by Josh Lanyon
The doors opened, but John was still giving me a doubtful expression.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. I reached my arm out over John’s head so the doors wouldn’t close. “You’re going to be late.”
“Shit. Right.” And just like that, John was done worrying about me. He quickly boarded the elevator.
I stepped in beside him, chose the ground floor, and said as the doors slid shut, “I have some concerns regarding a crew member.”
“You found the thief?” John exclaimed.
“No.” I looked sideways. “It’s about Mr. Lefkowitz.”
“Ethan? What about him?”
“What time did he arrive on set Monday morning?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Positive?”
John looked annoyed. “Yes, of course. I met him at the elevator, in fact. We walked onto set together.”
So Ethan hadn’t arrived before John to grab the script that morning.
“I witnessed some disconcerting behavior today,” I said next. “I know this is unrelated to my investigation, but—” I took a moment to collect my thoughts. John already seemed upset. Tread carefully. “Ethan appeared to have caused a fair amount of discomfort to your talent while on set today.”
“What? No! He’s a little intense, I do agree with you there,” John babbled, waving a hand. “But he’s the real deal. Raw. Powerful. He’s got a vision for—”
“I’m only asking that you keep an eye on him.”
The doors opened.
John stepped out first, shaking his head and pulling out those silly wraparound earmuffs from his coat pocket. “I will, but believe you me, he’s one of the good guys.”
“I can’t not investigate certain people, simply because you insist,” I replied, stepping out after him. “The investigation loses integrity that way.”
John started for the front doors while saying, “I’ll worry about Ethan. You worry about— Marion!”
Said man appeared as we turned the corner. He stood in front of the glass doors, bundled in his winter coat. He raised his mouth from the folds of his scarf, politely greeting John. And unlike earlier, when I might as well have been invisible on set, Marion’s gaze zeroed in on me like a gunshot to the chest.
“Get home safe, honey,” John told Marion as he brushed past and opened the doors.
“Yes, you too, John,” Marion called. He never took his eyes off me.
This man was not making my job easy.
The cold air from outside ruffled Marion’s hair before the doors fell shut. He smiled and said, “I washed my hands earlier. Must have missed you.”
“Sorry about that. I was bonding with the Key PA.”
“Davey. Did you braid his beard?”
I laughed. “Had a smoke.”
“Are you two BFFs now?”
“No. He still hates me.”
Marion clucked his tongue. His eyes glimmered, and I knew I was being laughed at.
“What’re you doing?” I asked him.
Marion jutted a thumb over his shoulder at the doors. “Waiting for my ride.” He added after a brief pause, “You weren’t outside. I didn’t think you’d left yet, so I waited here.”
Fuck. This wasn’t fair. And that, in and of itself, was a childish thought, fueled by nothing but primal desire and frustrating, professional limitations. I’d never been so keenly attracted to someone as I was to Marion. Every man I’d been with, from the onset, I knew—hell, expected—to be an ex. But I didn’t feel that inevitable finale when I stared at Marion’s sweet, charming face.
And that I was thinking about a tomorrow with him when there wasn’t even a now was…absurd.
When had I become this? A man brought to his knees by a bit of harmless flirting from someone a decade younger. It had to be some instinctual, rebellious action because my brain knew I couldn’t have Marion. Because there was a case. Boundaries between us. And after I wrapped everything up, the only place I’d see Marion would be on television reruns.
Except…that hurt.
Hurt like hell to think about.
“Don’t stop flirting.” Marion’s voice broke through the cascade of self-deprecating thoughts. “I was having fun.”
I could lose my job—my career—by screwing around with him.
And yet, the foundation of the wall between us was eroding as if having been battered by relentless tides for a century. Right now, right here, I could so easily convince myself to have fun tonight.
John had made it clear he didn’t want me treating Marion Roosevelt as a suspect. And did I even believe him to be one?
No.
Not really.
Not at all, actually.
Marion was an actor. He gave no hints that he desired to be anything else. He appeared to love what he did. And Marion was a darling to John, to the rest of the cast, to all of the crew. Even some lowly, nobody PA on his first day. And to top it all off, he clearly had unresolved issues with Ethan, who’d made my lifelong shit list.
He deserved to have his kindness returned.
I stepped closer and carefully leaned into his space. He didn’t move away. So I kissed his smooth cheek.
Marion studied the linoleum floor. “That was the sweetest letdown I’ve ever had.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He looked up. “I thought for sure I had a chance to figure out who Rory Byrne was.”
“It’s not you.”
“Ah.” Marion shrugged a little. Smiled a little. Broke my heart a little. “They always say that.”
I touched his chin. Just a fingertip. But he looked at me again. “It’s not you,” I reiterated. I kissed his mouth. Soft full lips worked in contrast to the hard lines of Marion’s jawline and cheekbones.
I backed away.
And left.
***
I recycled empty Altoids tins.
They could be turned into basically anything.
I sat at the table, Optivisor pulled down over my glasses as I stripped the ends of two cables to solder onto a panel small enough to fit into the box. This was the third solar-powered USB charger I’d built since getting home.
The television murmured on the other side of the room. Some show called New York, New York. I didn’t know anything about it beyond: canned laughter sitcom and Marion Roosevelt’s first big break. According to IMDb, anyway. He’d come out in real life after the second season aired, à la Ellen DeGeneres, so said one comment. Marion was several years younger, practically baby-faced. But he still knew how to steal the camera in every scene.
“Jack’s gay?” a woman asked, question delivered in over-the-top comedic acting.
I glanced up, raised the visor, and watched Jack—Marion’s character—sink into a couch as two friends argued on either side of him.
“Did you not just see the man attached to Jack’s face? It was like something out of Alien,” the second actor countered.
Insert audience laughter.
She looked down at Jack. “Is this true?”
Jack stared up at her. “You know how you hate my dad jokes?”
“Yeah.”
“When I have a family, my kids will hate them twice as much.”
More laughter.
Marion was a good comedian, even when he had a shitty script to work with.
I heard the schiiik of a key being inserted into the front-door lock, and turned in time to see the apartment door open and my most recently acquired ex step inside. I took off the visor as I quickly stood. “Nate?”
“Hi, honey.” He shut the door.
I held my hand out. “Key.”
Nate ignored the demand, unbuttoned his coat, and walked to the couch while watching the flickering TV screen. “Are you really watching this show?” He picked up the remote from one of the cushions and turned the television off. “It’s awful.”
“It’s not bad,” I countered.
Nate turned toward me, rolling his eyes. “And if I’d said it was grea
t, you’d have said it was shit.”
“Why are you here?” I asked sternly.
He approached, drew close, and placed his hands low on my hips. “We broke up.”
“Right.”
“So—”
“I’m not interested.”
Nate blindly reached down to grope me through my jeans. “You feel interested.”
I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “Not with you.”
He huffed and stepped back. “You have something more pressing to do than getting some no-strings-attached sex?” Nate laughed and held his hands up to interrupt anything I may have tried to say. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re too busy working. What’s the investigation this week? Undercover work as a drummer for some punk band that meets in mom’s basement?” He motioned to the worn-out clothes I was still wearing from all day on set. “And what about next week? CPA? Stock trader on Wall Street? Living out of your car while you track—”
“Nate.”
“You need to get a fucking life,” he shouted.
“Did you come here to fight with me?” I asked calmly.
He might as well have not heard me. “I think it’s disconcerting,” Nate began, “that in the three months we dated I never knew what in your closet was actually something Rory Byrne would wear to the grocery store.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, keenly aware of the defensive posture I was taking with him. “I have my groceries delivered.”
Nate raised his hands like he wanted to wrap them around my throat. “Your only friend is a cat. Your one hobby is studying wiring diagrams. Every scenario that doesn’t play out according to the Dupin Decree, you say fuck it. You only live once and this is it?” He looked around the room—a bachelor pad in every sense—and snorted.
I pointed at Nate and said in a collected tone, “I have one rule I live by.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. Your life is defined by a rulebook, Rory. You enforce no lying, which is pretty fucking ironic considering that’s all you do for a living. I mean—who are you? Really? So I screwed around. But in our three months, were you ever once yourself with me?” Nate reached into his coat pocket and threw the house key at me.
I caught it against my chest and watched him storm to the door. “Hey—”
“Get bent.” He slammed the door behind him.
INT. CHAPTER SIX – DAY
I didn’t sleep Wednesday night because of Talking Heads.
The band, that is.
“This Must Be the Place” was running on a nonstop loop in my mind, which considering I’d probably last heard that song in 1988… I don’t know. I couldn’t even remember the lyrics properly.
Something about no money. Always for love.
La, la, la…find me or you?
No.
Did I find you?
Something like that.
But it wasn’t a coincidence—being stuck wide-awake in bed, humming the tune to an uncertain and uncomfortable love song while I mentally tended to the wounds Nate burned into my heart. In the solitude and darkness of night, I couldn’t dispute his accusations. I used my profession as a yardstick, keeping at bay anything and everything that threatened to make me lose control.
To such an extreme, that I had instead lost my life.
Nate was right.
I didn’t have friends. I didn’t take in the sights of the city. I didn’t take a chance on the guy flashing enough signals that he could have landed a jumbo jet, because…why? I’d seen enough shitty human behavior over the last twenty years and wanted to protect myself? At the cost of not experiencing love at all?
I guess, in a sense, I was a professional liar. And it was fucking screwed up that I could spin an untrue story to Marion as quickly and easily as breathing, but I couldn’t have a drink with the man because my job said no—he might be lying.
It was barely after seven in the morning, but I was already stalking through staging. Past crafty, I turned down the back corridor and walked along the hall of dressing rooms. I stopped outside the closed door marked with Marion’s name and knocked loudly before I could stop myself.
Before I could doubt myself.
“Come in,” came a muffled response.
I grabbed the knob and opened the door.
Feeble, wintry sunlight was peeking in through partially closed blinds. An early morning talk show whispered from the television mounted on the wall. Marion stood in front of a full-length mirror, tugging suspenders over his shoulders.
He turned, looked surprised. “Rory—”
I shut the door, walked across the room, took Marion’s face into my hands, and leaned down to kiss him. He opened to it without question, without coaxing. He tasted of coffee and something sweet—like pancakes and syrup. Marion drew his hands up my biceps, squeezed, and then settled them around my neck.
He fit against my body as if he were made for no man but me.
I broke the kiss, drew back enough to touch my nose against his, then pressed our foreheads together. “I made a mistake.”
“Did you?”
“Last night. I shouldn’t have…” I leaned back a little, stared at his mismatched eyes. “Think we could do another take?”
Marion’s mouth quirked, then broke into a wide smile. “Lights.”
“Camera.”
“Action.”
“Can I take you out for drinks tonight?” I asked.
“I’d love that.”
I kissed his mouth again, sealing the deal.
There was a loud knock at the door, followed by Ethan calling Marion’s name.
Marion dropped his hands from me and took a quick look around the tiny room. “Shit.” He moved to the standing shower, pulled the curtain back, and motioned me inside. “Get in. You’re fired if he finds you in here.”
I wanted to say, screw Ethan. Wanted to tell Marion then and there I wasn’t a PA and not to worry about me. But even if I was going to throw caution to the wind and take him out tonight, I’d still been hired to do a job. It was one thing to blow my cover with Marion, and another entirely with a hothead I couldn’t trust like Ethan. I obediently climbed into the shower and pulled the curtain.
I listened to Marion open the door, quickly followed by the scuff of steps and someone backing into a chair, wooden legs dragging across the linoleum.
“I don’t have it,” Marion said without prompting.
“Then what the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m getting ready for my job, Ethan,” Marion said firmly.
The sound of bodily wrestling nearly undid me—the thought of Ethan trying to manhandle Marion against his will making me see red. My heart pounded in my throat as I debated for a split second whether to jump out of the stall and smash his face in with my fist.
“I made you,” Ethan hissed. “And I can ruin you. Don’t forget that.”
Another shove, and this time it sounded as if Marion hit the floor. Steps drew close to the shower, continued past, and retreated out of the dressing room. The door slammed shut.
I left the stall in a rush to find Marion sitting on the floor. His knees were partially drawn to his chest. “Did he hurt you?” I bent down, took his hands, and pulled Marion to his feet in one quick, fluid motion.
“I’m fine.”
I barely heard him over the roar of blood pumping in my ears. I took his face into my hands, inspecting him for any visible damage. “What did he want?” I asked, tone severe and clipped as I struggled with unexpected anger.
“Nothing,” Marion insisted. “Please—don’t worry about it.” He put his hands over mine, pulled them away, and stood on his toes to kiss me. “He’s an arrogant asshole. I can handle Ethan.”
Marion was lying.
I didn’t need deception training to know that.
***
I’d left Marion alone at his insistence that he was quite fine and needed to get into makeup. But I wasn’t happy. At all. Which is why when I came around the corner and saw John a
t crafty, I made a beeline for him at the expense of the actual task I was being paid to do.
“John. We need to talk,” I said when I reached his side.
John looked sideways as he filled a cup with coffee from the airpot. “Oh. You’ve got an update?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“You’ve got to give me something,” he murmured, grabbing a handful of Sweet’N Low packets. “I’m going stir-crazy.”
He was not getting any names. Not until I had my Hercule Poirot moment. Because the second John knew about any suspicions I might have, he’d act differently around those individuals. It wouldn’t be his fault—human nature and all. But if the thief was smart, the change in John’s behavior would be the warning bell to get the hell out of Dodge before I was able to pin them to the wall.
“I’m considering several individuals,” I answered. “And that’s all I can say at this moment.”
“I don’t like being told no,” John remarked, dumping the artificial sweetener into the black coffee. He stirred the concoction with a plastic spoon before giving me another look.
“You’ll like a compromised investigation even less.”
“Then what did you want to talk about?” His voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper when a few crew members entered the staging area from behind us before retreating to the art department’s workshop. John took a sip of coffee, made a disgusted face, and started walking away.
I caught up with him in a few easy strides. “Ethan,” I said.
“Didn’t we discuss him last night?”
“We did,” I agreed, following John into the hall and on toward the production office.
“Then why are we revisiting an old conversation?”
“I’m sorry you don’t want to hear this, but the reality is, he’s a caustic—”
“Randy,” Laura exclaimed as we approached her desk. She looked to have just arrived herself, taking off her coat and shoving her purse into a drawer. Her lips were an almost neon pink today.
I paused midstep. “Rory,” I corrected.
She waved a hand, picked up a sheet of paper with the other, and held it out. “Close enough. I need a hundred copies of tomorrow’s sides. Distro when you’re done.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to make a phone call,” John said as a means of excusing himself.