by Tara Lain
Bloody hell.
TOM CLIMBED the ladder in the bathroom and surveyed the wiring for the waiting fixture, then glanced back toward the great room. Funny it had that name because it really was great. All the light and space. What would that be like? Man, the boys would love it here. It’s great that Merle gets to live in that great room. Tom grinned at his joke. Merle’s such a nice guy. Pretty too. Okay, don’t think about that. Work.
The wires and the circuits sucked him in, like he understood them and could guess just what they needed to work better. He never told anybody that. They’d think he was stupid. Stupider. People were so surprised when they found out he was a licensed electrician, but it hadn’t been that hard. Once Mrs. A. helped with the reading, he just did the rest. Electricity made sense, like wood and steel and stone. People? Not as much.
“Tom?”
He looked down at Jim, his boss and supervisor. Tom really liked Jim. “Hey, Jim.”
“How’s it going up there?”
“Good. Probably another half hour and I’ll be done with all the fixtures in here.”
“Did you get your lunch?”
“Yes. I shared it with Merle.” He smiled.
Jim looked surprised. “Merle Justice?”
“Yes. He chose avocado and cheese.”
“Uh, good. If I send in Barry, the new guy, will you walk him through the pattern for the tile and how to book the slate?”
“Sure, Jim, glad to.” He turned back to his circuit.
“So avocado and cheese, huh?”
Tom nodded. “Yeah.”
Jim got a funny expression and started to leave.
“Uh, Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“Making a movie is better than being on TV, right?”
“Uh, well, I guess it depends a little on the movie, but generally movies are more of a big deal than TV shows. Why?”
“Merle might get to make a movie.”
“He told you that?”
“Um-hm. So would that mean he couldn’t live in this house?”
“No. He might be gone more but he can probably live anywhere he wants.”
Tom nodded. “That’s good.” He smiled at Jim. “I really like fixing up this house for Merle, don’t you?”
Jim made a bark sound almost like a dog but smiled. “Yes, Tom. I do.”
A HALF hour later, Merle walked through the double glass doors of the studio on Ocean Avenue that housed both Shazam, the name of Chase Phillips’s styling studio, and Rupert Maitland Designs, Ru’s fashion business. Phoebe, the dark-haired young woman at the front desk, looked up from her computer and gave him a grin. “He’s back there somewhere. See if you can track him down.”
Merle laughed and turned right down the hall that led to Ru’s suite of offices, sewing rooms, and the most recent addition in the back, a large runway room where they could show off their designs to customers.
Merle peered into a couple of private offices where the bookkeepers and Ru’s PR people worked. They waved, but no Ru. Connie, the head of PR, cocked a thumb. “You know where he’ll be.”
“Yep.” He walked a few more feet and turned into the big sewing room, awash in fabrics, buttons, and thread, both on the tables and the floor. Several dress forms held designs that must be a part of Ru’s latest collection, and, kneeling on the floor with a mouthful of pins, posed the man himself. Merle raised a hand. “Hey, gorgeous.”
“Mmmff.”
“How about I hang in your office?”
Ru nodded, and Merle ambled back to the comfortable digs with its desk, small table, big cushy rug, and loads of photos showing Ru’s beautiful, original designs. Merle peered closer at some of the photos taken during the performance of Hamlet where they’d all met, when Gray starred and Ru designed the outrageous costumes that had jump-started his fashion career.
“Hey, dear, did you sleep in?” Ru walked across the room and collapsed on the couch.
“No. I’ve been doing some measurements at the house. I need a recommendation on the best places to buy rugs. I also need some suggestions on how to cover the big window.” Remembering Tom, he barked a laugh.
“What’s funny?”
“Oh, the, uh, guy who works for Billy. Tom.”
“Tom Henry. The one who came to your rescue?”
“Yeah. We just had a funny dialogue about dogs covering the window.”
Ru looked mystified.
“You had to be there.”
“That applies to a lot of things about Tom. He’s hard to capture.”
“True.” He slid into one of the rotating chairs in front of the desk and turned toward Ru.
“So are you excited about tonight? Personally I’m about to die from curiosity. Did he give you any clue about the film?”
“No. Not really.”
“It’ll be fun to find out if it’s a big or little film. He does both. Either way is good for you, I think. Little is serious and enhances your artistic reputation.” He said the latter with a prissy voice. “If it’s a bigger movie, you probably make more money. Win-win.”
Merle cocked half a smile. “I haven’t been able to fight my way past the pterodactyl butterflies in my stomach to think about the details.”
Ru lay all the way down on the couch, crossed his legs, and waggled his beautifully shod foot. “Do you think he’s going to hit on you?”
Merle sighed. “I don’t know. He said the two weren’t related. Well, he kind of said that. But he joked about fucking me.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Not sure. I mean, I’ve been in the business a few years. I know how the games are played. I’m not Meryl Streep, so I need to be prepared to make compromises.”
“Fuck that!” Ru sat up. “No compromises. What I meant was, do you think he’s attractive enough to want to have sex with him, unrelated to the movie? If it’s a condition of employment, tell him to suck eggs.”
Merle managed a smile. “I love you.”
“Love you back.”
“But you know the truth will probably lie somewhere in between, right? Yes, he’s attractive—though not really my type. Still, if I met him at a party, I’d consider fucking him, but whether that’s because I lust for his dick or admire his artistry, I can’t say. It’s hard to separate attraction from hero worship.”
“Just don’t give away anything that’s not comfortable, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“At least you’re not in a relationship right now, so you can consider whether Montrose does it for you on some level.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it would be better if I was attached. Then I could just say no to René and let the chips fall.” He stood.
“So what is your type?” Ru pressed his fingertips to his chest, and his eyes sparkled. “Moi?”
Merle grinned. “Yes, I had a huge crush on you, but in truth, my usual tastes run more to the Gray or Billy type. Big, muscular, hunky.”
“I’m devastated.” He laughed.
“Right. I can tell.” He glanced at his watch. “So I guess I’ll go back to the house and get pretty.”
“You’re always pretty, Mr. Vampire Heartthrob.”
“Thanks.” He looked at the pattern in the rug, all teal and peach and gray. “Do you and Gray have any plans for tomorrow night?”
“Not that I know of, no. Want to go out?”
“Uh, no. I want to invite someone to come over and watch my show.”
“Oooh, fun, vampire viewing.”
“See you.”
“Wake me when you get in tonight, no matter what time it is, and tell me what René has to say, okay?”
“Deal.” He started toward the door to the office.
“By the way, who’s coming to watch TV?”
“Tom.” The dead silence in the room pushed Merle out the door.
Chapter Six
MERLE TROTTED across the parking lot, dodged a couple of groups of people walking toward the same building he was, and pushed through the door t
o the Gulf Restaurant. Interesting that René had chosen a place in Newport Beach when Laguna had so many good places to eat, but the parking was certainly more accessible. The combination of primping, nerves, and too much traffic in Corona del Mar had combined to make Merle a couple of minutes late, so he politely shouldered his way to the reception desk, glancing into the huge open space of the restaurant with its stacked booths just to see if René was in sight.
The hostess looked up, polite but harried. He flashed his best grin. “Sorry, I’m just looking for Mr. Montrose.”
A smile—appreciative and deferential—lit up her face. “Of course. Maria, will you show this gentleman to Mr. Montrose’s table?”
Merle smiled at Maria. “Thanks.”
She practically fell over her feet getting him through the aisles and finally arrived at a booth near the window in the back with as close to privacy as the Gulf had available. René slid out of the booth and gave Merle a European kiss on each cheek. “I’m so delighted to see you.” He shared a bit of sparkle with the hostess. “Thanks so much.”
She flashed Merle a really interested glance that said Who are you that one of the most famous directors in the world is delighted to see you? Then her eyes widened. Ah, TV watcher. She giggled. “I’m a big fan.”
“Thank you, Maria.”
“You too, Mr. Montrose.” So maybe people who watched good movies also viewed teenybopper TV series. “Have a nice dinner.” She walked away but left a few diners staring at them in her wake.
Montrose waved a hand at the other end of the booth, and Merle slid in as René sat back down. A waiter hurried over, and Merle ordered a beer despite the fact that René was drinking wine. He liked beer, and something about the dinner ought to be comfortable. Damn, his stomach wouldn’t stop flipping. He smiled at René, who actually looked pretty mouthwatering in his small, neat, high-cheekbones-and-smoky-eyes sort of way. “How was your day?”
“Crazy busy and quite anxious. I kept looking forward to seeing you.” He managed to look both lustful and shy at the same time. Cute.
“Thank you.” Merle wanted to ask why but decided against it.
“I’m anxious to get this film cast and underway.”
Promising. “So tell me about it.” The waiter brought his beer. Good. Something to do with my hands.
“Are you ready to order?” The waiter hadn’t gone away.
René said, “You probably need time to look at the menu.”
Merle shook his head and glanced at the waiter. “What’s fresh?”
“We have escolar and tilapia today.”
“Great. Escolar with broccoli and an artichoke to start.”
René raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have the same.” The waiter left, and René smiled. “I like a man who knows what he wants.”
Merle took a sip of beer. “Actually, what I want is to hear about the film, so I got the ordering out of the way.”
“Okay.” René swallowed a mouthful of wine and looked a little nervous. Odd. “The thing is, it’s a vampire film.”
Merle’s stomach dropped to his knees, and the taste in his mouth was disappointment.
René held up a hand. “Wait. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not exploiting you.” He grinned. “Well, maybe a little since you’re one of the most popular vampires on earth. But honestly, the film won’t be anybody’s blockbuster. It’s closer to an art film. Quite serious. It’s a study in exclusion and disaffection. I don’t want to make promises, but I think it’s Best Actor material.”
“Best Actor?”
“Yes, of course. In the Academy Awards, right?” He smiled like Merle had been hiding under a TV rock.
“Not Best Supporting Actor?”
“Oh no. Way more screen time than they allow for supporting roles. Your character’s the center of the film.”
Odd feeling—heart beating like a drum solo and stomach still hovering around his genitals. “So I’d be the—”
“Star of the movie, yes.”
Holy shit. For a second he was afraid he’d said it out loud. “I’m anxious to see a script.”
“I have one in my car.”
Better than in his bedroom. “Great.”
“Shall I call your agent first thing tomorrow or wait for you to read the script?”
“Both.” Merle flashed his dimples. “I plan to read it so fast, I’ll call you very early if for some reason I don’t want you to call Jerry.”
René laughed. “Good. I’m glad you’re excited. I was scared you’d tell me to shove it.”
“I guess there’s still a small ‘shove it’ window, but I doubt you’d put your name on something crappy, so I expect to like it.”
“Actually you have your fangs to thank if you, in fact, take the role. I was talking to some friends about needing the perfect person for this part, and they mentioned that they’d seen their daughter’s favorite show and you were in it. They suggested I take a look. I did and was impressed as hell. Then you got the Emmy nomination, and that confirmed my suspicion that you could be taken seriously by a critical audience.”
Their food arrived, and Merle’s appetite roared back. He savored a mouthful of fish, then said, “Glad to see my thespian efforts in Blood on the Boyfriend Jeans are taken seriously.” He laughed.
“You played Horatio on the stage, didn’t you?”
“Yes. That’s how I met Gray and Ru.”
“I’ve heard Artie is trying to raise money to do it as a film.”
“I guess even with the biggest action star in the world as the lead, Hamlet’s still a tough movie sell.”
“Maybe because of Gray. Movie investors expect classic roles to be played by classic actors—think Laurence Olivier, Kenneth Branagh, and the like. Not Gray Anson. It could actually piss off his fans.”
“What about my teenage girls?”
“A lot of them won’t even be old enough to see this film. No worries.”
Merle’s anxiety morphed into What if something happens before tomorrow worries, but he managed to enjoy his food. Still, he wanted to run to the parking lot and rip the script from René’s car, sit on the curb, and start reading. Instead he asked René about his philosophy of directing, his favorite movies, and other chitchat while somehow he managed to look calm until René paid the check and they walked outside together.
René’s Ferrari was parked in the farthest corner of the big lot, as distant from the other vehicles as possible. He beeped the lock. “Hop in and I’ll go over the script with you.”
Merle actually felt a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades, he was so excited. He crawled in the low car and settled into the cushy leather seat. René closed the driver’s door, so Merle did the same with the passenger door. Instant soundproof booth.
René pulled a thick bound manuscript from the floor under his feet and handed it to Merle. “I hope you like it. No, love it.”
Merle looked at the cover in the low light of the car. The small title said Truth Bites.
Merle snorted, and René chuckled softly.
He opened the script and peered at it.
“You really need more light.”
“True. I’ll go home and get started.” He tried to push all his gratitude into his smile. “I can’t thank you enough for following your friends’ suggestion and checking out the teenybopper vampire. It wasn’t exactly an intuitive act.”
“Phone me first thing if there’s any problem. Otherwise, I’m calling your agent as soon as I can reasonably ring his phone without retribution.”
“I will.” He took a breath. René looked at him softly, as if he’d like to lean over and kiss him—but he didn’t. That got him tons of points. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow—one way or another.” Merle opened the car door, climbed out, and strode with a jaunty step all the way to his car.
Sometimes you manage the perfect exit line.
In the car, he hauled out his phone. “Call Jerry.”
Merle started driving as the phone r
ang. After three rings, Jerry said, “Hey, baby, I’m up to my ass in supermodels. What ya got?”
“You’ll probably be getting a call from René Montrose tomorrow morning.”
The line went very quiet. “Like, the director?”
“Yep.”
“You said ‘probably.’”
“If I hate the script he gave me tonight, I’ll call him and tell him I’m not interested.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Never shit a shitter.”
“René fucking Montrose is talking to you about a film?”
“Yep. So if you get any strange numbers calling you tomorrow, you should probably answer.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and grinned at himself as he waited at the light in Corona del Mar.
“You wouldn’t seriously consider turning down a Montrose film, would you?” Jerry sounded pretty nervous.
“I’ll let you know if I have any problems with it. Talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up. Yep, two great exit lines in one night.
Half an hour later, he pulled into the driveway at Ru and Gray’s. They’d given him a key and he let himself in. All quiet. Carrying the script, he walked to the kitchen, got a mineral water from the refrigerator, and took it to his room, turning off lights as he went. He’d told Ru he’d tell him tonight, but he wanted to read the manuscript first. Know what he had.
He did his bathroom stuff, pulled on some sleep pants, and climbed into bed, centering the script onto his lap. Okay. Page one.
Two hours later he closed the last page. Wow. Just wow.
Imaginative, mysterious, dramatic, but also romantic and sexy. This role had promise. Hell, it could be both a critical and a popular success—if he didn’t screw it up. Did he want to play this part? Hell, yes. He’d do it for free, though he’d never let René know.
He set the script aside. Now he wanted to tell someone. Ru was almost positively asleep—or fucking—and he didn’t want to interrupt either one. He could call Jerry, but God forbid he should interfere with his agent’s pursuit of supermodels.
He slid out of bed, walked to the bathroom and peed, washed his hands, then wandered back into the bedroom. The paper with the list of measurements he’d made at the house lay on top of the dresser. Tom. Why in hell do I want to call him? What would Tom know about a sophisticated art film script?