When I woke the next time it was hours later and I had the vague memory of hearing the front door close. I rolled over and checked the clock on the other side of the bed. Nearly one o’clock.
I sat up cautiously. I felt a hell of a lot better than I had that morning, that was for sure. I rubbed my eyes, listened to the sound of the sea a few yards away and the wind whispering at the window casements. Beyond that…silence. A safe silence. The security system would be on. Dan was meticulous about that.
My ring glinted on the nightstand. I didn’t remember pulling it off, but I must have when I’d come in last night. That had been childish. I picked up the chain and fastened it around my neck.
The floorboard in the doorway creaked and I glanced around. Dan stood there filling the doorway, and I felt the hair at the nape of my neck prickle. He was so quiet. I was sure he’d gone out.
“Did I wake you? I just stepped out to check the mail,” he said.
The mail.
Not easy to speak around the knot in my throat.
What would today’s postcard read? I’m on the first step…
Before I could form the question, Dan said, “There was nothing for you.”
“There…wasn’t?”
He shook his head.
The wave of relief was so fierce it caught me off-balance; I had to look away so that he didn’t see the effort it took to control my face. I leaned forward, pretended to feel under the bed—like, what was I looking for? My dignity?
The mattress sank. I stiffened as he sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. Then he put his arm around me, and I surrendered to the desire to be held, to be comforted, turning to him, resting my face against his throat. I could feel the warmth of his skin against my mouth and eyes, feel the pulse beating at the base of his neck, slow and steady and calm. His words vibrated against my face. “Did you have a good sleep?”
I nodded. Raised my head. Pretended I was wiping sleep out of my eyes. “Yeah. I did.”
“Your cheeks are pink.” He brushed his knuckles against the bristle on my jaw. “What were you dreaming?”
I thought of what had preceded that deep, deep sleep and felt my face warm. I had dreamed about him but in the dream we had been arguing. I was glad that it had only been a dream, that we were okay again.
“I don’t remember. Remind me not to drink that much on an empty stomach.”
“You want me to fix you something to eat?”
Spareribs or eggs Benedict? I shuddered.
“I think I’m going to work out.”
He smoothed his hand over my back. “Okay, chief. If you’re going for a swim or a run, give me a shout. I need the exercise.”
* * * * *
I was staring out the window watching the surfers when the phone rang.
“I can guess who that is,” Dan commented. He closed the dishwasher and turned the dial. Maria only came in on weekdays and Dan couldn’t tolerate clutter for more than a few hours. My eyes lingered on the broad shoulders beneath the plain white undershirt, lean hips and long legs encased in faded blue Levi’s. All this and housework, too.
“Dude!” called the answering machine over the rumble of the dishwasher.
I gave Dan an apologetic look and picked up the phone.
“Hey.”
“So…” Steve asked cautiously. “Any more special deliveries?”
“No.”
“No?” He sounded as surprised as I had.
“Nothing since Friday.” I glanced Dan’s way. His back was to me, but I knew he was listening. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling.
Next to my ear, Steve said, “Wow. Maybe…maybe it was just that Hammond’s last few cards got delayed somehow.”
That startled me. “What do you mean? Why would you say that?”
“Dude, chill. I mean cards he sent before he died were delayed by the mail. Not that he’s still out there picking picture postcards. And try saying that three times fast.”
“Oh. Right.” I tried to inject a smile in my voice, but I must not have been successful.
“You okay?” Steve asked. “You sound…off.”
“Fine.”
“No more panic attacks, right?”
I flicked a look Dan’s way. He was watching me openly now. “Nope.”
I wanted to ask Steve if he’d had a chance to talk to anyone at LAPD about the recovery of Hammond’s body, but I couldn’t do it with Dan standing there. I knew that would not go over well.
“Well, groovy. Nothing to worry about, because it’s all over, right? Hey, listen, I’ve got some good news.”
“About The Charioteer?”
“Huh? Oh. No. Have you finished reading the screenplay?”
“Yes. I want to do it.”
He sighed. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, what do you think about doing a voice-over for the new StarCatz series?”
“What the hell is StarCatz?”
“A very hot kids’ show that NBC plans to use as a mid-season replacement. The creator and producer, Dick Dexa, saw you in Winchester 2010 and he’s expressed an interest in you for Captain Starbuckle’s teenage son Jason.”
“I hope you’re kidding.” Sometimes it seemed like I’d gotten more damn attention from a bit part as a smart-ass strung-out hired gun in a big-budget action adventure flick, than I’d received in my entire film career.
“I’m not kidding you. NBC anticipates a mega hit with this show.”
“With a cartoon show?”
“I know. Unbelievable, huh? Even more unbelievable, they want you.”
“But…there’s nothing distinctive about my voice.”
“What can I say? Dick Dexa thinks you sound like a spunky space cadet.”
“Spunky? Funny.”
“I thought you’d like that.” He grew serious. “Sean, listen for a sec. I know this isn’t really your kind of thing, but it’s an easy gig and…we need it. The artsy-fartsy stuff is fine and it wins awards, but you’ve got to balance it with something that pays. If it wasn’t for your Uncle Sean’s trust fund you’d be living on pasta salad and oatmeal these days instead of whatever it is you and The Rock eat for supper.”
I said, “I understand. Twenty percent of zero is still zero.”
“Since you put it like that, yes. The decisions you make affect my income too—or lack thereof. I don’t have any rich dead relatives.”
He had a point, but…cartoon voice-overs?
I hated to disappoint him. I could hear how keen he was on this project. And I did have a responsibility to take jobs that would be good for both of us. I said reluctantly, “The thing is, what happens when the word gets around that a gay man is playing a teenage boy on a children’s show?”
“Who cares if there’s some kind of lunatic right-wing fundie boycott! All publicity is good publicity.”
“Tell it to Pee Wee Herman. You think I was anxious before, wait till I’ve been the victim of a blacklisting campaign.”
He laughed. “Hey, come on. You don’t want Lenny Norman to hear you talking like that. He’ll think you’re not Proud and Out.”
Now that bothered me. “It’s Out and Proud, and I don’t have to prove anything to Lenny Norman. He should be casting roles based on talent and ability.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not a perfect world,” Steve said with unexpected bitterness. “So are you willing to read for the StarCatz pilot?”
“I’m not comfortable with it, Steve. I’ll have to think about it.”
Silence. At last he said, “Okay, dude, it’s your life.”
I replaced the phone and went to join Dan, who had gone out on the deck. He lay on one of the wooden lounges, reading the paper, which he put aside as I hopped onto the railing, staring up at the cloudless blue sky. It was a truly beautiful day. The most beautiful day I’d seen in a long time.
“You’re sure old Steve doesn’t still have a thing for you?” His smile was quizzical.
“I’m sure. It’s just business.”
“What is?”
“The fact that he calls all the time. He’s my manager. And, unofficially, my agent. We have to stay in touch.”
“Out of curiosity, are you his only client?”
“I’m his main client.”
He nodded as though this confirmed something.
“Do you not…like him?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think about Steve. I respect your relationship.”
I realized that was the truth. I didn’t have to defend or explain—and the fact that Dan didn’t demand it somehow made it easy to talk about it.
“The romantic thing only lasted about a year. We really didn’t have a lot in common besides my career. I think I got on his nerves and—”
“He got on yours?”
“Not exactly. His insecurity makes him unkind sometimes. His humor, I mean. He makes these little digs; they’re supposed to be funny, but there’s an edge. It was…tiring. Distancing.”
“That is one hell of an observation, chief.”
I grinned at his obvious surprise. “Crazy like a fox,” I said, and tapped the side of my head. “But he’s been a good friend and a great manager. He’s gone to bat for me again and again. Personally and professionally. The fact that the other thing didn’t work out…well, that was probably just as well.”
“I think so.” He held out an arm and I slid off the railing and went to join him on the lounge.
“We survived our first argument.”
“You sound surprised. Did you think we wouldn’t?” Dan speared one of the shrimps out of the salad I had made for his lunch, chewed, his blue eyes thoughtful on mine.
“It’s still a milestone.” I selected a cherry tomato from his plate and popped it in my mouth. A little burst of sweet tangy juice on my tongue.
“I guess it is.”
“Have you ever done this before? Lived with someone?”
“No.”
“Why?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I have a few trust issues of my own.”
I frowned. “You think I have trust issues?”
His smile was quizzical; he didn’t actually answer me. I remembered the subject was supposed to be him.
“So what kind of trust issues do you have?”
“Maybe that’s not the right term. It’s probably a cop thing. People can get a little weird when they find out you’re a cop.”
“But it’s probably a turn on for a lot of guys, right?”
He seemed to be looking inward at some unpleasant memory. “Sometimes. A lot of times, the opposite.” He impaled another shrimp, chewed, swallowed. “There’s a reason cops have a high divorce rate. The hours are brutal, it’s a high-stress job, and you can’t talk about it most of the time.”
I opened my mouth, and he said, “I mean it’s the kind of stuff you don’t want to bring into your own home, not that someone wouldn’t be willing to listen.” There was something in his eyes that made me feel young and naïve.
I said slowly, “And I guess it takes a toll being afraid the person won’t come home.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me. I felt my breathing go funny like I was about to have one of my famous panic attacks. He said, “I’m careful, Sean. There are no guarantees in life, but I’ll do my best to come home to you.”
I nodded.
He hadn’t really explained the trust thing. Or had he? I guess he was saying that he needed to be trusted as much as he needed to be able to trust. Which was pretty much the same way I defined trust.
I opened my mouth to make another brilliant comment, but Mrs. Wilgi’s four-footed feather duster came hurtling across the sands toward us, barking hysterically.
“Jail break,” Dan remarked.
“I keep hoping he’s going to run away.”
“He has. To you.”
The dog planted itself at the foot of the stairs to the deck, yapping thinly.
“I was hoping for something further from home. Like Mars.”
“I told you not to feed him.”
“What happens if you shoot him? You have to fill out a lot of paperwork?”
“Yep.”
“It’s your lucky day,” I informed Binky. He barked all the harder.
It was my lucky day, too. Dan and I had survived our first real argument and somehow come out of it a little stronger than we had been. We walked on the beach and talked, cuddled on the couch and talked some more. Casual talk. Nothing life or death—no mention of loony stalkers, dead or alive—no reflection on where we stood as a couple. Just…talk. Like real couples do.
Late in the afternoon Dan went out to rent a couple of DVDs and bring back my favorite guilty-pleasure food—Taco Bell. I think my Friday night culinary binge had unnerved him. Or maybe he was just getting tired of my cooking. We settled on the sofa with bags of tacos and burritos to watch Cool Hand Luke, one of Dan’s favorite flicks—and one I’d never seen.
We’d just got to the famous, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate,” line when the phone rang.
I stopped crunching. Dan sighed and hit the pause button.
“It might not be Steve,” I pointed out. “I do know other people.”
“None of them seem to have this number.”
“True.” The beach house was my getaway. I liked the fact that when I was there I was basically inaccessible—or had been before Paul Hammond had somehow found out about this place.
The phone rang the third time, the machine picked up, and Steve called, “Dude! Are you there?”
“I’ll make it quick,” I promised.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He smacked my butt as I crawled over him and off the couch.
I picked the phone up in the middle of Steve’s imperious, “Sean? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Dick Dexa called again. Have you thought about the StarCatz role?”
“How is this going to work if I land The Charioteer? When would they need me in the studio?”
An awkward pause.
“Look, Sean, Lenny Norman hasn’t returned my calls. I don’t think you’re going to get The Charioteer.”
My Taco Supremes began to churn. “Can I try calling him?”
“No, you can’t try calling him!”
“I just mean—”
“I know what you mean. Do you trust me to handle your career or not?”
“Of course I trust you—barring the sudden passion for cartoon cats.”
I was teasing, but he said shortly, “Do you want the part of Jason or not?”
“Doesn’t Dexa want me to read first?”
“Sean, it’s a fucking cartoon, not Ibsen. Dexa wants you. Can I tell him you’ll take the role?”
My pulse sped up. I hated arguing, especially with Steve.
I said haltingly, “No. I’m not comfortable with it.”
“Okay! Shit. Was it that hard to give me a straight answer?”
“No. I just know you think I should take the part.”
“Yes, I do. I think you need to start working pretty soon. I was right about Winchester 2010, wasn’t I? But whatever. If you’re not comfortable, that’s cool. We’ll find something else.”
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, he added, “And, yes, I will try Lenny Norman one more time.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
I hung up and returned to the couch, climbed back over Dan’s legs. He caught my hand and pulled me down half on top of him scattering taco wrappers and shredded cheese and lettuce.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I shifted onto my side and stretched out beside him, resting my head against his chest. He smelled like suntan oil and tacos and himself. Heady stuff. He put his arm around me and started the film again. I thought that maybe this was the best part of being a couple—just relaxing together, spending time with someone you could be yourself with. To my surprise I realized that I was starting to be myself with Dan. Little by little I was letting my guard down and worrying less about who he might want me to be versus who I was—I thought something in his easy acceptance of my…vulnerabilities made that possible. Of course, he hadn’t had to put up with my ticks—quirks—for very long. He hadn’t had more than a taste of life in the fish bowl, and we hadn’t had to deal with my irregular hours or my being away for weeks on end.
There had to be some reason he wasn’t already taken. It couldn’t be for lack of offers. Maybe he really did have trust issues.
The movie ended and Dan said he had some paperwork to catch up on before bed, heading for the spare room, which he had turned into his makeshift office. Through the wall I could hear the indistinct rumble of his voice on the phone while I did Pilates in the weight room next door. Kind of late for phone calls, I reflected, but cops don’t work regular hours.
I finished working out, took a quick shower and retreated to the bedroom to watch some TV and make notes on the Charioteer screenplay. I refused to think that I wouldn’t get the part. I knew how persuasive Steve could be when he wanted, and if Peter Grady was pushing for me to co-star, I knew I still had a shot.
Dan joined me in the bedroom as I was idly surfing through the channels.
“One thing I never noticed about The Charioteer,” I told him. “A lot of the misunderstandings between Laurie and Ralph and even Laurie and Andrew could have been so easily resolved if they’d just talked.”
“That’s true of most relationships, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
Of course, Laurie hadn’t asked questions because he hadn’t been ready to hear the answers. He had been afraid of the answers.
“Hey, go back,” Dan ordered, pulling on a pair of plaid sleep pants, and staring at the TV.
I groaned.
“Turn it back.”
I flipped back to the cheesy horror film.
He bounced down beside me on the bed. “That’s you!”
“Don’t remind me.”
We studied the on-screen mayhem in silence.
“Your hair,” Dan remarked finally.
“Yes, it’s the scariest thing in the film.”
We watched for a few more minutes.
“So…you’re actually the star of this? Do you get the girl in the end?”
“Please, Dan,” I said, “This is heterosexual romance. The girl does not ‘get it in the end.’”
His laugh sounded surprised—and I could guess why. I slanted a look his way and he shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble, chief.”
“How many times do I have to ask before I get some?”
He raised his brows and then lunged. I fell back in the nest of pillows, bringing my knee up—but watching where I put it because the last thing I wanted to do was really put him out of action. I planted my foot in his chest and he rolled over, taking me with him. We wrestled around, laughing. I liked the fact that though I was tall—six feet—Dan was taller. And I liked the fact that—although I was strong and worked out regularly—Dan was stronger. It didn’t threaten me and I didn’t feel any of the competitiveness I usually would have.
He got one arm around my waist and the other around my thigh and managed to flip me over onto my back. The Swedish mattress swallowed my frame a few obliging inches.
“The bed is having me for dinner,” I said, laughing up at him.
“And I’m having you for dessert,” Dan said, his voice deep and velvety. He was braced over me, knee between my thighs, one hand keeping both my wrists pinned above my head—not easy to do to another healthy adult male.
I didn’t have to glance at his crotch to know he was as excited as I was—though admittedly neither of us was as excited as the guy on TV behind us selling cleaning products at the top of his voice.
I said, in a very bad imitation of James Cagney, “Okay, copper. You got me fair and square.”
His lean cheek creased in amusement. “Oh? You’re going to come quietly?”
“I always do,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened and he shifted his weight back onto his knees. The hand formerly holding me prisoner was now stroking me, feathering down from the outside of my wrists to the insides of my elbows. I generally didn’t like anyone to see—let alone touch—the scars on my arms. “No hesitation marks,” Dan had said the first time his fingertips had brushed over the ugly tracks of scars. “You weren’t kidding around.”
Now my arms went relaxed and heavy under that delicate touch. I murmured my pleasure. His free hand slipped inside my boxers.
I sucked in a breath, arching blindly into his caress, reached up and yanked the soft flannel pants down, running my hands down his lean flanks. His skin felt warm and smooth.
“Open your eyes,” he ordered huskily.
I lifted my lashes. Every muscular inch of him was brown and supple; his black hair, thick and glossy, fell boyishly into his eyes as he gazed down so seriously at me.
I raised my head and kissed him, a little nip of a kiss. He kissed back, wanting more as usual, wanting it slow and deep and sexy. His lips were so soft. I stilled, opened to him. Our tongues slid together, sweet and spicy. Dan groaned in the back of his throat as though it were too good to bear, sending a little shiver down my spine.
I pulled him down on top of me and we settled into each other, his hand fastening on my hip, tugging me into that fierce bulge against my belly. My own cock throbbed in time to the pound of my heart as his hand found the elastic of my boxers and I raised my hips enough for him to hitch them off. The feel of bare skin lowering on bare skin was satisfying. Our dicks scraped up against each other, old friends and good neighbors, rubbing shoulders.
“What do you want?” His breath was hot against my ear.
I shook my head. Too hard to form the words when I was having trouble forming the thoughts. “You,” I got out.
“How?”
“Suck me?” It came as a little plea. I was a lot more comfortable giving than receiving, but tonight I craved the idea of burying myself in that wet heat. “Please.”
He chuckled at the “please.” Maybe it was funny. He lifted off me, resettled and ran a light possessive hand down my tummy, fastening on my shaft. I murmured encouragement. He bent, kissed the head of my cock and took it into his mouth.
Unbelievable.
It was like stepping into a golden bath—whatever the hell that means. Wet and hot and intense. Was it the warmth or the wetness or the pressure that felt so good? Maybe the mind-blowing combination of all three? This was where all that experience came in handy. He’d obviously been on the receiving end enough to know the little things that made all the difference. Where I offered style, he gave substance and the wonder was I didn’t shoot my load in the first five seconds.
“Oh, my God,” I groaned, and it did indeed feel like a religious experience.
That crazy mix of glib tongue and soft lips and the graze of teeth: sucking, nibbling, licking—but it was mostly the sucking that felt so shatteringly good—hard and then easy and then hard. I couldn’t help making abject sounds as he brought me to the edge, then tilted me back, then tipped me forward into the moment.
I spilled over into pleasure, moaning and tossing my head on the pillow like I was in a high fever.
Afterwards I just lay there spent and a little stunned, and he lapped up my cream, the rough rasp of his tongue reminding me of a cat—a big eat-you-alive cat—like a panther. He braced himself over me and when his mouth took mine, I could taste myself. “Fuck me, Danny,” I begged him huskily.
“Yeah?” He kissed me again, hungrily. “Sure?”
I nodded, moving against him restlessly, blindly. “I want it. I do.”
I could feel him hesitating. I didn’t want him hesitating; I didn’t want to have time to think. I wanted to ride this wave of sensation all the way out. Eyes closed, nerves still quivering in the pleasure ringing through my body, I urged, “Fuck me. Please fuck me.”
There was a dreadful little delay, cold air over my body, the slide of a drawer, a liquidy squirt. I opened my eyes. He was solemnly rubbing gel over his fingers. Lashes flickering on his cheek as he studied his slimy fingers. Oh, right. Preparation F. I closed my eyes hastily.
He moved next to me again, his hand brushing my dick. Just that accidental touch had my breath rushing in and out of my lungs, my heart pumping like mad. I scooted over to give him easy access.
He stroked and feathered, and then his well-lubed finger pushed into my tightly puckered hole. My eyes opened wide, breath catching. “Oh.”
I tried to make it sound pleased because if there’s one thing I’ve learned both from therapy and from acting, if you pretend strongly enough and consistently enough, eventually the thing you project will become real.
He smiled, but there was a little frown between his brows. “You’re trembling.”
I gave him a twitchy smile. Not so bad. I could do this. It almost felt good in a too-much-sensation-crawling-through-my-guts kind of way. He slid his finger in and out in a tame parody of fucking and my breath quivered in my chest.
It wasn’t hurting. It felt…exciting. Alarming, but exciting.
He finger fucked me gently awhile, and then said, “You want to take it to two?”
I nodded jerkily. I did. He wasn’t pushing for anything more than I wanted myself.
He pressed his other finger in slowly. Sweat broke out all over my body. I bit my lip against a yelp. It wasn’t that bad really, my body was accommodating him, it was just strange. So intense. So…familiar.
“Relax. Try not to tense.”
I laughed unsteadily. Yeah, right. I had what felt like a steel pipe jammed up my ass and I was supposed to relax? Then he did something with his fingers and I stopped laughing. A thrill of pleasure rippled through my body. What was he doing?
“How’s that?”
I grunted.
He did that thing with his fingers again. I moaned—even I could tell it was an encouraging moan.
“This is nothing,” he said softly. “It gets a lot better than this.”
I risked opening my eyes again. He was smiling, enjoying my reaction.
He knelt into the mattress, guiding my legs up to my stomach. I tucked my legs up—not a really comfortable position. I felt awkward and exposed, my butt hanging out. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I couldn’t reach him at this angle. I couldn’t read his face. My heart started pounding hard with anxiety. My breath caught in my chest. His hands were big, like fetters around my ankles. His dick swung around like a cudgel, sweeping against my ass and thighs. He positioned himself, the head of his prick nudging against my anus like a torpedo lining up to fire. He prodded. A flare of pain went through me. He was too damn big.
The bigger the better, if you were a chick. Not so great for a tight-ass like me.
“Wait!” I got out.
Dan waited, expressionless. A wave of cold sick panic flooded my gut. I brought my legs down and rolled away from him.
“I can’t do it,” I said. Way melodramatic, crouching on the edge of the bed in this flight-or-fight response, but I was aware that by now he must be ready to throttle me.
He sat back on his haunches. No need to fight. No need for flight. He was frowning but his body was at ease. He wasn’t coming after me. His voice was dispassionate.
“We don’t have to.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. Sorry was not necessary. “Not everyone likes it.”
“You do, though.”
Instead of answering, he said slowly, “We could try it the other way around.”
“God, no!”
He gave a funny laugh. “Or not.” He reached out, touched my cheek. “It really is okay, you know.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to…”
He got that speculative look—the very thing I wanted to avoid. “It can be painful the first few times. Especially if your partner isn’t experienced.”
I shook my head. “There was no first time. No one hurt me. There’s no drama here. I just—I can’t explain it.”
Maybe not totally accurate. I closed my mind to the memory of my father’s enraged face. The memory of spit-flecked words screamed in my face. “Gay? There’s nothing gay about queers. There’s nothing gay about taking it in the ass, getting butt-fucked by another queer. Men don’t take it in the ass. Queers do. Are you telling me that’s what you are? My only son is a queer?”
Dan said quietly, “Whatever is making you look like that, let it go. This isn’t a problem for me, and I don’t want it to be a problem for you.”
I nodded.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “It’s not like we can’t find other ways to amuse ourselves.”
Sunday started out every bit as beautiful a day as Saturday. Dan and I woke up early, made love, went for a swim—although it was starting to get too chilly for swimming. Summer was truly over and autumn was in the air. I could smell the wood smoke down the beach from Mrs. Wilgi’s cottage.
Dan suggested we have brunch at the Chart House, which, despite being the place in Malibu where all the tourists go, has good food, a spectacular view of the ocean and a casually romantic atmosphere. I admit I hesitated. I was a little wary about my personal life getting into the tabloids. I thought a person’s private life should be exactly that, even if you were a “celebrity.” And the idea of photos of me and my gay lover in the National Enquirer or the Star took my appetite away. But I didn’t want Dan to think I didn’t want to be seen with him in public. More, I didn’t want him to think that being with me meant he couldn’t have a normal life, so I said, sure.
To my relief none of the dogs from the “Hollywood Hunt Club” lurked in the crowded parking lot. Inside, the restaurant was packed, but one of the perks of being a celebrity is that we were seated right away. People at the crowded tables looked up and leaned over to each other as we wound our way to the table by the window. To my amusement, I realized that they were looking at Dan, wondering who he was, what they’d seen him in. Even in jeans and a sports shirt he had presence, style—not to mention striking good looks.
He would never make it as an undercover cop, I thought.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, glancing at me over the top of his menu.
I shook my head, smiling. He raised his brows and went back to his menu.
We ordered our meals, and the waitress brought our wine and warm sourdough bread crusty with garlic, thyme, and butter.
I looked across the table at Dan and he was smiling.
“Happy?” he asked.
And I realized I was. Very. And if that fullness in my chest meant anything, I was pretty close to falling in love.
He held his wine glass out and we clinked rims—and I didn’t give a damn who saw.
“Excuse me.”
I glanced up. There was a scarlet-faced kid with terrible skin hulking beside my chair.
He threw a nervous look over his shoulder at a crowded table taking up the center of the room. “Hi, my name is Sam Bowers. You came and spoke at my school last year and I just wanted to say thank you. It…meant a lot to me to…” His voice cracked nervously. “To hear about how it was for you.”
I said, “You’re welcome, Sam. I’m glad I could help.”
“I want to be an actor too. I’ve been in some school plays. This year I played Judd in Oklahoma and Iago in Othello.”
“That’s great.”
“I got great reviews in our local paper. Well, for Judd.”
I said, “That’s excellent. Hang onto those clippings.”
“Everybody makes fun of me, but I don’t care. They make jokes about the way I look. They call me queer bait. They’re all a bunch of pricks.”
I wasn’t sure what I could tell him. I hadn’t been out in high school; I’d thought being dead was preferable. His courage awed me.
“It gets easier as you get older. You won’t care what people think.”
As much.
“I don’t care what they think now!” His face got redder, his eyes were too bright. He glanced at Dan and seemed to recollect himself. “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. You’re my hero.”
“You’re…welcome.”
He suddenly reached down and hugged me awkwardly, meaty arms clutching fiercely. I patted his back. Sam let me go and walked quickly back to his table, which was now staring our way and whispering.
I glanced at Dan and was startled at his grim expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I couldn’t understand his tension. He couldn’t be jealous. Did he view Sam as a potential threat? According to him there was no real threat—not anymore. “He’s just a kid,” I said.
“I know. It’s cool.” He gave me a quick smile that didn’t quite soften the blue steel of his eyes.
The waitress brought our meals, sea bass for Dan and swordfish for me. We drank more wine. Sam Bowers and his family left, Sam glancing back at me several times—which did not go unnoticed by Dan.
“You can’t think that kid’s a threat.”
“I don’t.” He said, in answer to my obvious puzzlement, “It’s just…you’re very…accessible. Even after what you’ve been through this last year, you’re not…”
He didn’t finish it, and I realized he didn’t want to make me self-conscious. Or afraid. He said instead, “You were great with him. Patient, kind. You’re good with everyone. No star tripping with you; that’s one of the things I noticed right off the bat.”
“I’m not exactly A-List.”
“The biggest assholes in this town are not the A-Listers.” He smiled. “You’d be the same regardless of the roles or the money. You don’t take it seriously.”
That troubled me. “I take it seriously.”
“I don’t mean the work. You’re a professional. You don’t take the celebrity thing seriously.”
“Oh. Right.” That was true. I wasn’t that crazy about being a “celebrity.” I liked my privacy.
The waitress arrived with a dessert tray. Dan went for coffee. I chose café glacé.
Dipping my spoon into the coffee-flavored ice cream, I asked, “What did you mean Friday night when you said you had been through therapy?”
Dan’s eyes followed my tongue as I licked the whipped cream from the spoon. “I had counseling after I made the decision to be open about my sexual orientation on the job. Law enforcement is still a conservative and fairly homophobic profession; it wasn’t an easy decision.”
“What made you decide to come out?”
“It wasn’t that I wasn’t out, but I was very careful to keep the boundaries distinct between my personal and professional life.”
That sounded uncomfortably familiar. “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”
“Right. Which to a degree I still believe in. I don’t feel like it’s anyone’s business who I sleep with.” He sighed. “And…law enforcement is, in general, kind of a macho gig. We’ve got more than our share of assholes on the force, so I guess I was glad to not have to take a stand. But I had a situation come up: a homicide suspect recognized me from a gay bar and tried to…let’s call it ‘negotiate’ with me.”
“You could have been undercover,” I pointed out.
He smiled faintly. “I could have, but I was a regular at that bar, and we both knew it. I realized I had to come clean to my superiors—had to put it all out on the table.”
I wondered what I’d have chosen in that same situation. “Were you tempted to go along with the blackmail?”
“No.” He met my eyes levelly. “I knew once I started down that slope there would be no stopping. I wasn’t about to endanger a job I love. I was never ashamed of being gay.”
“And what happened after you came out?”
“A few guys were assholes and a few guys were stand up, but mostly nobody really gave a damn. Except the brass. They saw an opportunity to reverse some of the bad press and capitalize on how diverse and sensitive the new LAPD was.”
“Did the counseling help?”
“It did.” His gaze was curious. “You do all those public service announcements advising teens to seek counseling. You don’t have faith in the process yourself?”
“It’s not that. If I had been able to talk to someone when I was sixteen…things might have gone differently. Now I don’t need someone helping me understand what I’m afraid of.” I was no longer talking about being gay, and we both knew it. I added, “And I don’t think my fears are unreasonable.”
He was smart enough to leave it at that.
When we got back to the house I turned on the phonograph and put on the 1954 recording of Louis Armstrong playing W.C. Handy. I carried a stack of prospective screenplays Steve had sent over earlier in the week onto the deck and settled into the lounge chair, smearing suntan oil over my shoulders while the music wafted out through the open sliding door.
It was cooler today, the sun slipping in and out of clouds; the salty wind off the water had a nip to it. I wiped my hands together and leaned back in the chair, reaching for the first screenplay: Favored to Place. My eyes focused on the brown rag hooked to the deck railing.
Not a rag.
More like…a large toupee or something…furry.
I dropped the script from nerveless fingers. The pages fluttered in the breeze.
Far overhead I could hear a seagull crying. What a weird sound that was. Like mewing. Like a cat. Like a fluffy brown cat. Or a fluffy brown dog.
I stood up fast, but my foot hooked and I tipped the lounge chair over, sprawling on the deck. I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me.
“Dan,” I yelled breathlessly. “Dan! Dan!”
In the distance I could hear a jaunty trumpet sashaying into the opening notes of “Loveless Love.”
Along with the sudden lack of oxygen, I couldn’t seem to get my footing. I kicked away the cushions and chair—unable to tear my eyes away from the thing nailed to the deck railing. Nailed by its tail…
The screen door opened and Dan stepped out. “What the hell—?”
I scrambled to my knees. “It’s the dog,” I gasped. “Mrs. Wiggly’s dog.” I pointed, hand shaking.
The consternation on Dan’s face changed to something else. Something dangerous.
“Get up,” he said. He reached down and hauled me to my feet. “Inside.”
He thrust me through the half-open door, stepped in behind me and locked it. Guiding me by the arm, he edged me back a few steps. “Stay away from the door, stay away from the window.”
“He k-killed it,” I chattered. “While we were at brunch. He’s watching the house. Why would he do that? That stupid little dog. How c-could he know— But I didn’t want that!”
Dan brushed past, lifted a gun the size of a small cannon out of the clutter on the middle bookshelf, and I realized in a distant sort of way that although he had seemed to dismiss my fears he was, in fact, on high alert.
Moving past me, he unlatched the door. “Don’t open for anyone but me. Understand?”
I stared at him.
“Sean,” he said sharply. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I sucked in a quavery breath. “I understand.”
“I’ll be right back. Lock the door behind me.”
He stepped out. Gestured to the lock. I moved to the door and fumbled it locked. He motioned to me again, and I backed out of sight of the door.
Hearing his footsteps on the deck, I went to the window and, staying to the side, watched him cross the deck fast and jump down to the sand below.
He disappeared from sight.