Authors: SE Culpepper
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Mark rasped. “Reid. Sean. Sean’s girlfriend. My folks. Your mom. Everyone together in this house.”
“It’ll be fun. We haven’t all been together at one time since the wedding,” he answered patiently. “Meeting up again for the anniversary party makes sense.”
“Let me repeat: Reid will be here.”
Zane grinned. “I’ll invite Sophia Kirkland.”
“He’ll kill you,” Mark pointed out bleakly, knowing this was a losing battle. “They had one date and I don’t think it ended w—”
“Mark,” Zane interrupted, sounding amused. “I love your family. You love your family. We all get along great. Do you think they bother me? Is that what’s holding you back?”
Mark closed his eyes and released a loud breath. “The Newlands are a lot to deal with. An intense bunch.”
The bed moved as Zane stretched across it to touch the tip of his nose against Mark’s. “So are the Whitlows—don’t forget you’re one of us now.”
Mark paused, bemused. “You’re right.”
Zane dropped a kiss on his brow and got up. “I’m always right,
Mr. Whitlow
.” He disappeared from the room and Mark heard him call down the hallway. “Breakfast! Then phone calls.”
“Great,” Mark grumbled to himself. “Reid’s probably going to burn this place down.”
***
Alarik could have slept in; it was the first morning in weeks that he didn’t have to be anywhere by eight o’clock. He couldn’t sleep, though. He was up with the sun, sitting out on the balcony that overlooked the same lawn and terrace where Mandy and Luke had pictures taken. The morning was surprisingly chilly and he was in sweats, legs stretched out in front of him as he drank a scalding cup of tea and tried to figure out what happened with Damon the night before.
He was unaccustomed to men
fleeing
from him in general, much less without some kind of provocation. Damon simply disappeared. One moment he was at Alarik’s side, and the next,
poof
…he vanished. He wasn’t in the ballroom, on the dance floor, in the lobby, or in the parking lot. Franco was too busy nuzzling at his wife to be interrupted for help in finding him, and when Alarik looked for Todd, he was disappointed again.
Damon left him with a fleeting smile before Luke tossed the garter and although he’d been hoping to spend more time one-on-one after the festivities, Damon hadn’t given him an opportunity to ask. Alarik didn’t have a number to call. The only thing he did know was that Damon worked at the family sporting goods store and he was supposed to open up shop this morning.
As soon as he finished his tea, he was going to shower, grab breakfast and drive to Ventura where Mandy had mentioned Damon lived. Alarik already looked up the sporting goods stores in the city, and the list was longer than he expected. He could rule out the well-known chain stores, yet, even so, he was left to cull though quite a few smaller businesses. Prepared to spend the day visiting each one until he saw Damon’s auburn hair and hideaway smile, he found
Wright Sports
at the bottom of the list.
Armed with an address, Alarik was going to give chase, like he’d told Mandy he wouldn’t. Although, this wasn’t about “a fuck.” Damon was worth one more shot.
The hotel offered a vast breakfast buffet and after looking over all the choices, he ordered an omelet and flipped through a copy of
Details
magazine while he ate. Brad Pershall, an actor with looks that eclipsed his chops on camera, yet who was gathering a larger following every day, was on the cover. Alarik’s friend, Claude, was the photographer.
Claude loved geometric shots with harsh angles. The cover was a desaturated close-up of Pershall’s jaw from below, displaying his perfectly manicured facial hair and bone structure. Pershall’s eyes were heavy-lidded, but open, staring downward into the camera lens and giving the impression of condescension, scorn. The images attached to the article itself were equally good, and each one managed to make Pershall appear more of a dick. He’d have to give Claude a call and see if he’d done that on purpose.
Alarik read through the article and snorted in derision at Pershall’s response to an inflammatory comment from the interviewer concerning Zane Whitlow.
When questioned about rumors circulating through the lobbies, hotel bar rooms and restaurants of Los Angeles, that his work of late is a tacit attempt to dethrone the reigning king of action and dramatic films, Pershall laughs, finishing his drink in one swallow. In the past, he’s been vocal concerning the influence of Zane Whitlow on his own career, yet, now, Pershall is nonchalant, noticeably silent. “So there is truth to the rumors?” I ask, and Pershall’s ready laugh rises once more.
“
No king reigns forever,” he eventually answers, his eyes taking in the bar from floor to ceiling. We’ve occupied our booth for more than an hour and been interrupted five times for Pershall to sign autographs. “Stars fall. I could be that fresh perspective the world never knew it wanted until it arrived…”
It remains to be seen if we, the public, are witnesses on the sidelines to the next big Hollywood coup.
“Rubbish,” Alarik growled. “Zane is at home laughing his arse off over you, Pershall.” He thought of Zane’s performance in
Sacrifice
, a stunning film from start to finish that would certainly get the nod from the Hollywood Foreign Press, the Screen Actors Guild and The Academy. When compared to Pershall’s latest—a laughable attempt at film noir that only those truly committed to the actor’s good looks could stomach for more than five minutes—it was clear where the talent really lay.
The article reminded him that he hadn’t seen Zane since the Entertainment Weekly photo shoot for
Sacrifice
—Alarik hadn’t been the photographer, but a scheduling fluke landed him in the studio a day before he was actually supposed to be there. He’d ended up having dinner with Zane and Mark. That was nearly six months ago.
On the road to Ventura, he put in his earpiece and dialed Zane. He thought he was going to have to leave a message when on the fifth ring, the famous, throaty voice answered.
“Are you kidding me? Is this phone call really happening?”
Alarik smiled. “Tis I, your
long
lost friend. Note the emphasis.”
“Oh, I noted it,” Zane answered softly, like he was trying to keep his voice down. The sound of a TV filtered over the phone from the background. “Where the hell are you?”
“Truth?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m in my very sensible compact rental car driving the lone road from Santa Barbara to Ventura. I am on the hunt.”
“For work?”
“On the contrary. For pleasure.”
Zane let out a hum of interest. “Who do you know in Ventura?”
“It’s rather about who I want to
get to know
in Ventura.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder to switch lanes. “I was at a friend’s wedding in Santa Barbara yesterday and a member of the wedding party caught my eye.”
“It wasn’t the groom, was it?”
“The Best Man.”
“Nice,” Zane laughed. “Was this the wedding for your girlfriend from New York? The one you were living with when we met?”
Alarik was impressed. “You remember everything, Whit. Yes, she married an All-American something or other. Quite nice. I can never remember what he does for a living, but I think it has to do with legal stuff when taking other people’s money and making it work for them. The Best Man—Damon, I shall call him—works with his family in Ventura.”
“Does he know you’re planning a visit?”
Alarik made a face because he knew Zane couldn’t see it and call him out. “No.”
Zane chuckled and Alarik heard him telling someone, probably Mark, who was on the phone. “Well, well, well. This isn’t like you, Alarik. Last I recall; you had a waiting list.”
“You know my rule,” Alarik said pointedly. “Never trust that they mean what they say when you’re behind the camera and they’re in front of it.” If anyone could understand what being used felt like, it would be Zane.
“I know the rule, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a waiting list.”
Alarik didn’t quite harrumph because harrumphing was something his uncle did. “I want to see him again. I’ll leave it at that.”
Zane, considerate as ever, changed the subject. “If you’re going to be in the area, you should have dinner with us. Mark’s got the flu, but it looks like he’s making a recovery. Maybe once he’s on his feet?”
“My schedule is pretty open for the next few weeks, so it might actually work.”
“You can try to bring your guy along. I won’t lie, it’s a surprise to hear what you’re up to with him.” Zane was carefully weighing his words as he spoke, like he didn’t want to accidentally upset Alarik.
“It’s overly generous to call him ‘my guy’ when I’m still working on calling him an acquaintance,” Alarik admitted, but then he smiled. “He likes me, though, and that’s why I’m taking my show on the road.”
There was a pause in the conversation because Zane was talking to Mark again. When he came back on the line, he had a plan. “Mark says Wednesday. I’ve got meetings in the morning, but the afternoon and evening are free. I’ll cook.”
Alarik laughed. “You mean you’ll grill.”
“I’ll serve it wrapped in newspaper if that makes you feel at home—are you coming? Should we put you down for two?”
Talking like this made Alarik picture what it would be like having a double date. The idea of Damon agreeing to go out with him made him squirm in pleasure.
“Put me down for two; I’ll see what I can do.”
He and Zane said their goodbyes just as the GPS squawked at him in her computerized version of a British accent. She wanted him to exit the 101 and turn right at the light. He did as he was told and five more minutes on the road brought him to a shopping center with ten different stores side by side.
Wright Sports
held court in the middle. A place called
Yo-Good! Frozen Yogurt
was on its left and a coffee shop was on its right. How Damon stayed in shape working betwixt the two, Alarik didn’t know; he was forever at war with his own sweet tooth.
A handmade sign hung beside the door of
Wright Sports
and announced that it was open for business. Alarik could see around the advertisement posters hung in the windows, and Damon was nowhere in sight.
Twice as nervous now as when he left the hotel, he got out of the car and tried to figure out what to say. A couple sitting outside of the coffee shop was watching him and he decided he’d simply have to go for it before he was arrested for loitering.
There was a bell hanging on the door to announce his arrival, but when he stepped inside, there was no one around. A voice greeted him from somewhere, perhaps the depths behind the counter. It was Damon.
“Be right with you.”
Alarik was sweating. His underarms were overloaded. Stress sweat. He stepped up to the counter and struck a Whitlow-worthy nonchalant pose, one elbow on a stack of advertisements for surfing lessons. He waited impatiently for Damon to stand, and when he finally saw the telltale signs of auburn hair and a red face from being crouched low behind the counter, the grin he was sporting fell away. Obviously he’d wanted to see Damon badly enough that the drive wasn’t an issue, but being there, in person, separated by only a few feet, Alarik realized how screwed he was.
I have a crush on you, Damon. And it’s baaaaad.
When Damon straightened, he was still focused on a clipboard holding a sheet of paper covered in numbers and columns. There was a pencil tucked behind his ear. Alarik wished for the camera that was currently resting in the front passenger seat of his car.
“Sorry,” Damon murmured, “can I help you find—holy shit!” He skipped back a step as his eyes lifted, and Alarik fought mightily to keep his expression neutral. “What are
you
doing here?”
Unsure how to take that question, Alarik pretended it wasn’t asked. “Mr. Wright.”
“You’re just here! In
Ventura
.”
Alarik nodded, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hand.
“Why?”
Cocking his head provocatively, he answered, “I woke up this morning and I realized I made a mistake last night. Since it will directly impact you, I thought it only right that I rectify the situation.”
Damon’s brows scrunched together as he stared. “Mistake?”
“Indeed.”
Tucking the clipboard against his chest, causing the sleeves of his red t-shirt to tighten over his arms, Damon waited, saying nothing.
I love red cotton, Alarik thought. Come, be mine and I will dress you in red cotton all your days…
“I drove to Ventura to tell you that I’m playing hard to get. I decided it was the only way to go. It wouldn’t do, you see, for me to drive down here and ask you out on a date and boldly declare my interest in your enigmatic and reserved demeanor, or tell you that your hair is the most perfect shade of auburn I’ve ever seen. It simply wouldn’t do.
Instead
, I am here to ignore you and drive you wild with questions about whether I’m interested in you, which I am, but you don’t know that yet, and I won’t tell you.”
As Damon listened, his lips slowly turned upward before he stepped backward again, putting more space between them. His expression shifted, the amusement hidden behind a thoughtful gaze even as his cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink.
Alarik was shaking and trying to hide it by tucking his hands in his back pockets. He was nowhere near as good an actor as Zane and nonchalance was proving more difficult to carry off than he’d imagined.
“You came all the way to Ventura to tell and
not
tell me this? To purposely leave me in the dark about these feelings of yours that I don’t know about?” Damon’s lips were lifting again.
Alarik turned and feigned interest in a mannequin’s torso clothed in a skin-tight athletic shirt. Good grief, male mannequin development had come a long way, hadn’t it?
“It’s cruel and an unfortunate game, Mr. Wright. Yet if I give away too much, too soon, it would be an embarrassment. You’ll have to forgive me because I’ve chosen to be alluring and semi-unattainable for the time being, in hopes that you will find me irresistible and return my regard, which you don’t know about yet, and I won’t tell you.”