Chasing Stars

by Cody Ryder

  "We can send someone up there to get you, you know. I can hire a pilot, or something. I can ask one of my connections in the fire department. Maybe they know someone in Santos County that can get you out."

  He sighed to himself. "No, Dad, I'm fine. Look, about the book…"

  "Don't even worry about it. I anticipated this would happen, but I thought you should have a shot just to know what your limits are. If you want to keep trying at writing, I acquired another story you can turn into a novel with your pen-name."

  Jackson stared at the ceiling. He knew his dad was just looking out for him in his own way, but his lack of faith in his abilities was a constant discouragement. "No, Dad… I'm gonna spend the rest of the time here working on my own book. I'll get it done eventually."

  "Son, I've got an agreement with the publishing company that we'd have your first manuscript by the end of the month. We're reaching that deadline."

  "I know. But I've gotta do this on my own."

  "Jackson, if you'd just let me help you with this. Or better yet, just doctor some of the scripts that I've got coming in. They all belong to no-name nobodies. We could even credit you as the writer. You're good at doing stuff with other people's work, you should just accept that. It's okay! Not everyone can come up with something completely original. Take pride that you can at least write a decent story with someone else's idea. Most people can't even do that much. Hell, I should know. So much fucking trash comes to my desk every day. So much."

  Maybe he was right. Maybe Jackson was incapable of coming up with his own original idea. He could accept that. But what he really didn't like about writing for his dad was that none of the stories could truly become his own. He had to tailor the work to fit someone else. He could never make it authentic. The worst part was that he was beginning to wonder if the book he was trying so hard to write for himself was even authentic, either. He’d decided to write another murder mystery because he thought that the company would want another book like that from him. He never would've written a murder mystery on his own accord. Why had he made that compromise?

  "I'll figure this out," he said. "Anyway, Dad. How're things at home? How's Mom?"

  "She's fine. Won't stop fussing over me on account of the nose thing, but… Yeah. She's great. She misses having you around the house."

  "What nose thing?"

  "The nose thing!"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Dad. Is this industry related? Because remember, I don't look at any of that stuff at all. You know that."

  He groaned. "Ah, shit. Stupid me. Right. I really don't get why you're so averse to participating in the business, Jackson. I mean, to the point that you don't even use your real last name?"

  "'Baker' is my real last name, too, Dad."

  "It'd be so great if you'd just agree to write for me. Or, you don't have to write! You've got great attention to detail. You could be a producer, like your old man. Well, on second thought, you're a bit too soft to produce. There's something for you here. There's a lot of jobs."

  He rolled his eyes. "The nose thing, Dad?"

  "Oh, it's nothing. Someone didn't like my opinions and my decision making, so they decided that violence was the best option."

  "Someone hit you? Are you alright?"

  "I told you, I'm fine."

  "Did you deserve it, Dad?" he asked, because it wasn't the first time he'd dealt with angry industry folk looking for vengeance, and a lot of the time it seemed like they had good reason to be mad.

  There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

  "No. Not at all. Anyway, don't worry. I'm currently doing everything I can to make life hell for them. Read all about it, if you want."

  "I don't. But I'm glad to hear you're fine." A knock sounded on the door to his room. Jackson looked over his shoulder and smiled. He knew who it was. "I gotta go, Dad. Tell Mom I said hi."

  "Alright, bud. I want you to be safe out there, you hear me?"

  Jackson hung up the phone and let out a long breath as he stretched his arms, letting go of the tension. It was always stressful to speak with his parents, and whenever he did he always found some small part of him reverting to a younger version of himself. He hated that. It was what he was trying so desperately to get away from.

  Jackson opened the door, and Christopher shoved a bottle of wine into his arms. He had a second in his other hand, and popped the cork and walked inside the room. "Help me drink these," Christopher said, and picked up the two wine glasses that sat on top of the mini fridge and filled them both to the brim. Jackson took one and watched as Christopher downed half the glass in two gulps. He looked frighteningly irritated, like he was ready to tear someone's arm off if they looked at him the wrong way.

  "What happened?" Jackson asked hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"

  "Fine." He gulped down the rest of the wine and refilled the glass.

  Jackson sat down on the edge of the bed and watched as Christopher paced back and forth. "You don't look fine.”

  Christopher sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just work-related stuff. Things are not going well in my world, let's just say that."

  "You can talk to me about it, if you want," Jackson offered.

  Christopher sat down next to him and stared at the glass of wine in his hand. He set it onto the night stand. "I won't drink the rest of that. God. Embarrassing. I'm sorry, Jackson, I feel like a mess right now."

  "Tell me what happened."

  To Jackson, Christopher seemed on the edge, like he was just barely holding it together. Maybe he was. He'd seemed like such a composed person, but maybe that was just how skillful of an actor he was. Jackson knew very well the stresses of the celebrity life. He'd seen mental breakdowns happen all the time growing up, to the point where he thought it was a normal part of life. Sometimes, people just broke down.

  There was an actress named Helen Allen who came to the family home often when Jackson was a very little boy, and he had looked up to her as an aunt. She had a demeanor that could've easily passed as royalty, and always seemed so strong, classy, and powerful. She was very different from Jackson’s mother, who was fairly meek and unassuming. Jackson had always seen Mrs Allen as someone who couldn't ever be knocked down.

  He could still vividly remember the day when he'd seen Mrs Allen writhing on the floor, screaming at the top of her lungs as his father tried to calm her. An ambulance had come to get her. She stopped coming by so often after that day. It took a long time for him to gather the courage to ask about that event, and his father had given a dismissive answer. Years later, when he was a teenager, Jackson looked her up on the internet. All he could find were articles asking, "What happened to Helen Allen?"

  Jackson had dug more. He’d found out that Mrs Allen had been one of his father's frequent collaborators for several decades. He'd produced many of the movies that had been her biggest successes. In the nineties, her films had begun to lose traction in the box office as she grew older and became less and less desirable as a star. The Wardlow Company stopped producing pictures with her as a star, her career dwindled, and she became a recluse.

  He remembered Mrs Allen's breakdown, and pieced together the dates and the timeline and realized what he'd witnessed. His father's company had brought her up and broken her down. Seeing that strong woman who he'd admired so much tossed aside like that, and knowing it happened to so many other strong men and women, was the moment when he knew he wanted to have no business with The Wardlow Company. Hollywood was just not for him.

  Jackson reached over and snuck his hand into Christopher's. He’d only known him for a day, but he felt incredibly close to him, and not just because of what they'd done. They'd both found one another in this place, and it felt special.

  "I don't have the most sterling reputation in Hollywood," Christopher said. "I don't want to sound conceited, but if it weren't for my acting ability, I probably would've been one of those celebrities who could only stay relevant as long as they were doing somethi
ng ridiculous. And I always seem to find myself doing something ridiculous anyway."

  "Like what?"

  "Like getting a DUI, or two. Or three. Being arrested for possession—it wasn't mine by the way. Things like that. I've been in a lot of blockbuster movies, but I know how things work, and I know my window for getting something truly worthwhile made is quickly closing. So, for the past year, I've been trying to get a project off the ground, something that means a lot to me. It's a picture that I want to speak to young queer people, or just young misunderstood people everywhere. Something that I would've loved to have as a young person, because, as you probably figured out, I'm gay, and I sure as hell struggled with my sexuality."

  Christopher rubbed his face and eyed the glass of wine on the counter, but didn't reach for it.

  "Oh God," he said, his voice weak. "I still struggle with it. I hate that I have to lie to everyone about it. I tell a handful the truth but lie to the world. I want to help people, but I still have to lie about myself. Isn't that fucked up?"

  "It's not fucked up," Jackson said. "It's hard. I understand. I'm bisexual, but I could never tell my parents. It's so weird, they act as if they're all liberal about it and supportive, but I know that if they found out I was into men? Oh my God. It'd be the end of the fucking world."

  Christopher squeezed his hand. "I wanted to make something for people like us, Jackson. To help us be strong. And I've been trying, but… It's like the person I am has come back to haunt me at every corner. I do something to fuck up my image, and the project slips a little further away. And then these fucks in Hollywood are there to help put the final nails in the coffin. These guys have no idea. They have no imagination, they just think about money, and are afraid of anything that might cause them to lose it. So they tell me 'we're going to do everything we can to keep your project from getting made.' And I just don't know what to do."

  Jackson wrapped his arm around Christopher, hugging him tightly. He could hear the struggle in his voice, the cracks of weakness.

  "I called my agent while I was outside with Lady," Christopher said, his voice shaking. "And she told me that my writer dropped from the project. Terry Polstein dropped from my project. Do you know who he is?"

  Jackson shook his head.

  "No, of course not," said Christopher. "You have no idea how much I appreciate that about you, Jackson. It's a breath of fresh air to know you're not a part of that world."

  But wasn't he a part of that world? No. He was connected to it, but he wasn't a part of it. He'd worked very hard to not be, to sever every tie he realistically could.

  "He's big," Christopher said. "Really big. Between me and him, we could've put together something really good. Something meaningful. And he dropped, all because I've got some fucking black spot on me. I'm sorry. I know you have no idea what I'm talking about and this can't be very interesting for you…"

  "No," Jackson said. "I'm glad you told me. I just wish there was something I could do to make you feel better. Or to help you."

  Maybe there was, though. His father was Gregory Sylvester Wardlow. Maybe he could talk to him, see if he could pull some strings for Christopher. Chances were they probably already knew one another. If Christopher was as big as he seemed, maybe they’d even worked together.

  But, no. He just couldn't bring himself to make an offer like that, no matter how badly he wanted to help Christopher. He couldn't get tugged in.

  Too late, he thought, feeling the warmth of Christopher's hand in his.

  "It's alright. I already feel better just talking to you about it."

  "Good, I'm glad."

  Christopher stood and took the glass of wine to the bathroom, where he emptied it into the sink. "I sometimes get a little too enthusiastic about my drinking," he explained. "Sorry."

  Jackson went to the bathroom, swallowed down half of his own glass, and then dumped the rest. “There. And we're good."

  "You know what? Here I am feeling all sorry for myself, when I should really be happy."

  "You're right," Jackson said. "There's a lot to be happy about. For one, we didn't get washed away by a landslide."

  They both laughed. Christopher took Jackson's hands and drew him in to kiss him. He closed his eyes and felt the soft warmth of Christopher's lips press against his own. It felt like he was being filled with a glowing energy that tingled through his entire body, radiating and bright enough to cast away the storm clouds that hung over the mountain. Being with him felt so nice, and in a way their extended time together felt as bitter as it did sweet. Eventually it would have to end.

  But maybe it doesn't have to, he thought. Maybe it can go on. We can be together.

  He knew that was ridiculous, though. Christopher would go back to his celebrity life. There wasn't room in a life like that for a normal guy like Jackson. It didn't matter who his father was. He was normal. He didn't belong in that world.

  Christopher slipped his hand around the back of Jackson's neck, pulling him in closer as his tongue teased against his lips. He parted them, and their tongues danced together. Then, he shivered, remembering the incredible feeling of what Christopher had done to him the night before. His tongue was certainly talented.

  Jackson moaned softly as Christopher's fingertips played lightly down his arm, just enough to graze the hairs and send shivers up and down his body. His nipples hardened against the inside of his shirt, aching to be played with. He wanted to feel Christopher's lips on his skin. He wanted to feel them everywhere on his body. He reached out and drew his fingers along Christopher's hair, caressing one earlobe, and then kissed him on the neck and on the ear. Christopher moaned as Jackson nibbled the tip of his earlobe, and he felt him shiver as he exhaled gently across the ear’s opening. Christopher's hand explored underneath Jackson's shirt, lifting it as he went upwards to his chest.

  Jackson pushed his hand down the front of Christopher's pants and into his underwear and felt the swelling heat of his erection. He was already so hard for him. He teased with his fingers, drawing a deep groan from Christopher’s lips. Jackson remembered the taste of him and felt a deep and burning craving to be reunited with it all. He dropped to his knees, pulling Christopher’s pants and underwear down as he went. He greeted him with his tongue and lips, and Christopher moaned, taking a step back to steady himself against the bathroom doorframe. Jackson pushed forward, caressing his balls and swallowing him deep inside, pleasing him with eager attention until Christopher was quivering with the throes of climax.

  Nine

  Christopher pushed Jackson and he fell onto his back, laughing as he bounced when he hit the mattress. Christopher pounced onto him and kissed him, their tongues pushing together. He could taste himself on Jackson's lips, and it only made him more aroused. He went down to his waiting hardness and satisfied his craving, swirling his tongue across Jackson's head as he massaged his shaft with his fingers. Jackson bucked his hips, moaning as he struggled to contain himself.

  Christopher enjoyed watching Jackson's reactions to his actions and seeing what he liked the best. He suspected that Jackson hadn't had too much experience with another man and wanted to show him everything he'd been missing. I know you can't get it like this from a woman, he thought.

  "Oh my God," Jackson moaned. "That's amazing."

  Christopher smiled, and he reached down and began to pleasure himself. He could do this all day.

  When Jackson came, he cried out loudly, grabbing tight handfuls of the sheets as he gripped Christopher’s hair. His body shivered with climax as he came, and he continued to shiver as Christopher slid up next to him on the bed. He wrapped his arms around Jackson's body, pulling him close, and they kissed.

  "Part of me is hoping they never clear that landslide," Christopher said. "You're so good."

  "You're so good," Jackson breathed, running his fingers through Christopher's hair. "My God. I'm totally addicted."

  "How many times have you been with another man?" Christopher asked. “You said you’re bis
exual.”

  "A couple times," Jackson said. "But it's been a while. And I've never had an actual boyfriend."

  "Right… Your parents, you said."

  "I've really been missing out," Jackson said, laughing.

  "It's been a while for me, too," said Christopher. "And it's been a long time since I've been in a relationship. It's hard with my career, you know?"

  "I understand. You must be extremely busy all the time."

  "Well, there's that, but… It looks better when people think you're straight. You tend to get more work."

  "Oh, right."

  "I hate it. Like I told you, I feel so ashamed that I have to hide this part of myself. Like, for even me to be doing this with you… If people were to find out."

  "Nobody will know from me," Jackson said, his expression deathly serious. "I promise you."