Jules interrupted his rant. “Why don’t you start with the bad thing that happened,” he suggested. “With the … new PA …?”
Robin looked up from his misery, and his eyes were very, very blue and surprised. “Oh, shit,” he said. “You think—No! Jesus! God, Jules, no! That’s not … The new PA—his name is Grant, and he’s, like, twelve years old and completely clueless, and totally king-of-dungeons-and-dragons het, by the way. But when Enastacia gave him the job of refilling the whiskey bottles on set, he didn’t use tea. He used …”
“Real whiskey,” Jules finished for Robin. Oh, shit.
“In the scene we filmed …,” Robin told Jules. “It was in Richie’s office, and my blocking was to pick up the bottle and chug from it, you know? I don’t use a glass—if I had, I would’ve smelled it.”
Richie West was Joe Laughlin’s ridiculously smarmy manager, and they were no doubt arguing about his suggestion that Joe marry the starlet he was currently “dating.” Jules hadn’t read this week’s shooting script, but he knew the story was moving in that direction.
“How much did you drink?” Jules asked, working to keep his voice even, because WTF? If it wasn’t clueless Grant’s fault—and Jules could argue about that—then it certainly was Enastacia’s. How had something like this happened?
But Robin was shaking his head. “I didn’t,” he said. “Drink. I spit it out. All over Quincy and the set.”
Jesus, that was a relief, except … “Uh-oh,” Jules said. Mark Quincy, who was a raging diva, played Richie.
“No, Quince was great about it,” Robin told him earnestly. “He realized, right away, what had happened. I mean, it was all over him, so he could smell it, too. He had a bottle of water in his desk drawer, and he helped me rinse out my mouth while everyone else was just standing there, like idiots, with their thumbs up their asses.”
This wouldn’t’ve happened if Dolphina had been there. But Robin and Jules’s incredibly efficient personal assistant was on vacation this week. She and her husband, Will, had gone camping. Which was still a little surreal to imagine. Dolphina, in a tent, cooking over an open fire, wearing boots instead of heels, her Bollywood-perfect hair pulled back in a ponytail threaded through the back of a Red Sox baseball cap …
Robin was thinking close to the same thing. “Dolphina’s never going to take another day off,” he said with a sigh.
“Dolphina will be fine,” Jules told him. “Let’s focus right now on you. What do you need? How can I help?” You should have called me, right when it happened. Not the best way to express that sentiment. He adjusted. “I wish you’d called me.”
Robin nodded. “I wish I had, too. But I knew you had that big meeting at the State House, and I just kept trying to convince myself that it wasn’t that huge of a deal.”
And even though it wasn’t as huge of a deal as it would have been had Robin actually swallowed the whiskey, it was still something. Recovering alcoholics made a point to never even use mouthwash that contained alcohol, because it could be absorbed through their skin. Robin stayed away from hair care products made with alcohol for the very same reason.
“What do you want to do? How can I help?” Jules asked again.
“I’m weirded out that I slept so long this afternoon,” Robin admitted. “Shades of passing out.”
“You know that I’m not qualified as an expert,” Jules said, “but it seems really unlikely that you absorbed enough alcohol to—”
“I know,” Robin said. “I do. It’s just what I’m feeling.” He sighed. “I don’t really know what I want to do. I mean, I know that I want you to kiss me, but I always want you to—”
Jules kissed him. Long and hard and hot, his tongue in Robin’s mouth, his arms wrapped around him as he pushed this man whom he loved more than life itself clear out of the closet, until Robin’s back hit the bedroom wall.
And there they were, both breathing hard, chest against chest, hips against hips, as Jules stared up into Robin’s beautiful eyes.
“Does this help? Exorcise some demons?” Jules murmured, even though he already knew the answer. He didn’t wait for Robin to respond. He just kissed him again.
Robin’s reply was to shuck off his jacket and reach between them to unfasten Jules’s pants even as he kissed him back.
He couldn’t taste any alcohol—of course the incident had happened hours ago. Still, all Jules could taste was Robin—his desire curiously mixed with his anxiety and fear.
And he knew in that instant that, as diverting as some rough-and-tumble sex was going to be, there were some things that Robin had to hear first.
So he stopped kissing him and put his own hand on top of Robin’s. He couldn’t quite bring himself to grab Robin’s wrist and pull his hand away—he loved Robin’s touch too much for that. But he did manage to make Robin stop stroking him as he said, “This is going to be okay. You know that, right? That whatever happens, I’m going to be right here, beside you. Always.”
Robin nodded because he knew that, but the emotion and vulnerability in his face took Jules’s breath away.
“Whatever you want to do,” Jules continued quietly, “we’ll do it. You want to go talk to Dr. Everly, at the rehab center? We can do that. You want to be monitored, to make sure the alcohol that did get in your system isn’t somehow messing you up, we’ll do that, too. You want me to stay with you around the clock for the next few days, so that there’s absolutely no chance of you somehow, I don’t know, slipping … I’ll be right here, although I honestly don’t think you need that. You’re one of the strongest men I know.”
Robin smiled at that. “Somewhere a few dozen Navy SEALs are bristling with indignation.”
Jules smiled back at him. “Not the ones who know you,” he countered. “The ones who know you would agree with me.”
“How did I get so fucking lucky?” Robin whispered, and despite Jules’s hand still covering his own, he resumed his motion. But more gently this time—a slow slide down Jules’s entire length and back, Robin’s fingers warm against him, tight but not too tight. Touching Jules exactly the way he liked to be touched.
Robin leaned down to kiss Jules sweetly, almost reverently, on the mouth, and Jules laughed because he knew Robin well enough to know exactly what that look in his eyes meant, exactly where this was heading. “I thought we were exorcising demons,” he said as, sure enough, Robin released him, but only to turn them both so that it was now Jules whose back was against the wall.
“Didn’t you just promise you’d do whatever I want?” Robin’s smile was beautiful as he sank down to his knees, dragging Jules’s jeans and his shorts down his thighs as he kissed him and caressed him and God, Jules was glad he had the wall to help hold him up. He sank his fingers into the softness of Robin’s hair as he closed his eyes and fought his body’s need for an immediate release.
And even though Robin had called himself lucky, it was Jules who was just that, because he knew, without a doubt, that his husband honestly loved what he was doing, even though it seemed lopsided in terms of give and take. Jules knew that if Robin had his way, he would greet Jules exactly like this, every time they spent more than an hour apart.
For the first few months of their relationship, Jules had pointed out that it was entirely possible for him to use his mouth, too, in equally creative ways. And as enormously as Robin enjoyed those gymnastics, it soon became clear that he loved it just as much—and quite possibly even more—when he knelt just like this before him, while Jules used his mouth only to speak.
“God, I love you,” he managed to say now, all in a rush, because he was too damn close to being unable to utter even a poorly enunciated variation on the word yes.
Of course, Robin loved that, as well. A big part of the turn-on, Jules knew because Robin had told him, was watching Jules come undone. And yeah, when it came to their relationship, Jules was definitely the lucky one.
He yanked his T-shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor as Robin looked up
at him and smiled. If Robin had his way, Jules would walk around the house shirtless. Jules knew that, too.
Robin’s smile was beatific, his eyes a flash of heaven and heat as he continued to gaze up at Jules, as he used his extremely talented mouth and creative tongue to say I love you, too, babe, in ways that made Jules marvel.
“You’re my life,” Jules tried to tell him, and apparently it came out clearly enough, because Robin responded by taking Jules more deeply into his mouth as he wrapped his arms around Jules in an embrace that pulled him even closer, his hands touching, stroking, exploring, even as Robin looked up at him with another flash of those blue eyes.…
And Jules was done. With a shout of Robin’s name, he came in a rush of pleasure that rocketed through him, and made him laugh out loud.
And Robin was laughing, too. He hugged Jules tightly before sitting back, except his laughter triggered a more complicated emotion, and his eyes filled with tears—eyes that still looked haunted.
Which made Jules stop laughing, fast, and crouch down beside him to touch his hair and his beautiful face. And even though the last time he’d brought the subject up, Robin didn’t want to talk about it, he said, “Have you thought more about ending the series? About doing something else for a while?”
Robin kind of laughed as he wiped his eyes. “Funny you should ask, because … Yes. Lately, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. You know, what would I do if I didn’t do Shadowland.”
“Movies,” Jules suggested. Robin got sent hundreds of scripts, and some of them were actually really good.
“Small roles,” Robin said, nodding. “Nothing that would put me on set for more than a few weeks at a time.”
“I could transfer to California,” Jules said. “And you could take bigger roles and come home every night.”
“But you hate L.A.”
Jules kissed him. “I love you. And living closer to Sam and Alyssa wouldn’t be a hardship.” Jules’s best friends lived in San Diego. And Robin’s sister Jane and her family lived there, too.
“But Prop 8—”
“We’d keep our house and our Massachusetts residency,” Jules said. “Until it’s overruled. It’s just a matter of time.”
Robin nodded, still so serious. “You know what I really want to do?” He swallowed, as if whatever he was about to say was a secret he was nervous to share. “I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. Ever since you, you know, first brought up my doing something else. Besides Shadowland. I started thinking about what I really, really, really wanted to do. I mean, I love acting. I do. And I know how lucky I am to have the career that I’ve had. And I know that if I completely take time off, I’m in danger of disappearing. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Jules interrupted him. “There’s a difference between disappearing and simply choosing, for a while, to play a character a little less demanding than Joe Laughlin.”
“Yeah, I do know that,” Robin said. “But I have thought about taking that kind of a break—two or three years. Although, if we lived in L.A. I could still work enough to stay on the radar, even while the”—he cleared his throat—“baby’s still just, you know, a baby.”
“Baby,” Jules said. Holy shit.
Robin searched Jules’s eyes as he gazed at him, trepidation on his face. “Every time we’ve talked about it, it’s always been like, someday when we have kids, like it’s a million years away. And I know that sometimes when people say that, it’s because it’s safest to push the discussion out into the future, but what they mean is that they don’t really want kids, but they’re afraid to say it and—”
“I want kids,” Jules said. “I really do. I meant it when I said it. But since I’m not in a position to stay home—”
“I am,” Robin said earnestly. “I mean, I will be.”
He was serious. Jules laughed. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s what I want to do,” Robin told him with complete conviction. “More than anything.”
“Oh, my God,” Jules said again.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Robin said. “The logistics. Adoption versus finding a surrogate, and I’d really like to do the surrogate thing. Not with me, though, not with my, you know—and not just because alcoholism can be hereditary, but because … well, I just really want us to have your baby.”
Jules kissed him, because he could no longer speak, not even another Oh, my God. But then he realized what Robin had just said, and found his voice, because that could not go uncorrected. “Our baby,” he said.
And Robin smiled.
Chapter Three
Boston, later that same evening
Art Urban’s car was in his parking spot when Robin and Jules arrived at the studio.
“Want me to go in with you?” Jules asked as he pulled the car over near the door—close enough to drop Robin off, but leaving open the option of parking so that they could both go inside.
“No, that’s okay,” Robin said. “This isn’t going to be that hard. And it’s not going to take that long. I mean, if you want to, you can certainly come in—”
“I’ll wait in the car,” Jules said, smiling at him. “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
“To Yashi and Deb,” Robin realized. Jules would want to tell the top members of his staff about his request for a transfer, both so that it wouldn’t come at them out of the blue, and so that they could, if they wanted, request to go with him.
“And to Sam and Alyssa,” Jules said. They’d already called his mom, who had been beyond excited but not surprised by their plans to make her a grandmother.
Robin had called Janey. His sister and her Navy SEAL husband, Cosmo, had been similarly psyched. And then Robin had called Cosmo’s mom, Lois, who was the closest thing to a parent that he had, since his own mother had died when he was a child, and his asshole of a father was … not worth thinking about.
Lois had been so happy for Robin that she’d started to cry, which had made Robin cry. What a mess, but a really happy mess.
Robin now gave Jules a swift kiss and climbed out the car.
“If you need me …,” Jules said.
Robin leaned down to smile at him through the open door. “I know.”
The walk into the studio felt different. Less foreboding. The building itself seemed less menacing. It didn’t loom over him, as if about to swallow him up, the way it usually did.
And Joe Laughlin, who usually started shifting and stirring inside of him when he walked through the small lobby, was oddly still and silent, as if he were holding his breath.
Maureen was at her desk outside Art’s office. Art had cheerfully named Richie West’s admin after his longtime assistant, even though the two were nothing alike. Art’s Maureen was a youthful sixty-something, opinionated, and unafraid to speak truth to power. She was also quick to share a bawdy joke. She greeted Robin with a hug and a noogie atop his head.
“Is he in?” Robin asked her.
“For you, honey? Always.” She didn’t bother with the intercom. She just knocked on Art’s door as she opened it. “Zip up your pants, turn off the porn, and get ready to do your best groveling. It’s apology time, A.U.”
She was talking, of course, to Art, who immediately stood up from behind his desk, pants already zipped. Thank God. “Jesus, Robbie, I am so sorry—”
“It’s okay,” Robin said. “And I know Enastacia and Grant won’t make that mistake ever again.”
“They’ve both given me letters of resignation.” Art held them out, exhibit A and B.
Robin didn’t even bother to glance at them. He just took them and tore them in half before he handed them over to Maureen. “Call them both and tell them we don’t accept their resignations. I want to see them on set in the morning or I will find them and kick their asses.”
Maureen smirked at Art. “Told ya he’d say that.” She smiled warmly at Robin. “You just won me fifty bucks,” she said, then closed the door behind her.
“That’s very generous of you,
” Art said as he motioned for Robin to sit. He came out from behind his desk to join him at the grouping of comfortable sofas and chairs that filled most of the room.
“It was a mistake,” Robin said. “A stupid one. Like I said, it won’t happen again.” He looked at Art, who was wearing sweatpants and sneakers. “Are you coming from the gym, or going? Because I don’t want to slow you down.”
“Going, but it’s okay.” Ever since his heart attack, Art had made a point to work out every day. Fifty pounds slimmer, his leaner-but-still-round face was a picture of good health, and behind his trademark horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes were bright and clear. “The night is young. What’s up?”
Robin looked at the man who’d revitalized his career with this show and this character that he’d written specifically for Robin, a character that hundreds of actors would’ve killed to play. And he just said it. “It’s time,” he told Art.
And Art being Art, he knew exactly what Robin meant. It was time to end the show, to go out with a bang, to move on to other projects, other endeavors, other glories, other risks. And he smiled.
Broadly.
“Thank you sweet Jesus.” He reached for a pile of scripts that were on the coffee table—there were six of them in the stack. “I was hoping you were going to say that,” he told Robin as he handed him the scripts. “I think it’s time, too. In fact, I’ve thought that for a while. I’ve been working the writing room’s balls off, so as not to recycle story lines. But this …” He tapped the scripts. “This is all me.”
Robin laughed as he realized that Art himself had already written the end of the series. He was now holding the dramatic and no-doubt thrilling conclusion of Shadowland in his hands. And he wanted to flip to the last page of the last script, to see …
Beginnings and Ends (Short Story) Page 2