“On your marks, gentlemen.” She signaled to the camera operator and the photographers. When they gestured back, indicating that they were ready, she called, “Action!”
Mike resumed thrusting into Diego with the same enthusiasm as before but more concentration. He rolled and flexed his torso so every well-cut muscle in his abdomen got a chance to shine. That was, after all, what the viewers were here to see.
Diego let out another groan, but it was more controlled this time. Colette must have been satisfied, because she didn’t call for them to cut again. In fact, this time, they made it all the way to the “big finish” without incident. Mike pulled out, removed the condom, and came on Diego’s chest as directed. His orgasm wasn’t bad, in a perfunctory sort of way, but he could have done without Diego running his fingers through the semen and moaning like it somehow gave him pleasure. He knew people who were into come play, but that was a bit much.
As flashes burst around him, capturing the big finish, his thoughts overtook him again. Why had the moaning bothered him so much? The women he performed with overdid it too, and he didn’t find that irksome. Then again, they were encouraged to. Apparently straight guys couldn’t tell real moaning from fake if it screamed in their ear. The gay market was different. Less forgiving, for sure. If it didn’t pay so well, Mike might say to hell with it and make the switch.
But then, corny acting or not, he’d be hard-pressed to give up cock.
“Cut!” Colette clapped her hands. “Nice work, gentlemen. Let the photographers get some final shots, and then we’ll wrap.”
As soon as Mike was cleared, he rolled over and sank onto the bed, exhausted. The silk sheets and mountains of throw pillows might have seemed luxurious to some, but all he wanted to do was lie on a flat surface and stretch out his back. Of course, Diego chose to lounge right next to him, elbows and knees touching, though there was a whole bed. Mike wanted to shove him onto the floor. He didn’t, though. He’d love to claim it was because he was too polite to be rude to a coworker, but in truth, shoving him would involve touching him, and after hours of skin-to-skin filming, that was the last thing Mike wanted to do.
Diego made a single attempt to strike up a conversation with him, but when Mike responded with a wordless grunt, he wandered off to find his clothes. Mike watched him go with vague interest. As soon as he’d dressed and Colette had assured him that he’d get paid by direct deposit, Diego scuttled off. Probably to catch a happy hour or something, judging by his flashy clothes.
Mike tsked. A man without fashion sense was like a muscle car without a paint job.
Does Diego owe you money? Why are you being so harsh?
He wasn’t the catty sort, under normal circumstances. Professional courtesy was an important part of the biz; he knew that better than most.
Oh well. It didn’t matter. He’d never see Diego again. It was rare for two porn stars to film more than once together, and not simply because audiences were always looking for something new. Few porn stars stuck around as long as Mike had, and he’d only been at this for three years. Either the others were quitters, or they were a lot smarter than he was.
Whoa, where did that thought come from?
He let his mind wander as the crew finished packing up the equipment around him. What was up with him lately? He gave himself a little shake to dispel his sour mood, but it clung to him like stale cigarette smoke.
Maybe it was because everything from his back to his cheek muscles was sore from having to act like he was having breathtaking sex while bent like a pretzel. But he’d never been bothered by porn’s artifice before. They were all here to put on a show. They all acted like they were turned on by things that looked good on camera but felt like their spines were going to crack. Mike had a bloodstream full of Viagra right now to keep him, well, at attention. It was his job, and it’d been good to him these past few years. Why, then, was he suddenly so put off by how fake it all was?
Because it’s been a long time since you’ve had anything real.
He pushed that thought away. Since when was he so maudlin? He was probably being moody. He’d perk up when he got his next fat paycheck. Speaking of which.
“Hey, Colette,” he called, propping himself up on his elbows. “I was wondering if you have any new projects I might be good for.”
Colette, who was bent over a laptop set up on a folding table, looked up. “You just finished filming one. How can you be thinking of your next gig already?”
He shrugged, both answering her question and testing his back. He’d recovered enough to get dressed. He rolled off the bed and pulled on his boxers, which Diego had flung next to the nightstand two hours ago. “You know me. Always the workaholic.”
Colette went back to reviewing the footage on her laptop. “That’s true. You’re one of my most dedicated performers. And one of my highest earning. Which is why I’m surprised you’re fishing for all these small-time gigs. You got a gambling problem I don’t know about? Gotta keep a bookie off your back?”
“Would you care if I did?”
“Of course I would. I want all my employees to be happy and healthy.” Colette blinked long, synthetic eyelashes at him. “So you can make me lots and lots of money.”
“That’s the spirit. Got anything coming up?”
“I was actually going to ask if you mind staying late tonight. I have an audition coming in.”
Mike frowned. “You mean like a new recruit? I thought you preferred to vet them on your own first before introducing them to anyone else.”
“I do, but in this case, I think it’d be best to have him do a scene with a pro.” She slipped a file folder off the table and flipped it open. “The guy’s résumé was . . . Well, let’s just say I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, and not in a good way. I expect new applicants to be green, but this guy actually wrote a paragraph about how being gay makes him a prime candidate for this. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call the ACLU and report a hate crime.”
“Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. How do I fit in?”
“Considering your experience and delightful no-nonsense attitude, I figure you’re the perfect person to put him through his paces, so to speak. I want you to see what he’s got.”
“I’m not going to babysit some newbie.”
“All right, no need to be grouchy.” Colette held a hand up, palm facing him. “This is a request, not an order. If it were that important to me, I’d have asked you earlier. But I figured since you’re here and asking for work, and we have the space booked already . . .” She paused. “And you’d be compensated for your time.”
Mike peaked an eyebrow. “Same rates as before?”
“Of course.”
“Do I have to fuck him? Because I’m good, but even I only have so many in me per day.”
“Sex is optional. In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t. We’re losing the light, and I have an early morning.”
Mike considered it. He didn’t need the money, per se, but that was because he worked hard to keep it that way. Colette might think these little gigs were beneath him, but they made ends meet when he was between projects and work was scarce. There was no such thing as a salaried porn star, and he had a lifestyle to maintain.
On the other hand, did he want to deal with yet another amateur today? The sound of Diego’s embellished moans hung in the back of his mind like an irritating-but-catchy pop song. Plus, he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he was burned out.
He knew one way to settle this.
“You got a photo of the guy?”
Colette beamed. “Yup. I printed some out along with his résumé.” She handed the file folder over.
Mike glanced at it. The résumé was on top, and Colette was right: it was a joke. The guy—whose real name had been blacked out with Sharpie; Colette was a stickler for protecting the identities of her employees, including potential ones—had listed some of the most rambling and irrelevant credentials Mike had ever read. The guy so
unded like a college kid who was taking a stab at writing his first résumé. Mike peeked at the potential’s stats. Twenty-one years old. That explained a lot. Mike was only twenty-five, but he knew better than anyone what a difference four years could make.
He flipped the résumé to the side, revealing the photos, and his heart twisted in his chest. He’d been expecting the typical porn fare: a greased-up shirtless guy lounging on a bed. Instead, the man in the photos was fully dressed, in normal clothing too. No booty shorts or mesh or glitter. In his head shot, he was smiling, sans dicks in the background or come on his chin. It could have been a yearbook photo had he not been wearing a goofy Christmas sweater.
The full-length shot went one step further: it looked candid. It plucked Mike’s attention out of the air and held it in a firm grip. Not because the guy had an amazing body or anything—though Mike liked his whole tall, lean thing—but because his posture was so . . . open. Genuine. The angle caught his face in profile, but Mike could see that he had a relaxed, dreamy expression as he reached for a horse’s muzzle with a long-fingered hand.
Of course, there was no way the shots weren’t staged. Even a complete amateur wouldn’t send in nonprofessional photos. Mike had to give him points for creativity, though. The horse was a nice touch.
This guy must have some serious acting verve to pull off a shot like this. Most of the male performers Mike knew relied on having washboard abs to get them work, and it showed. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be such a waste of time after all. Plus, Mike had to admit, the whole blond, clean-cut look was doing it for him. He had a grittier image, and he was a sucker for taking angelic twink types and dirtying them up. It was almost enough to make him wish sex were on the table.
“Well?” Colette grinned. “Can I take that silence as approval?”
He cleared his throat, not wanting to appear overeager. “He’s hot, I’ll give you that.”
“Hot enough to convince you to join us this evening?”
Feigning nonchalance, he closed the folder and handed it back. “I guess it can’t hurt to stay. I could use the money.” The lie felt heavy on his tongue.
“Wonderful.” Colette’s brown eyes twinkled. “I’m sure you and the money will get along famously.”
She turned back to her laptop, oblivious to him now that she’d gotten her answer. He finished getting dressed. Every article of clothing he pulled on had the name of an important Italian guy on the label. It was gratuitous to wear nice clothes to a porn set—they just got stripped off anyway—but he couldn’t help it. Dressing for the job helped him get into character. It was sort of a signature of his. Sean Hardwood always looked impeccable. Mike Harwood was the same way, but nobody cared about him.
Maybe the next time he was cast in a big production, he’d talk wardrobe with Colette. It had been a while since he’d landed anything decent. His last noteworthy performance had been a bit role in one of her holiday films: The Island of Misfit Boytoys. He’d played a horny elf who got gangbanged by a bunch of guys wearing fake antlers. He wouldn’t call it a show-stealer, but he’d received favorable reviews and a lot of web traffic, especially since he was a well-known power top. No quicker way to get the fetish mill going than to switch sides.
But that had been six months ago. In porn time, it might as well have been a decade. New videos were hitting the internet every second, and customers were always chasing a new high. Staying relevant wasn’t an uphill battle so much as a sheer rock climb, and his bills never stopped coming.
Jesus. The longer he dwelled, the more depressed he got. He needed to snap out of it. If the newbie performed better than him, he’d never live it down.
He sat on the bed to wait. Or brood, judging by his current mood. About twenty minutes passed, and most of the remaining crew members filed out. That left only Mike, Colette, and the camera operator, a woman named Yolanda, who was monosyllabic. Mike adored her. She never forced small talk. Which meant he had squat to do except wait. He settled into the pile of pillows on the bed and prepared to take a postcoital nap if need be.
He was beginning to nod off when Colette’s phone dinged. She pulled it out of her pocket. “He’s here. Yolanda, you mind fetching him?”
Yolanda nodded once and disappeared down the hallway. Mike sat up in anticipation. He ran a hand through his hair and noted with dismay that it was still damp with sweat.
“You look fine.” Colette was watching him with a knowing smile.
“Like I care,” he grumbled, disturbed to discover that he did.
A few minutes later Yolanda returned with a tall blond man trailing behind her. He had a wide smile on his handsome face—like he couldn’t be happier to be there—but there was something off about it. Something saccharine. Mike found it disconcerting.
“Welcome.” Colette held her hand out to the man. “I’m Colette. We spoke on the phone.”
The man took her hand and, to Mike’s abject horror, kissed her knuckles. “Nice to meet you.”
Colette blinked at him. “Pro tip, pal: professionals shake hands when greeting each other. Unless that doorway you stepped through led to the fifties.”
“Right. Sorry.” He took her hand and shook it this time. His smile was still in place, but now it looked like a grimace. “I’m Joshua Clemmons.”
Colette yanked her hand back. “We talked about this.” She’d hissed it under her breath, but Mike heard her anyway. “Remember?”
For a second, Joshua’s expression flickered. Then his smile fell off like an anchor dropping into the sea. “Oops. I forgot. I’m, uh, Dick Reams.”
A light bulb went off over Mike’s head.
Did he just give his real name? Mike sat straight up and stared at him. Holy shit, this guy had no clue what he was doing. Good thing the other crew members had left. Not that they would say anything, but the fewer people who’d heard that colossal blunder, the better.
Now that Mike knew his real name, he couldn’t disassociate it with the man in front of him. He’d have to be careful not to call him Joshua out loud. I wonder if he goes by Josh.
Colette pinched the bridge of her nose. “Will you please pick a less ridiculous stage name?”
“But aren’t cheesy names expected?”
The look Colette gave him could wither a whole orchard. “Maybe for the other dollar-bin entertainment companies out there, but Murmur Inc. is different. We have these funny things called standards.”
Mike snorted. It’d been far too long since he’d gotten to watch Colette eviscerate a new kid. Or ream one, as he might prefer.
The sound of his laughter caught Joshua’s attention. He looked over, and Mike met his gaze without hesitation. Even from a few feet away, the delicate seafoam color of his eyes was apparent. Mike’s laughter caught in his throat.
“Who’s that?” Joshua asked in what had to be the loudest stage whisper of all time.
“That’s Sean Hardwood, one of my top performers.”
“He gets to use the name Hardwood, but I can’t be Dick Reams?”
The groan that issued from Colette was reminiscent of a dying sea mammal. “Please stop talking. You’re so much more handsome when you don’t talk.”
Joshua ignored her. “Am I auditioning with him? You didn’t tell me I was going to have sex with anyone today.”
“That’s because you’re not. Sean is here to help you test the waters. We need to see how well you play with others.”
“No offense, but he’s not my type.” Joshua glanced at him, his gaze roving over his hair. “I’m not into gingers.”
Mike probably should have been offended. He’d been teased for having red hair his whole life, though his auburn locks were now a part of his brand. But instead of getting angry, he found himself studying his bewildering new costar. Joshua’s mouth probably got him in a lot of trouble, but Mike found it sort of . . . refreshing. Charming, even. It was a far cry from the phony flirting he was used to getting from costars.
Colette, however, seemed unamused. �
��Let’s get one thing straight: Whatever preconceived ideas you have about porn, toss them all out right now. All of them. Porn isn’t just getting paid to get laid. It’s hard work. Uncomfortable, grueling, and exhausting work. Your personal preferences are inconsequential, and if you ever insult one of my employees again, that’ll be your last day with this company. If I book you for a gig and you accept it, then you will do your damn job. If you don’t like it, you can quit. Is that clear?”
Joshua swallowed so hard Mike heard it. “Crystal.”
Mike’s whole face had been consumed by a grin. There was nothing more validating than having Colette disembowel a man for him. He hoped he was never on the receiving end of her ire.
“Much better. Now, meet your new costar, if you should be so lucky.” Colette gestured for Mike to join them.
As instructed, he slid off the bed. He only had a few feet to work with, but he managed to put some sway into his hips as he approached. He stood next to Colette and ran a hand through the hair Joshua found so offensive, flexing his arm muscles. A professional would be able to spot his seduction techniques right away, but he was willing to bet Joshua would fall for them like a cheap card trick.
Right on cue, Joshua’s bravado slipped, revealing clear interest as he looked Mike up and down.
Might as well give him something to look at.
When Mike finished tousling his hair, he folded his arms behind his head, stretching his shirt up over his toned torso. Joshua’s eyes latched on to the V-shaped cut of muscle visible above his jeans and followed them down to—
“So, Dick, huh?” Mike asked. “Or did you want to be called something else?”
Colette shot him a warning look, but he ignored it. If the newbie was dumb enough to shout his name from the rooftops, he deserved a little good-natured ribbing.
Joshua shrugged. “You can call me Josh, I guess.”
Colette shook her head. “I advise against letting anyone call you by your real name on set. Unless you want it spread around. We have office gossip, same as any other job.”
He chewed on his lip. “Dick, then. I go by Dick.”
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