Feet pounding step by step and with breaths heaving, she ran down the path and over the stiles into the field toward a dying man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wrapped up in his own coat once again, Mark was huddled in a chair one of the crew members found for him, eyes glued to a monitor. He’d been hooked up with a headset so he could hear the sound, which was more tinny and rough than he thought it’d be. He guessed that sort of thing was touched up in editing, too.
Zane filled the little screen in front of him from his shoulders to the top of his head, the jet canopy and his pilot’s seat took up the rest of the background. Mark had to tell himself over and over again that he was just looking at makeup—the scratches and fake blood were screwing with his calm.
They were between takes and the director had climbed a step stool to lean into the fuselage and chat about the scene. Mark could hear everything they said and though some of it was technical camera angle stuff, most of it was about the scene itself and the emotion they wanted to convey.
Mark had read on a fan site that Zane was known for sort of injecting himself into his roles, taking on as much of a character as he could so that the line between himself and the person being portrayed was unclear. The webpage mentioned that Zane disagreed with this—claiming he wasn’t really a method actor. But from where Mark was sitting, he didn’t know if he could go along with that. Zane was mesmerizing, even unedited and untouched. The reality he put into the moment was physically striking to witness and they hadn’t even rolled film.
Loren eased back and climbed down the ladder and everyone waited while a couple guys adjusted the cockpit canopy and plane setting for the right shot. Zane’s face turned to camera and his eyes closed. Mark wondered what he was thinking.
Quiet was called and the set stilled. Loren yelled out, “Okay, Zane, Mari is running—and go!”
Off camera Mari’s voice could be heard faintly crying out, “Monsieur, Monsieur!”
Mark’s jaw dropped open as Zane jerked in his seat, looking straight into camera. Mari’s call sounded again and tears welled in Zane’s eyes. His lips parted and he looked like he was fighting for air as a red stain bloomed on his white scarf. Tears broke past his lower lids and rolled toward his temples as he sat strapped into his seat, the nose of the plane jutting into the sky.
It was when Zane groped at his neck and brought blood covered fingers up in front of his eyes, his ruined voice gasping out a frightened, “No—” that Mark had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from making a noise. The tears were contagious and the scene so realistic on the monitor that Mark felt like he was really watching Zane fight for air. His own eyes were filling as he watched blood spread over the scarf. Zane banged at the cockpit canopy with the flat of one palm until he could barely lift his arms at all.
Mari yelled, “Je suis venue… I am coming!”
Zane’s struggles in his seat were steadily weakening, his gasps shorter and farther apart. “God…” he pleaded gutturally, and Mark was swiping at his eyes, fighting for his composure.
Mari called out one last “Monsieur!” and the bloodied palm fell from the canopy to his chest, his body shifting one last time. His chest heaved upward once, then twice as the light slowly died in Zane’s eyes. The blood spread and the camera zoomed in as the life went out of him. The set was silent and still; no one heard a thing. Loren waited another few moments and said quietly, “Cut. Good.”
Everyone remained where they were for a hushed breath or two, then the crew moved slowly to reset the scene as Loren jogged back to the plane and called out to Zane. Mark removed his headset and walked away until he wasn’t seeing or hearing the chatter around him.
He ran his hands through his hair then plunged them into his pockets, trying to stay loose and keep moving around. He didn’t think it would be possible to watch that scene again and he knew they were going to film it several more times.
Mark was pacing back and forth in the background, waiting for some sort of reprieve and nodding politely if anyone glanced his way. He tried not to look like he was going to lose it. Sighing, he glanced back over his shoulder to where Zane was sitting in the cockpit still talking to Loren.
Mark could not lose this man. He would not lose him.
***
Almost two hours passed before Zane was crawling out of the plane and stretching out the kinks from being stuck in one place for so long. He pulled the wet, sticky scarf—the seventh he’d worn that morning—from his neck and passed it off to a wardrobe assistant who offered him a couple of wet wipes in exchange. He swiped at the syrupy goop on his neck and chin and looked through the people milling around doing their jobs as he searched for Mark.
He wasn’t at the monitor where Zane had last seen him and it took several minutes to pick his man out, disengaged from the crew with his back to everyone.
Zane made his way slowly to Mark’s side, pausing to accept a warm coat from the same assistant who passed out wet wipes. Not wanting to startle him, Zane called out softly as he approached, wishing he could snap his fingers and get them out of this fix.
“Mark?” Zane said again when it appeared he hadn’t heard him; still no response.
He reached out to touch Mark’s shoulder and was nearly rocked off his feet as Mark turned into him and wrapped his arms around Zane’s waist. He burrowed his face against Zane’s throat, fake blood residue and all. Mark held on tight and tighter still when Zane’s arms finally moved to return the embrace, one hand resting softly on the back of Mark’s neck and the other on his lower back. Mark murmured something, his soft lips light on the skin of Zane’s throat.
“What is it?” Zane breathed, his natural protective instincts rising up.
Mark shook his head, staying tight against him until Zane forced him backward with gentle pressure.
“Hey… Tell me.” When Mark finally lifted his eyes, Zane was surprised to see they were red.
“I-I’m begging you to…please, please forgive me…” Mark whispered. “This is killing me.”
Zane’s mouth tightened, his mind telling him to slam those defensive walls back into place and ignore the pleading look in Mark’s eyes. He’ll just do it again! Zane’s will shouted. The first minute you aren’t around, he’ll freak out and do something stupid. Then the words Zane had spoken to Mark the night before came back to him.
Everybody has their own shit.
Zane had lived a long time dealing with things that were out of his control, so when he found something he thought he could master, he smothered it and willed it into something that followed his beck and call.
He couldn’t control Mark. He couldn’t control their relationship. All Zane knew was that he loved this man and if he wanted to keep from being a hypocrite talking out of both sides of his mouth, then he needed to stop punishing him.
Mark flew all the way to England the very next morning after the thing with Christian. To do that, he’d had to confess what happened to his parents and probably his brothers, too. And that wasn’t even the beginning of all the people Mark had to humble himself in front of just to get to Zane, where he prostrated himself completely.
The only response Zane had was telling Mark he wasn’t low enough yet. Zane had used sex as a weapon to show his displeasure and if that didn’t have resentful bitch written all over it, then it was damn close. He wasn’t happy about Mark kissing Christian or whatever happened. He did believe the kid initiated it and he could even believe Mark was pushing Christian away when the pictures were taken. But this vindictive and very wounded part of him wanted a few more apologies. A little more groveling.
It was such an awful way to treat a person he cared about and it didn’t speak highly of Zane’s ability to give and take. He could choose to trust Mark and see what happened, or he could let him go. There was no denying that on days like this one, the first person he wanted at his side was Mark; the ball was really in Zane’s court now. He could either accept Mark was sincere and be happy, or he could
make each moment they had with one another endless with his skepticism.
Put that way, it was an easy choice. As his mind begged him not to be stupid and thrust himself out in the open to be trampled, he tilted Mark’s chin up gently.
Everybody has their own shit.
Mark’s face revealed his fear and longing, that open vulnerability apparent as he waited for Zane to respond. Brushing a thumb over Mark’s bottom lip, Zane exhaled long and slow. “It’s over and done,” he murmured, lowering his mouth until his lips were gently skimming over Mark’s. “I want to be with you. We have to go easy on each other, but I am happy with you.”
“Really?” Mark’s voice hitched.
Zane knew that they were garnering more and more attention, but he shrugged the thought away as he kissed Mark once, twice, three times, not one of the kisses meeting the need Zane had to crush his mouth on Mark’s and really prove himself.
Pulling away reluctantly, he ran his fingers gently down Mark’s cheek. “I’ve got to get back to work. Are you okay here? Do you need someone to take you to my trailer?”
Mark seemed stuck, as though he wasn’t sure everything was really okay. The movie set wasn’t the place to dig into a conversation about it, so Zane was purposely imposing the distance. Stories like this got around and he still liked his private life to stay private.
Mark glanced over Zane’s shoulder at the set and his eyes danced away. “I can’t watch this scene again,” he almost whispered. “It’s too…”
“I know. I get it.” And Zane did. “Later on Bill is showing up for some scenes we have on the air field. If you want to hang out in my trailer until then, I can have someone come grab you and bring you back out. He’d like to meet you.”
Zane set up a ride for Mark back to his trailer, but he couldn’t stick around to see him off. As he walked towards where hair and makeup were waiting to get their hands on him again, he looked at Mark over his shoulder.
His man was leaning against the side of the cart, arms over his chest and face pensive. His eyes were still on Zane, doubt and hope mingling in his stare. Zane wished he could tell him to relax, but the same nerves were crippling him.
***
It was midnight, Bakersfield time, and Mark was facing his executioner and calling Reid. The phone rang three times before his brother picked up sounding mighty reluctant.
“What’s up?” Reid grumbled.
“You’re mad too, huh?”
“Nah.”
“Really? ‘Cause you sound mad,” Mark intoned, picking at the small table top in Zane’s trailer. “Are you sure you don’t have anything to say to me about it?”
Reid laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “I could say all sorts of things, but mom told me—after she yelled at you—that if I didn’t have something supportive to say, then I wasn’t supposed to say anything at all. Forgive me for being silent.”
“I can take it.”
“You can? Oh! Okay,” he hissed sarcastically. “You’re a pansy ass and you did exactly what dad and Sean told you not to do. If mom asks, tell her I meant that in the most supportive way possible.”
Mark let his head fall to the tabletop where his breath fogged up the surface. “I admit that I’m a pansy ass.”
“We’ve reached common ground then. Maybe we’ll make it past this, you giant puss.”
Mark let out an embarrassed groan. “You’re not even a little bit on my side?”
There was a loud bang in the background and Reid cursed. A smattering of voices followed the bang and Mark realized Reid was on the night shift between calls. “Sorry,” Reid snapped. “I knocked over the fucking trash can. What were we talking about—oh, right, whether I’m on your side or not.”
“Well?”
“Just because I think you acted like a slut doesn’t mean I’m not on your side. I feel bad for Zane. I was so ready to give him hell for doing something to you, so I’m a teensy-tiny bit amazed that it ended up being your gay ass that hung him out to dry.”
Mark sat up and glared at his phone before snapping it back to his ear. “I didn’t kiss Christian, he kissed me! How many times do I have to say that? I didn’t hang Zane out to dry.”
“I’m pretty sure I saw him fluttering in the breeze. And, I may not know what it’s like to get all hot and sweaty over a dude and his assorted male parts, but I know what guys are like and you put yourself in that position to be kissed, man. This Christian dude’s a wanker.”
“He’s not a wanker, he’s just screwed up right now—okay, he is a little bit of a wanker, but I know he’s sorry for what happened.”
“Real sweet of him,” Reid dead-panned. From the new set of noises Mark was hearing in the background, it sounded like Reid was replenishing his aid kits. Rattles and snaps and clasps and plastic squeaks were loud over the line. “So what’s your deal then? You’re in England now and begging for another chance to lick Zane’s balls, or…?”
“God, Reid!” Mark burst out, his face reddening. “I’ve apologized through the nose on this one; you don’t have to be such a dick about it.”
“Yeah, I do.” Snap! Rattle! “If you want to hear something super sweet, call mom. But, she’s still mad at you, too. Dad is still in his mumbling phase. No one understands what he’s saying about you, but I don’t think it’s good. I owe you at least two more dick-wad comments before we can move on.”
“Can we get them out of the way now, then?” Mark cried in exasperation.
“No.” Rattle!
“Fine.”
“So answer my question,” Reid pushed.
“Yes,” Mark groaned. “I’m in England. Got in last night. Zane’s manager set it up so I could get on set and I waited for him in his trailer.”
“How big’s his trailer?”
“Focus!”
“Whatever. So, did he smack you? Bend you over a table and show you who’s boss?”
Mark nearly slid off of his chair at how close his brother was to the truth. And maybe Zane hadn’t asked Mark who was boss, but it was obvious who was in control last night.
“He was pretty pissed. He didn’t say too much at first, then bawled me out. Called me on my bullshit.”
“Really?”
“Try to tone down the happiness, please. It’s been really hard trying to convince him that I never wanted that thing with Christian to happen. I care about Zane.”
All the background noises paused. “How much do you care about him?”
“Enough that I don’t even mind that I lost my job over our relationship anymore. Enough that I asked dad and mom to front me the money for a plane ticket so I could still pay my rent. Enough that I endured all the photographers and the people staring at me in the airports just so I could get over here and plead with him to believe me.”
“That’s a lot of words that don’t directly answer the question.”
“I care about him a lot…” Mark sighed. “More than…”
“This guy Christian?” Reid asked, the teasing big brother absent from his voice. “More than Rafe?”
Mark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Both. More than both. I-I think I’m in love with him.” He paused. “It happened fast, but all I know is that I want him even if it means I have to endure more humiliation to prove it to him. I made a shitty mistake and I wish I hadn’t, but if I got anything out of it, it’s that I want to be with Zane.”
Reid let out a little laugh. “Good. Awesome, Mark. Just try not to—” A radio crackled and Reid cut off. “Listen man, I gotta run out on another call. Keep your dick in your pants and your hands to yourself!”
Mark didn’t get to say goodbye as Reid hung up on him. He rested his head on his arms again. That was one brother out of the way. Sean would be worse, but in more of a parental I’m so disappointed in you! way. It had to be done. Mark had been ignoring their calls and he knew delaying punishment from his brothers never worked out well.
He punched in Sean’s number and waited. Two rings later
and his brother nearly hollered: “Marky! How many times did I tell you not to fucking panic?!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After a week crammed full of meetings with network executives from ESPN, committee members, and what seemed like every single employee of the venue where the damn cheer competition would be held, Christian was through with Albuquerque. He’d be back in a month for the actual event—another week-long stay—but the only thing he had to look forward to about the visit was the continental breakfast in the lobby. Mark wasn’t likely to be around for another meet-up and even if he were, Christian knew it wouldn’t happen.
Mark did exactly as Christian figured he would and flew to England. Not only had Christian seen the tabloid shots on the internet and at a magazine stand, but a couple of aggressive little journalists brought it up any chance they got. He mostly ignored them. He was very good at ignoring things he didn’t want to see/hear/think/know about.
Christian knew Mark wasn’t ever going to fall for him. That was okay. Yet, at the same time, Mark was still there under his skin, taking up space and making Christian itch to do something. Head shrinks would probably say it wasn’t so much Mark that he was messed up about, but how Mark made him feel. Well, Christian had a little song for them. The first verse was Bullshit and the chorus was Fuck You.
The bad part—and it was surprisingly bad, Christian realized—was how low he was running on friends. Now would be the perfect time to have someone in his life who gave a shit about him, whether he was gay or not. But, looking left and looking right, Christian wasn’t finding any such thing. And don’t get him fucking started on his family.
He hadn’t seen his dad since he was thirteen and had only heard from him twice in all that time so the jackass could “borrow” money. Christian’s mom was an overworked, conservative, laundromat attendant from Oakland and she would’ve thrown a party once all of her kids left home if she could’ve gotten away with it. His brother was a Lutheran Minister and mom’s favorite—big no on calling him—and his sister left home and moved to Maine to get away from the family. She was an elementary school teacher and they butted heads on most every topic he could think of. He wasn’t about to throw “gayness” on the table for discussion.
Question Mark Page 24