Lyandros regarded Akito’s kohl-lined eyes and reached up a thumb to smudge off some of the makeup. “For now, we thank the gods for our home and each other.”
Akito was silent for long minutes while the conversation around them ebbed and flowed. “And tomorrow?” he asked, finally.
“Tomorrow,” Lyandros answered, tucking his arm around his mate and holding him close. “We meet our enemies in battle.”
Acting Out
Hollywood: Book 2
Kit faced the conference room wall and silently cursed his agent. Fucking bastard thought he could remake a childhood actor with a high profile, controversial project or two. Well, he’d found one film guaranteed to make the critics sit up and take notice, all right. The question centered on whether or not Kit’s fandom could survive the bait and switch from boy wonder to art-film fairy.
Kit didn’t dare show his trepidation about acting in a gay-themed film in front of Falkner. He didn’t come here today with a death wish. If Kit so much as looked at Falkner the wrong way on this one, he knew he’d be paying for dental work. The guy might not be out, but everyone in Hollywood knew he’d dated producer Aaron Blake for years.
“Let’s go again,” Falkner said. “Same scene.”
Christ.
“I have a photo thing at seven.” Kit glanced at his watch, expression deliberately neutral. His years in Hollywood taught him how to lie and lie well.
“We’ll only be another ten, fifteen, or so.” Vance shot his lunch bag at the trash can and missed.
The dark-haired kid Jake? Justin? scooped up the bag and tossed the crumpled ball into the basket. He wasn’t half-bad as an actor, definitely trainable, and from what Kit knew of Falkner and Stone’s wish list, a good fit for the part.
Red pencil slashing at the script, Falkner scribbled changes to the dialogue. Stone looked over a pile of headshots for other parts, and the kid picked at the remains of his water-bottle label with his fingernail. Kit moved closer to watch him worry the thing down to the glue.
“It’s dead,” Kit said finally, unable to stand the scraping sound any longer.
“Huh?” He looked up, his brown eyes showing surprise at having been addressed.
“You killed it.” Kit jerked his chin first at the bottle, then at the trash. “How ‘bout you bury it?”
“Oh. Sorry.” He put the bottle under his chair and jammed his hands in his jeans’ pockets.
Kit tilted his head to one side and studied the guy’s face. The similarities between him and Falkner were undeniable. They could’ve been brothers—from the unruly lock of hair that seemed to delight in teasing the wide expanse of his forehead to the pillowed cleft in his bottom lip.
“What’s your name again?” Kit asked.
His potential costar pushed the hair off his forehead and mumbled, “Jeremy Ash.”
Kit held out his palm—least he could do if they ended up sucking face four or five times a day. Jeremy slid his hand into Kit’s with a cool pressure, and their gazes met. Black lashes, thick and long, framed deep-set eyes, lending a versatility of expression Kit both envied and found unsettling. Jeremy gazed up at him with a self-effacing openness. The kid might be gay, but he didn’t need to let himself get eaten alive—and that was exactly what stood to happen if he kept that expression on his face in this town.
“Pleasure,” Kit said after a too-long pause.
He turned away and grabbed his water. The kid’s taste still lingered on his tongue—a hint of orange and spice he found unsettling. Especially since they’d managed to find the rhythm of their roles so easily.
“Try this.” Falkner folded away his black-rimmed reading glasses and handed Jeremy the changed script.
Apparently there were no changes to Kit’s lines, and he found himself with nothing to do but study the other actor. Head bowed, dark hair falling into his eyes, Jeremy mouthed the lines with a mesmerizing intensity. The movement of his lips focused Kit on the one part of the guy he most needed to forget.
Kissing Jeremy hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared. He’d managed to remain professional. In character. Which probably explained why he’d felt his heart race and his palms sweat at the contact. The tentative brush of tongue shouldn’t have made his cock swell, but it had—something he needed to find a way to counteract. Kit rolled the ridges of the plastic water-bottle cap between his fingers as he contemplated his strategy.
Going over the scene this time should be easier. Not so much of a surprise. He’d be a little more aggressive and see if that helped. Something about the soft, romantic approach he’d taken felt too much like Jeremy was his girlfriend. A more macho stance would remind Kit of his power. His hetero leanings.
“When you’re set,” Stone said, glancing at his watch.
“Sure thing.” Kit turned to Jeremy. “Ready?”
Jeremy nodded and held out the edited script. “You want to use it?”
Kit gaped. He’d heard of actors with photographic memories, and after years in television, he could memorize a script fast, but not that fast.
“The changes were for you,” Kit pointed out.
“I know.” Jeremy tilted his head to one side.
“Your funeral.” Kit took the curled sheaf of papers.
Ignoring the sarcasm, Jeremy glanced at Falkner.
“More anger. At yourself,” Falkner said, reading the silent question in the quirk of Jeremy’s brow.
Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking Falkner’s walled-off posture. Dark brow lowered, angled jaw hardened, he assumed the character he’d apparently intuited from the page and Falkner’s person.
Kit glanced at the dialogue and then in silent question to Stone who said simply, “You love him.”
“Great,” Kit muttered, his stomach clenching in a way it hadn’t since his first breakfast-cereal audition.
They ran through the lines. Again, time and place telescoped to project a new reality on Kit’s inner screen until he forgot who he was. Where he was. And then came the kiss.
Gazes clashing, he and Jeremy came together in a crash of wills and mouths that rocked Kit’s world. Upended it. Made him fight for every ounce of control he’d ever claimed. With his mouth, Kit owned his on-screen lover. A fistful of hair. A tug at the back of his head to angle it just so. He stole Jeremy’s breath and breathed it back when he deemed fit. Pressure increased the intimacy of his cock with his zipper, biting deliciously into his flesh, making him aware of the exhilarating thrum of adrenaline as he gave chase and brought down this decadent wounded animal of a man.
“Cut.”
The plunder of tongues and scrape of tender flesh against canines. The tinny taste of blood. Every sigh, moan, touch drove his ardor higher. The rub of tentative fingers against his nipple had him tearing his mouth away to gulp cool air into his lungs.
“Jesus Christ.” Falkner’s voice sliced through Kit’s arousal.
“Cut! Cut!” Stone shouted.
Kit pulled back and wiped his arm across his mouth. At some point, he’d stood. Loomed over Jeremy. Bored down on him with the violence of the kiss.
Jeremy stared up at him, eyes glazed, cheeks mottled with heat.
“Fuck.” Kit fell into his chair.
He shook his head and breathed deep before he glanced around to find everyone staring at him. Falkner looked smug—his lips pulling at the corners, eyes sparking with an emotion that on anyone else Kit would’ve called humor.
“All set?” Kit asked, wishing for a cool cloth for his face.
“Yeah.” Stone cleared his throat. “All set.”
Jeremy stood.
“We’ll be in touch.” Stone directed his words to the kid.
A different kind of color brightened the actor’s face, tinting his ears pink. Jeremy nodded once and pivoted on his heel. Kit tensed, expecting the door to slam, but it only clicked shut. Clearing his throat, Kit tugged on his pant leg.
“We still good?” he as
ked as he stood.
“Yeah. We’re good,” Stone said. “Right, Greg?”
Tapping his steepled fingers against his lips, Falkner nodded once.
“You gonna hire him?” Kit asked.
Falkner slid his gaze to the left to glance at Stone.
Stone quirked a sandy brow. “The chemistry’s good.”
A bark of laughter served as Falkner’s only answer. The display of humor tilted Kit’s world hard. At a loss, he glanced at his watch.
“Gotta mosey,” Kit said, knowing nobody could come to a decision in this town without having a colonic and three martinis. Occasionally at the same time.
Stone waved him out the door.
Sunglasses securely in place, Kit found his motorcycle around the corner. A white ticket flapped in the early evening breeze. He pulled the paper from the seat and tore it up before he started the motor. A satisfyingly masculine growl thrummed from the engine, and he smiled. Yeah. He was good. Life was good. No worries here.
To enjoy more of Kit and Jeremy’s story, purchase Acting Out at ebook and print retailers, or ask your local library to obtain this title.
About the Author
Tibby Armstrong is a Contemporary and Paranormal Romance author.
When she's not busy avoiding the gym, she can be found munching on chocolate, sipping coffee, and scouring local bookstores for her next binge read.
For free reads and giveaways, news about new releases and events, connect with Tibby on social media and via her blog and newsletter at TibbyArmstrong.com.
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