I looked up at her. “Go away,” I said playfully, almost blushing. “It’s just too easy to mess with him.” After a few minutes, another text buzzed in:
>>LEO: If my book doesn’t turn out how I want it, I have like 50 blade-choppers in my closet ready to be used for their one true purpose
>>JAMIE: ill make sure you don’t get a copy before it goes to the publisher then
I put my phone down, laying back onto the couch and firing up the TV. Chelsea sat next to me, and I looked at her, in disbelief.
“I’m texting with my teenage celebrity crush.”
“Get used to it,” Chelsea said, “That’s the L.A. lifestyle, baby.”
I snorted. “The L.A. lifestyle is eating cheap pizza in Silver Lake and submitting your screenplay to places that will probably never even read it.”
Chelsea leaned over and gave me a high five.
While we watched TV, I kept checking my phone to see if there was another text from Leo, but it was silent for the rest of the night.
I wondered what he was doing. Hanging out at home? Playing piano? Fucking another dude? I really had no idea. I felt like I’d gotten to know Leo in the past few days, but there were still so many aspects of his life I was in the dark about.
I wanted to change that.
The next day, I did nothing but submit screenplays of Made Contact to more studios that accepted online submissions. At first the process was tedious, and I looked for every excuse to get out of it. I looked out the window, but there were no sullen teens to flip me off. I laid on the floor, but then I caught a spider scurrying along the floorboard and had to get up.
But as the day went on I got in a groove, and the submission process got easier and easier. I submitted to all 8 studios on my list. By the end of the day I was burned out, tired, and crashed early, getting a delicious solid 9 hours of sleep.
The day after was less productive.
I got up early, refreshed after sleep, and walked down to the coffee shop down the block. Rows of palm trees lined the sidewalk and made me feel like I was in a movie, so I slipped on my sunglasses and walked down the street like I belonged there. I was in Los Angeles, the world was gonna see my screenplay (or, at least, 8 studios), and I had even slept well. I couldn’t be stopped.
At the shop they were giving away samples of cold-pressed kale juice, so there was a line out the door composed of yoga moms, yoga hipsters, yoga instructors and confused people who thought it was the coffee line. Two rolled-up potentially sweaty yoga mats hit me in the face as I pressed past the line, but I persevered in the name of caffeine.
Thirty minutes and two espresso shots later, I was back at home, faced with nothing to do all day.
I knew what I had to do: more Leo research.
I’d read countless articles and old interviews online, but there was something I hadn’t delved into yet: the massive amounts of Youtube videos that had old interviews of the band members. When the band had been at the height of their fame, Youtube hadn’t even existed yet, but nostalgic people and Chandler Price superfans had dredged up tons of old footage and chucked it all online over the past decade.
I’d avoided watching the videos before meeting Leo. I wanted to meet him fresh, to see him as he was now, at 36, instead of how he used to be. But by now I had a solid impression of him (moody, sarcastic, unpredictable, sexy as all fucking hell, and, fuck it, a great kisser), so it was time to delve into the video archives at my disposal.
The videos were all from the late 1990s and early 2000s, and you could really tell. They’d been transferred from VCR recordings, most likely, and they carried the nostalgic haze of the cassette tape, lines randomly streaking over the video, and contained either perilously faded or oddly saturated colors.
It shouldn’t have surprised me to find that most of the videos centered around Chandler Price. The titles were things like “SEE CHANDLER PRICE IN 1999 (and other 5*Star members),” and in a lot of the interviews, Chandler was the main person that the interviewers were interested in.
But in some of the longer ones, all four members got their due time. Chandler was always sleek, sexy, and 100% a star—it hadn’t changed to this day. Eric Ronson was outgoing, hammy, joking for the camera and always seemed like the most real member of the group, like he could be your friend. Adam Fara was dark and mysterious—sexy, for sure, but less talkative than the rest, with a rich and soulful voice.
And then there was Leo. Leo didn’t talk much in a lot of the interviews. Definitely more than Adam, who was the strong, silent type, but not much. Leo hung back, often with a sweet smile on his face, letting Chandler and Eric be more vocal and field more of the questions.
And there was a lot of screaming.
Teenage girls would flock to the TV shows that 5*Star would appear on, and after each question was answered, the audience would erupt into a chorus of their high-pitched squeals. Each member of the band took it in stride, but I couldn’t help but wonder if their ears hurt after some of these events.
I found a long one where the group was on a morning TV show, and took questions from the audience. One ebullient girl came up to a microphone and asked, “If you could go on a dream date with anyone, who would it be?”
Eric answered first, with a quintessentially cheeky answer: “Hmmmm… Jessica Rabbit. I mean, those curves!” The audience erupted into laughter and screams, and Eric flashed his smile right at the camera.
Chandler was next. “Maybe Sarah Michelle Gellar. Have you seen her in Buffy? She could definitely slay me.” More screams from the audience.
Next up, Adam. The camera closed in tight on his face. He paused for a moment, pushing back a lock of dark hair from his eyes before speaking in his low voice: “Edward Scissorhands.”
A hush of “Ooooooh” followed by more screams and applause in the audience. Adam had always been openly gay, but never talked about relationships (or anything, really) publicly, so it was a shock to even hear him answer the question. I caught myself saying “fuck yeah,” aloud, slouching in my desk chair and staring at the laptop. Because yeah, Johnny Depp was fucking hot in that movie. And in Benny & Joon? My God.
I actually got a little nervous when the camera focused on Leo. I clicked up the volume a couple more notches to hear his answer. His hair was bleached so much lighter, but his eyes carried that same tired sweetness they had today. And, of course, he looked younger, his skin porcelain-smooth.
He took the microphone gently, and spoke: “Actually, I’d just want to go on a date with someone normal,” he said, smiling shyly. “Someone real, you know? Not a celebrity.”
The sound from the audience was a murmur, and then turned into a resounding “awwwww.”
Leo blushed. It was slight, but I saw it, because I recognized that look in his eyes he gets when he realizes he probably just said something too truthful. He’d looked at me a few times that way.
I stopped the video playback, realizing I was smiling like an idiot, and then I was blushing, looking down at the floor of my room. I was blushing from that, from watching a 10-second answer to a question from a decade and a half ago. When it was filmed Leo had been about my age, I realized with a jolt.
At what point did what I was doing stop being research and start being just a fan blissing out on old videos of his favorite band member? I pushed that thought away and instead pulled up something that I remembered seeing before, but didn’t dare let myself look at.
I Googled it: Leo Stone Out Magazine Photoshoot.
Leo had posed for the gay magazine a handful of years ago, and it had been one of the more memorable blips in his post-5*Star career. At least, it was memorable to me. But I hadn’t looked at the photos in years.
When they came up on the Google image search I’m pretty sure I almost had a heart attack. Good God—Leo had posed for the magazine in just tight white boxer briefs, with a thick strap at the top of them that cinched perfectly around his muscled hips. Leo had started working out more after leaving the band, and
it had really paid off. The photoshoot pictured him splayed out on a giant pink mattress, in different poses.
In one, he had his head thrown back, eyes closed, the beautiful planes of his throat on display. I could almost picture that maybe he looked like that in the throes of orgasm, head tilted back like he was losing control.
And after staring at it for a solid thirty seconds, I had to close my eyes. And turn away.
Because I was fucking hard. My face was burning hot and my cock was aching against my jeans. The photos were beyond sexy—they were a work of art.
I looked down and immediately tugged my belt and zipper open, rushing, almost desperate. I knew if I was going to do something, I had to do it before I let myself think twice. I wrapped my hand around my cock and squeezed, relief flooding me instantly. He doesn’t have to know. I can fuck myself forever pretending it’s him, and he won’t have any idea. I knew it was wrong, and that I should feel bad, but I didn’t. On the contrary, I was actually close to the brink of coming.
And then something terribly annoying happened: my fucking cell phone started ringing, loud as fuck, from across the room. It was over on my bed, out of reach.
I ignored it. It would stop ringing soon enough.
But when it started ringing a second time, I couldn’t tell if I was more annoyed or more worried. It pained me to do so, but I let go of my straining cock and hobbled to the phone, which had now rung twice and received a text message.
The two calls were from Leo. And a single text message:
>>LEO: Answer me, gaylien.
God.
I turned the phone on silent, put it down on my desk, and got back to jerking myself off. I’d call him afterward, but I had to get this over with.
But then he called again. The phone was silenced, but the screen lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree in front of me. He wouldn’t leave me alone.
“Damn it,” I said, letting go of my pathetic cock, and answering the phone with my other hand.
“Yeah, Leo, what is it? Is there an emergency?”
“Hey Jamie,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically chipper.
I paused. “Uh, yeah, hey, what is it?” I looked down at my cock, which still had a bead of precum gathered at the tip.
He must have heard the annoyance built up in my voice. “What, am I interrupting something? Do you have a gentleman caller over? Are you in the middle of an epic fuckfest?”
I sighed. “No, I’m unfortunately not. Are you gonna tell me what was so important you had to call me three times about?”
“Shit. Those calls actually went through? The first one I was driving through an underground tunnel, then the second one went straight to your voicemail, so I thought I’d try a third.”
“Very funny.”
“I just wanted to tell you that we’re on for the next interview. In 3 days.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” I was almost ready to hang up.
“And guess what?”
“What?” I said, only thinly veiling my irritation.
“Ella set up show spots for me, too.”
“What are show spots?”
“Like, I go on this comedy show and they talk to me. It’ll be on TV. I mean, it’s just on basic cable, nothing that great, but…”
“That’s great, Leo,” I said, idly putting my hand around my cock, resigned to the fact that I was probably never going to finish. I stroked myself, but it didn’t even feel sexual, not anymore.
“What have you been doing?” Leo asked.
I puffed out a laugh. “Since when are you so… friendly?”
There was a pause and I worried for a second that I’d said something wrong.
“I’m about to be honest with you,” Leo said, “so I forbid you to laugh at me.”
“Go for it,” I said.
“I was just… bored, and I wanted to see if you, like, were doing anything today. I guess I wanted to see if you could grab a late lunch. Not as an interview thing, or as anything, just lunch. Because I’m bored. As fuck.”
I caught myself smiling.
“Or if you wanted to play video games, I’ve got this new one that lets you be an alien. You could pretend it was gay.”
Yeah, or you could come over to my apartment, get down on your knees, and finish me off so I could actually come inside you instead of just desperately fantasizing about it like I had planned. I didn’t say it. But I thought it.
I sighed heavily, squeezing my eyes shut. “What time is it?” I asked.
“It’s a little after 4. Shit, I guess it’s not really lunchtime anymore. Fuck.”
“I told Chelsea I would go out to dinner with her and her coworkers from the hospital tonight. She’s been trying to get me to go since I moved out, otherwise I’d cancel…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Leo said, hastily.
“You could totally come along, if you want—”
“Yeah, thank you, but that’s not gonna happen.” His voice was gruffer again, more like it usually sounded. Not as freakishly happy sounding. Had I caused that?
It was a thoroughly confusing conversation, and my cock had given up hope. I put it away and zipped my jeans back up.
“I’m sorry, Leo. What about—”
“I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you in 3 days, okay? Thursday. Just come over whenever you feel like it. After 3pm though, because I’m doing that show until the afternoon. See you then.”
“Oh—okay. I’ll see you then, Leo,” I said, but he’d already hung up.
Nine
Leo
Had studio lights always been so fucking blinding?
I was sweating in my seat and kept shifting the hemline of my shirt as I waited for the show producers to start filming.
Sitting on a dumb show like this used to be the kind of thing I did all the time, often times multiple times in a day, back in the heyday of 5*Star.
But I hadn’t done a TV show in at least a year, and fuck, I was not ready.
I hadn’t left the house in two days, because what else is new. I had tried to get a perfectly normal, friendly dinner with Jamie a few nights ago, but he’d had plans and then I felt embarrassed for even asking. He texted me the day after asking if I wanted to do lunch, but out of some sense of shame and pride I told him no, pretending I had plans.
I was a 36 year old man, acting like a petulant teenager. I knew it. But some part of me still wanted Jamie to think my life had some semblance of normalcy to it. Chandler and Eric had both gone on to have great careers—Chandler superstardom, and Eric the world of food, and yet I was still stuck. Adam, of course, always did his own thing, and didn’t seem to care one way or another about his career or reputation.
But I cared. I couldn’t help it. I wanted Jamie to respect me, the public at large to respect me, and I wanted to respect myself. I hadn’t in as long as I could remember.
So when I rolled up to the studio of the new comedy talk show I was set to be on, I had no clue what to expect. It was sort of like a late night show mixed with a daytime talk show, with a host and guests, but that’s all I knew. It was on a new network that catered to “a younger set”—God knows what kind of strings Ella had to pull to get me on it.
I’d met the other two people who were the guests of the show tonight—a comedy duo from Florida who had gotten their start making six-second long comedic videos on Vine. They looked like one might describe millennials—tattoos, one of them in a backwards hat, and I’m fairly sure they both rolled in on fixed-gear bikes. It was a husband and wife team, and when I shook their hands hello, they barely looked up from their phone screens. They certainly weren’t looking at each other. It seemed like a pretty humorless existence.
And now they were sitting to my right, under the hot stage lights, on a long uncomfortable couch. The show host, August Freeland, was a jovial middle-aged British man who looked like a happy red pumpkin when he laughed.
The show had a live audience, and a crew member was instructing th
em on how to applaud—loudly, and with shouts and enthusiasm—while we waited for August Freeland to come out and start the show.
Ten minutes of hot lights and sweat later, and the show started. The opening theme music played, and the audience cheered as instructed.
Fuck, it really had been years since I’d been on a show like this. I wiped my sweaty palms along my pants.
“Hello everybody and welcome to the August Freeland show, I’m August, your host, and tonight I have with me three very special people. The husband and wife comedy duo you all know and love from Vine, put your hands together for Wimby and Agatha Samslit!”
The audience cheered uproariously. I raked a hand through my hair. So those were their names—Wimby and Agatha. I was ninety percent sure that couldn’t be her real name. She must have chosen it as a stage name, to be ironic. The name Agatha, on a young pretty girl like her. And her husband—Wimby? Sounded like a diminutive term for a tennis match more than a man’s name.
“And our other guest tonight—I bet you’ve been wondering where he’s been—former member of 5*Star Leo Stone!”
The audience didn’t sound as loud for me, but maybe they’d just gotten tired of clapping through all the theme music.
The music died down, and the show got on its way. The first 10 minutes were dedicated mostly to Agatha and Wimby. The pair supposedly had millions and millions of online followers, and were setting up a clothing and makeup line next.
I sat to their left, attempting to smile at the playback of their famous six-second videos, but I just didn’t see the appeal of a video clip that simply depicted a person staring at a potato chip bag until the bag exploded, spilling chips everywhere.
To my horror, when August, the cheerful pumpkin, finally decided to address me, he asked me what I thought of that final video they’d played.
“Yeah, whatcha think, Leo? By the way, I totally loved you when I was like four years old,” Agatha said, laying a hand on my wrist. Her nails had little paintings on them that looked to me like pink and white candy canes.
Your Fallen Star: Under the Stars Book 1 Page 8