First Priority

by Este Holland

  My dick filled at that, and I tried to think of other things. Oh, who was I kidding? One of the hottest movie stars in the world had tried to pick me up. No matter how big of a jerk he was, I wasn’t immune. I soaped up my hand and gave myself a few slow tugs, thinking about the look in his eyes, his hands, his lips, as he drank his martini and smiled at me. That—literally—million-dollar smile had been aimed at me.

  I pumped faster, my breathing changing, getting harsher. Faster. My balls tingled as my orgasm neared. I focused on his lips, and when his tongue came out to lick them, wetting his sensual upper lip, I came with a moan.

  “Hey, nerd!”

  Shit! If I’d had a bad heart, I’d be dead. “Chad? What the hell?”

  He’d barged into the bathroom. Luckily, the curtain wasn’t see-through, but the fact that he might have heard me come made me ill.

  “What the fuck, Adam? You humiliated me!”

  “What?” I turned off the water, heart thrashing in my chest. I hated confrontations. Chad knew that. I grabbed my towel and buried my face in it before wrapping it around my waist. I opened the curtain to find Chad scowling with his arms crossed.

  “How could you piss off Truman James? On this night, of all nights?”

  My mind raced. “Piss him off? That’s what you think I did?”

  “It is! He was angry and left his own party. What did you do? Tell him he didn’t play his character right?”

  My mind went blank. Should I tell him Truman had hit on me? I hadn’t known the actor was gay, but he certainly hadn’t been too concerned with hiding anything. Maybe he was bi?

  “I didn’t say anything. I don’t know why he was pissed.”

  Chad glared and flicked his eyes over my chest, making my skin crawl. He’d always done that before giving me purple nurples when we were kids.

  Chad had blond hair and his eyes were brown. He’d been captain of the tennis team in high school and president of the student council. We were only two years apart, so being in school with him had been hell. He hadn’t given a shit when his friends bullied me; he’d just laughed.

  My dad always believed him when he told them I was being too sensitive, that they were trying to include me since I was his new brother. It got worse when he found out I liked guys. He’d sneak into my room and search my computer history, finding my favorite porn videos. If that wasn’t enough, on top of the usual pranks and wedgies, he would give me swirlies and throw my underwear into the girls’ locker room at school.

  Christ, why the hell was I living with him? It had been so long since Chad had left for college, I’d figured he’d grown out of all that, and that maybe, just maybe, we could try having an adult sibling relationship.

  Apparently, I’d been wrong. Chad turned and stormed out of the bathroom.

  I let out a slow breath and went to my room. I pulled on a pair of old sweat pants and the Lord of the Rings T-shirt I’d worn to the movie premiere in 2001, then emailed my landlord. I needed to go home. What the hell was taking them so long? It was mold, not anthrax.

  I put on my Bluetooth headphones, logged into Discord, and saw that Jeff was already online. We’d never met, and when he’d confided in me that he had agoraphobia, I’d told him about my social anxiety and panic attacks. We’d become instant friends.

  “Hey, man,” Jeff said.

  “Hey. You’re not going to believe what happened to me.”

  “What? Was Chad being a dick again?”

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s not it,” I said. “You know that party he made me go to?”

  “At the Bissou? Yeah. How’d it go?”

  “Truman James tried to pick me up.”

  Stunned silence, then, “You’re fucking kidding me! The actor?”

  “Yes.”

  Jeff cackled. “The one who won Best Actor tonight at the Oscars?”

  “Yes!” I laughed when he went mute again.

  “You little sneak. You never told me you were hot,” he joked.

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. I am not.”

  “Dude. He doesn’t know you, so why else would he want to fuck you if you aren’t hot?”

  I thought about it. “I have no idea.”

  “Wait. Truman James is gay?”

  “Apparently. Maybe he’s bi.”

  “Wow. I never saw that coming. That’s pretty cool.” And knowing how I hated being the center of attention, Jeff said, “All right, dick magnet, you’re up. Try not to get me killed this time.”

  I smiled as we began to play. Now, this was my kind of night.

  Chapter 3

  Truman is Intrigued

  Truman

  I slammed my front door and threw my keys toward the hall table. They landed with a clatter on the marble floor. I didn’t bother to pick them up as I stalked to my bedroom through the sprawling house, ripping off my bow tie and tux jacket as I went. I let them fall, continuing to undress on the way to my walk-in shower.

  I turned it on cool, trying to tame my libido while washing off.

  That little punk. He turned down the wrong man. I’d…well, I didn’t know what I’d do, but I’d think of something.

  Maybe find out where he lives, send the most annoying person I know over there, and watch while Adam tries to kick him out. Nobody got rid of Terry Gail, unless something better came along to distract him.

  No, I couldn’t do that. I scowled as I scrubbed my hair. Terry might come over to my house; then I’d be fucked. I vividly recalled the first time I’d met Terry. He’d been part of the hazing my co-stars had given me during the filming of my second movie. He’d stayed in my apartment for a month. Mooched off me and OD’d on my bed. He’d been fine after a stomach pumping and activated charcoal, but no way did I want to go through that again. I shivered.

  I dried off and slid into a pair of black silk sleep pants and my slippers—marble floors were cold. I grabbed my cell and texted my manager, Bill, asking him to find out everything about Adam Hendrix ASAP.

  ***

  The next morning, I walked out of my bedroom in search of coffee. The housekeeper, Sherry, scurried out of my way where she’d been picking up my tux from the night before. I yawned as I sat down in front of my espresso and bowl of fruit.

  My assistant, Riley Ellis, was ready and waiting for me. “Good morning, Mr. James.”

  “Morning.”

  “I have your mail opened here. There are fan letters I wanted you to see before I answered them. There are a few that have me concerned. I spoke to Bill and he agrees that it’s time to hand them over to the police.”

  I rubbed my face, whiskers rasping against my palms. “Fine. You don’t need me for that. I haven’t read them.” I wasn’t worried about the letters. I signed photos and read the ones Riley gave to me. People were crazy; I’d learned to accept that a long time ago.

  “Yes, sir. Also, your mother called—she wants to visit on March fifteenth. I told her I’d check your schedule. If you’d like to tell her no…”

  Riley kept going, talking about my agenda for the next several days. I had interviews about my win lined up. These things were set up in advance with every nominee; then when the winner was announced, they started to promote them immediately.

  Riley wrapped up with, “You’ll be on Late Night and Ellen next week.”

  I stared out the glass wall overlooking the Pacific Ocean, then blinked at my PA with his reddish-gold hair almost brighter than the morning sun in the blindingly white kitchen with stainless-steel appliances. I didn’t use them often, and I never went near the stove. It was like an alien ship with so many knobs and buttons. My publicist, Angela, had managed to hide the fact that the fire department had been dispatched to my address, but it was a close call.

  Riley went to answer the door when the bell rang, and I finished up my breakfast, wishing I could spend the day on the beach. Roberta—“Call me Bobbie”—walked in with her fishing tackle box and burst my bubble. She set it down next to me and opened it, revealing several t
iers of different make-ups, brushes, creams, concealers, and hair products.

  She eyed me with vague disapproval, and I sat up straighter. “Did you sleep?”

  “Yes.” Though I’d had a long jerk-off session, releasing my frustration about Adam.

  “I’m going to have to use the green concealer. I guess it’s a good thing I came prepared for an after-party makeover.”

  Shrugging, I went to shower with Bobbie following, and we made me even better-looking.

  ***

  After a few interviews, I visited my publicist in her downtown office.

  “Truman. Congratulations on the win. I knew you could do it!” Angela came around her desk. A sturdy woman in her late fifties, she’d been the first name recommended when I’d broken into the spotlight. She had steel-gray hair up in a messy bun, and cat glasses hanging off a chain around her neck. Despite her appearance, she was the best publicist in Tinseltown. She knew everyone in LA, and they all feared her. I didn’t know how she did it. I pictured a vault with cabinets full of secrets in her basement.

  “Thank you. What have you got for me?”

  “Lunch.”

  We walked across the street to a small bistro. The sun shone, broken only by a pergola overhead. It was small enough that a stampede didn’t start when people saw me, though a few came over for autographs. The owners knew Angela needed privacy for her famous clients, and they liked her business.

  Peering at me over her water glass, she asked, “Who’s this twink you’ve asked Bill to find for you? I’ve never heard of Adam Hendrix.”

  “He’s no one.” The words rang hollow in my ears.

  She pursed her lips and regarded me with a raised brow plucked within an inch of its life. Angela was stuck in the late ’90s fashion-wise. “I see. You just want to sleep with him.”

  Shrugging, I said, “Why not?”

  She sighed and shook out her napkin. “I’ve told you many times, Truman, we were open about your bisexuality when you first started out, and that was great, don’t get me wrong. But if they see you with a man, the press won’t leave you alone. Not for a long time, anyway.”

  “Why would anyone see me with him?”

  “Apparently, you were chasing him all around your after-party last night. And you didn’t take Jessamin.”

  “I’m done with Jessamin.”

  “That’s your prerogative, but don’t say I never warned you.”

  I ate my shrimp salad, having to ask the waiter to take the breadsticks away when they became too much of a temptation. Angela finally got around to business, and we discussed what I’d need to do post-Oscar. I listened with half an ear, knowing Bill would be on top of it all.

  “Have a piece of cheesecake,” Angela said.

  The forkful of creamy goodness with the raspberry glaze she’d stabbed made me salivate, even after eating my fill of shrimp.

  I shook my head. “You know I have a slow metabolism.”

  Her mouth pinched. “Honey, one piece every now and then isn’t going to hurt.”

  I frowned and she dropped it. She paid the bill, and I walked her out. Riley waited with the Vanquish at the curb, and I got in.

  On to the next.

  ***

  Later that night, I floated in my pool, staring out at the ocean as the sun set, pondering my life. My phone rang and I picked it up and glanced at the screen.

  Bill.

  “You like to mess with me, Truman.”

  “I live for it, Bill.”

  “Making me find a guy just so you can fuck him is cruel, even for you.”

  Wincing, I set my drink on the pool deck. “Don’t be ridiculous. We haven’t been together in twenty years.”

  When I was eighteen, Bill had spotted me at a minor fashion show in San Diego and offered to be my agent. He’d moved me to LA and straight into his bed. I hadn’t minded. With his help, I’d become a moderately successful model. He was a decent guy—never stole my money or forced me to do anything I didn’t want to, but our relationship had only been about sex. It had ended as soon as I’d been able to afford my own place. When my fame exploded with my first movie role, I’d asked Bill to be my manager, and he’d accepted. We’d had a civilized, highly profitable working relationship ever since.

  His sigh echoed down the line. “Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me. You know we have to get a prostate exam every year from now on, don’t you? Every year, for the rest of our lives. I told the doc—I said, ‘I get one every night, what’s it to you?’ and he just frowned at me.”

  My spine stiffened. “Speak for yourself.”

  “You remember what we used to be like, right, Truman? Hell, I was only twenty-four when we met; we fucked like rabbits day and night. Remember that? Damn, you had an amazing ass. Tight and round.” He made an appreciative sound in his throat.

  “Bill, stop.”

  “Not that it’s any different now, from what I can tell. You’ve kept in great shape. Me? I look like a washed-up old—”

  “Bill!”

  His tone deepened. “You remember that night in New York when you got high on E?”

  That had been a memorable night. Having an all-male threesome with fellow models while Bill and another man watched wasn’t exactly something I’d forget. My dick twitched without my permission, even in the cool water.

  When I didn’t say anything, Bill made a production of clearing his throat. “Adam Brantley Hendrix. Born in Pasadena, October 31, 1992. Twenty-seven, obviously. He works as a graphic designer for an online company called Canary.”

  Bill stopped, and I asked, “Is that it?”

  “What else do you want? He’s no one.”

  There was that phrase again, and for some reason it grated on my nerves. “Is he still in Pasadena?”

  “Yeah, it’s got his address here. You want it?”

  “Text it to me, and his phone number. And Bill? No more reminiscing. You’re creeping me out.”

  “Okay, okay. Shit. But just so you know—”

  I hung up before he could say anything else. His text came through, along with a dick pic. Jesus, how drunk is he? I rolled my eyes so hard I got dizzy and shook my head; then I stared at Adam’s phone number. Should I call or show up? If I called, he’d hang up. If I went there, what would he do?

  I grinned. I guess I’ll find out.

  Chapter 4

  Adam Hangs Up

  Adam

  My apartment wouldn’t be ready for two weeks. Another two weeks with Chad. I didn’t know if I could do it. If Jeff didn’t live in Portland, I’d have begged to stay with him.

  Chad seemed busy with work and his girlfriend, Pacey, and the Truman thing was forgotten, so maybe the next few weeks wouldn’t be so bad.

  I got some work done on an ad campaign for dog food and shut down my computer. I stood and stretched, then changed into some old clothes. Well, most of my clothes were old, but I saved these for special occasions. I sneaked out of the apartment and down the block to the bus stop, reading from the Kindle app on my phone while I waited. The new book in the Star King trilogy had come out, and I was halfway through it.

  I should’ve been writing my own book, but I’d gotten stuck on the turning point. I had to let my subconscious work it out without me. The bus ride was quick, and I hopped off at the nearest station to the Los Angeles Paws and Claws Animal Shelter. They were a no-kill shelter, so they had little room to spare. Every chance I got, I went down to take some of the residents for walks.

  I signed in, looked over the log to see who needed to be walked, and grabbed a few leashes and biodegradable scoop bags. “Hey, guys.” The dogs went nuts when they saw me, barking, wagging their tails, and spilling water bowls. I chuckled and let three dogs out of the cages while I cleaned up their messes, then clipped them to the leashes and headed out.

  Contrary to popular belief, most introverts don’t hate sunshine. We simply like to be alone much of the time. I happened to be an introvert with social anxiety, which not all introverts h
ad. Communing with animals was my way of socializing in the “real world” as opposed to online, and I’d been doing it for years. I loved dogs. They were so happy to be with people. And they didn’t expect talking, sex, or money.

  “Ready to have some fun?” I looked down at Maybel, Snuffles, and Birdie, who all smiled up at me. I swear they did. “Let’s go.” I jogged with the dogs until we reached the local neighborhood dog park. Then I let them run free—there was plenty for them to enjoy: a drinking fountain, toys, and grass patches to roll around in.

  Sitting on a bench in the shade, I read on my phone while the dogs played, but after a while it rang. An unknown number flashed onscreen, and I silenced it. Stupid spam calls.

  It rang again, and then again, until I answered it. “Hello?”

  “Not only do you hide from me at parties, you evade my calls.”

  My heart thudded and my vision tunneled. “Truman James?” I choked out.

  “You’re not at your apartment.”

  “What?” Was he with Chad?

  “Your apartment building has a sign on it that says under renovation.”

  “There’s a mold issue.” I washed a hand down my suddenly sweaty face. His voice was just as powerful over the phone as it was in person. How was that even possible? Wait. “You’re at my apartment in Pasadena?”

  His low chuckle hit me in the belly, and I had to tell myself to breathe. “I am. Where are you?” he asked.

  “A dog park?” Why am I asking him?

  “Where?”

  I looked around in a panic as if he was going to walk down the sidewalk any minute. “I’m not telling you.”

  Silence, then he growled, “Why?”

  My hand shook a little at his commanding tone. “Because I don’t want to. Why do you want to know, anyway?”

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “You mean, you were a jackass who tried to railroad me into sex?”

  A young dogwalker I recognized from the park gave me a startled look, and I tried to smile at her.

  “Right, let’s skip past that.” His voice became cajoling and sweet. “The thing is, I’d like to get to know you better.”