Chasing Stars

by Cody Ryder

  The smile that Jackson gave him in response was not one of confidence. Christopher recognized that strained, self-doubting, "we'll see" smile. But he was a New York Times bestselling author! What did he need to worry about? He was being way too hard on himself. Pen-name or not, pressure or not, he obviously had the skills.

  "What's your last name, Jackson? So I can keep an eye out for you in the New York Times when your book is out."

  "It's, um…" He paused, like he was unsure of his own name. How many pen-names was he using? Christopher smiled at the thought. That could be a good mystery story.

  "Baker," he said. "Jackson Baker."

  Four

  Jackson was proud of the success of his debut novel. Critics and readers praised the story and writing, and he'd at least been responsible for half of that.

  What he didn't like to tell people—no, what he couldn't tell people—was that the plot of the book had been provided to him to be developed into a novel. Most of the beats were there, the bones of the story. He'd just had to flesh it out and put it into prose. And he had done a fine job of that.

  It'd been his dad's idea to publish it under a pen-name. "Their perception of the book will be different,” he’d said. “Use a fresh name. Something we can build up. Trust me, Jackson. It’ll only cause troubles if you use your own name."

  And he had, even though he didn't feel so great about it. But his dad was an expert, and he wasn't, and maybe the pseudonym really had helped put the book on the NYT list. He wanted to know. He wanted to know if his writing was good enough to exist on its own, without the handicaps that'd been provided for his first. Could The Lying Kind even be considered his first book? It was more like a ghost-writing assignment, playing in someone else's world. He didn't even know who'd written the original story. It'd just shown up on his desk, courtesy of dear old Dad.

  Christopher opened new beers and refilled their glasses. Jackson was charmed by his style easy masculine grace. The way he spoke was clear and strong, his demeanor both intense and soft at the same time. He reminded Jackson of some of the men his father used to have over for business meetings, back when he was a teenager. Strong, self-made men who’d gone through a lot to get where they were.

  "What do you do, Christopher?" he asked. "Why did you choose to isolate yourself all the way out here?"

  Lady jolted up and began to nip furiously at an itchy spot on her belly, one hind paw stretched delicately into the air like a ballet dancer.

  "I told you," Christopher said, "I'm a high-class escort. Male stripper. No, I'm joking. I work in Hollywood at an ad agency. Market researcher, nothing exciting. I'm on a bit of paid leave right now. Mental health leave."

  "Oh," Jackson said. That wasn't what he’d expected to hear. He’d thought supermodel, or CEO, or musician, something like that. Or an actor. "Stressful times for the both of us, I guess."

  "Tell me about it. I've got cabin fever, bad. I'm so glad to have run into you."

  "I know. It's a shame it happened so late. I'm actually due to leave here tomorrow."

  "Whaaat?" Christopher cried. "No!"

  Just as he said that, thunder clapped like a bomb going off right above the roof and shook the entire building, clattering the windows in their frames. They both shouted in surprise, and in a moment of reflex Christopher threw his hand out and grabbed Jackson’s forearm. Lady, who was still in her funny dancer's pose, yelped and bolted up next to them onto the couch. Like a starter pistol, the thunder queued the rain and it began to hammer onto the roof like a million drum beats. Streaks of water ran down the huge windows in long, gushing torrents, and they could see the sky had gone a dark grey.

  "I am so glad I took Lady outside. Dealing with a wet dog is not on the top of my list of things to do for the day.” Christopher shook his head. “You’re leaving tomorrow? This is terrible!"

  Jackson was touched that Christopher was so upset about him leaving. It was a small, nothing gesture, but it made him feel wanted. It'd been a long, long time since he'd felt wanted by anyone.

  He lived in Orange County, close enough to his childhood home in Beverly Hills but still far enough to feel like he was in a new place. Any closer north and he'd be in his parents’ town, where he'd inevitably run into family friends and people connected to his dad’s business. He disliked Los Angeles and the culture there, but it seemed impossible to completely escape. He didn't go to the movies, he didn't watch TV, he hardly went online except for research. He spent most of his time reading books and listening to podcasts or public radio. And as much as he'd wanted to think he was independent, he’d moved out on his parents’ dime. At least, until the book had taken off. But even then… It hadn't entirely been his victory, had it? Was he capable of doing anything himself?

  Most of Jackson's friends were people he'd met in university, and all but a few of them had fallen out of contact. He'd majored in English and creative writing and was the only one he knew who'd managed to get published. Of course, none of them knew that. He hadn't been able to bring himself to tell his old classmates about The Lying Kind, because he didn't want to have to answer their questions and face their judgements about it. His dad had discouraged him from speaking about it, anyway. Said it could come back to bite him in the ass if he shared that information.

  "I'm kind of at my limit," Jackson explained. "I'd given myself a month to stay out here and work through my writer's block, and my funds are running low."

  "But you said that you're still blocked."

  "Yeah," he said sheepishly. "It hasn't exactly been the most productive month."

  "Well, damn. You don't think more time would do the trick?"

  "I don't know. Maybe, but I really don't have the funds to stay any longer."

  Christopher stroked Lady's head, which was resting in his lap.

  "That's the worst news I've heard all day." Christopher smiled at him. "And we were just getting to know one another."

  "I know," Jackson said, regretfully. "To be honest, it's been a while since I've gotten to meet anyone new. Writing is a pretty solitary mission."

  "We have to make the most of this evening, then," said Christopher, picking up his beer. "To tonight… And to the success of your new book."

  Jackson smiled, and clinked his glass against Christopher's. He would take all the well wishes and good fortune he could get. He was going to need it.

  Five

  The two of them sat and chatted in front of the fire for another hour, making their way through the bucket of beer. Christopher was pleasantly tipsy, and he could see Jackson was too. He thought it was adorable how Jackson's cheeks had turned slightly pink from the alcohol. He listened to Jackson talk about his story, which was another murder mystery, this time about a man who went looking for his missing brother out in the backwoods of Louisiana. From the way he spoke about it, Jackson didn't seem to know where he was going with the plot, and he admitted the inspiration he'd hope to find while out in the mountains had remained elusive.

  Christopher stopped after the fourth beer. He could've kept going, but he could hear Pamela's nagging voice in his ear telling him to control himself. She'd advised him to avoid drinking while here, so he’d do the responsible thing and quit while he was ahead. Who knew what he might get up to if were to get drunk? And how embarrassing would that be?

  Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was really enjoying looking at Jackson as he talked. If only he could see how attractive he was. Christopher wished he could make him understand.

  Christ, maybe it was a little more than just pleasantly tipsy.

  "Are you hungry?" he asked Jackson. "Because I'm starving. And you are too, aren't you, Lady?" Lady raised her head and licked her chops.

  "I am," Jackson said, stretching. "I'd better eat something to counteract the booze. Damn!" He touched his face. "It's going straight to my head…"

  Christopher had gotten room service for every meal since arriving, but tonight he felt like eating somewhere proper, like the lodge's restaurant.
"Tell you what," he said. "Let me go back to my room and get changed, and let's meet at the restaurant for dinner. My treat.”

  Jackson grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

  "Jackson," Christopher said, definitely not sober.

  "Hm?"

  "You have an incredible smile. A damn incredible smile. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

  Jackson's flushed cheeks went a deeper shade of red.

  "Lady! Let's go. Dinnertime. See you at the restaurant in thirty minutes?"

  "Thirty minutes," Jackson agreed, still blushing happily.

  Christopher took Lady's leash, and the two of them trotted back to the room. Instead of taking the elevator, this time he decided to take the stairs. He was afraid the clunky old thing would somehow get stuck because of the storm, and anyway, it would be a good way to get in some steps for Lady in lieu of her usual evening walk. There was absolutely no way he was going outside in that pouring rain in the dark. He could hear it pounding on the building as he walked up the stairs, the sound of it reverberating through the stairwell.

  Lady ate from her bowl as Christopher changed out of his lazy clothes into something a little nicer. He wished Jackson wasn't leaving. He had no idea how much longer he was going to have to stay cooped up in this place and having Jackson there to spend time with would've made things so much easier. He was really enjoying this long-forgotten feeling of freedom and ease when getting to know someone new. It'd been a very, very long time.

  And when was the last time he'd been out with a man? Not that this was that kind of thing, but he could do a bit of light flirting tonight. Nothing wrong with that, and it seemed like Jackson could use the attention. Christopher could tell that he was relishing it. He seemed game. From what he'd said, he was living a pretty solitary life.

  What Jackson needed was a dog. A dog would never let you down.

  He looked over at Lady, who was scarfing down the food from her bowl, and remembered when she was a puppy and had torn apart the $50,000 leather sofa imported from Italy. A dog would never let you down—most of the time.

  Like she was reading his mind, Lady looked up, licked her chops, and then let out a loud fart.

  "Oh God, Lady," he groaned. "Fucking gross, girl. Go to your bed. Go. Go."

  She snuffled and trotted to her bed.

  "I'll be back in a bit, Lady," he said, pulling the heavy drapes on all the windows shut, not wanting her to be frightened by the thunder.

  Jackson was waiting outside the restaurant. He’d exchanged glasses for contact lenses, but otherwise was still wearing the same outfit, and smiled brightly when he saw Christopher approaching.

  "Wow," Jackson said, rubbing his chin. “I should’ve put on something different. You look like you could be a movie star, man.”

  Christopher laughed. He wondered if he should tell Jackson who he was before they ended up parting ways, but what would be the point of that? There was no reason to, and it wasn't like he'd be doing him some favor by telling him. Hey, guess what? This whole time you've been hanging out with a famous actor! Feel special! That was just silly.

  "Thank you, Jackson," Christopher said, touching his elbow. "If we had more time together I could show you how I do it.” Stop it, he thought. You horny bastard.

  They went into the restaurant, which was empty. "Maybe we really are the only two people staying here," Christopher mused. "They've got the kitchen open for room service but no one is manning the restaurant."

  "I'll go get someone," Jackson said, and a few minutes later he came back with the same starstruck employee from the front lobby.

  "They've got you doing everything, haven't they?" Christopher said to her.

  "Just about," she said with a goofy smile. "Uh, go ahead and pick any seat you'd like."

  They picked a table in the middle of the restaurant, which was beneath a deer antler chandelier. Floor to ceiling windows lined the walls on opposite sides of the restaurant, giving a view to the forest outside. It was dark out and the rain was pounding down steadily, illuminated by the outdoor lights into a flurry of glowing streaks.

  Christopher ordered several appetizers for the both of them and asked the hotel worker—whose name was Amy—to bring him a bottle of wine he’d had re-corked a few days ago. He couldn't help himself. The buzz was wearing off, and he wanted to spend a while with Jackson. There was no rush. Neither of them had anywhere to go except back to their rooms, and this was the last night he’d see him.

  "Y'know, Amy? I think I'd like you to bring me a bottle of your pinot noir, too."

  "Sure thing," she said.

  Jackson looked hesitant. "I can't expect you to pay for all of this…"

  "Stop," Christopher said. "I've got this. Don't even worry about it. Really. I'm just happy to have run into you. Er, dropped a phone on you. Whatever."

  The appetizers came, numerous enough to be their own meal. Jackson laughed. "How will we finish all this?"

  "With great effort," said Christopher, tipping back his wine glass. "They'll have to roll us both out of here. And we'll get desserts too, obviously. Let's have some fun tonight. I need to make up for all the days I've been and am going to be spending talking to my dog instead of you."

  Jackson laughed, and the two of them clinked glasses. "I really wish we had met earlier," he said wistfully. "This is the most fun I've had in a while."

  Christopher felt the same way. Maybe this whole fiasco had been worth going through just for this reminder of what it felt to be a normal person who could make normal friends and not have to worry about all the baggage that came with being a high-profile celebrity. He was thankful to Jackson for the gift he’d unknowingly given.

  The rain continued its massive downpour, and after finishing dinner the two of them went back to the lobby's fireplace lounge. They drained the remainder of the bottle of wine and popped open the second. Jackson sat close to Christopher on the couch. He'd kicked off his shoes and rested his feet up on the coffee table, and Jackson did the same. Their feet were close to touching.

  "I'm really not looking forward to going back," Jackson said, sounding slightly drunk. "I really thought I'd be able to do it."

  "Your book? Don't just give up on it."

  "The problem is that I convinced my dad to get the publisher to agree to give me a chance to write something under my own name. And my own completely original story, too. It's kind of embarrassing, but The Lying Kind was actually based off a story treatment that was provided to me to turn into a novel."

  "Oh," said Christopher, surprised. So that was why Jackson was so opaque about the book.

  "I know, it's kind of pathetic, isn't it?"

  "Not at all," Christopher said. "I know a lot of amazing writers who work on other people's projects. But what's up with having to convince your dad? Is he like, your agent or something?"

  "I guess you could say that," Jackson said, and Christopher caught a tinge of something in his voice. Regret? Irritation? "My family has a pretty close working relationship. My brothers work with my dad, and my mom does too. So how my family works, some might call it smothering. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm thankful, because through his connections and help, I'm able to do work that some people dream of. But we don't always see eye to eye, and I think he and my mom forget that I'm a grown man… Thank God I finally moved out, though." Jackson gulped down his glass of wine and touched his hand to his forehead. "Anyway, sorry. I'm not looking forward to facing my dad about this. He knows exactly how to make a point without actually saying 'I told you so.’"

  "Hey," said Christopher, and he reached over and patted Jackson’s leg. He didn't like the sound of defeat in Jackson's voice. "Look, obviously I don't know your relationship with your dad, but you said it yourself: you're a grown man. You've already written one successful book, you can write another. Believe in yourself, and don't let anyone tell you what you can or can't do, especially not your dad. He should be supporting you, anyway."

  "He does," Jackson said. Christopher eyed
him, and Jackson sank back into the cushions. "I know, I know. I must sound pretty ridiculous right now.”

  “That’s not true," Christopher said. "Not at all. Why would you say that?"

  "I see someone like you, who's so put together and confident and obviously has their shit together, and it makes me feel pretty pathetic."

  Christopher set his glass on the table. "A, you are not pathetic. B, my shit is not together. Everyone has their own mess they're dealing with." God, he thought. If only I could tell you mine.

  The log in the fireplace popped, sending a curl of sparks up into the chimney. It was getting late, and the fire was starting to die down. Through the window, lightning streaked down and silhouetted the jagged tops of the distant pine trees.

  Jackson sighed, and Christopher could see just how badly he was stressing out about this. He slipped his arm around Jackson's shoulder and squeezed him. He wanted to help him. Maybe he could. "What if you had another week or two to work here? Would that help you?"