“I don’t care if I have to call in the National Guard. You’re getting a pedicure today.”
Pausing as he wrapped the bath sheet around his hips, Jeremy took in Kit’s curled lip and grinned. Kit left and returned a few minutes later with a pair of designer jeans—tag still on them—and a soft brown tee with stitching so fine it almost didn’t appear to have seams.
“Put these on before Tony gets here.”
Jeremy stilled midreach. “Tony?”
“My stylist.” Kit shoved the clothing at him.
Jeremy grasped the hangers and groaned.
“I need to save my money, Kit. I can’t afford—” Turning to look over his shoulder as he popped his head through the shirt neck, he saw Kit had exited the bathroom. Fuck. “And I need some underwear!”
A pair of boxers sailed into the bathroom from the bedroom. Jeremy shot out a hand to catch them, then eyed the yellow-and-white-polka-dot material with distaste.
“I don’t know how you wear these things. They bunch.” He dangled the underwear from his fingers as he strode into the bedroom to find Kit rubbing gel in his hair. It had grown a little longer since the initial buzz cut—as the film demanded—and now stuck up in mischievous spikes all over his head.
“They let me breathe, unlike those chastity belts you call briefs. Speaking of which, get your skivvies off my kitchen floor, or I really will make you feel some pain.”
In the kitchen, Jeremy saw Kit had laid out toast and jam as well as some freshly sectioned oranges. He snagged an orange slice and popped it into his mouth as he looked around for his jeans and underwear. Spying his briefs, he scooped them up and padded back to Kit’s bedroom and stopped short. An extra room had appeared where he hadn’t known one existed.
The dark teak wall opposite the bed slid back to reveal a room full of mirrors and racks of clothes. Drawers lined the bottoms of the walls, while clothes hung above. Some drawers tilted outward to reveal loafers, sandals, boots, sneakers, and other shoes Jeremy couldn’t name. Others—more shallow—lay open to reveal tie tacks, cufflinks, earring studs, ear cuffs, rings, chokers, and other glittering items. This closet was easily three times as large as the one in the guest bedroom.
Jeremy whistled. “Jesus H. Christ. You’re a freakin’ girl.”
Shooting him a glare, Kit lifted a tie. “Shut up, or I’ll show you what else these are good for.”
A buzz sounded from the front entry, saving them both. After all, Kit’s cock had to smart as much as Jeremy’s ass.
“Where are my jeans?” Jeremy asked as Kit brushed by him to get the door.
“I threw them in the incinerator,” Kit called over his shoulder.
“You what?” Jeremy pounded after him, reaching him just as Kit flung open the door.
“Hey, man.” Kit held out his palm for a cool-guy handshake with Tony. “Thanks for coming.”
“The guys are grabbing the racks. Let’s see what we have to work with.”
Waves of inky hair to his shoulders, a gazillion dollars’ worth of Versace, or some other designer Jeremy couldn’t pronounce, on his back, Tony stepped into the room. Jeremy had no doubt from the square angle of that darkly stubbled jaw, the straight line of his nose, and those sweeping brows, that the guy had been a model.
Fighting the impulse to find a dark corner somewhere in the back of Kit’s closet to hide, Jeremy instead stepped forward. Nobody made introductions, so he stood there as the man circled him like he viewed a piece of sculpture.
“Not bad,” Tony said as he circled Jeremy. “Where’d you get the Hilfiger? It’s not officially part of the line yet.”
“A friend knows someone on his design team,” Kit answered.
Swallowing, glad he hadn’t eaten more breakfast, Jeremy continued to stand rigid in the center of the room. If he could get through countless auditions and the now daily makeup sessions to cover his scars, he could stand some prodding and undressing for Tony. Especially with Kit here, it’d be all right.
Two assistants, equally glamorous if not as expensively dressed, rolled four large clothing racks into the room and went to retrieve more. Kit’s living room filled with clothes until it looked more like a street in New York City’s garment district than a Westwood-area condo. Measured to within an inch of his life, Jeremy didn’t speak. Didn’t move—not unless told to lift his arms or step into a pair of trousers. Every piece of clothing—every button-down, T-shirt, jean, or loafer—he slid on or off, Kit handed to him or took away, somehow always managing to stay between Tony and Jeremy. Not once did the man catch a glimpse of his bared back.
“I think he’s a little rougher around the edges than that,” Kit said when Tony slipped a casual suede suit jacket over Jeremy’s oxford-and-jean ensemble.
Sockless, Jeremy wore softly distressed brown loafers. Tugging down his shirt cuffs, he stared at himself in the mirror they’d rolled in from Kit’s closet.
“Wait for it,” Tony said, opening a suitcase and handing Jeremy a pair of thick-rimmed black spectacles.
Slipping them on his nose, Jeremy blinked at himself through the non-prescription glass and thought of Buddy Holly. Only less geeky. The glasses seemed to form a shield between him and the rest of the world, and he straightened. One shoulder dropping, he propped the frames on the edge of his nose and waggled his brows.
Kit barked a laugh and clapped him on the back, prompting Jeremy to execute a little dance spin.
“Omigod, Tony,” Kit said as Jeremy spun to a halt. “You should have seen him on the floor at the Viper a few months back. Fucking amazing.”
Skepticism written in the quirky crinkle of his handsome brow, Tony cocked his head. “Where’d you learn to bust a move, Jer?”
Being addressed for the first time in several hours shocked him a little, but with the glasses on his face, Jeremy let confidence run down his spine to the tips of his fingers and felt a sense of belonging he hadn’t experienced since his sophomore year of high school.
“I learned it on the street the old-fashioned way. I—” He glanced to Kit, who watched him intently. “I made my living that way for a while.”
Dance had let him be in his body and lose himself in a way nothing else offered besides acting. Fighting for prime performance spots or running from cops wanting to see a permit, however, eventually took its toll, and he found bussing tables much more reliable on the finance front once he moved to LA.
“Can I have more?” Jeremy changed the subject, pointing at the case containing about a hundred pairs of glasses. “I’m comfortable with the look.”
Kit’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he shot Jeremy a knowing smile. He’d found his shtick. The thing that’d allow him to hide in plain sight while strutting his stuff for press and…fans. His stomach plummeted, then bounced to dizzying heights at the thought. Someday soon he’d have fans. Maybe not many, but a few. They’d love him. Want to be him. He’d have power…and the security that came with that.
“Sure. The black rim looks good on you, but they’re a heavier look. When you really want to call attention to your face to balance out something less edgy. Sometimes you want to let the clothes take center stage.” Tony spoke as his hand hovered over the case. Searching. “Then, wear these….or these.”
“Thanks.” Jeremy took the glasses from him and tried on a pair with floating frames and another with titanium rims.
“Oh, and shades.” Tony held out a pair of aviators.
Classic and cool, their mirrored surface reflected Jeremy’s face as he held them up. Tony seemed to be going for preppie with an edge. Jeremy said so, and the stylist nodded.
“Given the part you’re playing right now, especially.” Tony shrugged elegant shoulders. “You want people to see you as reliable. Trustworthy. Yet cool and confident.”
Jeremy examined Tony’s face for signs of judgment but found none. Just matter-of-fact awareness of what they might be up against politically and socially when the film came out.
“What have you heard about No Apologies?” Kit asked from the kitchen where he’d been popping open some beers.
“Just that it’s an edgy flick likely only to play at independent art cinemas.” Tony flicked a glance at Jeremy and then to Kit, who leaned forward on his elbows against the open-concept counter. “And that it’s Greg Falkner’s attempt at financial suicide.”
Rumors had been circulating for a few weeks now that the film, while running within budget, required too many locations and too many extras to be financially safe. Recently, Greg made the announcement that he’d put up a multi-million dollar property in Connecticut as collateral for more financial backing. A property they’d be using to shoot a number of scenes in the coming weeks. Things around Greg’s house and on the set had been tense, to say the least—each little screw-up earning actors and crew alike a dressing down from the screenwriter-cum-producer.
Kit pushed up from the counter and grabbed the three beer bottles by the neck. The rest of Tony’s crew gone on errands, their intimate group fit side by side on the sofa, Jeremy in the middle. Knees spread, Kit dangled his beer bottle between his fingers as they all stared at the racks of clothes in tired silence.
“You have a nail-and-facial person who makes house calls?” Kit asked after a while, never bothering to address the rumors Tony had heard.
Silent, Tony lifted Jeremy’s hand to examine his cuticles. Oddly, Jeremy didn’t flinch. Letting his hand drop, Tony peered at him close enough to climb inside Jeremy’s pores.
“Ugh.” Sitting back, Tony dug his cell from his pocket and dialed a number. When the person on the other end picked up, he said two words. “Major emergency.” Then, “Kit Harris will pay you double to be here in thirty.”
Jeremy flushed. “You guys really can’t be serious.”
“Your boy Kit wants you to look good enough to eat. Right now, I wouldn’t even apply the five-second rule to your skin.”
Shocked, Jeremy whipped his head to look at Kit.
“You said that?” he asked, ignoring the insult to what he considered his more than adequate personal hygiene. For a guy.
Sitting up a little straighter, Kit brought his beer to his lips and spoke into the neck. “Cameras pick up everything, dude.”
“You have some press lined up?” Either Tony didn’t get that Kit and Jeremy were an item, or he didn’t care.
Remembering the messages on his phone, Jeremy shrugged. “I’ve had some calls.”
“Please tell me you answered them and didn’t leave them hanging?” Kit asked.
Catching Jeremy’s blank look, Kit closed his eyes and banged the back of his head a few times on the sofa cushion. Pulling out his phone, he speed-dialed someone and spoke fast when that someone answered.
“Stu?” Cradling his forehead with his palm, Kit held the phone to his ear with the other hand. “I need you to retrieve and respond to the messages on Jeremy Ash’s cell phone. Then call Falkner’s PR person and clear some appearances with them. Get the rundown on the angle for responses on the difficult questions.”
Lifting his hand a fraction, Kit gave Jeremy an I-can’t-believe-you look before rattling off his number. “Then I need you to coach Jeremy. Can you do that for me?”
The security buzzer rang, and Kit pushed himself off the seat to answer the summons as he finished the call. Feeling more than a little in shock, Jeremy watched as the clothing people entered along with the nail-and-facial guy. Everyone zoomed around him like highly caffeinated bees, and he realized he’d have to pay dearly for all this attention. Trying not to think about the sucking sound in his bank account, he submitted to stinging face scrubs and some brushes that tortured his feet.
“We need to wax his—”
“No!” Jeremy shot out of the chair he’d been sitting in for the past two hours.
Kit stepped forward, a slow, evil smile spreading across his face. “It’s okay, guys. I have a waxing kit he can use for the essentials.”
Oh holy shit.
All at once, Jeremy’s cock lengthened along his leg in the boxers, and he realized why Kit liked the looser underwear. He felt every twitch of his stretching skin and tightening balls as they drew closer to his body.
“At least let’s do between his brows,” the facial guy said, pressing him backward with a palm to his chest.
Holding Kit’s gaze, Jeremy groaned and complied. The facial guy looked between them, apparently catching the obvious spark in Jeremy’s gaze.
“You guys an item?” he asked, waving his tweezers in an arc between Jeremy and Kit.
Jeremy’s mouth went dry as the light went out of Kit’s eyes.
“Only on screen,” Kit replied and spun away to busy himself elsewhere.
Knowing they’d agreed to keep things on the QT for a while, Jeremy tried to shrug off the hurt at Kit’s dismissal. Submitting to the hot wax brushed on his face, he focused on the burning pull of the hair from his skin rather than the nettles stinging his heart.
“Let’s go to Rodeo and grab you some stuff after we’re done here.” Kit slipped a half a peanut butter sandwich into Jeremy’s dangling hand.
Jeremy opened his eyes to watch Kit munching the other half sandwich, and read the quiet apology in his gaze. Nodding, he decided not to be bitchy about the slight to their budding connection. They’d work out the tough stuff later. For now, they’d just enjoy one another in whatever capacity they both felt comfortable.
“Sure,” he answered, intrigued despite his money jitters. He’d always been curious about the posh avenue of shops but never felt himself worthy to darken one of their doorsteps. “But I’m not sure what you have in mind other than fifty-dollar-a-pair underwear.”
“How about fifty-dollar-a-pair socks?” Kit teased.
Jeremy bit into the sandwich, eating half in one gulp, and realized he’d been starving. “With a side of dinner?”
“Sure. We’ll go to some outside café and have a burger.”
Understanding dawned. “You mean we’ll go to some outside café and get snapped by the paparazzi?”
“Exactly.” Kit dusted his hands and looked to Tony. “We done here, bro?”
“You bet. I’ll leave the stuff that fits and have the tailored pieces delivered later in the week.” Nodding to Jeremy, Tony finished with, “Good work, man. Can’t wait to see the picture.”
An hour later, strolling the line of shops, a rented car and driver rolling alongside them in case they needed to dump off packages, Jeremy wondered at his change in fortune. How, precisely, had his life transformed so quickly? Still, as Kit led him into a jeweler’s, he swallowed down a bite of fear about his finances.
“Dude.” He whispered the word out of the side of his mouth, trying to be the cool and collected platonic friend he knew Kit wanted him to appear. The word came out sounding artificial and strange. So strange even Kit looked at him funny.
“Yeah?”
“I have to stop spending money.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered this afternoon,” Kit said.
“I can pay you back, but I need to save the rest of my money.” Hovering by a case of silver neck torques, Jeremy spoke, quiet but insistent. “It’s not like I have calls rolling in for other jobs. And this one might well wreck my career before it even begins. I can’t waste the bankroll I have.”
Snapping his fingers, Kit called over a sales woman. All arrogance, he pointed to a nicely oxidized, thin platinum wrist cuff. “This one.”
The woman bent low to retrieve the cuff from the cabinet, and Jeremy elbowed Kit in the ribs.
Kit’s eyes narrowed, and he mouthed, “She didn’t even say hello.”
The woman crossed to the other side of the store, and Jeremy eyed her ashen complexion as she drew a strip of paper from a roll with shaking fingers.
“She’s so nervous she’s about to pass out, you imbecile,” Jeremy hissed, then crossed the room in long strides.
The woman looked up at him and turned a shade of green.
“Hey,” Jeremy said, smiling down at the petite blonde. “What’s your name?”
“Steph.” Fumbling, she sent the box and cuff sailing to the floor. “Shit.”
Bending, Jeremy scooped up the lid from the polished black tile near his feet. As he did so, he saw Kit’s reflection looming above him and stilled. So like a god, mortals quaked in his presence. Well, this time he needed to stoop a little.
“We’re going to get some dinner.” Jeremy stood and pushed the box lid across the counter. “Want to join us?”
Green eyes, upturned at the corners, widened as Steph glanced between himself and Kit. “Wow. Thank you. But I—I can’t. I have to work.”
Feeling Kit’s dumbfounded expression more than seeing it—because he refused to look—Jeremy pulled a sales slip from his wallet and wrote down the address of the studio along with his name. “There’s someone I want you to meet Monday. Can you come by round noon?”
Greg had been having trouble filling a part. While Jeremy had no clue if this woman would be interested in acting, most people in this town were, and something told him, given a little Goth makeup and pink hair, she’d be perfect for the part. Knowing he stepped out on a limb but wanting to spread around his own good fortune, he made the offer. If nothing else, he could show her around the studio. When they left the store, Steph still clutched the slip.
Reaching the car, Kit lightly smacked the back of Jeremy’s head.
Whirling, Jeremy growled, “Yank me, Fame Boy.”
“Just a word of warning.” Kit held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Rescue too many lost puppies and you’ll end up running around with a pooper scooper instead of advancing your career.”
“You could stand to do some time shit shoveling.” Jeremy slid into the back of the car and sincerely hoped they were headed for dinner. If his blood sugar went any lower, he might start chewing on Kit’s ass instead of just chewing it out. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
“You thought it did a little while ago.”
In response to the smirk in Kit’s voice, Jeremy shoved himself to the opposite end of the seat and rested his back against the door.
“Like you said, that’s not for public consumption.” He threw Kit’s words back in his face as he glanced at the driver.
“Fair enough.” Splotches of color appeared at the high points of Kit’s cheekbones. “Tell me why you don’t have any other work coming in.”
“Huh?” The change of subject screeched Jeremy’s anger to a halt. “What are you talking about?”
“You said you’re worried about money.” Kit folded his arms over his torso. “I assume it’s why you haven’t leased an apartment, among other things. How come your agent isn’t working on getting you other work?”
“I don’t have an agent.”
Arms dropping, Kit gaped. “The first thing you should’ve done when you got this part was have an agent look over your contract. Negotiate for more money.” He looked beseechingly toward the roof of the car. “What is wrong with you, dude? Do you not have a lick of business sense?”
“Why would I waste money on an agent when I already had the part?” Knowing he sounded stupid, Jeremy asked the question anyway. As far as he saw it, he had gotten one part himself; he could get others if necessary.
“Why do you need an agent?” Kit’s voice cracked on the word agent. “Because the agent will get you other parts while you spend your time doing what you do best—acting. That fifteen percent would have bought you a lot of goodwill. Now you’re asking some poor bastard to work for you for free until you get another part.”
The weight of his ignorance weighed on Jeremy, further gnawing at his mood. Nobody had told him these things before. Nobody. He’d had to stumble through most of his life relying on luck and common sense. In this town of plastic smiles and false promises, however, he’d found his skills seriously inadequate in the latter department. For the millionth time that day, it seemed, Kit grabbed his phone and started to make a call on Jeremy’s behalf. This time, Jeremy stayed his hand. He had to clean up his own messes.
“Do you think if I gave them the fifteen percent retroactively, someone would rep me?” It hurt to contemplate the loss of forty-five grand, but really what choice did he have if he didn’t want to crash and burn his chances before they really got off the ground?
Kit eyed him. “It’d help.”
“I know you want to do me a favor, Kit. I think you’ve done enough, though, and I appreciate it.” Jeremy squeezed his fingers gently, and Kit glanced to the driver in the rearview. Jeremy let his hand fall. “I appreciate everything, but I’ll take it from here.”
“All right.” Pursing his lips, Kit seemed to mull something over. “But the clothes and stuff are from me. Along with this.”
Handing Jeremy the silver-wrapped box with the cuff in it, he said, “Welcome to Hollywood.”
A little awed, Jeremy touched the box. Nobody had ever given him something so intimate. Gaze lifting to Kit’s, he cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
The question of the clothes and personal services they could resolve later. Right now, he just wanted to enjoy this moment.
“Stay with me instead of Falkner this week?” Kit kept the question low.
“Yes.” The word fell from Jeremy’s lips. Spools and swaths of time with Kit unfurled in his mind’s eye—so much of the stuff it constituted an embarrassment of riches. The things he could do…that they could do. By the end of a week, they’d either have cemented this relationship or sent it crashing to the ground just in time for their trek to Connecticut.
Connecticut…
They pulled up to the curb, and Kit flicked a glance out the tinted window as if expecting and finding something. Following his stare, Jeremy saw the milling paparazzi and sucked in a breath.
“Fuck,” he said. “You tipped them off?”
Grinning, Kit swept him with an apprising stare. “You’re ready. Let’s do this thing.”
Squaring his shoulders, Jeremy shoved his shades on his face and emerged after Kit to the assaulting flashes and shouted questions. He had no illusions that the interest in their presence was entirely due to Kit. Still, using the thought like a shield, Jeremy allowed himself to practice the self-assured image he wanted to project.
“Is it true you’re Greg Falkner’s love child with stage actress Monica Corbin?”
“Dude?” Kit slid his shades down. “Are you on crack? Jeremy’s like six years younger than Falkner.”
Jeremy laughed out loud, and Kit gave him a shit-eating grin. The paparazzi ate up the exchange, their flashes going into a frenzy. Walking up the steps to the restaurant, Jeremy felt a sense of adventure. This time when he stepped in front of the cameras, he felt like part of the picture. Not some accessory to Kit Harris but his equal. A lover and a friend.