Roscoe kissed him again, a little more this time with a tongue sweeping his bottom lip. “It’s late. You’re worn out.” He kissed the corner of Shawn’s mouth. “Stay.”
The only thing keeping him from it was himself. He certainly did not prefer his own lumpy futon back in his apartment, nor did he relish returning to the noise of one of his roommate’s music, always playing, all night. Roscoe’s bed was infi nitely more comfortable and he knew sleeping with that long, lean body beside him wouldn’t be a problem.
ENCORE! ENCORE!
23
“Stay,” Roscoe murmured against his lips.
Knowing it was obstinate, he turned his head to the side and overemphasized a yawn. “Okay.”
Roscoe chuckled, stepping back to give him room. He only watched as Shawn shucked his jeans then they met back in the bed. Shawn rolled to his side, facing the railing overlooking the loft. Roscoe hesitated, then scooted in to spoon behind him.
Shawn shut his eyes over the wave of emotion that fl ooded him as it sank in just how well Roscoe fi t with him. Right at this moment, he was hard pressed to recall what had been so bad that they couldn’t get over it. Resolute, he closed his eyes and let himself relax.
No sense worrying about it now,
he chided himself.
The
morning is good enough.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Neither Shawn nor Roscoe were the type to cuddle while they slept so Shawn didn’t expect to wake up wrapped in the other man’s arms, but he did wake up to the familiar scent of Roscoe’s sheets, and opening his eyes presented his blurry gaze with a picture of Roscoe’s sleeping face. He caught himself smiling, letting his eyes close, content to drift happily. Until he realized what he was doing.
Time to go.
Last night had been nice, but it was back to reality now. Back to the knowledge that Roscoe only approved of what Shawn did when he did what Roscoe set up for him, like a good little boy.
Forcing his eyes open, Shawn pushed up onto his elbow and rolled off the bed. He didn’t even try to avoid disturbing Roscoe, knowing he was a relatively light sleeper. Shawn didn’t glance back to fi nd out if he was awake, just made his way into the bathroom and closed the door.
You should have left last night,
he told his refl ection as he waited for the shower water to heat. He didn’t want to deal with Roscoe.
Last night had been great—fabulous, stupendous—and that was more reason for him to make tracks. He could get used to this again—and that was so not going to happen. Still grumbling at
24 Mykles ~ Much Ado
himself, he snatched a towel from the narrow corner cupboard where they resided, and stepped into the shower to wash off the previous night’s excess.
His clothing was draped over the foot of the empty bed when he emerged. The scrape of a pan on a burner and the hushed clack of the refrigerator door told him where Roscoe was. A glance over the railing showed Roscoe at the kitchen island, chopping peppers. His mouth watered in a Pavlovian response to the thought of one of Roscoe’s omelets. The man knew how to make breakfast. He got into his shirt and jeans then carried his socks and shoes down the stairs.
“I don’t have any mozzarella,” Roscoe told him, turning to dump red and yellow bits into the frying pan without even glancing up at Shawn. “Just cheddar and provolone. Sorry.”
“‘Sokay.” Unable to resist, even without his favorite cheese, Shawn hitched up onto one of the barstools on the other side of the island. What? There was no sense being rude about leaving.
Roscoe was shirtless, back to him, as he used the spatula on the eggs. Worn track pants rode low on slim hips, a far more casual look than he ever showed outside of the privacy of his loft. Shawn fought a sudden surge of jealousy thinking of the men who’d seen him like this in the last year. How many lovers had he had? A gorgeous and successful man like Roscoe couldn’t have been lacking for company. It made Shawn sick to think of the cute young things that had graced his sheets.
To hide his reaction, Shawn climbed down from the stool and went to the refrigerator to pull out a carton of orange juice.
Glasses were still in the same place they had been. He shook his head as he sat back on his stool. After all this time, he still knew where everything was. Although, a year wasn’t really
that
long. It just felt like it.
Roscoe set a plate piled high with a thick omelet in front of him and a few free slices of tomato. “What?”
“Huh? Oh, nothing. Just…” He poured his juice. No pulp.
Like he liked it. Roscoe had preferred with pulp before him but ENCORE! ENCORE!
25
had adapted when they lived together. And the tomatoes. Roscoe used to dice them and put them in the omelet, until Shawn professed liking to nibble on the slices instead. Shawn put the carton down, and shook his head. “God.” Butter sizzled as Roscoe started on his own omelet. “Share.”
“This is too familiar.”
“Breakfast?”
“That. This place.”
The sex.
“All of it.” Roscoe glanced over his shoulder, then smiled. “Yes. It is.” The warmth in his voice brought warmth to Shawn’s face.
Frowning, he picked up his fork and dug into the fl uffy egg goodness before him. Roscoe was seated on the barstool next to him, tucked up into his own omelet by the time Shawn found his voice.
He pushed little bits of peppers around his mostly empty plate. “The play’s really Equity?”
“It is.”
“Anyone else I know in the cast?”
Roscoe chewed and swallowed before he answered. “I don’t know.” He wiped his lips with a paper towel. “I haven’t cast it yet.”
Shawn gave him a full frown. “What?”
Roscoe didn’t look at him. “The casting call went out yesterday.
Auditions are end of next week.”
Shawn stared. “You came to me fi rst?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Roscoe gave in and set his fork down, turning on the stool to face Sawn. “One of my stipulations was that I chose my own Beatrice.”
“Are you doing this to get me back?”
26 Mykles ~ Much Ado
A black brow raised and equally black eyes drifted down and to the left. He shrugged. “If it works.” He was admitting it? “I don’t
believe
this.” Shawn hopped off his stool, fi ghting the swell to his heart that told him he was fl attered. “Are you serious?”
Roscoe sighed. “It’s not entirely like that. I got the offer from the Bard’s Festival. They gave me fi rst choice of scripts.” He shrugged. “Seemed like a good fi t.”
First choice. Which meant Roscoe’s play would headline.
Which meant an actor in the leading role would potentially get a nice bit of recognition out of it. Everyone who was everyone went to these festivals when they were close enough—which this one was. He could very easily get other roles off- or even on-Broadway as a result. “Do they know you’re planning on casting a guy as your leading lady?”
“They do. The gender bending is one of the themes of the festival.” He had Shawn’s glass of orange juice in his hand and took a sip. “I’m going one step further. I’m going to switch up the young lovers too.”
Despite himself, Shawn paused. When they’d done the play in LA for his college, Roscoe had only switched Beatrice and Benedick. “Hero and Claudio too?”
Roscoe nodded. “Switch up the romantic leads and see what happens. I came up with the idea back in LA, actually, but it was too late by then.”
Shawn stared. It was Roscoe’s fault that he’d ever tried on a dress. He still blamed Roscoe for getting him to like it. It had been Roscoe’s idea, back when they were student and teacher, to have Shawn play Beatrice. Shawn had been reluctant, but it had turned out terrifi c in the end. Still his best theatrical experience to date. He liked to think that the fact that their romance had begun at about the same time didn’t have anything to do with it. Shawn had moved to New York with Roscoe shortly after graduating.
They’d been happy.
Until…
ENCORE! ENCORE!
27
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re just trying to get me away from Ms. Tyken’s.”
The scowl turned down Roscoe’s mobile lips. “I’m offering you a job.”
“A
real
job.”
Roscoe hadn’t fallen into that trap the previous night, and he wasn’t going to this morning. Averting his eyes, Roscoe stood and picked up both of their plates. “See it as you like it.” Shawn followed him around the island so he could see Roscoe’s profi le as the taller man put dishes in the sink. “I see it as you trying to get me away from what I am.” Roscoe shook his head as he opened the dishwasher. A tensed muscle right underneath his ear was Shawn’s only sign that he was gritting his teeth.
“What? Say it. You want to.”
Roscoe leaned into the counter, gripping the edge. “What do you want me to say?”
“That you hate my job. That you think I’m wasting my life.
My talent. C’mon, give me the same old tired arguments.”
“Sounds like you know all the lines.”
“Fuck it.” Shawn turned on his heel. “I’m so out of here.”
“Shawn, damn it.” He caught Shawn’s arm halfway to the front door. “Don’t leave.”
He glared up at the man he loved. He could admit it in his head if not aloud. One year wasn’t enough to get over the feelings he had for this man. But that didn’t matter, did it? “I’m not sticking around so you can try and take over my life again.”
“I
never
tried to take over your life.” Some of the anger showed through in the gleam in Roscoe’s eyes. “But I still don’t think that a drag show is where you belong.”
“It’s what I
am
.”
“Wrong.” Fingers bit into Shawn’s upper arm. “You are
so
much more than that.”
28 Mykles ~ Much Ado
“Fuck you. The drag queens I work with have some of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen.” He yanked free of Roscoe’s grip.
“They’re fucking talented, no matter what you think.”
“I don’t doubt that for one second.” His words stopped Shawn’s tirade. He shook his head. “But
you
don’t belong as a drag queen.”
Icy cold froze Shawn’s veins. “What?”
Roscoe ground his teeth and released Shawn’s arm. “You want it? Fine. I saw your act. I’ve seen your act a few times in fact. It’s adequate.”
“‘Adequate’?” Fury iced over. He’d been Roscoe’s student.
He knew that “adequate” translated to “not so good” or even
“downright horrible.”
“You’re not a comedian, Shawn, and you’re not a variety performer. You’re an actor. You shine when you’ve got a script and stage direction. God, you can wring more emotion out of Shakespeare or Mamet than most of the actors in this town. But that just doesn’t translate well to a…”
“Two bit drag show?”
“I didn’t say that.” Roscoe reached up to clutch a hank of hair. “It drives me crazy to think of…” He bit off his words. He shook his head. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s just not your thing.”
Shawn waited but Roscoe chose to hold his tongue. This was different than the argument that had split them up. Back then, Roscoe said he was wasting himself. Now, he was saying Shawn just wasn’t any good. Shawn tried to dismiss his opinion, but Roscoe was a respected director. He’d even directed musical theater. Producers paid good money to have him use his talent of knowing which actor or performer was right for each role. He wasn’t often off his mark. He knew what he was talking about.
“Fuck you,” he said after a drawn out silence where he glared daggers at Roscoe and Roscoe contemplated the fl oor. “You fucking snob. Fuck you! I like what I do. I do! And my act is ENCORE! ENCORE!
29
good, damn it!”
Dark eyes lifted to gaze at Shawn, patently disbelieving.
“
Fuck
you!” Shawn spun for the door and this time Roscoe didn’t follow.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
The walk and the subway trip home didn’t help his mood any. He cursed Roscoe’s existence and kicked at every rock or suitably heavy object in his path. By the time he reached his drab apartment building, his mood hadn’t improved, but he had come around to the real problem.
Roscoe was right.
Shawn hadn’t been happy with his act for a long time. The shiny newness of it all had long since worn off. The lip syncing had been fun at fi rst, but now, months later, not so much. The open mike stuff, telling jokes and such, he really kind of hated, and always had. Oh, it was okay with the right audience, but those audiences were few and far between. Plus, coming up with jokes was just a nightmare. Amazing how much of a difference there was between that and being in a play. He’d always hated improv and always preferred interpreting a script. He was popular at Ms.
Tyken’s because he was young and cute, not because his act was particularly good.
Fuck Roscoe, anyway.
Only one of his roommates was home when he arrived, and Don barely looked up from his place on the couch before the TV. Much love there. Not that he could blame the guy. He hadn’t developed much of a relationship with either Don or Eddie, even though he’d been living with them for a year. The two of them were buddies because they worked together, but Shawn pretty much kept to his room, with only occasional bouts of sociability.
That, too, was strange. He’d been a social butterfl y most of his life. He’d had tons of friends in college, and quite a few while he’d lived with Roscoe. Now he spent most of his time at Ms.
Tyken’s or at other gay and drag bars around the city. He didn’t have any really close friends, just a bunch of buddies to hang
30 Mykles ~ Much Ado
out with. Dating had been superfi cial at best. Except for three strange nights since he’d left Roscoe, sex had been non-existent.
Sex night #1: Rhonda, a.k.a. Robby. Another drag queen, two months after he’d left Roscoe, and one week after he’d been hired at Ms. Tyken’s. The night had been a surreal mixture of makeup, lace and alcohol that Shawn only recalled in bits and pieces. He still saw Rhonda since they worked together, but neither of them had initiated a repeat performance.
Sex night #2: Max. A fan who’d fallen for Shawna. The night had consisted strictly of oral, on Shawn, since Max had problems getting it up. Nice but not something he wanted to repeat. Evidently, Max felt the same since he’d not been back to the bar since.