Disguises

by EM Lynley

  Disguises

  Race Wilcox yanked open his trailer door, pulling his shirt over his head as he navigated the three steps to his own private sanctuary. He barely noticed as the door swung closed and slammed shut the way it usually did. The morning’s shoot had gone well, but the director had still asked for an extra four takes of an action sequence. Race was hot, tired, and ready for a cold beer; not that he ever drank during work hours, but he really wanted a cold beer.

  He tossed the sweaty shirt onto the bed, and as he popped open his button-fly jeans, he noticed a bright orange envelope propped up on the dining area table. His name was written in large, graceful calligraphy, and just the sight of it made him seriously reconsider his beer policy. He knew exactly what it was, but he ripped open the envelope and looked anyway, feeling his blood pressure rise. It was worse than he’d expected, and he tossed the whole thing into the trash can. If they didn’t have so many fucking rules around the set, he’d have preferred to burn it so that he could watch the flames darken and devour the paper. But that wasn’t an option.

  He groaned loudly, continued undressing, and then hopped into the shower where the cool water washed away sweat and stage makeup but not his bad mood. As he soaped himself, he thought about his options. He was pretty fucking annoyed, which ruined his usual shower jerk-off session, thus adding to his fury.

  When Race had first heard about it, he’d thought it had to be some kind of a joke. He hadn’t believed it—or hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now the orange envelope had arrived, and he wasn’t any less annoyed, but he was starting to believe it. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a demand that he attend a party. And not just any party… his network’s Hallo-fucking-ween party. While he usually enjoyed parties, the truth of the matter was costumes were not Race’s thing. Despite the fact that he was an actor and technically wore a costume every day at work, he hated having to dress up as something, particularly when it wasn’t voluntary. He hadn’t been cast in many genre productions, so almost all of the characters he’d played—in film or on television—had worn normal everyday clothes. It had been his acting that brought them to life, not how he was dressed.

  When he got out of the shower, he wrapped a towel loosely around his hips and shuffled into the main area of the trailer. He barely noticed the drops of water that continued to cascade down his chest and back and drip off his dark brown hair. He’d call his agent! Maybe she could get him out of it, and he wouldn’t have to go after all. He speed-dialed her on his cell phone and crossed his fingers as he listened to the phone ring, willing her to pick it up already. He was too angry to leave voicemail. He worked every day… long, hard days, and his evenings off were supposed to be his personal, private time. They had so few evenings off in the first place that this really added insult to injury.

  She picked up on the third ring, and he relayed his tale of woe, but she was less than sympathetic.

  “Considering the ratings aren’t good enough to ensure automatic renewal for another season, it’s in your best interests—and those of the show—to go to the damn party and act like you’re having a good time. You are an actor, right?” she teased, but he knew under her joking tone she meant every word, and next time he needed a favor she might not be very forthcoming. “It’s good for your image and for your reputation with the studio execs. The fans love you, but you need to suck up a little bit more to the guys who sign the paychecks.”

  “What the fuck do I pay you for?” He paced around and the small trailer rocked slightly, its contents shaking noisily. “Aren’t you supposed to take care of this kind of thing? Arrange my jobs and keep me from having to do these unbearable events. That’s not too much to ask considering how much of my salary you get!”

  “No dice,” she said in an increasingly impatient tone. “It’s in your contract to do a reasonable number of publicity events for the network, and this falls under that description. A bunch of press people are on the guest list. If they want you to be there, you had better be there.”

  “It is not reasonable!“ He kicked the wall next to the bed and heard something crash down in the bathroom, which was on the other side. “They’re making me dress up, and they want to approve our costumes in advance!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Race realized he sounded like a five-year-old complaining that someone else got the last red gumdrop. He sat down on the bed with a thud and waited for her response.

  “Look, Race, when your name comes first in the credits maybe you’ll have some leverage, but for now just suck it up graciously, and don’t piss off any of the network people. That’s definitely bad for your career.”

  Race’s co-star Derrick Steele’s name came first in the show’s opening credits, a fact which never failed to annoy Race whenever they actually watched the broadcast together. Derrick was easygoing and great fun, but they could really trash talk each other into the ground. The crew thought they were more like brothers than simply best friends or co-stars. But they rarely caught the show on-air. Usually they were so tired from the long days of shooting; they were home sleeping at air time.

  “You mean Derrick can get out of it?” Maybe there was more to this name order thing than Race had originally believed. Anger burned even brighter in his chest now. Fucking Derrick!

  “I didn’t say that. I said you can’t, so stop trying. Just think of something you won’t mind dressing up as and have some fun for a change. You’re too serious sometimes.”

  “Oh, fuck off. And you’re fired,” he said—but with a laugh—and hung up before she had a chance to reply.

  “Did you get your invitation to the party?” Derrick came bursting into the trailer while Race was zipping up his jeans, not five minutes after he’d gotten off the phone with his agent. Derrick always barged in without knocking and Race was used to it. His co-star was also freshly showered and his damp dirty-blond hair spiked up in all directions. The hair stylists always found working on Derrick a challenge, but Race’s neatly groomed dark-brown hair was a breeze for them.

  “Yeah, I got it, and it looks like I can’t get out of it. What about you?”

  “Get out of it?” Derrick looked confused. “Why would you want to get out of it? It’s going to be an awesome party. I love Halloween!”

  Derrick was as animated as a kid off his Ritalin sometimes, which tended to amuse or annoy Race. At the moment it was the latter, and he nearly glared at his friend.

  “Why are you so fucking excited?” Race pulled a clean shirt out of the closet and slipped it on.

  “Deciding what costume to wear is so much fun. Then finding out what everyone else shows up as. You get a real insight into people’s personalities by the costumes they choose.”

  There it was in a nutshell, the reason Race hated costume parties. People always think there’s some hidden meaning to what you’re dressed as. Race knew he was going to be analyzed and judged by the studio, the network, and the tabloids based on his choice of costume. Now he was even more convinced it would be a terrible mistake to go to the party. Derrick stared at him. He frowned and shook his head as if he could read Race’s mind.

  “Look, Race, I’ll help you pick out a costume. It’ll be fun!” Derrick offered. He flashed his dimples and grinned in an infectious way that Race always found impossible to refuse. “We’ll have a great time, you’ll see!”

  Derrick was so excited that some of his enthusiasm rubbed off, and Race actually began to think going along with him wouldn’t be so bad. Derrick was fun, and together they always had a great time, no matter what they did. This certainly wasn’t the first publicity event they’d been sent to, and Derrick usually goofed around or did something dorky for the cameras, which they ate up. It left Race looking like a stick in the mud sometimes, but the fans seemed to love the contrast between thei
r two personalities.

  “And Stella’s coming down for the party too!” Derrick added as he rooted around in Race’s refrigerator for a bottle of water. He chugged half of it in one swallow as he watched Race finish dressing so that they could get back on set.

  “Stella?” Race had no idea why the news suddenly disappointed him so much. Stella Reynolds was Derrick’s long-term girlfriend. She was also an actor, but her series filmed in Vancouver, British Columbia; so she lived in Canada most of the year. Due to their work schedules, they maintained a long-distance relationship but always seemed to have a hiatus or vacation at different times. She managed to make it down to Los Angeles about once a month, and usually the three of them got on great together. Race was included in most of their plans when she visited.

  She hadn’t been down to L.A. for more than a month though, and Race and Derrick had been spending all their time off together. Race had almost forgotten she existed because Derrick hardly ever talked about her unless directly asked. Of course Derrick would want Stella in town for the party, but for some reason the party didn’t sound quite as appealing to Race now, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

  Ten days later Race was only slightly less annoyed as he prepared for the party. He’d gone over to Derrick’s apartment to change, and the limo would pick them all up from there. He was just putting the finishing touches on his appearance with a little assistance from Stella.

  Derrick probably had what would turn out to be one of the best costumes at the party. Race was still fuming over that too. And of course the network had loved his idea. It wasn’t so easy for Race. Sure, Derrick offered to help him come up with a costume. He even said Race could dress as part of a group with him and Stella, but that certainly was not going to happen. It just wouldn’t look right for the three of them to dress up together; it was bound to start rumors, and Race hated rumors even though the network loved the publicity and the subsequent ratings boost they brought.

  Treat us like fucking whores! Race thought bitterly. But damn, he loved their show, and he desperately wanted it to be renewed. Not just for his career, but because he truly had never had a better gig and wanted it to last as long as possible. He loved the show, the crew, the writers, and even some of the producers. They had a small, vocal, and extremely loyal fan base that had turned him and Derrick into niche superstars. His role was fun and exciting, a constant mix of comedy, drama, suspense, and fantasy. Who wouldn’t want to be one of a pair of intergalactic detectives? Especially since he didn’t have to wear a fucking spacesuit or any sort of costume.

  But Race knew the best part of his job was his co-star and best friend, Derrick Steele. Practically since the day they met, they had clicked and become fast friends—spending almost every waking moment together on and off the set. Before they were cast in the series, they had both been on shows filmed up in Vancouver, and neither of them had many friends in L.A. at first. Given their grueling shooting schedule, they rarely had enough energy even on their off days to socialize and ended up spending most of their time together. The studio and producers were grateful their stars didn’t get caught up in the Hollywood party scene. But the network constantly encouraged them to get out and play more in order to get into the news more often. Was it any wonder that Race hated the network publicity team and fought them at every move?

  Stella and Derrick were going to the party as Cleopatra and Marc Antony. They suggested Race dress as Julius Caesar and go along with them if he wanted. No fucking way was he going to wear a little Roman general skirt thing with lace-up sandals like Derrick planned, and he certainly wasn’t going to parade around in public in a bed sheet and call it a toga either. That was not the kind of character he wanted to be. Besides, he was a little uncomfortable with the whole sexual rivalry thing it would imply if he went along with that suggestion. The three of them were good friends, and Stella and Derrick included him in their plans during Stella’s L.A. weekends on a regular basis. But that was as far as it went. Race knew the paparazzi could twist their Halloween costumes into some sordid threesome and splash that in all the tabloids without thinking twice. The network might love it, but Race was careful about his image; he didn’t need bullshit like that to destroy a decade of hard work and good behavior. Not to mention how it might look to his family who lived in a perennial red state in the Bible belt.

  Forget Julius Caesar. Race planned to dress as one of his favorite movie characters, though he’d had a hard time at first convincing the network jerkwads that it even was a costume.

  He was going as Indiana Jones.

  Of course it was a costume: there was the trademark Fedora and the whip. It wasn’t just any hat and whip, after all. And so what if he was wearing one of the battered brown leather jackets from wardrobe? It might not be the exact style that Harrison Ford wore, but it was the right color and beat up just the right amount. He also had a little army bag like Indy wore and a gun from Props.

  Race absolutely loved the hat, which had set him back a pretty penny. It totally made him into Indy. He’d been wearing it around practically nonstop since he’d gotten it. Well, at least around his apartment and in his trailer on set. He’d even tried cracking the whip—twice. The first time he broke a lamp in his apartment, and the second time he’d managed to hit himself—on the shoulder. It sure wasn’t as easy to crack as it looked. He’d just keep it strapped onto his belt for everyone’s safety.

  “Hey, Rick, what do Roman generals wear under those little skirt things?” Race teased Derrick when he’d first seen the costume laid out on the bed.

  “It’s a tunic, not a skirt,” Derrick corrected him with his character’s almost trademark sneer. “It’s more like a dress….” He wrinkled his nose and frowned at the admission, and Race couldn’t help but laugh. “Anyway, it’s not like it’s a kilt, so I’m just going to wear boxer-briefs, like I normally do.” Derrick shrugged.

  “I don’t actually think the Romans wore underwear, but if it were me, I’d go commando. Just need to be careful not to twirl around too much.” Race burst into uncontrollable laughter at the idea of Derrick in a skirt—tunic—and then at the idea of Derrick flashing the network and press people. Now that would be worth going to the fucking party, just to see the looks on their faces.

  Of course, Stella looked stunning. She always did. She wore a sleek black wig entwined with a gold snake headdress, and a white gauzy dress that was tight and clingy in all the right places. On Stella, that’s pretty much all over, Race thought as he eyed her abundant cleavage. The dress was low-cut enough to provide an excellent view of that. She’d also done an amazing job with her make-up. Dark kohl surrounded her eyes in Cleopatra’s trademark style, and there were flecks of gold in her eye shadow and dusted along her shoulders and décolleté. She definitely looked the part, though the spell was broken as soon as she opened her mouth.

  “Race, y’all need to do something with that hair.” Stella had grown up in Tennessee, and when she wasn’t working, her soft Southern accent was so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut it. Not quite what anyone would expect from Cleopatra, who wasn’t even from southern Egypt. Stella stepped back a pace, cocked a hip, and scrutinized Race’s appearance.

  “What’s the point? I’m gonna be wearing the hat the whole time.” He slapped her hand away as she reached up to arrange his hair. Derrick was the one that needed remedial hair attention; his hair always looked as if a family of crows had just made a home on top of his head. Along with his famous sneer, Rick’s character was best-known for his slightly bleached, dark-blond, and far-too-long hair.

  “You might want to take the hat off at some point. Let me put in some gel; that’ll minimize the hat-head issue. Now come over here.” She boosted herself onto the counter in Derrick’s bathroom and pulled Race toward her by one lapel of his jacket until he stood in between her knees so she could get at his hair. He was uncomfortably close to her now. In the mirror, he could see Derrick standing near the bed where his costume was still l
aid out. To Race it seemed he was having second thoughts about the whole bare-legged Roman general thing.

  Derrick stripped down to his briefs—bright green with red and blue flowers—and Race marveled again at how ripped the guy was: perfectly shaped pecs, chiseled abs, and enormous biceps. The writers tried to get Derrick’s shirt off as often as possible on screen. Race worked out too, with Derrick’s help, but he never managed to achieve anywhere near the result. He looked great without a shirt unless he was standing next to Derrick.

  Race continued watching Derrick’s reflection as he turned his back to the bathroom, his back muscles rippling and cording. Race let out a sigh. Derrick reached to pick up the dress—well, he called it a tunic, but it was still a fucking dress, if anyone asked Race. Derrick hesitated and then quickly slipped out of his shorts. Race muffled a snort as he saw Derrick’s bare ass for a moment before his friend pulled the tunic over his head and started fussing with the rest of the costume.

  Whew, it’s getting hot in here, Race thought, and he could feel himself starting to get hard as Stella gripped his waist even more tightly with her knees and messed with his hair. She was too close and she smelled really good. Stop smelling her! She was so off limits it wasn’t even funny. At least Race hoped it was Stella’s proximity that had turned him on and not the sight of Derrick stripping—or the thought of how he looked under the tunic. Stella laughed in Race’s face, and he got a whiff of the fruity-girly cocktail she’d been drinking, and it snapped him out of his own dangerous thoughts. Stella was already pretty buzzed. She didn’t have much tolerance for alcohol, and Derrick was not going to be thrilled if she was drunk before they even got to the party. Race regretted letting her talk him into mixing her a second drink.

  “All done,” she finally said and gave him a little kiss, just pressing her lips against his. “You look perfect now, Race! Oh, look I got lipstick on your pretty mouth.” She laughed again. In the mirror, Race could see Derrick was still dressing and apparently not paying any attention to what was going on in the bathroom.