slammed his other foot inside his boot and stood up straight with an exhausted sigh.
Mark pulled back the covers and twisted to put his feet on the floor. He was adorably groggy and the sight made Zane feel weak, reminding him of that morning he had to leave Bora Bora. Mark wasn’t a morning person.
What was Mark’s plan? He wanted to offer up another set visit, but didn’t know if these were the right circumstances. Maybe now that Mark had said his piece and grabbed a little shuteye he’d want to bail.
Mark rubbed at his face and then shook his head like a dog. “Need me to do anything for you today? Pick anything up? I’ve never been in another country before, but I can figure it out. English, you know.”
Zane knew he was staring but he couldn’t make himself stop. Here was a glimpse of the Mark from that first dinner together and the day with his family. Underneath all the insecurity and protective walls, there was kindness and a sweet heart. Mark kept that warmth hidden from most people because if they knew it existed, he’d be too exposed; Zane saw that so clearly now.
“You’re just going to hang around here and run errands for me with paparazzi stalking your every move?”
Mark blinked blearily. “I’ve been hiding from them too long. I’ve still got a life to lead. That stuff that went down with Christian—” He saw Zane stiffen and he nodded, as if once more accepting his guilt. “—It made it clear to me that I want this with you no matter what. I came here for you and only you. If that means you send me out with your laundry or to buy your toothpaste, so be it.”
“What?—as some sort of penance?”
“No. As another way to show that I care about you. I’ll take care of things you need or want me to do.”
Hmm. Zane couldn’t really snarl about that. Dammit. “And if I want you to leave?”
Mark bit down on his bottom lip and took a deep breath like he was steadying himself. “I know I can’t force you to believe me, Zane. I know it. If you want me to go, I guess I’ll have to do that.”
Zane sensed his weakness for Mark gaining momentum, but his brain was dragging its feet, remembering the awful week since the pictures came out and the slash and stab of pain at his first sight of Mark in his trailer. He childishly waited a beat just to make Mark nervous.
“You want to come back to the set with me? We’re doing some location scenes today—no sound stage.”
Mark’s face brightened with hope and Zane nearly kicked a lamp across the room in frustration. Man, he wanted to give in so badly, but he was learning that one of the things Zane could trust the most about Mark was his eagerness to please, even to his own detriment. If the man was simply trying to ingratiate himself to get out of trouble, then shit like this could easily happen again because the root problem wasn’t dealt with. Zane didn’t want an up and down relationship. He’d never wanted to fall under that stigma of Hollywood romances, and a month into their relationship they already had magazines churning out gossip. Zane’s whole relationship plan had derailed.
Maybe it proved he was more of a skeptic than he previously thought, or twice as controlling, which was an unpleasant realization. Zane had read an article the other day about the fight in support of gay marriage and how few people seemed to be paying attention to the fact that with marriage came divorce and lots of it. He wanted to be able to marry anyone he chose, but Zane didn’t want to do it more than once. Especially not with the way he was under the microscope. He had to keep his eyes open and keep his crotch from leading him into a pit.
Mark pulled his shirt off and Zane forgot what he was supposed to be doing as the other man crossed the suite with rapid strides so he could dig through his bag. He pulled out clean clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.
“Gimme one minute,” he called through the closed door.
Zane moved in a daze around the room, a tangle of emotions adding to his lack of focus. He tossed a couple waters from the mini-bar into his bag where he’d dropped it the night before. The couch was impossible to avoid seeing. It sat there like a judgment, reminding him of the night before.
He pictured Mark rocking against him, felt his mouth and tongue. Zane’s vision glazed over and the sound of the bathroom door opening had him jumping. Mark didn’t notice as he slid past in a cloud of minty-freshness to tug on his shoes and coat.
He gave Zane a quick up and down look and paused. “Will you be cold? Here—take my coat.” Zane didn’t get a chance to stop him because Mark was already throwing the blue wool over his shoulders and taking Zane’s bag so he could put his arms through the sleeves. “There… Sleeves are a tiny bit short, but no one will notice.” Zane took his bag back with a blank expression.
Mark bent to dig through his stuff and Zane watched the muscles of his back and shoulders bunch beneath the black fabric of
his undershirt. When he stood, he had a smoky gray sweater in his hands and pulled it on without a word.
Gulp.
Zane stared. Hard. He was tucked away in a coat that was warm and smelled of Mark. It made his eyes sting and he coughed out a thank you and turned away before he embarrassed himself.
As they left the room, Zane sped up to put a little space between them, fighting to hold on to his dignity. Mark caught up and a half second later, he was taking Zane’s bag from him and throwing it over his own shoulder. Neither of them said a word.
***
The paparazzi waiting in the early morning—too early in Mark’s opinion—were no less psyched about getting shots of the two of them than they were the night before. He didn’t know if they were the same group or not. It’s not like he was making eye contact and posing.
The photographers screamed and hollered his name, Zane’s name, Christian’s fucking name, and all sorts of questions that made Mark’s cheeks so hot he felt like someone lit his hair on fire. Zane remained stoic and unreadable and Mark tried to mimic that expression. He wasn’t anywhere near as good at it. In fact, Mark was certain he was coming across frantic and scared. Exactly the wrong way to act in front of the media. Might as well go swimming in shark-infested waters with a bloody steak wrapped around a thigh. They smelled his weakness.
The professional wrestlers disguised as bodyguards were back and they hadn’t warmed up to Mark at all. He’d sort of hoped that knowing he’d stayed the night with Zane would defrost the air. Alas, it was not meant to be. Mark was sure they could kill him with a twinkle of their eyelashes and it was best for him to keep his mouth shut and stick close to Zane.
The bodyguards had them tucked away in the car with military precision and Zane was once again focusing on the scenery passing by the window. Mark was determined to not let this day go by without using every opportunity to prove he meant what he said.
Mark had to hand it to Christian. What an effective way to kick his ass into gear, and he wasn’t fooling himself or Zane by saying he hadn’t wanted any of it to happen. Mark definitely hadn’t wanted to cheat on Zane, but he’d enjoyed the feeling of being pursued too much to ignore Christian. His complacency and vanity led him into one of the stupidest moments of his life.
Had he really thought that Christian was going to walk him to his car and salute him, then let him go home? Mark was tempted because his boyfriend wasn’t in town and it pissed him off. It was such a manipulative, low thing to do and Zane was right to tell him so.
He was so ashamed by all of it. So totally ashamed.
With each kiss from Zane the night before, Mark sensed his heart tearing open wider until he was utterly wrecked by what he’d done. Zane was rough. He was harsh and angry and so terribly hurt and that had to be fixed before they could get anywhere.
Mark cleared his throat and the sound echoed through the car. He looked at Zane and plunged in. “I read Sacrifice.”
Zane’s blue eyes shifted away from the window and pierced his. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “It was a really amazing story—almost like I couldn’t believe it was based on an actual person. I mean, some of the stuff that guy did sounds so Hollywood.”
Zane cocked his head and considered him for a minute. “I felt the same way the first time I read it. It’s a great biography.”
“You didn’t tell me that Richtfeld dies…”
“No?”
Mark, finding that it didn’t take as much effort to pretend it was only him and Zane in the car, shook his head and kept talking. “I guess I didn’t expect it, you know.”
“Yeah, the book reads like fiction and I didn’t see it coming either. People back then thought he would make it through the war, too. They thought someone greener, someone who cracked under pressure would be the one shot down, but…I guess you never know. It’s like the Glenn Miller story.”
Mark frowned. “The big band guy?”
Zane nodded. “He conducted the Army Air Force Band and went missing in action. The story goes that his plane went down in bad weather in the English Channel. But, like I said, he wasn’t out flying missions or anything—so no one figured on losing him. It makes it worse in a way, and like with Richtfeld, you get so invested into his life as you read, that when the author is taking you through that last flight, you have no doubt he’s coming out alive. It slams into you sideways when you read about the crash—and that girl.”
Mark made a sad noise in agreement, recalling the young French girl and her family who witnessed the crash landing of Richtfeld’s plane and rushed to help him. There was no question the author wrote a gripping story, but Zane was right. It made it harder to accept and understand.
“What scenes are you doing on location today?” Mark asked, happy that they were having a normal conversation.
“The scene with the girl where he’s trapped in the cockpit.”
“You’re joking.”
He almost smiled and Mark’s lips parted nervously. “I’m totally serious.”
“So…I’m allowed to watch filming?” God, why had Zane’s answer made him so much more anxious? Mark’s stomach was flipping around like crazy.
“Of course. You’ll come with me to hair and makeup—” Mark momentarily pictured that makeup guy glaring at him and he hoped nothing bad would happen. “Then, I think we’ll be driven out to the location for filming. The craft crew built a partial replica of Richtfeld’s plane and moved it out to a tree line off of the airstrip. It will come across better than doing all of that on a green screen. We’ll do the crash sequences digitally, but for the scenes today, I get to be in this giant prop.”
Zane, whether or not he realized it, was bright with pleasure as he spoke about his job. It was so obvious he loved what he did for a living in spite of all the trouble being famous created in his personal life. Mark sensed a familiar pang of inferiority deep in his gut, but for once he refused to give it his full attention. He had to believe in what Zane said and prove that he was strong enough to fight for him.
They approached the gates leading onto set and the flashes started sparking away. Zane’s face shut down and Mark leaned quietly back in his seat, almost surprised he was still next to the bodyguard when they rubbed arms. He was trying to imagine what it would be like on set, seeing Zane do his job up close. The surreality hit him again.
Mark was on a movie set with a man he cared about more than he thought possible. So weird! A year ago, Zane Whitlow was just some faraway person that Mark watched at a theater or on cable. He’d even gone to see The Mercenary with Rafe.
Now, here he was, packed in next to that same star after what he could only describe as Zane’s revenge sex the night before. Mark was going to watch him work from behind the camera instead of from the audience.
As sweat bloomed on his brow, Mark realized what his problem was. The scenes Zane was shooting today were probably some of the final scenes in the movie itself—the iconic moment—of Richtfeld as his life ends.
Mark would be watching Zane filming the death sequence. He swallowed thickly and tried to keep his breaths even. His eyes shot worriedly to Zane who was watching the driver. Zane caught him and when he saw Mark’s expression, he latched onto his hand.
“What is it?” Concern laced Zane’s voice and that old look was in his eyes. Mark wanted to wrap his arms around the other man’s neck and hold on tight.
They pulled up in front of the building they’d left from last night and Mark could only shake his head, too overcome to speak.
***
“Alright, here’s how we’re going to work this scene,” Loren said, gathering close to Zane and the young lady cast as “Adelaide, The French Girl,” at Richtfeld’s crash site. “We’ll do Mari’s shots first. Starting with her bare feet running along the dirt path here, up over the stiles, and out into the field. We’ll get her legs cutting through the tall grass on her way to the plane, but these first shots are only of her feet and they’ll serve as the
opening sequence of the movie as well.”
Loren turned to Mari and pointed out her starting position. “The ground’s been cleared as well as possible so you can run full tilt on the path we’ve marked and the camera will follow on the track. I want your footsteps to pound—pulse with speed, you know—and as the audience sees your feet running, they’re going to hear you breathing. So, big breaths in and out and push yourself. Sound editing will pump it up later. We’ll get a few takes of that and let you have a rest before we do a couple more. The last two, toward the end of the path, I’m going to have you calling out the line—‘Monsieur! Monsieur! Je suis venue… I am coming!’—got it?”
Mari nodded quickly and smiled, thrilled to be able to run herself to death take after take. Zane had settled into character and the impact of the scenes was weighing on him. Even so, he couldn’t fight the smile her enthusiasm brought to his face.
“Zane,” Loren turned back to him and pointed at the fake plane that looked like authentic P-51 fuselage that had been slammed into the earth a couple times. “We’ll have you get in the plane after Mari’s takes and a camera will be on you as she yells out her lines. I want to get your reaction to hearing someone coming, faint and far off, while knowing you’re not going to make it.”
Zane nodded and stepped into the background as the crew settled. He didn’t want to be too close to Mark right now because of how raw he felt. The emotions for the next scene had to come from somewhere, and the wellspring inside of Zane was brimming with Mark. He knew exactly where the man he loved was waiting on set, but Zane wouldn’t go to him.
Loren called for quiet and the sudden silence was unnerving. A low mist had settled over the ground and as Mari fell into position, the hush of the morning almost became a feeling inside Zane’s chest. Loren called out to Mari and she moved.
Question Mark Page 23