Dead Man's Curve

DEAD MAN ’S CURVE

…Mick didn’t want to think of Spencer going down. He was too smart, too talented, too driven to travel that path. Mick silently vowed to do everything in his power to prevent it from happening, and ignored any implications as to why he felt that way in the first place. “Be grateful,” he said. “Sometimes, good things happen to good people for no other reason than luck. I’m not questioning how lucky I am Octavia thought of me when she read your script. We should just accept that, for once, the stars aligned themselves up perfectly for a change, and aimed us at each other until our lives colliding was the only remaining option.” All his little speech did was focus Spencer even more on him. Heat welled in the other man’s eyes, glowing bright in the obsidian depths until Mick’s flesh was forced to respond. He’d thought Spencer attractive from the start, but when Spencer looked at him like that, like nothing else in the world existed but Mick, the game changed. His nerves came alive. The urge to reach out and do more than touch swelled to almost overwhelming proportions. His traitorous cock forgot his personal credo never to get involved with someone in a current project, regardless of how many hours they spent together or how close they might get. He didn’t need to sit in this man’s house, eat this man’s food, with a raging hard-on he refused to do anything about, even if he thought Spencer might actually be interested. Spencer deserved more respect than that. Too bad it was all lip service. Rational thought meant absolutely nothing under that penetrating gaze…

ALSO BY VIVIEN DEAN Blood Of Souls Born To Be Wild Bridge Over Troubled Water Crave Interlude Ruby Red Rebels Still, Life What We May Be Wranglers: The Defense Rests Wranglers: Discovery Wranglers: Voir Dire

DEAD MAN’S CURVE BY VIVIEN DEAN

AMBER Q UILL PRESS, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com

DEAD MAN’S CURVE AN AMBER QUILL PRESS BOOK This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Amber Quill Press, LLC http://www.AmberQuill.com All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Copyright © 2009 by Vivien Dean ISBN 978-1-60272-619-2 Cover Art © 2009 Trace Edward Zaber

Layout and Formatting provided by: Elemental Alchemy

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

DEAD MAN’S CURVE

CHAPTER 1 He never expected to see Jesus stoned out of his mind. From the back of the theater, Spencer Szabo watched the stage through his fingers, listening to his Jesus drag out the big speech of Act One into something nearly unrecognizable. The kid had to have gone to the Ozzy Osborne School for Elocution, and then flunked out for taking too damn long to string a sentence together. What Spencer had written as a touching ninety-second monologue about loss of self had now stretched into its fifth, excruciating minute. No wonder Spencer had been banned from rehearsals. This wasn’t his Jesus anymore. He didn’t know who this guy was. Slipping out the door before curtain was easy. He’d been late in arriving, thanks to missing not one, but two trains from his 1

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apartment in Brooklyn, and now he would have the distinct pleasure of making the return trip knowing the work he’d slaved over for a year of his life was being hung, drawn, and quartered in a pretentious, overheated shoebox in the Village. “It’s perfect,” the little twerp had told him when he’d first shown Spencer the theater, crammed between a Thai restaurant and a gay bar known for its go-go dancers. “It’ll add to Olivia’s claustrophobia and make her hallucinations seem all that more real.” He should have added, And it’ll make everyone sweat buckets because I’m going to cast the most pivotal role with a pretty boy moron who can’t even sing “Happy Birthday” without forgetting the words. The tiny lobby was devoid of life, nothing stirring even in the black-and-white poster hanging next to the box office. Spencer stared at it with a scowl. Had anything gone right in this production? The play was about rediscovering life, the joy to be had in taking the plunge and stripping away all of your fear. Why would the playbill have an empty chair in silhouette on it? No color, no other symbols from the show, though at least they spelled his name right. Something to be said for small miracles. Light applause echoed from behind the closed doors, drawing his alarmed attention. Fuck. Intermission meant people streaming out for air and a cigarette. He might actually know one or two of them. The last thing he wanted was to endure poorly concealed lies about how great they thought it was going. He burst onto the sidewalk, his palm smarting from how hard he hit the door. He didn’t look to see who might be coming. He simply darted through a sudden throng of twinks streaming out of the bar and bolted for the subway entrance. 2

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A block away, his phone started vibrating in his pants pocket. He’d silenced it before sneaking into the theater, and though he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone right now, he couldn’t handle the constant reverberations against his balls. He ground to a halt and snatched it out. He only meant to turn it off, but the sight of Marcel’s name on the display changed his mind. Ducking into the entranceway of a closed electronics store, he put the phone to his ear. “Where are you, Spence?” Marcel sounded like he was shouting, but then again, he always sounded like he was shouting. The murmur of a crowd filled the background. “Why aren’t you at your own opening night?” “I was. I needed some fresh air.” Which was both true and false, the story of his life. “Well, get your ass back here. I’ve got somebody I need you to meet.” Marcel always meant well, but Spencer was just not in the mood. “I’m not interested in seeing your latest conquest—” “Oh, he’s not here for me. He’s here for you.” “That’s not any better. I’m not interested in getting laid tonight, either.” “You’re never interested in getting laid. I gave up on you actually being happy years ago.” “I’m—” Spencer stopped the common argument before it got into full swing again. The subject of his personal life was a sore one, one Marcel seemed to particularly delight at picking the scab on whenever he had the opportunity, his current assertions to the contrary. Spencer had the world’s worst record when it came to dating, or even casual fuck buddies, and just because he specifically chose to ignore his libido when he was in the middle of 3

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a project, that did not mean it was okay for his friends to take it upon themselves to counter that decision. “Why do I need to meet this guy?” he tried. “Because I’m warning you, I am in a really crappy mood.” “Because he loves Dead Man’s Curve, and he wants to talk to you about directing it.” Mention of his pet project did what he was sure Marcel had expected. Everything in Spencer went to full alert, his lassitude gone, all attention now firmly on the phone call. “Who is it?” “Ever heard of Mick Darby?” He thought hard for a minute before saying, “No. Should I?” “Maybe, maybe not. He did some really brilliant productions here about ten years ago before relocating to the West Coast. Taming of the Shrew set in the Old West? That revival of A Life in the Theatre with all the raves? Those were his. But anyway, he’s back now, and don’t ask me how, but he got a copy of your script, and next thing I know, he’s knocking down my door, telling me I have to introduce you two.” “How did he get my script?” “I just told you. I don’t know. But he did, and why the hell aren’t you here?” Spencer looked back down the street, toward the theater and the face of his current disaster. “You guys watched the first act and he still wants to meet with me?” “He still wants to meet with you,” Marcel confirmed. “Fuck it, hang on.” As Marcel’s voice became faint and the audience members hanging out around him grew louder, Spencer glanced at his watch. It was only a little after nine. He’d planned on being in Manhattan late anyway. If this guy Marcel was so excited about was serious, it 4

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certainly couldn’t hurt to arrange some kind of meeting, though the prospect of going back and sitting through Act Two made his balls shrivel up. “Mr. Szabo?” A voice like molten metal jerked Spencer out of his mental debate and commanded every hair on his body to stand on end. Even his balls had decided to come back out and play, all because of the hint of smoky sensuality inherent in those two words. “Yes?” “Mick Darby. I’m glad Marcel got a hold of you. I’ve been bugging him for a week to set something up.” A week? Spencer was going to have a long chat with his friend about his love for theatrics. He’d probably thought cornering Spencer on his opening night would lend a flair to the introduction. “Well, you’ve got me now.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cringed at how much it sounded like a line. This was why he got stuck with two-bit hacks like the Twerp and his slacker leading man. He needed to remember he was just as important to the man making the offer as the offer was to Spencer’s bank account. “What can I do for you, Mr. Darby?” “I’m hoping it’s something we can do for each other. Are you available to meet after the show tonight? I know it’s opening night and everything, but I’d love the chance to talk to you about Dead Man’s Curve.” “Well—” “It won’t be a waste of your time, I promise. If nothing else, you’ll get a free drink and an hour of adulation. And don’t tell me that’s not tempting. You wouldn’t be in this business if you couldn’t appreciate someone extolling your brilliance.” Spencer’s laugh was warm and genuine. Even outside the sexy 5

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voice, he liked this man. He lacked the self-importance that typified so many people Spencer knew in the theater world. “If you’re sitting through the second act of the show, you might have a change of heart on that opinion,” he said. “Is that why you’re not here? You’re tired of this particular work?” “No, I’m tired of people not getting it.” The confession surprised him. He didn’t know Mick Darby from a hole in the ground. He was probably scaring him off, even as they spoke. “I get it,” came the simple reply. “It’s not your fault you got an amateur director who’s more in love with his lead than your words. I’d apologize on behalf of my profession, but unfortunately, there are too many out there like this guy. I’d just be wasting my breath.” Though Spencer was all too aware that it was entirely possible Mr. Mick Darby was blowing smoke up his ass, he sounded so damn sincere, it was easy to forget they were in a business that was all about appearances. What else did he have to lose by meeting with the man? The night was already a wash. “Have you had dinner yet?” he heard himself asking. “No, I never eat before a show.” He chuckled, low and rich. “Even when it’s not mine.” “How do you feel about Japanese?” “Tell me you’re thinking of Kasadela, and I’ll even pick up the tab. I love that place.” Spencer froze. He had been thinking of the tiny restaurant, for more reasons than it was nearby. The excellent tapas were samplesized, which leant well to keeping a meeting short if necessary, without being expensive, and they had one of the best sake menus in the city. They would also be open late without catering too 6

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much to the Friday night party crowd, so conversations were always easy to conduct there. “You’ve caught me,” he said slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “But I’m not going to let you pay for everything.” He grinned. “We’ll make Marcel foot the bill.” The answering laughter went straight to his head. “Sounds like a plan. What time is final curtain?” “Considering how long Jesus is taking? Next Tuesday.” He wasn’t entirely sure he even wanted Mick to see the second act of the play. “You could always skip out and meet me now.” A bell rang in the distance, calling the audience back to their seats. “As tempting as that is, I really want to see the rest of this, Jesus notwithstanding. If you don’t come back, feel free to get a table at Kasadela’s. I’ll bring Marcel around after the show’s over.” “All right. I’ll see you there.” He disconnected with an unexpected smile. Act Two wasn’t that long. He’d take a leisurely stroll over to Eleventh, empty his thoughts of the unmitigated disaster currently playing onstage, and focus on finally having the project he’d dreamt about for the last three years see the light of day. It might not happen. He might only get an entertaining evening and some good food out of it. But it was more than worth fantasizing about. *

*

*

Kasadela was unexpectedly crowded when Spencer showed up on the doorstep, with a wait for tables. After putting his name down for a party of three, he retreated back to the sidewalk for some people watching to kill the time. Friday nights were perfect 7

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for that kind of thing. Next to hanging out in Central Park, it was his favorite method for finding new personalities to mine. There was nothing more inspiring than witnessing an unexpected scene, or spying a person who broke every mold out there, or overhearing a single line from a nearby conversation. Every time something caught his eye and ear, he pulled out his phone and made a note of it. He was tapping away on it, recording the details of a young woman who’d just crossed the street in search of an ex who’d apparently stolen one of her fish, when Marcel appeared in front of him. Or rather, bent sideways to poke his face between Spencer and his phone. Spencer snapped back, startled into fumbling. “How many times have I asked you not to do that?” he said, glaring. Marcel looked anything but apologetic. “Every time I find you stuck in your notes.” “I’m a writer. That’s part of my job.” “You could get one of those voice recorders.” “And be one of those idiots who look like they’re talking to thin air? No, thank you.” Marcel only smiled and stepped aside, gesturing for someone behind him to approach. “As long as I’ve got your attention now. Mick Darby, Spencer Szabo. Spencer, Mick.” They were shaking hands before Marcel finished the introduction, and though Spencer knew he murmured…something, later, he couldn’t remember exactly what. All he remembered was being dumbstruck by the man standing in front of him, and the charge that passed between their fingers when their hands met. Spencer was a solid six feet, but Mick was taller, broader, big 8

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enough all around to make Spence feel like a high school freshman around the school’s star quarterback. Wavy red hair swept casually off his square face, grown long enough to grace the top of his jacket’s collar. Laugh lines framed his wide mouth, with similar etchings at the corners of his twinkling hazel eyes, but more than registering how attractive Mick was, Spencer was lost in how familiar he seemed. Like they’d met before. It was entirely possible. Parties amongst New York’s theater folk were plentiful, and schmoozing was expected. It just didn’t feel like it was the face he was remembering. Mick was slow in releasing his hand, his smile still wide and friendly. “A little more crowded than you expected?” It took a moment to realize what he referred to. “Oh, yeah, right, but I got our name on the list. They should be ready for us any minute now.” As if he’d timed it that way, the petite hostess stepped outside and scanned the area, calling out, “Szabo? Party of three? Your table’s ready.” “Neat trick, that,” Mick said as they filed toward the front door. “Remind me to take you to all the busy restaurants I want to get into.” Spencer would have thought the good luck was the other way around, but there wasn’t space to say it as they followed the hostess to a small table near the back of the narrow restaurant. Lighting was dim—or in marketing terminology, intimate—and the bar decorated with row upon row of colorful sake bottles. He’d always liked how they contrasted with the rough brick wall, as if to whisper promises of civility in his ear while lashing his bare flesh with a rough branch. With knowledge of the man now following him still ripe in his 9

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thoughts, the conscious metaphor aroused him enough to be glad he was sliding onto a chair and hiding his crotch from immediate view. Marcel took the seat next to him, while Mick sat directly opposite, leaning forward onto his forearms like he couldn’t wait to continue their conversation from before. “I think you’re brilliant,” he said without preamble. “And I’m probably shooting myself in the foot by jumping in the deep end like this, but I really want to direct Dead Man’s Curve.” A sudden grimace overtook his features. “Just don’t hold that mixed metaphor against me. I’m normally far more intelligent than that.” “He is,” Marcel piped up, but the last thing Spencer needed right then was Marcel’s vote of approval. “How did you even get it?” He’d been wondering ever since the phone call. “Only three people have copies of the final draft, and the two of them sitting at this table didn’t give it to you.” He leveled a flat stare at Marcel. “Unless one of them lied to me, just to get me interested.” Marcel threw his hands up in the air in surrender. He was a tiny little Italian guy, with a fetish for tailored suits. Every time he did that, Spencer flashed on every mobster movie he’d ever seen. “I thought that project was dead in the water, I swear to God.” “You told me you liked it.” “I do. I just don’t think it’s very marketable.” “And I think he’s wrong,” Mick interjected. “I can even find producers for it, if you let me direct. You won’t have to worry about the production at all.” “That was my mistake this time,” Spencer countered. “And you still haven’t told me how you were able to read it. Did Octavia give it to you?” Octavia Comer was an actress who’d lived next door to 10

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Spencer ever since he’d moved in eight years earlier. She’d been popular in the sixties and seventies in the various musicals of the day, but she’d been smarter than most young girls. She’d known then she wouldn’t be able to trade on her great legs and pretty smile for the rest of her life, and invested every penny she earned. Now, she could afford to continue a small career in the business she loved, without having to worry about how to pay the rent or where the next role might come from. She’d been one of Spencer’s best friends almost from the beginning. When the ex-boyfriend who’d promised him forever had trashed their new apartment and left Spence staring at a bill from the landlord for the busted door and new moo shu pork stains in the carpet, she’d hustled him into her apartment, gotten him drunk, and made him laugh for the first time in months by helping him weave scenarios to publicly humiliate his ex that would never see the light of day. You couldn’t buy friends like that. That was the biggest reason he’d trusted her with the script he’d poured his heart into. A slow flush crept up Mick’s neck. “Octavia’s an old friend of mine,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the admission. “I cast her in one of my first shows. About a month ago, she called me in LA and said she had a script that was going to knock my socks off. Well, Octavia never sends me scripts. Hell, she’s usually the first one mocking the ones that are already out there, so I knew she had to be serious. I told her to send it, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just kept insisting that I read it. So I did.” “Why were you bugging Marcel for an introduction and not Octavia, then?” His color deepened. “I asked her first, but when she told me you hadn’t exactly given her permission to pass it around, I 11

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decided I didn’t want to make it look even worse for her than it already was. Don’t hold it against her. She only did it because she knew how I’d react.” Under other circumstances, Spencer might have been annoyed. But this was the first nibble of interest he’d had on the play. More than that, he was convinced Mick wasn’t a poseur trying to get in his good graces. He genuinely liked it, and felt bad for the deception. Unless the man could blush on command, which, if he could, meant he was definitely in the wrong profession. “What makes you so sure it’s marketable when Marcel doesn’t?” he asked. “According to the people he’s shown it to, nobody’s interested in C-list actors with death wishes.” “Hollywood would be interested if it was a screenplay, but they’re narcissistic that way.” “This isn’t Hollywood.” “Which makes it fresh. It’s not about an actor then. It’s about a kid who liked to have fun, and didn’t know what to do with success when he finally got it.” The waitress came around then, taking their sake orders, but Spencer bought them time from ordering yet. He was more interested in Mick’s take on the whole story. The food was good enough to distract them when it finally came out. He continued to play devil’s advocate. “New Yorkers don’t want to drop fifty bucks a seat to watch surfer boys.” “Maybe not,” Mick conceded. “But they sure as hell love stories that paint California less than perfect. And Kip Palmer was a victim of his own innocence. New Yorkers eat that shit up.” Spencer couldn’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. “You really like the idea, don’t you?” “No, I love it. I’ve been looking for a reason to get back to the 12

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stage, and I think this is perfect. I wouldn’t have turned down a deal with Paramount if I didn’t believe in it.” When Spencer looked at Marcel for confirmation, the other man nodded. Spencer whistled under his breath. It was one thing for Mick to love the script. It was something else entirely for him to drop his entire West Coast lifestyle just for the opportunity to direct it. The compliment was intoxicating. Hell, Mick was intoxicating. Spencer felt like he’d had a barrel of sake already. “I am not walking away from this,” Spencer said. “If I agree, this is going to be a partnership. I don’t want to be one of those writers who gets shuttled to the back row without any say in what’s going on.” Not again. Mick shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s obvious this means a lot to you. I’m not interested in stealing your vision. I only ask that you share it.” No deal had ever sounded so sweet, though experience told Spencer that was exactly why he should be wary. Production arrangements in this business were often built on clouds, crashing to earth with the slightest change in the wind. There was every possibility this would be exactly the same. In fact, odds were excellent this might be the very last time he ever saw Mr. Mick Darby, director extraordinaire. Spencer didn’t care. For a few hours, whether it dissolved by the light of day or not, he was going to believe in the vibrant ambition Mick exuded, and the deal he offered. The waitress reappeared with their drinks. He waited until she was gone before lifting his glass. “To sharing,” he said with a smile.

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CHAPTER 2 “What made you decide to write about Kip Palmer?” They sat in the back of the rehearsal space Mick had procured until the theater he wanted was available, sorting through the headshots of everyone who had shown up that day to audition. Spencer hadn’t seen Mick since the night at Kasadela ten days earlier, but that had been out of sheer necessity. The first thing he’d learned about Mick Darby the following day was that when he wanted something done, it happened. Mick’s attorney had shown up at Spencer’s apartment with a contract for him to review, two days later he’d returned with drafts of audition notices for Spencer to approve, and now a week after that, here they sat, trying to decide who would make callbacks. Mick had spent that entire time arranging the finances. 14

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Those were in a file in Spencer’s bag for him to review when he got home. Mick’s question distracted Spencer from staring at a pretty little brunette he could not for the life of him remember standing in front of them earlier that day. He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug and set the photo aside in the reject pile. If he couldn’t remember her, she must not have been good enough to stand out. “Lots of reasons, I suppose.” “Like what?” “He’s interesting.” “Nobody even knows who he is. I didn’t. I had to look him up after I read your script.” That didn’t surprise Spencer. Kip Palmer had made seven movies, six of them teenybopper beach flicks where he’d spent more time standing in the background with a surfboard than he did saying anything aloud. He wasn’t even credited in three of them. Spencer pushed away from the table to better focus on Mick. He was more interesting than ninety-nine percent of the actors they’d seen that day anyway. Sitting next to him the entire time had been torture. “Aren’t these questions you should have asked before tying yourself to my script for the next three months?” Mick’s easy smile widened. “You’re such a pessimist. You refuse to believe we’ll get extended.” “I’ve never had a show get extended.” Some of them even got canceled early, but considering it put the stoner Jesus out of his misery, Spencer wasn’t actually too upset about that most recent development. “You’ve never worked with me before.” Spencer gestured toward the piles of headshots they were both ignoring. “We haven’t actually done much working yet.” 15

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“This is working. As soon as you answer my question.” He should have known Mick wouldn’t let it go. He wasn’t even sure why he was so reluctant to reply, except he’d never really talked about it with anyone before. Marcel certainly didn’t know the whole story. He would have mocked his ass off. Octavia assumed it had to do with their movie nights, which it did in a way, but there was so much more to it than that, he’d never had the heart to tell her. Mick seemed completely sincere. And if anybody might understand, Spencer thought he was the one. “I noticed him in one of his movies first,” he said. “It was late, and I was sick with a really bad cold, so I was curled up on the couch watching anything I could find. I was dozing, so I wasn’t really paying too much attention, but then he said something inane like, ‘Who’s got the buns?’ and all of a sudden, I couldn’t stop staring at him.” “Sand and Surf.” Spencer did a double-take. “You’ve seen it? How? They almost never show it.” “You forget. I was living in LA.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “After I read your script, I tracked down prints of all his movies and had a marathon. I knew by the time the last reel finished, I was going to do your play, one way or another.” “Maybe I’m not the only one with an obsession.” Mick laughed. “Oh, see, now that’s the difference between us. I never claimed not to be obsessed.” “So what did you think of them?” For some reason, the answer mattered to Spencer. He had no idea why. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Mick was the first person he’d met in the industry in a 16

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long time whose opinion seemed to mesh so often with his own. Mick pursed his lips, considering his answer. “I think he was pretty. And I think it’s obvious he’s having fun in the films. But I’ll bet you gave him a lot more depth in your story than he probably had in real life.” The sudden, overwhelming desire to prove Mick wrong drove Spencer to his feet. “Come on,” he said, grabbing the headshots and stuffing them into the folders. Though Mick was slower to move, he began to help Spencer in gathering their audition materials. “Where are we going?” “My place.” “Gee, I thought you’d never ask.” “No, not for that.” Even if the fact Mick would joke about something more intimate occurring made his cock perk up and start paying attention. “I want to show you my research material. You should have copies of it anyway. It might give you some ideas for the show.” “I already have ideas.” “Well, maybe they’ll give you more.” Mick pushed his chair in and slung the now-full pack over his shoulder. “You really don’t want to know how crowded my head already is. It doesn’t need more stuff crammed in there.” Spencer contemplated the contents of Mick’s creative consciousness as they locked up and wandered out to the sidewalk. He’d been relatively quiet during most of the auditions that day, only speaking to greet and dismiss the various actors who’d shown up. Occasionally, some had asked for directorial advice, hints on how Mick wanted a part to be played, but the only response they got was, “You get that if you get a part.” A little superior—okay, a lot—but Spencer liked his nerve. 17

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According to Marcel and everybody else he’d pumped for information about the man, he had the talent to back it up. When Spencer started to head for the subway, Mick caught his elbow. “Let’s take a cab. It’ll be easier for us to talk that way.” It was easier for them to talk, yes, but it also put them in close enough proximity for Spencer’s thoughts to be filled with more than appreciation for Mick’s talents. He’d been too aware of the scent of the man’s shampoo and cologne through all the hours of sitting next to him at that tiny little table, though at least he’d had the stale odors of sweat and paint to distract him from more visceral reactions. There was no escape now. Shit. He really didn’t need this. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been attracted to somebody he had to work with, but Mick wasn’t just somebody, and this wasn’t just any production. Spencer wasn’t even completely sure he was gay, though he strongly suspected that Mick was at least bi. Mick shifted in the seat, angling toward Spencer so their knees now touched. That I’ve got a secret and I want to share it with you smile he liked to wear was already firmly in place. The charge he’d first felt when they shook hands shot through him again. He sincerely hoped he was getting better at stifling his obvious reaction to it. “Did you contact any of his family before you wrote the play?” Mick asked. “How extensive did your research get?” Easy questions and his favorite topic. Spencer slipped into lecture mode without missing a beat. “Kip Palmer doesn’t have any surviving family. His parents were killed the year he graduated from high school, and they’d emigrated from Czechoslovakia. Nobody came forward to claim his body after the accident, either.” “What about friends?” 18

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“I wrote to those that were in the tabloids with him, but I got the most help from his ex-agent. Arnie signed off on whatever I might want to use, so you don’t have to worry about getting sued or anything. The details I put in are public record, and none of the other characters are real people.” “The accident was real, though. And you put a lot of thought into the speculation there.” Spencer grinned. “Creative license.” “So was it the mystery of the whole thing that appealed to you?” Mick referred to the car crash that had ended Kip Palmer’s life. A one-car smash-up on a remote desert road with no skid marks, no other bodies, no signs of foul play. Just a convertible found upside down at the bottom of the ravine running alongside the bend in the road and a crushed actor beneath it. The first time Spencer had read about it, he’d had nightmares for weeks. “I think that might have been part of it,” he conceded. “I love the era, too. There’s an innocence to all those movies that you can’t find anymore. Not even on the Disney channel.” “You’re a romantic.” “Maybe.” “You’re not denying it?” He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. Today, even.” “You might want to get used to that. Actors who work with me have been known to get a little frustrated sometimes.” “Oh? Why?” “Because I’m as much of a perfectionist as you are a romantic. I have high standards that I expect my actors to reach.” Mick stated it simply, calmly, like a matter of fact rather than opinion. He didn’t sound necessarily proud of it, but he wasn’t 19

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playing it down, either. “I think you just expect others to work as hard as you do,” Spencer said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” “You might change your mind when it’s two in the morning and I’m demanding another run through.” “Ah, but I’m not one of your actors. I’m just the lowly playwright.” The cab coasted to a stop at the last light before the bridge. Mick broke away from the conversation to gaze distractedly out the front window. Sunlight glinted off his hair, tinting it goldenorange across his brow. The sudden image of him standing on a California beach, stripped to the waist, skin burnished and freckled from hours in the sun, filled Spencer’s head so completely, he almost smelled the salt of the ocean over the stale sweat of the back seat. He certainly felt the heat on his skin. The hair on his nape prickled to attention, followed swiftly by his cock. He had to shift forward, turning his attention away like Mick had, to try and will his erection away. They crossed the bridge in silence, each seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Spencer was glad for the reprieve, grateful for the time to figure out yet again how he was supposed to work side by side with Mick and not be a walking hard-on. By the time they reached his front door, he still didn’t have an answer, though at least his arousal had diminished. He waited on the curb as Mick paid the driver. “We should see if Octavia is in.” He lounged against the wall, watching Spencer slip his key into the lock. “I want to offer her Pinkie.” The possibility had crossed Spencer’s mind more than once, though it still surprised him that Mick was considering it. “That 20

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wasn’t one of her conditions in sending you the script, was it?” he joked, pushing the door open. “She told me she liked that part after she read it the first time.” Mick stepped past him, heading straight down the narrow corridor for Spencer’s apartment like he’d been there a million times before. It wasn’t until they walked past Octavia’s door that he realized, of course Mick had, though to visit their mutual friend instead. “I actually wondered if you’d written it with her specifically in mind.” He stopped outside Spencer’s, moving patiently out of his way. “It wouldn’t be the first time a writer’s done that.” “No, I didn’t, but I think Octavia’s a great choice if you want to go talk to her about it.” “Maybe later. I’m here for you right now.” Grateful his back was to Mick, Spencer pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Just drop your stuff anywhere,” he said, crossing straight to his desk. “Do you want something to drink?” “No, I’m good. Thanks anyway.” The springs groaned on his weathered couch. “This is a great place. I can’t believe how much room you have.” “One of the biggest advantages to living in an older building.” Pulling open the lower drawer, he extracted three thick hanging files. They weren’t all of his notes on Kip Palmer, but it was enough to get Mick filled in. He carried them over and held them out. “Here. You can keep those. I have it all on my laptop.” Mick’s eyes widened. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.” He flipped open the top folder. “You have newspaper articles, too?” Spencer settled in the black La-Z-Boy on the other side of the coffee table, kicking back to stretch out his legs. “I scanned everything I could get my hands on at the library. Those are just 21

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the ones I thought relevant enough to print out.” The sound of rustling papers occupied the next couple minutes as Mick thumbed through the stack. Spencer watched with a pounding heart, folding his hands across his stomach to try and quell their sudden trembling. Calling it an obsession hadn’t been far off the mark. From the first moment he’d seen Kip Palmer on his TV, he’d been transfixed. Oh, sure, the guy had been gorgeous, in that blond, All-American way Hollywood had favored back then, but that hadn’t been the only reason why. The second Spencer had learned he’d been killed at the age of twenty-four, for no rhyme or reason, and that life already intangible had been snuffed out for good, he’d needed to know why. He’d never really talked about it before. He’d hoped writing Dead Man’s Curve would get it out of his system. And it had, a little bit. But Mick’s enthusiasm for the project had brought it all back with a roaring vengeance, that ravenous craving for information, the need for some type of definitive closure. It was better when he could focus on the mechanics of the production, like casting and financials, but this was the first chance he’d had to sit down and discuss the heart of the entire matter, dust off the movies and the magazines and share his theories and feelings with someone new. It was absolutely, unequivocally terrifying. Worse than coming out to his parents when he was eighteen. Worse than moving out to New York after college and risking everything he had on a theater career. Worse than putting all his hopes in this one man, who looked like he could work miracles. “You should have been a director,” Mick commented out of the blue. He didn’t even look up from whatever he was reading. “I’ve seen production books that weren’t nearly this thorough.” 22

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“I believe in research.” He almost winced. That sounded lame, even to him. “And you said I can keep these?” “If you want.” He breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to calm his rushing nerves. So far, so good. Mick wasn’t calling him weird or crazy. Spencer knew his obsession was a little bit out there. Hell, he’d wished more than once that he didn’t give a damn about some stupid dead actor nobody even knew about. But then a new tidbit would come along, or a picture he’d never seen before, and the yen to keep on digging would surge back in control. “But that stuff’s the reason I don’t think you’re right about him not having depth. Everybody has depth. It’s just a matter of how far you mine for it.” When Mick glanced up at him through his lashes, he was smiling again. “That attitude is exactly why I think you’re a brilliant writer. You people watch, don’t you? Of course, you do. You were doing it outside Kasadela the night we met. But you’d be surprised how many people don’t, especially in this town. They have their insular little worlds, and if it doesn’t affect them directly, they don’t want to know about it.” “Not everybody’s like that.” “Oh, I know. Some people care enough to notice. Or they’re interested in more than their own navel. But not enough. And definitely not very many with the talent you do to bring them to life.” The compliments always lit a fire deep within his belly and made everything else dissolve away. The more time he spent with Mick, the more he wondered how the other man knew exactly what to say, or what to do, or when not to speak at all. If nothing else, he sincerely hoped he had a friendship with Mick Darby when they 23

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were done with the show. He could use someone like him on his side, especially when the juices might not be flowing. “Do you want to get some dinner?” he blurted. When Mick’s brows shot up, he hastened to add, “We’ve still got to finalize the callback list. It could be a long night.” Mick’s surprise smoothed out. “You want to order something in?” “Or I could cook. Your pick.” “It’s been a while since I’ve had a guy cook for me.” A wicked twinkle appeared in his eyes. “All right. I’m in.” “Good. I’ll just go see what I’ve got.” As he hustled into the kitchen, listening to Mick settle in with the files again, he realized Mick had specifically said a guy. All those signals could be the real deal, after all. That didn’t necessarily mean he was interested in Spencer making any kind of a move, but it was another check in the plus column on things they had in common. Friendships had been based on far less.

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CHAPTER 3 The smell of ginger still drifted from the kitchen, though the remains from dinner were long gone. Mick watched the entrance through heavy-lidded eyes, silently willing Spencer to give up on the dishes and emerge. If he wasn’t so full, he would have gone in there to drag the man out, but he’d eaten two and a half helpings of Spencer’s chicken stir fry, and the thought of moving from his comfortable position on the couch made him feel like belching. His mind powers of persuasion were apparently on the fritz, since the doorway remained empty. With a frown, Mick slid his gaze to the bulging files on the coffee table instead. Nope. Telekinesis wasn’t working, either. They refused to jump into his waiting hands. “Are you sure you don’t want dessert?” Spencer called out 25

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from the kitchen. “I’ve got ice cream.” Mick groaned at the prospect of more food. “No, I’m good. Are you sure you don’t want some help cleaning up?” Please say no, please say no, please say no. “I told you. You’re my guest. Guests don’t clean in my house.” Mick sagged with relief, only to stiffen again when Spencer finally did appear. He looked absolutely scrumptious, his dark brown hair standing up in wild shocks, sweat glimmering on his brow. He threw himself into his cooking like it was a full contact sport. Cleaning up was going to take forever because Mick was pretty sure he’d used every pan he owned to cook dinner. But that sort of drive wasn’t atypical, Mick was learning. The research he’d done on Kip Palmer was proof of that. The multitude of questions he’d asked during auditions was even more. Intensity seeped from the man, from his pores to the near-black pierce of his eyes. When he looked at Mick with that knowing gaze, Mick might as well be pinned to the wall for as much as he could move away from it. “If you’re bored, you could always go talk to Octavia about the part,” Spencer said. “That way, we can know one way or another whether we can cross Pinkie off our list.” It was practical, it solved the problem of thinking too much about Spencer, and it helped them make headway on their work for the night. The only problem with the suggestion at all was that it required Mick to get up and actually move. He didn’t want to dismiss the idea, though. He wanted Spencer to feel like he was contributing. This was his pet project, and after the fiasco with his most recent production, he deserved it. “Does she still have the copy you gave her?” Somehow, Mick managed to roll to his feet, though it was gratifying to watch Spencer’s eyes track every inch. “If she says yes, you know she’ll 26

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want to start deconstructing her part right away.” “As far as I know.” He disappeared back into the kitchen, releasing Mick from his entrapment. “Make sure you tell her you have to come back here to work, or you’ll get stuck over there all night.” He didn’t need the reminder. He knew all too well how much Octavia could talk when she had free rein. Octavia answered on the first knock, throwing the door open as wide as her smile. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to drag your ass over here.” Her long, slender fingers grabbed his wrist and tugged him over the threshold, the cloud of her soft floral perfume wrapping around him in a welcome embrace. She paused before closing the door, stepping past him to look down the hall. “Where’s Spencer?” “Cleaning up. He wouldn’t let me help.” Octavia snorted. “Because that one’s all about the control. You two are a match made in heaven.” As the door closed behind him, Mick let out a long sigh of relief. Nothing had changed in the decade since he’d last been to Octavia’s apartment. She still had every available surface covered with fake flowers—because the real ones always died too fast on her when she’d been working six days a week—and there was still Gershwin playing in the background. The couch was new, but it was still overstuffed and ready to make you disappear when you sat down on it, and there, proudly displayed on the wall, was every playbill from every show she had ever appeared in. He couldn’t even see the pale yellow paint behind them. Octavia hadn’t changed either. Her blonde hair was cut short and tucked behind her ears, her brown eyes warm. She wore white pants and a black tank top, with a sheer yellow gauzy tunic to hide 27

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the effects of aging. There were a few more age spots mottling the backs of her hands, a few more lines along her cheekbones, but she was still as radiant now at seventy-one as she’d been at sixty-one, and fifty-one, and he would bet, at twenty-one. He flopped down in the corner of her couch and promptly undid the top button of his pants. He’d been dying to loosen them in Spencer’s apartment, but that would’ve sent the wrong message all the way around. Not that Octavia looked very thrilled about him doing it here, either. She slapped at his arm as she took a seat next to him, folding her legs beneath her. Briefly, he wondered if she suffered from arthritis or problems with her joints after all her years dancing, and then dismissed the worry when he realized she’d chide him for fussing over her. “We’re working on the callback list tonight,” he said. “So I can’t stay long.” Her fine brows arched. “You don’t already know who you’re going to cast? You’re slipping.” “Oh, I know. Mostly. But I promised Spencer he could be a part of the process. He doesn’t need to know I don’t normally do callbacks.” “You should be honest with him. He won’t like it if he finds out you’re holding back.” “I’m not babying him. I’m giving him something to do.” “And what if he doesn’t like who you like?” Mick scowled at her. “Why are you being so negative?” “I’m not. I’m making sure you don’t mess this up.” Rolling his eyes, he settled his head against the back of the couch and let his eyelids droop shut. It was warm in Octavia’s 28

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apartment, maybe a little too warm. He had to be careful he didn’t fall asleep, but he wasn’t quite ready to open his eyes just yet. “Spencer and I have been agreeing on almost everything so far,” he said. “I don’t have any reason to think the cast will be any different from that.” “It better not. He loves this script.” “I know. He showed me his research. I’m taking home three of the thickest folders I’ve ever seen.” “Only three?” The incredulity in her voice prompted him to look at her with a frown. “He likes his subject matter.” “Did you tell him why you want to do it yet?” “No.” He pointed a finger at her. “And you’re not going to, either.” “He should know.” “It’s not important.” “It’s not…are you kidding? You left town because of how important it was.” “I left town because I was burned out and wanted a change.” Her knowing gaze never wavered. “And ran straight to the one place you might actually get some answers. Spencer should know.” “All Spencer needs to know is that I love his script, and I’m going to put on the best production he’s ever seen. End of story.” “Maybe it’s only the end of act one. What about act two?” “Jesus, Octavia…” As full as he was, he couldn’t just sit there and listen to her continuous prodding. He pushed himself back to his feet and started wandering around the room, looking at everything but her. “None of that meant anything. I wish you’d let it go.” “If it didn’t mean anything, why did you race back to New 29

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York?” “Because Spencer’s play is fantastic? Because I was tired of LA and wanted to get back into some real theater, maybe? Definitely not because I stupidly got drunk with my cast one night and let them suck me into some New Age crap that means absolutely nothing in the real world.” She glared at him. “It’s important.” “It’s weird.” “Not to millions of people around the world.” It felt like she wasn’t even listening to him anymore. He should’ve known better than to come over, though he’d sincerely hoped she’d forgotten about all of it. Foolishly, perhaps, since she’d deliberately sent him the script because of its subject matter, but the fact that he was here now, that he was throwing his reputation behind this production, should have counted for something. “I don’t care about millions of people around the world,” he argued. “I care about me, and my place in it, and for the time being, Spencer’s and my cast and crew.” “Aha!” It was her turn to jab a finger in his direction. “So you admit it. You care what happens to him.” “Because he’s my friend,” he said slowly, as if he were talking to a child. Maybe he was. Maybe Octavia had finally lost it. “I like the guy. There’s nothing wrong with hoping he doesn’t go out and get hit by a bus.” “Or…what kind of car was it?” “A ’58 Chevy Impala.” He stopped in his tracks, suddenly furious. “Stop it. All that means is that I’ve been buried in Kip Palmer crap ever since I read the script. Not that I remember it from some fake past life memory.” 30

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“Oh, of course.” Her smug look said otherwise. “Though I personally think Spencer would think it’s fascinating.” When he tightened his mouth in warning, she held up her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, you don’t want to tell him, that’s your business. I’ll let it go.” “And you promise not to say anything to him yourself?” She sighed heavily, overly dramatic even for her. “I promise.” He didn’t actually feel any better about it, but at least the immediate threat was gone. Rubbing at his stomach, he wondered if Spencer would be done cleaning yet. They still had a lot of work to do yet that evening. “Get used to that stuffed feeling,” Octavia said. “Spencer loves to cook, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at him.” “We’re going to be too busy for him to spend much time in the kitchen.” He glanced at his watch. “I should get back. Can I tell him you’re going to play Pinkie?” She smiled. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually asked. They had both known when she’d first sent him the script he was going to let her have it if she wanted it. “Sure. Give Spencer a kiss for me.” He left with a smile and a shake of his head. Octavia could try and play matchmaker all she wanted. Mick had every inclination— and reason—to keep his relationship with Spencer as professional as possible. *

*

*

Closing the production book and pushing it away, Spencer leaned back in his chair and let out a deep breath. “I think we’re actually done,” he announced. 31

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In spite of his better sense, Mick smiled. “And not a stoner Jesus in the bunch.” He’d played it for a laugh, but though Spencer chuckled softly, it wasn’t quite the reaction Mick wanted. He’d been tense ever since Mick’s return, working with swift efficiency as they’d gone through the various headshots. Mick had the overwhelming desire to break down that stiffness and get back the gregarious man he’d spent an amazing three hours with at Kasadela. Somehow, that was a greater imperative than finalizing the callback list. Yet, inexplicably, he’d failed. “Look,” Spencer started, then stopped, grimacing as his brain caught a hold of his tongue. His fingers ran along the edge of the production book, back and forth, back and forth. He rarely stopped moving. Too much energy, perhaps, or fear of what might happen if he did. “Is there something you’re worried about?” Mick prompted. If they had to talk the whole damn night, he would get to the root of whatever was eating at Spencer. They had months of working together, and it was difficult enough facing the man when he was at ease. Worked up, the intensity about him that defied escape honed into a weapon Mick just knew would be deadly. “I’m not worried.” His hands said otherwise. But then he lifted those black eyes to meet Mick’s, and any thought he might have entertained of fleeing and letting Spencer work out his problems on his own disintegrated. “I want you to know how much I appreciate this. Letting me be a part of the process. I know it’s…unusual.” “Directors work with writers all the time.” “Do you?” He wasn’t entirely comfortable with where this was going. “Well, I haven’t done a lot of new work. Most of the playwrights I 32

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stage are either moldy in the grave or too much of a big shot to care about a small-time guy like me.” “You’re not small-time.” Though every inch of his skin felt like an inferno beneath Spencer’s piercing gaze, Mick managed to deepen his smile. “That’s a matter of perspective.” “No.” Spencer’s denial was vehement, a blast of energy that rolled across the table and slammed into Mick’s gut. “I did my research on you. This is the first time you’ve ever actively collaborated with the playwright. The first time you’ve staked your reputation on something not tried and true.” He rubbed a hand over his head, mussing his dark hair into more shocks that epitomized his aroused emotions. Mick wondered if he always lived this close to the edge of his feelings, or if it was something anomalous to this particular project. “I don’t know if I should be grateful for finally getting a stroke of good luck, or worried about what it might actually mean.” Mick sincerely doubted Octavia had breathed a word about the past life crap, not after her grilling in her apartment. This had to be stemming from a deep-seated fear that the rug was about to be yanked out from under his feet. It wasn’t unusual amongst creative types, not just theater people. He’d seen it in LA, at the studios, with the actors he met. Techies weren’t quite the same. They dealt with the physical world. A light was a light was a light, no matter if the tech had a premonition about a bad day or felt inspired. But those people who created art from nothing, whose livelihoods depended on others responding to their work in positive and lucrative ways…well, there was a reason why so many people were crazy. It was a shitty way to live, in constant need of approval, never knowing for sure what the next day would be 33

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bring. Those who survived in the business did so because they could dissociate enough to see it as something external from themselves. Those who went down invariably never learned that lesson. He didn’t want to think of Spencer going down. He was too smart, too talented, too driven to travel that path. Mick silently vowed to do everything in his power to prevent it from happening, and ignored any implications as to why he felt that way in the first place. “Be grateful,” he said. “Sometimes, good things happen to good people for no other reason than luck. I’m not questioning how lucky I am Octavia thought of me when she read your script. We should just accept that, for once, the stars aligned themselves up perfectly for a change, and aimed us at each other until our lives colliding was the only remaining option.” All his little speech did was focus Spencer even more on him. Heat welled in the other man’s eyes, glowing bright in the obsidian depths until Mick’s flesh was forced to respond. He’d thought Spencer attractive from the start, but when Spencer looked at him like that, like nothing else in the world existed but Mick, the game changed. His nerves came alive. The urge to reach out and do more than touch swelled to almost overwhelming proportions. His traitorous cock forgot his personal credo never to get involved with someone in a current project, regardless of how many hours they spent together or how close they might get. He didn’t need to sit in this man’s house, eat this man’s food, with a raging hard-on he refused to do anything about, even if he thought Spencer might actually be interested. Spencer deserved more respect than that. Too bad it was all lip service. Rational thought meant absolutely nothing under that penetrating gaze. 34

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“That doesn’t necessarily mean you want or need me in your shadow,” Spencer said. “And I told you. You’re not looking at it from my perspective. You’re right this is a first for me. Which means I’m terrified as hell at failing. Having you around is a crutch, Spence. If I don’t like something, I have somebody to work with to fix it. Somebody who knows this play better than I ever could. Somebody who has the same vision I do.” He chuckled. “So maybe, yeah, I do have an ulterior motive in asking for your direct assistance with this. I don’t want to fall flat on my face. But that’s as sinister as I get. Trust me on that.” When Spencer glanced at the production book, the bonds holding Mick in place eased, if only for the seconds Spencer set him free. “We did seem to work together pretty well on the callback list,” he mused. “We did.” Mick latched onto the acknowledgment and ran with it. “That’s the vision I’m talking about. We see Dead Man’s Curve the same. I knew it when I read it. So all you have to do is trust what we’re doing here, and let the rest of it go. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the play.” He could practically hear Spencer repeating the words in his head. Did the man realize his face was an open book? Mick was surprised Octavia hadn’t commented on it. But he saw the exact second Spencer decided to accept Mick’s argument, the most minute shifting in his muscles, a line smoothing in his jaw. His hand slowed and then stilled, resting lightly on the table instead of mapping every hard surface atop it. He even smiled. Mick could get used to that smile. “I hope I don’t drive you insane by the time we open,” Spencer 35

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said. “Though I’m starting to think I might drive myself crazy before that happens.” “I won’t let it.” “You might not have a choice.” Mick shook his head. “We always have a choice. If I teach you anything before this run is over, that’ll be it.” Spencer’s gaze slid back, softer than before, no less breathtaking. “I’d bet there’s a lot you can teach me.” And vice versa. But there was no way Mick dared to utter that sentiment aloud. He had a feeling he was already over his head anyway.

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CHAPTER 4 Jeremy Jacob was nearly perfect. When he walked into a room, heads turned. Spencer knew that for a fact, because that had actually happened when he strolled into the callbacks like he wasn’t up for the lead in his first off-Broadway production. He had cheekbones to cut glass, dimples like the Grand Canyon, and blue eyes that seemed completely without guile. They came atop a long, lean, muscled body, showcased at the callback in a simple white Tshirt and jeans slung so low on his hips, Spencer kept expecting to get a glimpse of a perfect ass every time he turned around. Best of all, with his blond hair swept back and slicked down, Jeremy had a close enough resemblance to Kip Palmer to make the hair stand up on the back of Spencer’s neck. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man. Jeremy probably wasn’t 37

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surprised in the slightest when he got offered the part. Mick didn’t seem to have the same difficulty. He treated Jeremy just like any of the other actors, with a friendly but distant firmness that was nothing like the man Spencer knew in private. As soon as someone else came into the room, a wall came up. The director looked like Mick Darby, and he smiled like Mick Darby, but the man who said good night to the cast at the end of their first read-through was not Mick Darby until it was just him and Spencer again. Then, the light came on again. The barrier came down. Mick talked to him like they’d been friends for years instead of days, and hours disappeared on Spencer until he was forced to realize it was time for them to part ways for the night. Again. The New York night was chilly, a slight breeze stippling down the narrow street as they emerged from the rehearsal space. Spencer pulled his jacket more closely around him and waited as Mick locked up. The pale streetlight cast spectral shadows across Mick’s skin, washing out his freckles and natural color, but the eyes that turned back to him danced with their usual humor. “I’m wired. Tell me you don’t want to go home.” Spencer blinked. “Why?” “Because I need to work off some of this energy, and it would be better if I had a friend with me so I didn’t do something stupid.” Mick bounced on the balls of his feet, more hyped than Spencer had ever seen him before. “You don’t get a rush the first time you hear the whole thing out loud? All stripped down, no bullshit, no worries about blocking, no nightmares about a lighting grid that wants to malfunction or a sound system that shorts out whenever someone goes stage left. It’s just you and the words. Don’t tell me that doesn’t make you a little high.” 38

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He hadn’t really thought about it like that. “I think I was too worried someone was going to speak up and say it’s all crap.” Mick waved him off with a dismissive grimace. “Not one of my actors. They try that, I’ll kick them out. If they can’t respect the work, they can’t play it.” “Even Jeremy? He’s perfect for Kip. We’d spend weeks trying to find someone better.” “Maybe to find someone who looked like Kip as much,” Mick conceded. “But no, Jeremy’s just as expendable as anybody else. If I had to recast with someone who wasn’t a close physical match, I’d just remind everybody that they’re actors, and it’s their job to convince the audience they are who they say they are, regardless of makeup.” He grinned. “Actors hate it when you do that.” It amazed Spencer how much of this was a game for Mick. Sure, he loved the theater. That was evident in all the hard work he threw into the production book before they ever set foot inside the rehearsal space. He belonged with the stage like a fish needed to be in water. But that didn’t stop him from seeing it as what it was. A show. Spectacle. An escape for those who would eventually plunk down their money to rent a couple hours of the cast’s time. He envied that attitude. How much he would love to be able to let it go, when the walls pressed in and he couldn’t see past the need to get it done, get it up there, get it out. “What are you going to do?” he asked. Because the temptation Mick presented was great. It always was. “I don’t know. A club? No,” he answered for himself, though Spencer didn’t know if that was because he genuinely didn’t want to go, or because Spencer made a face at the notion. “That’ll be lame on a Monday night.” “If you want to go to a club, don’t let me stop you.” 39

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“No, no, I want to do something we’d both like. I’ve got too much energy to just go home and crash for the night, and you’re already here…” His voice trailed off, his smile fading. “Unless you don’t want to hang out.” He actually sounded disappointed at the prospect, enough so to awaken every protestation Spencer could muster. “No, I’d love to hang out. I’m just not sure I have the energy to face a club tonight.” He wracked his brain, trying to think of what he did in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. “What about a movie? We could find a midnight show of something.” It was Mick’s turn to grimace. “That requires sitting still. I’ve got too much adrenaline for that.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go to the Chelsea Bar and shoot some pool. We can talk, have a drink, and I can work some of this off so I can actually get some sleep tonight.” Spencer suppressed a smile. “Well, pool sounds like fun, but the Chelsea Bar is out. It got a snobby makeover, and now goes by the name of Slate. You have to have a name like Jerry Seinfeld to get in there now for a casual game.” “Really? Damn. I was only gone for—okay, I was gone for a decade, but still.” He looked up and down the road. “There’s got to be someplace to play around here, though. Even just a bar with a table.” He started moving before he’d stopped speaking, leaving Spencer no choice but to jog and catch up. Part of him was thrilled at the possibility of spending some time with Mick that had absolutely nothing to do with the play. His cock was certainly excited about the idea. He would have even gone out with him to a club, if that was what he’d really wanted, just to get those few extra minutes. There was a smaller part, though, that was more 40

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than a little scared, afraid of doing something wrong to ruin this budding friendship. Mentally, he chided himself for overthinking it all, but he wanted this relationship too badly to fuck it up for anything. A window in a bar around the corner proudly announced its pool tables in brilliant orange neon. Mick shot a brilliant smile over his shoulder before yanking the door open, holding it wide for Spencer. “After you,” Mick said with a sweep of his arm. Heat reddened his cheeks as he crossed the threshold, more out of his thumping excitement than the blast of warm air that greeted him. Mick’s enthusiasm was contagious. He almost thought he could stay up all night, just off the adrenaline bleeding from Mick’s skin. But as he swept his gaze over the room, in search of the advertised billiards, he locked on a familiar profile. As if he felt Spencer’s attention, Jeremy Jacob paused in midswig of his beer and turned his head toward the door. A brilliant smile split his features. “Hey!” His voice carried over the music playing from unseen speakers. Spencer had the random thought that kind of projection boded well for the play and how well the people in the back row would be able to hear Kip’s big speech. As Jeremy wound through the tables, his smile stayed firmly in place, getting brighter and brighter with every step he got closer. “If I’d known you two were heading here tonight, I would’ve stuck around after rehearsal and walked over with you.” Mick’s sudden presence at Spencer’s side took him by as much surprise as Jeremy had. “This wasn’t planned.” If Jeremy picked up on Mick’s cool tone, it didn’t register. “You want to come over and shoot some balls with us?” 41

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“Thanks, but we were hoping for a private table.” Jeremy snorted. “You’ll have to wait then. There’s only three, and there’s already a wait.” He retreated a step, and gestured with the beer he still held, inviting them closer. “Come on. We just finished a game. One of you can play the winner.” Mick’s reticence to socialize with his actor wasn’t unexpected. Clearly, he had some kind of line he drew in the sawdust to keep his relationships professional. So when he accepted the offer with a smile and a promise to come over as soon as they got drinks, Spencer’s surprise ratcheted up another notch. “You don’t mind if I play him first, do you?” Mick asked as they made their way to the bar. “Maybe it’ll only take one game for me to relax, and then we can find someplace a little more private.” He liked the idea of that more than he was comfortable admitting. Why he slipped under Mick’s wall, he had no idea, but he wasn’t going to argue with it. All he could manage to say was, “Whatever you want.” When they came over with their beers, Jeremy handed Mick a cue. “New guy gets to go first.” The smile he leveled at Spencer was dangerous. So was the distance he stole between them. “We can finally get a chance to talk while they play.” Mick frowned. “I’m not playing you?” With a laugh, Jeremy swung a casual arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “Are you kidding? I suck.” He pointed with his bottle at the wiry, bald guy at the opposite end of the table. “You’re playing Rakesh.” His arm tightened, his hard body pressing more into Spencer’s side. “But don’t worry. I’ll take excellent care of our resident genius.” He couldn’t break Jeremy’s hold without creating a scene, 42

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though the frown on Mick’s face made him momentarily willing to risk it. Jeremy guided him to a small nearby table, relieving him of his backpack with all their production notes before Spencer could object. “I have been dying to talk to you ever since the auditions.” Jeremy straddled the chair next to him, leaning across the back to rest his chin on his arms. “You must know a lot about Kip Palmer to write a play about him.” Spencer smiled. It was either a line or Jeremy wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. He was inclined to believe the latter. “I did my research.” Pool balls cracked loudly behind him. Spencer glanced back to see Mick lining up a shot into a far corner, the cue startlingly small in his grip. Their eyes caught, and the corner of Mick’s mouth lifted. Spencer’s blood surged from the charge that seemed to pass between them. “Do you have copies of his movies? I checked out Netflix, but they didn’t have most of them. And Google was a bust.” Jeremy’s query pulled his reluctant attention back. “I have tapes from where I recorded them off TV,” he replied. “I can let you borrow them if you want.” “Or maybe we could watch them together. I’ll bet you have great insight into him, what makes him tick, that kind of thing.” The suggestive tone of his voice made Spencer do a doubletake. Clearly, his assumption had been wrong. Jeremy was smarter than he looked, because that sure as hell sounded like a come-on. “It’s Mick’s insight that matters,” he said, testing his theory. “My job is already done.” “Oh, no way. You’re in it as deep as I am. More so, considering you’ve got Mick’s ear.” He jerked his head toward the 43

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table, though he didn’t look away from Spencer. “The way I see it, you’re the one with the inside scoop on how to make Kip Palmer come to life. Your brain is the one I want to dig into.” He grinned, a mixture of innocent kid and seasoned seducer. “Or any other part of your body you’d be willing to share.” No more mistaking his intent now. It didn’t get much more blatant than that. Spencer was actually a little flattered by the attention. Not only was Jeremy a gorgeous specimen of a man, he was at least a dozen years younger than Spencer. Spencer wasn’t deluding himself, though. Jeremy wasn’t as interested in him as he was interested in furthering his career, and Mick was clearly not going to be as easy a target as Spencer. This flirtation was about cementing his place, and maybe conniving introductions to other professionals otherwise beyond his reach who might be able to help him make it big. It wouldn’t be the first time an actor saw him as a stepping stone. It wouldn’t even be the first time Spencer had let himself be seduced into the game. It would, however, be the first time he felt like indulging the affair would be a tremendous mistake. No. More than that. It felt wrong. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling his age. “What’s the point of all my research if I don’t share it with the person who’d benefit most?” He should get up and walk away. He knew he couldn’t go through with this, but tearing his eyes away from Jeremy was proving far more difficult than it had been in rehearsal. Jeremy tilted his head, resting his cheek upon his folded arms. His blue eyes invited Spencer closer, the position all too much like a lover sprawled alongside you in bed. He’s an actor. This is what he’s trained to do. Manipulate his audience, even if it’s only an audience of one. But not even the careful reminder was enough to 44

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make Spencer retreat. He couldn’t get nearer, he couldn’t back away, he was stuck in this formless limbo, wondering when he’d lost control of everything he knew. “Do you have anywhere to be after this? No reason we can’t start as soon as possible.” “It’s late.” “I don’t have to be up early if you don’t.” “That’s not—” “Oh, shit.” Jeremy suddenly straightened, shoulders back, body tense. “You have a boyfriend. I should’ve known a great-looking guy like you would be taken.” “No, I don’t.” His denial helped Jeremy relax, though he still seemed flummoxed. “So what’s the problem? I thought you were interested.” What was the problem? Jeremy certainly fascinated him, and it had been ages since Spencer had had a fling. His body appreciated how perfectly formed Jeremy’s was, and Jeremy was more than ready to demonstrate just how good the sex would be. So why couldn’t Spencer convince his big head this was what his little head wanted? “I am interested,” he forced himself to say. After all, there was nothing wrong with a casual relationship. The sex would likely make it easier to stay relaxed throughout the production process, too. “Tonight’s just not good.” Jeremy made a perfect O with his mouth, his eyes flickering once to the pool table behind Spencer. His lips curved back into a smile then, and he rose from his chair, holding out his hand in obvious offering. “Let’s steal a few minutes while we can, then.” His legs were numb. That had to be the only reason he didn’t 45

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immediately stand, take Jeremy’s hand, and follow him back to the bathroom. “I don’t think so, Jeremy.” Mick’s voice rumbled past him. Spencer didn’t have time to look around before a strong hand came to rest on his shoulder, a warm thumb stroking over his nape. His body chose then to finally respond, straightening, pushing back from the chair, pushing into Mick’s unexpected—but definitely not unwanted—touch. A second hand settled on Spencer’s hip, pulling back until his ass was nestled firmly against Mick’s groin. “We’re going to call it a night,” Mick continued. “Thanks for the game.” Jeremy seemed to take Mick’s sudden possessiveness far more in stride than Spencer did. With an easy grin, he scooped and picked up Spencer’s bag, holding it out and then slipping his hands into his pockets when they were free. Spencer blinked. For all intents and purposes, Jeremy didn’t look like he’d just propositioned Spencer at all. “Not a problem,” Jeremy said. “Though I’m surprised you lost. The way you broke those balls—” “He threw the game,” someone at the table said. Spencer twisted in surprise, but Mick seemed completely unruffled by the accusation, his gaze firmly on Jeremy. “See you later.” Catching Spencer’s hand, he promptly dragged him toward the front door. The cold blasted across his heated face, far icier than it had felt earlier. A few steps away from the bar, Spencer pulled free and stopped short on the sidewalk. “What was that all about?” he demanded. “If you have some kind of policy about nobody fraternizing during production, tell me 46

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now. Just don’t go pulling this caveman act again, okay?” Mick whirled and faced him, his strong jaw locked, his eyes too dark to read. “You were going to sneak off with him, weren’t you?” “So what if I was?” He liked Mick, respected him even more, but damned if he was going to be treated like some kind of kid getting caught out by his father. “He’s hot.” “He looks like Kip Palmer.” “You think that’s why I wanted to fuck him?” “So you admit it then?” “I didn’t—” He growled in frustration. “None of this should make a difference to you. If you’re worried about something interfering with the production, then tell me here and now, but personally, I think you’re nuts. I’m not about to let some pretty boy mess this up. It’s too important to me.” “That’s not the way you were acting. You haven’t been able to stop staring at the kid ever since he walked into auditions. Like he was the biggest, juiciest lollipop in the whole damn store.” Embarrassment flooded through him. He should have known Mick would notice. “If I’m staring, it’s because he looks like Kip. That’s all.” “And he’s hot.” Mick jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Your words.” “So was Kip.” “He’s not Kip.” “I know that!” Mick stepped closer. “I don’t want you messing around with him. Not on my show.” “Fine.” Hitching his pack higher on his shoulder, Spencer pivoted on his heel and headed for the subway entrance. “Maybe 47

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next time, you should make it a little bit clearer what you expect from us peons. Less room for us to fuck up and disappoint you, then.” He didn’t make it six feet before Mick clamped a hand on his shoulder again. Mick shoved him toward the nearby building, crowding closer, stealing any room to flee by the time Spencer had turned around. “Don’t mess around with him,” Mick reiterated. His voice was barely audible. Spencer couldn’t even see his eyes. His lashes were downcast, fixed on something lower. He only realized what exactly Mick was staring at, when Mick crushed their mouths together.

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CHAPTER 5 He didn’t mean to kiss Spencer. Kissing Spencer had been relegated to the file in Mick’s brain clearly labeled, “Love to, but bad idea.” It was supposed to reside there for the duration of the play’s run, and if they were still friends at the end of it all—though Mick had to admit that he’d weigh that factor when the time came—he might consider taking it out, dusting it off, and revisiting it. He wasn’t supposed to forget everything he had promised to himself by first shoving Spencer into a dirty wall, and then shoving his tongue down the man’s throat. But damn it, from the second he’d seen the way Jeremy had eyed Spencer up and down, Mick had been pissed. Beyond pissed. Angrier than he could remember being in a very long time. And 49

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there was no reason for it. No rational reason, anyway. He and Spencer were just friends, Jeremy was a nice enough kid, end of story. Though it wasn’t, not really. Because the more Mick had watched Jeremy hit on Spencer, and the more he saw how Spencer wasn’t stopping it, the more furious he got. He’d wanted to deck Jeremy there and then. He’d actually been very proud of himself in the bar for simply calling it a night and walking out like it had been his plan all along. Spencer hadn’t protested. Spencer hadn’t even needed prompting to stand up. He’d taken Mick’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, and that really should have been the end of that. So why was he currently pinning the man to the wall and kissing him like there was no tomorrow? Because he wanted nothing else, that was why. Spencer tasted of mint and garlic, vestiges of the pizza they’d had at the read-through and the gum he’d seen him sneak afterward. Though his mouth parted for Mick to plunder, he didn’t respond, locked in some kind of stasis Mick almost wished he felt. His thoughts lurched from here to there, unable to settle, the world rebelling against him. Mick gripped Spencer’s hip in a desperate bid to stop the trembling that had suddenly overtaken him, but when his fingers dug into the taut muscle, tips teased by the smooth flesh of a perfect ass, Spencer shuddered against him, his body coming to life. Hands fisted the front of Mick’s jacket. The tongue he’d teased the length of fought back, thrusting into Mick’s mouth with the same overwhelming hunger, while the thickening bulge of Spencer’s cock rubbed along his own. A groan reverberated between them, his, Spencer’s, someone’s, and echoed all the way 50

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to the soles of his feet, enflaming every inch of skin he possessed. First kisses shouldn’t feel this good. They moved at the same time, heads tilting in opposite directions to bring on a fresh attack. Spencer slid one hand up to the back of Mick’s neck, holding him in place. Mick wanted to laugh at that. Like he was going anywhere. The world might as well not exist for as much as he was aware of it. All he knew was the velvety cocoon of Spencer’s touch and the pounding of his heart as it threatened to escape his chest. When they finally parted, his lungs screaming for air, he lifted his head and nearly shattered. Spencer stared at him with eyes like a moonless night, his lips glistening and swollen, his nostrils flaring as if he’d just run a marathon. The hand he’d clawed into Mick’s coat shook, even with as tightly as he held on. Mick didn’t know if it was desire, terror, or residual anger. It might have been a combination of all three. Hell, he was pretty shaken up by the kiss, though his reason was probably drastically different. It felt like coming home. “What was that for?” Spencer rasped. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I want to do it again.” He didn’t give Spencer time to argue. He didn’t want to risk not getting what he so desperately craved. This time, there was no hesitation. Spencer opened to him with a needy moan, his lower half grinding against Mick’s like it had a mind of its own. Mick slipped a hand beneath Spencer’s untucked shirt, savoring the muscles that danced at the first contact of skin to skin. Hard flesh taunted him with its proximity, daring him to push the limits of the kiss even further. It might as well have crooked a little finger at him for as hungrily he jumped at it. He skimmed upward, tickled by the coarse hair he found along 51

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the way. When he found the hard peak of a flat nipple, he deliberately scratched over it, dying for the reaction it would elicit. Spencer didn’t disappoint. He jerked against Mick’s raging hard-on, multiplying the shivers already cascading through Mick’s body by a thousandfold. Teeth caught his lower lip, but even through the sting, Mick refused him the space to run away. The world could splinter into a million pieces, and still, he’d claim Spencer’s mouth for his own. He’d take the whole man if he could get him. Something told him that wasn’t necessarily a longshot anymore. Separating a second time was infinitely more difficult. Mick gulped for breath, but when he bent his head to resume kissing, Spencer turned his head away. “What?” Shit, he sounded like he’d smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for the last twenty years. He swallowed, all too aware of a tightening knot in his throat. “What’s wrong?” “What’s wrong?” Spencer let go of Mick’s coat and flattened his hand over his chest. His muscles flexed, pushing Mick back. “How about, I have no idea where any of this is coming from? You never answered my question, you know.” “Yes, I did.” Without the allure of Spencer’s body molded to his, Mick had to shake off his momentary disorientation, retreating another step as he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth. “Maybe you just didn’t like the answer.” “‘I’m not sure’ is not an answer.” The world shimmered, refusing to take any real shape. Every cell in him shouted to get back in there and finish what he’d started, but Spencer had stopped him for a reason, and Mick was not the kind of guy to force his attention on anyone. Or at least, he hadn’t been before this kiss. Kisses. Damn it. 52

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“It’s the only one I have.” Another breath helped him regain focus, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, the only way he could guarantee not grabbing Spencer again. “Look. We’re both grown-ups here. We both wanted it. We both liked it. If you don’t want it to happen again, I’ll respect that.” He bit his tongue to keep from adding, I really hope you don’t ask me to go away. Spencer bent to grab the backpack that had slipped off his shoulder when Mick did his body slam. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it to happen.” His voice, hoarse and spectral, filtered from the dark, bringing goose bumps to Mick’s skin. “I’m just trying to figure you out. You don’t treat me the way you treat the rest of the people on the show. Is it just because you’re attracted to me?” “No.” The answer came swiftly, unequivocally true, even though Mick knew it would make his life a lot easier if he’d lied and responded in the affirmative. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t treat you any differently.” “Are you kidding me?” Spencer straightened and stared, stepping back into the circle of Mick’s personal space. “You’ve treated me differently from the moment we met, and don’t give me some line about my script being brilliant. That’s getting old.” He couldn’t help his small chuckle. “Really? You’ve got to be the first person I’ve met in this business who doesn’t like having his ego stroked.” He heard Spencer’s sharp intake of breath. The night still cloaked him from view, even as close as he stood. “Is that what you’ve been doing?” “Christ…” he muttered. When Spencer edged to move away again, Mick grabbed the sides of his head, his fingers meeting to stroke Spencer’s nape of their own volition. The muscles there immediately relaxed, and Spencer’s shoulders sagged, the fight 53

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seemingly gone out of him. “I don’t say anything I don’t mean. What you see is what you get.” Spencer swept his tongue over his lower lip, a tantalizing gesture Mick had to struggle not to act on. “Then I must not understand what I’m seeing. Because I see you be Mr. Professional with Jeremy, and the others, and okay, maybe not Octavia, but she’s extenuating circumstances, I figure. Then you turn around and look at me like…like…” Shadows danced along his throat where he swallowed. “Well, like you’re looking at me right now.” He thought it ironic, considering how he always felt trapped in an invisible web whenever he was around Spencer, but saying so out loud would probably worsen an already tenuous situation. “I like you. I think we make a great team. If that means I treat you like an equal partner in this, then that’s what it means, but I’m sorry if that’s confused you. That was never my intention.” “Maybe you shouldn’t have complicated it by kissing me, then.” He smiled. “Maybe.” Except when they’d been kissing, things had actually seemed simpler than ever. Spencer wasn’t ready to hear that. Mick might not be, either. “Are you going to do it again?” His heart thumped. “Do you want me to?” “Yes.” He pushed against Mick’s chest when he started to lean forward. “But not tonight.” Though disappointment lanced through him, Mick let him go, cold stealing beneath his clothes for the first time since leaving rehearsal. “Not tonight,” he agreed. “Which I’m guessing is my cue that you’re going home now.” “You’d guess right.” “Let me get you a cab.” 54

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“No, don’t.” He shrugged when Mick stopped his search of the street to look back at him. “I’m actually not that fond of cars. I’ll just catch the next train.” The confession confused him. “You didn’t have a problem when we got a taxi out to your place the day of the auditions.” “I do better when I’m not the only one in the car.” Spencer was already retreating, gathering more distance with every word. “It’s okay. I’m used to it. I’ll see you at the next rehearsal.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the night as if he’d never been there at all. Curtain closed. A few steps, that’s all it would take to catch up to him, but Spencer had asked for space, requested time, hours of separation that already started gnawing their way into Mick’s belly. He swore under his breath and turned away. His imagination was running away with him. It sometimes did that when he got over-involved in a production, living the life of the characters as if it was his own. Early in his career, he’d worked with a seasoned professional who’d told him he’d missed his calling. “You should’ve been an actor,” the man had said. “You pretend with the best of them.” How to argue that it wasn’t pretend to him? The only way to coax nuance from the printed word was to take it into his skin and share that with his cast, his crew. It was one reason why he tried to maintain as much of a wall between him and everyone else as possible. To leave it bare would make him too vulnerable. Apparently, that wall didn’t work with Spencer, because he didn’t see it at all. And how could he, with Mick’s tongue down his throat? That damned kiss. It kept coming back to that. Down the street, the door to the bar opened, and a familiar 55

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blond head appeared on the sidewalk. Mick’s gut twisted at the sight of Jeremy Jacob’s perfect profile, before the young man turned out of the streetlight and started walking up the street in the opposite direction. Spencer had it pegged; he’d cast the kid because of his physical resemblance to Kip Palmer, but that was where it stopped. Mick saw all the differences, the jaw that was just a little too square, the eyes that were just a little too far apart. Those differences grew larger each time he saw him, but he wondered if Spencer noticed them at all. Despite Spencer’s denial, he knew that was Jeremy’s appeal to him. He hadn’t collected that much research on the dead actor not to be fascinated by a walking, talking lookalike. He shouldn’t care so much about Spencer’s preferences, but he did. Too much. Enough that he jogged lightly to catch up with Jeremy. “Hey, Mick.” His soap opera smile, so perfect for the role, grated across Mick’s nerves, exacerbated further by his glance past Mick’s shoulder. “Where’s Spencer?” “He had to go home. I wanted to talk to you, though.” “Sure. Shoot.” “About what happened back at the bar.” That didn’t seem to faze Jeremy in the slightest. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I didn’t realize you two had a thing.” Briefly, he considered denying it. Spencer would, wouldn’t he? But denying it would only encourage Jeremy more, so Mick made the conscious decision to let the assumption lie. “I think studying Kip Palmer’s performances is an excellent idea, though,” he said. “I’ll get you the tapes so you can watch the movies.” “Sure, thanks.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment, 56

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disrupted only by the traffic rushing alongside the curb. Jeremy fidgeted in place, clearly waiting for Mick to continue with whatever purpose that had driven him to chase him down. “Is that it?” No, don’t even look at Spencer like that again. If I catch you touching him… The jealous demand died on his tongue. “That’s it. Have a good night.” He nodded at Jeremy’s good-bye wave, and remained firmly rooted in place. The fact that it would have been so easy to do scared him. He wasn’t a jealous kind of guy, never had been. Life was too transitory, and his career even more so. But in that moment, in that place, with the memory of Spencer trapped even for a second in Jeremy’s spell, Mick wanted to do it. He’d wanted to take ownership of the man so completely, he would have acted like the caveman Spencer had accused him of being, and threatened the kid within an inch of his life. What the hell was going on with him? Spencer Szabo was. On impulse, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled down to Spencer’s number. It rang over and over again, finally clicking over to voicemail. He must have already been on the train, and would be for the next half hour until he emerged in Brooklyn. Mick cleared his throat in anticipation of speaking after the beep. “Hey, Spencer. You know, I think we need to do this right. How about we try a real date?”

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CHAPTER 6 A real date. That’s what Mick had called it. Do this right. Like they’d done it all wrong before then. Maybe they had. They’d hit it off, they’d been attracted, and neither had acted on it until one of them had finally broken. Spencer had always assumed it would be him, though. Mick was too focused on his work, too good at partitioning himself. Yet, he’d been the one to find Jeremy’s attention unbearable, and he’d been the one to chase Spencer down when he’d tried walking away. And the way he kissed… Every time Spencer thought of that night, those stolen moments pressed against the cold wall, he got hard. The slightly bitter tang of Mick’s tongue, cool from the beer, had warmed within seconds of contact, eradicating all memory of the events inside the bar, 58

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erasing every hint that something else existed but Mick and his hands and his marvelously talented mouth. He didn’t know the last time he’d been that aroused and still been fully dressed. The sparks that jumped between them every time they’d casually touched now made complete and utter sense. The offer of a real date accepted that knowledge and attempted to utilize it to their greatest advantage. They could be more than friends. Already, his emotions threatened to take that hope and run with it. Spencer took a deep breath as he stood outside the rehearsal space. They’d agreed after the first read-through that his presence would probably get in the way, at least until the actors were a little more comfortable with the scripts. If anything came up, Mick had promised him, he could come in, no questions asked. Or he could just sit in, if he wanted to stay in the back. Once blocking was done, then he’d join Mick at the director’s table. That was going to be late next week. So far, nothing had arisen that required Spencer’s presence, and though he’d entertained the notion of going in anyway, he had refrained. He wasn’t entirely sure he would be going in to watch the actors, or Mick. Until he knew the answer to that question, it was better to stay away. It had been Mick’s idea to meet up at the rehearsal space. To save time, he’d joked, but Spencer suspected he had other motivations. It gave him the opportunity to watch unobserved, if only for a few moments. A morsel of the full course meal to come later on. It shouldn’t be this hard to open the door and walk in, and yet, knowing what was to come later made it exactly that. He had to consciously grab the handle and pull, ignore the nerves racing in his belly to walk inside and get wrapped up by the immediate dim 59

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lighting. He paused on the edge of the room, letting his eyes adjust to the shift in illumination. All the chairs and tables had been pushed to the edge, with a few scattered cast members watching the tableau at the opposite end. The stage had been marked out on the floor in tape, with simple pieces of furniture standing in for set dressing. Jeremy straddled a long bench, leaning back on his hands, while he listened to Mick talk to him about some business. “Whenever you move in this, whether it’s from here to there, or with your ass glued in a seat, you do it without realizing people are watching you,” Mick said. “Because I’m self-centered,” Jeremy said. “No, because you just don’t realize it.” “Because he’s dumb,” someone female said from the shadows. Light laughter rippled through the room, but Mick didn’t even crack a smile. “Kip’s not dumb.” His voice was unexpectedly hard, too. “He’s oblivious. There’s a distinct difference.” Jeremy frowned. “But the guy was an actor. Everything he did was because of Hollywood, because of the job.” “No. Jesus, did you even read the script?” Mick swept an arm across the make-believe stage, his arm tense in his obvious frustration. “This was his world. Wherever he was. He would have acted the same if he’d been in the middle of Kansas without a camera in sight. He just got caught.” “Caught? Caught by what?” “By circumstance. By necessity. By the fact that others were a lot more devious than he ever could be and manipulated him into being what they wanted, not what he really was.” Spencer had no idea what this had to do with blocking, or how on earth Mick might have gotten onto this topic, but he found the 60

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entire discussion fascinating. Though they had talked production values, and casting, and other superficial aspects of the show, after he had handed over his research, they had never really delved into the real Kip Palmer. He’d waited for Mick to bring it up, but when he never had, Spencer had just attributed it to the director not wanting his vision tainted. Anything they could have theorized about Kip Palmer’s personality would have been only supposition anyway. Considering how little was actually known about his private life, it would have been very, very likely their viewpoints would have drastically differed. But every word that came out of Mick’s mouth rang true. This was how he’d always seen Kip. This was how he’d hoped to portray him in the play. The fact that Mick had somehow come to the same conclusions was serendipitous, and confirmed even more profoundly that he was the right one to handle the material. Slight movement at his left finally tore his attention away from the scene, if only for a moment. He smiled when he met Octavia’s warm eyes, and relaxed even more against the wall. “It’s going to be a brilliant show if he can light a fire under the kid,” she whispered. Jeremy stood and picked up his script where it had rested on the floor. He studied the page for a moment while Mick retreated from his space, but when he started to saunter around the end of the bench, Mick was back in front of him, a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “You’re thinking too hard about it.” His hands dropped to Jeremy’s hips, shaking them as if to loosen them up. “You walk like you’ve been living in twenty-first century New York. You’re not. Stop throwing your hips around. Watch.” In front of everyone, Mick turned his back to Jeremy and 61

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proceeded to make the sweep down to the center of the stage. The very first step made the hair on the back of Spencer’s neck stand on end. It wasn’t Mick. This man moved…more lightly, was the best way Spencer could describe it. Like his center of gravity was higher. There was still a swing to his hips, but it wasn’t nearly as cocky as Jeremy’s pace had been. It wasn’t the mimicry of what he wanted that stole Spencer’s breath, though. It was how completely it erased Mick Darby and replaced him with someone who seemed like a man Spencer should know as intimately as himself. He didn’t blink. Not even when Jeremy had a go at it, recreating Mick’s direction with an astonishing expertise. Octavia’s hand came to rest on his arm, but he ignored the slight weight, even when she attempted to pull him out of the room. He couldn’t leave. He had to watch. He had to. Octavia’s hand remained in place, all the way until Mick called it a wrap for the night and asked Shelley, his AD, to flip on the lights. The sudden glare stabbed into Spencer’s eyeballs, and he shook his head, trying to ward off the disorientation. “Are you all right?” Octavia asked. Mute, he nodded. His lips were dry, and his head was starting to pound, but then Mick glanced in his direction, and the smile he shot Spencer made it all disappear. She hung around until Mick approached, only scuttling off when he held his hand out to Spencer. His fingers were warm and slightly sweaty in Spencer’s grip, lingering a second longer than necessary. “I hope Octavia wasn’t filling your head with what a slave driver I am,” Mick joked. 62

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He grinned. “No, I got to see that for myself. Jeremy looks like he’s starting to get it.” “Yeah, he’s a quick study. But we’re not really going to talk shop, are we? I would’ve saved a fortune on those concert tickets if you were only interested in the play.” “Is that what we’re doing tonight?” Mick’s eyes darkened. “That’s part of my plan, yes.” The promise of the other part rested between them, around them, everywhere Spencer could possibly go. His chest tightened as he swallowed against his constricting throat, and the sudden desire to forego the concert to skip straight to the good stuff nearly had him uttering the wish out loud. “Shelley’s going to lock up,” Mick said. “We have time to get something to eat if you want. There’s a great sushi place right around the corner from the club.” Somehow, he found the wherewithal to agree, though his thoughts were far from food. They were far from the concert, too, for that matter, lost somewhere with a man who made it impossible for him to consider anything but the future. *

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His ears rang as they emerged from the club, their arms snugly around the other’s waist. The bass still thrummed through his veins, pounding and erupting in vicarious thrills that had nothing to do with music and everything to do with encouraging visceral responses and primal urges. Spencer couldn’t even remember the name of the band. He just remembered the way each song had driven him closer to Mick, until he was practically in the other man’s lap, squirming against his erection. 63

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He preferred it there, anyway. He hadn’t wanted to leave. It took a husky whisper of, “I’ll make sure you’re good and distracted in the cab ride back to my place,” to coax Spencer into moving. Mick didn’t let him go when they finally hailed a taxi, pulling him into the back seat with a sharp tug that left Spencer sprawled across his lap. “I think I like you like that.” Mick stretched his legs to give him more room to rest, caressing Spencer’s cheek. “Did you have fun?” “Not as much fun as I think we’re still going to have.” He felt a little drunk, but it was all because of Mick, all because of his intoxicating presence, all because of the sense of rightness that came from being with him. He didn’t understand it. They hadn’t known each other that long at all. Yet, lying there with his head cradled against Mick’s hard thigh, the thick line of his arousal just inches from his mouth, long fingers absently smoothing along his face as he gave directions to the driver, Spencer knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be. “How’d you find that band?” he said, once the cab pulled out into traffic. “The drummer’s an old friend.” Spencer wracked his brain, trying to put a face to this “old friend,” and failed miserably. “You know a lot of people.” The corner of Mick’s mouth lifted. “I’m old. That’s what happens when you’ve been around as long as I have.” “You’re only a couple years older than me, and I don’t know nearly that many.” “No, but I’ll bet you’ve seen more than I have. The way you watch them.” When Mick tilted his head down, the new angle hid 64

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his eyes from view. “Why do you only watch? Why don’t you try and talk to more of them? Like tonight at the restaurant. That couple who sat at the table with us. I’ll bet they would have loved to listen about your work.” “You were entertaining enough for the both of us.” “But you don’t need me to be entertaining for you.” “Writers are boring. We tell stories because make-believe is more interesting than what we’re actually experiencing.” Mick shook his head. “I don’t believe that. You’ve never bored me.” “You’re the exception. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” He snorted softly, his fingertips trailing across Spencer’s mouth. It tickled, but he didn’t brush them away. Whatever Mick wanted, Spencer was prepared to give. “I find that ironic,” Mick said. “You’re an exception in a lot of ways for me, too.” “Like getting involved personally with someone you’re working with.” “Yeah.” “You could always take me home now.” “Oh, I don’t think so.” He pushed a single finger past Spencer’s lips. “I plan on having my wicked way with you.” Spencer sucked hard at the digit, swirling his tongue around the callused tip until he heard Mick’s soft groan. He would do that and more once they got someplace safe behind closed doors, even if it took all his willpower not to turn his head and start the job right now. He did allow himself the luxury of closing his eyes and pretending that he was helping Mick get ready to lube him up, but too soon, Mick pulled his hand away, the familiar strokes returning where they tickled along his jaw. “I don’t regret kissing you before,” Mick said quietly. “Though 65

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I’m sorry I scared you with it.” This was not a topic he wanted to pursue, though it wasn’t so bad to bear if he didn’t have to see Mick’s face. “You don’t have to apologize.” “I do. I overreacted when I saw you with Jeremy. I don’t know why.” His low chuckle vibrated through his body, echoing into Spencer’s skull. “I seem to stop thinking straight whenever you’re around.” “This better not be an excuse to keep me out of rehearsals.” He’d meant it as a joke, but Mick’s tone said he took it seriously. “That door is open to you whenever you want it to be. I meant that. This is your show as much as it’s mine.” Gratitude welled up uncontrollably inside him. Opening his eyes, Spencer sought Mick’s before reaching up and cupping the back of his neck. He tried to tug Mick down, but the position was too awkward for Mick to make it all the way, forcing him to lift up to meet his mouth in a soft, unassuming kiss. Mick’s pupils were blown when they parted, his nostrils flaring with his quickened breath. “What was that for?” “Just a prelude of what’s to come.” He fell back onto Mick’s lap and smiled. “And because I’ve wanted to do it all night.” No more words were said for the duration of the trip, though Mick’s fingers never stopped their gentle caresses. When they pulled to a stop, Spencer got out first so Mick could take care of the driver, and waited on the curb for Mick to join him. They linked hands as Mick led him inside the tall apartment building, both of them nodding and murmuring a greeting to the uniformed doorman who let them in. The elevator gleamed with new chrome, polished floors beneath their feet. Spencer leaned against the wall and whistled. 66

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“Just how well were you doing out in LA?” Mick flushed. “Not this well. I’m subletting from a friend while I’m in the city.” He stamped out the frisson of alarm that rose at Mick’s words. “So you’re planning on going back?” “Not necessarily.” The doors opened before Spencer could ask any more questions. Taking Spencer’s hand again, Mick guided him to an apartment halfway down the corridor, his keys already in hand by the time they reached it. Neither cared about niceties when they stepped inside. The only light Mick turned on was one that illuminated a hall leading off the front entrance, and without even asking Spencer what he wanted, he pulled him down to the bedroom at the far end. Crossing its threshold unleashed something in both of them. They crashed together, hands grappling, nails scratching. Spencer cupped Mick’s face and held him still as he devoured his lips, shivering at the cool draft that met his skin when Mick pushed his jeans and boxer-briefs down his hips. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it would be. Though the passion between them had been undeniable that night outside the bar, the expectation of a real date cast doubt on whether or not Mick would take it slow. Spencer had almost expected some grand seduction, especially after the sly promises Mick had hinted at all night. But here, and now, with the darkness as their greatest ally, waiting seemed ridiculous. They wanted this with equal measure, desperate for the heated contact regardless of circumstances. He toed off his shoes in order to free his jeans from his legs, but even before those were gone, Mick was cupping his ass, hitching their bodies together to rub Spencer’s exposed cock 67

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against the rough edge of his fly. Spencer groaned at the fire it sent down his legs, but didn’t fight more of it when Mick did it again. It felt like he’d waited his entire lifetime for this. He couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more. The buttons of his shirt came next, though Spencer refused to let go of Mick’s face to give him the room to slide the garment off his shoulders. It hung open instead, giving Mick room to roam, to smooth over the flat planes of his stomach, find the sensitive edges of his nipples, pinch the hard tips until Spencer finally gasped for breath. “I don’t remember telling you I like that,” he panted. He caught the flash of Mick’s teeth when he smiled. “You didn’t.” His hands went to Spencer’s shoulders, pushing the shirt off. “Now let me finish getting you naked before I tear this off you.” Spencer stood still while Mick finished. The bedroom air was cool and dry, but the heat of his throbbing desire was more than enough to obliterate any discomfort. He reached for the hem of Mick’s pullover and met Mick’s hands for both of them to strip it off. While Mick went for his belt, Spencer stood transfixed. He’d imagined Mick naked more than once, especially with the fantasy of a California beach behind him. The reality of the coarse hair covering his pecs, narrowing down to a thin line that disappeared beneath his waistband, was far, far better than any daydream. It was mouth-watering and spectacular, and his palms itched to learn every inch of it. Mick paused in mid-unzip, belatedly realizing he’d lost Spencer along the way. His breath caught to speak, but it choked in his throat when Spencer skimmed his hand over his chest. 68

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“God, but you’re stunning,” Spencer murmured. The dusky circle of a nipple peeked through the hair, tempting him closer, and he traced it with his fingertips, his pulse leaping when it hardened before his eyes. “The way you look at me, you make me forget I’m thirty-six.” “I don’t think it would matter how old you are.” He couldn’t resist. He had to taste. He bent his head, his lips parted, his breath heavy, and flicked his tongue along the hair to the skin beneath. Mick held the back of his head, holding him close. Every thud of his heartbeat was tangible through his skin, even with as scant the contact was between him and Spencer’s mouth. When Spencer pressed his lips closer and sucked the nipple past his teeth, they both groaned at the added pressure. Pure adrenaline shot through his veins. Spencer broke free of Mick’s grip to push hungrily at his jeans, uncaring as he wrenched them down his long legs. He sank down at the same time, licking and nibbling along the way. The object of his desire bobbed along his cheek. All he had to do to capture it in his mouth was turn his head to the side. He wanted to. Desperately. And he would, as soon as he got the rest of what he wanted. Grasping Mick’s cock, he held it steady as he buried his nose in the coarse hair curling around its base. His eyes fluttered shut. The scent of soap and musky skin filled his nose, overpowering his senses until his head spiraled beyond every ounce of control he thought he’d possessed. “You’re killing me here,” Mick muttered. Spencer was starting to think the same thing. His hand shook, forcing him to tighten his grip, and he licked over Mick’s balls before sitting back on his heels. He grinned up at Mick while he pumped the length, deliberately taking his time with it now. 69

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“So you got me naked.” Spencer licked his lips. “What now?” “You tell me. Looks to me like you’re the one in charge.” “Am I?” His heart thundered while he waited for the answer. He didn’t feel like he was in charge. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. And he really didn’t want to have to elaborate on what he’d asked, because he wasn’t even sure what that was, either. All he knew was that he wanted Mick, like he had never wanted anyone before, like he’d never wanted anything before. He didn’t dare utter such desire aloud, though. He’d frighten Mick away. He already knew some of his obsessive tendencies gave Mick pause. Mick traced the arch of Spencer’s brows with tender fingertips, trailing to his cheekbone, over the bridge of his nose. His thumb swiped over Spencer’s mouth, but when Spencer turned to try and suck it past his lips like he’d done in the cab, Mick withdrew his hand. “Whatever you want.” His soft voice floated down, and though it matched his previous gentle touches, it belied the power in the grip that hauled Spencer back to his feet. Mick kicked his jeans away without releasing his hold, pushing Spencer toward the bed. “All that matters is that you’re here.” When the back of his knees hit the mattress, Spencer grabbed at Mick to make sure they both fell at the same time. He twisted out of the way before Mick could crush him, though the thought of Mick rising and falling above him sent an array of shivers down the back of his thighs. Mouths clashed. Limbs entangled. Pre-come dripping from Mick’s cock smeared across Spencer’s stomach. It was as close to heaven as Spencer had felt in a long time. Every time Spencer tried to gasp for air, Mick chased him down again, taking another kiss, stealing another breath. The best 70

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he could do was attack with his hands, threading the hair on Mick’s chest through his fingers until it trapped him as effectively as the man did simply by being. The edges of his world hummed, then blurred. Other things might exist, but Spencer was blind to them. He nudged a thigh between Mick’s legs, moaning when they parted without argument. “I want to fuck you.” He bent his leg further to press lightly against Mick’s balls, eliciting a throaty whimper. “But you have to fuck me first.” “Have to, huh?” Mick rolled Spencer onto his back. Their cocks aligned, a position Mick took advantage of by nudging his hips forward to rub them together. “You get bossy when you’re horny.” Spencer bit at Mick’s neck. “I’m bossy all the time. I’ve just been holding back until you knew me better.” That drew a rich laugh that stoked the fire in his belly even higher. “You don’t have to hold back with me. I want everything you have to dish out.” “Be careful what you wish for.” Mick paused. The stray light from the window caught his eyes and made them glow. “I threw caution to the wind the second I read your script. I’m not about to change that now.” The air caught in Spencer’s lungs. Every time Mick said something like that, he wondered when the other shoe would drop, because nobody had ever valued Spencer’s creativity the way this man did. He’d always wanted to think himself talented, but in the dark of night, when the words wouldn’t come, he felt like a fraud. Sooner or later, someone would discover the truth, that he was really a talentless hack, wasting resources better used by people who could create characters that burned in people’s imaginations. 71

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But in moments like now, with Mick regarding him with such certainty, Spencer let his guard down. He felt invincible, ready to take Broadway by storm. With Mick at his side, he honestly believed it was possible. Mick peeled away, leaning to the side to yank open the nightstand drawer. The flick of a lid was followed by a strong, slick hand at the inside of Spencer’s thigh, and he spread his legs, giving Mick all the access he could want. Lubed fingers ran along the crease of his ass, skimming over his hole back and forth until he twitched at just the slightest provocation. He wanted to scream in frustration, but bit the inside of his cheek to hold it in. He wouldn’t beg, even if he desperately wanted to. Or at least, he wouldn’t beg yet. “You okay if I fuck you on your back?” Mick asked. Spencer gulped when two fingers finally probed at his entrance. “On my back is good.” “Only good?” Mick sank them in all the way to the knuckles without pausing to allow Spencer time to adjust. “I was hoping for great.” He met Mick’s smile with one of his own. “I can’t know that until you’re actually in me.” “You’re very impatient. I’m learning that about you.” “I’m impatient? You’re the one who flew all the way across the country to try and do my play before you even met me.” “Considering I’ve been waiting years for a play like yours, I’d say, yeah, I’m very patient.” He stopped any further banter by adding another finger to his careful strokes. Each time, he turned his wrist, stretching the muscle with the same sort of focus, the same sort of care, he took in his work. It had been too long since anybody had fucked 72

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Spencer, but he would have rather skipped the foreplay to get straight to his body merged with Mick’s, no matter what kind of pain might have come with it. They’d had weeks of foreplay already, like they’d been unconsciously striving toward this moment from the time he first heard Mick’s voice on the phone. But no amount of meeting Mick’s fingers, or kissing along his neck, or clawing at his back, worked to speed it along. Mick rested his mouth at Spencer’s ear, his breath surprisingly quick and hot. “Tell me I’m not the only one who wants this so badly.” Spencer clutched him closer, crying out when teeth unexpectedly sank into his earlobe. “You’re not.” “I was worried. You’re so quiet. You’re not usually.” His smile erupted unbidden. “That’s because I don’t want to embarrass myself by begging.” For a second, Mick’s fingers hesitated, like Spencer’s response took him by surprise. Almost as quickly, though, they vanished, sliding up to pull once at Spencer’s cock. “Then I should do something about that.” Mick disappeared, too, sitting up and reaching for something out of sight. Foil tore and the shadows shifted around Mick, molding him from the darkness. Spencer’s shaft jumped at the sound of rubber snapping. It twitched again when Mick pushed his legs up to expose his clenching ass. He held his breath, waiting for that first moment of penetration, that sharp jolt of pain that radiated through his hips before settling into the far more pleasurable burn. No amount of stretching ever took that away. He just didn’t get fucked often enough to become inured to it. But Mick hesitated, his hand coming to rest on Spencer’s stomach. With his other, he ran the tip of his covered 73

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cock up and down between the cheeks, glancing across the quivering muscle, just like he’d done with his fingers minutes earlier. Taking his time. Making Spencer insane. Tightening his lungs to the point of explosion because he just couldn’t exhale until that moment was gone, until he could drown in the bliss that came from long, slow strokes in and out of his ass. He tugged at Mick’s arms, trying to get him to get on with it. Mick laughed and caught his wrist. “What did I say about impatient?” “Are you trying to drive me crazy?” “Yes.” “Well, it worked.” “Good.” “So?” “So?” Spencer waited for Mick to do anything different, explain his last noncommittal response, anything but these maddening caresses that left his skin feeling like it would incinerate at the slightest flick of an ash. He tried tugging again to no avail. He licked his lips, though that was due to his dry mouth rather than an attempt to seduce. He even wriggled beneath Mick, hoping to goad him into breaking the stasis. Mick’s hand drifted upward, pinching a nipple along the way. It slid off Spencer’s body to rest on the bed beside his head, giving Mick support when he slowly leaned forward and covered Spencer from head to toe. “What’re you—” Spencer whimpered at the crush of Mick’s mouth. With his arms free, he could fold them around Mick’s back, but when his 74

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legs lifted to do the same, Mick thrust forward, sheathing his cock inside Spencer’s unsuspecting passage with a smooth, even stroke. Spencer never felt the pain of penetration. He was too lost in Mick’s kisses and the fevered glide of their skin. He knew only the weight of being filled, and the pleasure of being stretched. His cock was trapped between their stomachs, but he didn’t even care that he wasn’t getting any friction along it yet. Somehow, he knew he would. Mick wouldn’t leave him hanging, even if the anticipation would likely kill Spencer. He squeezed around the thick length, pleased by the groan it elicited from Mick. When the rocking started, he was ready for it, rolling his hips in rhythm with Mick’s. He pulled away when Mick withdrew, and eased forward to meet his next stroke. They moved together like they’d been lovers for years instead of minutes, familiar and intoxicating in the way only someone who understood what it took to make you tick could create. Mick never stopped kissing him. His mouth was alternately harsh and tender, savaging Spencer’s lower lip in one moment, soothing it the next. Spencer attacked him back, but it often felt like he was barely keeping up, that maybe it wasn’t his desire that had been in such need of relief. He did what he could, though. He refused to let this one go, not when the culmination of their coupling pledged such pleasure. Nails scraped across his side. It took a moment for him to realize Mick reached for his cock, and then he couldn’t respond at all when he fisted Spencer’s shaft in a grip that put his earlier one to shame. He lifted his head and met Spencer’s eyes, but his breathing was too shallow, the tempo of their bodies too vigorous, to do anything but that. He pulled at Spencer’s cock in one beat, then slammed into his ass in the next, creating a new, somehow 75

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better, rhythm to their fucking. He’d been scraping across Spencer’s prostate almost from the beginning, but the added force leant it more power, enough to make his balls tighten and the world start to go black around the edges. He came with a scream that rattled through his bones. Muscles he didn’t know he had clamped down to stave off the heat stampeding through his body. His head thrashed, and his hands slipped, and through it all, Mick kept pistoning in and out of his ass, his pace almost frenzied in the face of Spencer’s orgasm. Then, Mick froze, except for the repeating shudders undulating beneath his skin. Spencer felt the cock inside him jerk over and over, and he found enough strength remaining in his arms to pull Mick flush against his chest. He buried his face in Mick’s sweaty neck, licking at the droplets collecting in the crease while he fought to get his breath back. He even thought, in that moment, he didn’t actually need it back. He could die like this and be as thoroughly content as he ever could be. Mick brushed his mouth along Spencer’s jaw and slowly eased away. The emptiness he left behind was worse than the sudden blast of cooler air, and blindly, Spencer rolled to his side to seek out his warmth. “You got the great,” Spencer said. A chuckle vibrated through Mick’s body. “I think we both got the great.” The muscles in his arms twitched as he pulled off the condom and tossed it onto the nightstand. “Though I think I’m going to need a little break before we do a rematch.” “That makes two of us.” “Did you want something to drink?” “No, I’m good.” And as he spooned up behind Mick with his body still 76

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humming, Spencer realized there was more truth to that simple statement than he’d intended. Things were very good indeed.

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CHAPTER 7 The dream didn’t surprise him. Ever since he’d first heard Kip Palmer’s voice in that awful movie, Spencer had had more than one night spent inside an imaginary Kip’s head. After the nightmares about the car accident had stopped, other details had started to trickle into his subconscious. Like the many parties Kip seemed to be at, the beautiful young people he was surrounded by, the ones who flocked to him without his even having to try. That was part of why Spencer knew they were just dreams. People didn’t flock to him. He had a tendency to scare them away with his various passions. But tonight’s dream was different. He wasn’t in Los Angeles for starters, but somewhere more arid, brown mountains in the distance and long stretches of flat land all the way up to them. He 78

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leaned against a beat-up car—not the one from the accident—and stared out at someone struggling with a kite. Traffic roared behind him, and the heat from the blazing sun overhead had his shirt collar sticking to the back of his neck. It was the weird double-image he often got with dreams, where he was both inside the head of one of the characters and watching as a third party. That was how he recognized Kip. A younger Kip, but Kip nonetheless. He cupped his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn. “You’re fighting it! Stop fighting it!” “I’m not!” The voice was female, and if he squinted against the brilliant white sun, he could see the hint of curves beneath the jeans and untucked plaid shirt. One of his. She’d borrowed it because she’d spilled her soda all over the front of her sweater. Long, dark hair whipped around her shoulders when a sudden gust of wind blasted through. It took the kite and sent it on a loop-deloop that had her shrieking and racing to keep up with it. “Are you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to come out here and help me?” He laughed and jogged out to join her. It was fun to watch, but it would be more fun to play the savior and get to gloat for the rest of the day. Before he got to her side, however, the string snapped. The kite took off, unfettered from the earth, and the young woman cried out in protest. She took off after it, trying to catch the dangling string, but the winds were too much, carrying it higher and higher, beyond her reach. He came to a stop at her side, both of them staring up into the endless expanse of blue with its one dark smudge drifting away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have waited so long.” She exhaled loudly, blowing up at her bangs to loosen them from her damp forehead. “It’s not your fault. You’ve told me how 79

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many times not to fight it? And there I was, fighting it.” “You weren’t. It was just the wind.” The eyes she tilted up at him were a twinkling hazel, oddly familiar though she looked like no woman he’d ever seen before. “You’re trying to make me feel better.” He grinned. “Did it work?” She laughed and looped her arm through his, steering him back to the car. “Buy me a chocolate Coke, and I’ll let you know.” He suddenly knew—like you could only know in dreams—that the kite-flying had been a mutual idea. They did this whenever he could get the car from his old man for more than an hour at a time. And though he still didn’t know her name, he knew the feeling that swelled up in him at the warm touch of her hand. He loved this girl. *

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Spencer blinked into the darkness, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling fan turning lazily overhead. He had to stare at it for a couple seconds to remember why this wasn’t his bed, though the weight of the arm slung across his waist did a lot to drive that point home. “You’re awake.” Mick’s sleepy voice drifted to him, drawing him closer without any further prompting. “I thought you wouldn’t budge until morning.” He wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a regret that Spencer hadn’t lasted longer, or a request that he get out now that he wasn’t passed out. “I was thirsty,” he said, and realized it was actually true. That was a mild relief. He didn’t want to have to lie. The weight around his body disappeared, the mattress dipping 80

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beneath him. “You want water, or something else?” Mick’s outline moved effortlessly around the edge of the bed. A stray shard of light made slices of his skin gleam. “If you’re hungry, I could throw some food together, too.” “You don’t have to wait on me.” Without Mick beside him, Spencer felt awkward in a bed that wasn’t his. He rolled off the other side and looked around helplessly for his clothes. “Do you see my underwear anyplace?” Mick stopped in the doorway. “You’re going?” “I should. You’ve got rehearsal tomorrow.” “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” Spencer didn’t want to, but his crush wasn’t so rampant that he didn’t recognize they didn’t need to go this fast. “I’ll just kick and snore and keep you from sleeping.” He finally spotted his underwear halfway under the bed, and crouched down to scoop it up. “Then I’ll never get a second date.” Which, just by uttering it out loud—even if he said it jokingly—was risking not getting one. Mick stood silent for so long in the doorway, Spencer actually had time to find both of his socks, too. “I can still get you that water before you go, though,” he eventually said. His outline vanished from the doorway, leaving a fathomless maw for Spencer to brave when he left. His fingers fought with his clothing as he dressed, running along the seam of his shirt at one point to try and figure out which way was inside out. The buttons refused to line up properly, too, and he eventually gave up, leaving it hanging as he fumbled his way out of the bedroom. Enough light spilled into the hallway from some distant room to allow him time to pause and get the first button in place. The others were easy enough to do after that. The apartment was even more impressive when he could 81

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actually see it. The brown leather couch was older but well tended, and one wall was eclipsed by a massive widescreen TV. Spencer let out a low whistle as he crossed to examine it, giving the heavy cabinet below a cursory inspection for a DVD player or DVR box, too. “You should come over this weekend so we can do a Kip Palmer marathon.” Spencer turned at the sound of Mick’s voice. Mick had never bothered with clothing and emerged from the kitchen with a tall glass of ice water, but Spencer couldn’t help raking his gaze over his long, hard body. Though Mick chuckled at the obvious approval, he didn’t seem embarrassed. “Does it even have a VCR?” Spencer asked. “Those are dinosaurs, compared to this beauty.” “Whatever you need.” Pressing the glass into Spencer’s hand, Mick crouched and opened the cabinet, revealing the electronics inside. “I haven’t actually had much chance to mess around with it yet. We could break it in.” “Sure, that might be fun.” An open cardboard box rested off to the side, filled with playbills, videotapes, and oddly enough, a stuffed chicken. “What’s that?” “Oh.” His cheeks might not have colored at his nudity, but mention of the box did the trick. “Just some stuff Octavia thought I wanted. Memorabilia, mostly. Stuff I left behind when I moved out to LA.” Spencer picked out a tape and read the label. One of Mick’s early plays. “We could watch these instead. Take a break from all the Kip Palmer stuff.” “I don’t think so.” “Why not?” 82

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Mick shrugged. “I don’t like watching my old productions.” “Not even to remember what they were like?” “That’s what memories are for. And I’ve known too many people get stuck on stuff they’ve already done instead of trying to move forward and do something new. I have no desire to be one of those guys who never stops talking about their one hit from fifteen years ago that nobody else even cares about.” He brightened. “Hey, could you do me a favor? Since you’re going home tonight, could you give that box back to Octavia? She hauled it into rehearsal without even asking me if I wanted it, and then I couldn’t get her to take it when she left.” He didn’t know what the big deal was about a few bits of memorabilia. If Mick didn’t want it, all he had to do was drop it in the trash. But he wasn’t one to judge, not when Mick had been so good about not judging him. Draining the water quenched his thirst, but it didn’t make him feel any better about walking out on Mick in the middle of the night. It’s a first date. You’ll look needy if you stay. It especially didn’t help when Mick stopped him at the door, wrapped his arms around him from behind, and pressed a kiss to the skin below his ear. “Tonight was fantastic,” Mick said. “Thanks for a great time.” The box he held prevented him from returning the embrace, but he could still lean back and absorb Mick’s warmth. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You arranged it all.” “And none of it would have been worth it if you didn’t make it so.” Another kiss, and then Mick let him go, leaving his head spinning and his cock starting to throb again. “We’ll figure out tomorrow what kind of time we can hook up on Saturday. Why don’t you come into rehearsal? That’ll be easier than trying to do 83

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all this by phone.” Spencer murmured his assent and left wondering why in hell he had to be so damn grown-up about calling it a night in the first place. Mick obviously didn’t want him to go. Would it be so bad to turn around and get back into bed? All he had to do was get back in the elevator and knock. He would have, too, if the cab Mick had called for him hadn’t been waiting already. It seemed just a tad too fortuitous. The streets were dead at this hour, the ride back to Brooklyn swift. Spencer gave the driver a big tip in gratitude for the speed, and hefted the box onto his hip to wrangle the door of the building. He had to do it again at his apartment, flinching every time he made a sound that might disturb one of the neighbors. They were a good lot. People respected each other. He didn’t want to be the asshole that screwed up their morning because he kept banging around and waking them up in the middle of the night. He was too wired after he was safe inside to go back to bed. His body hummed in that sated way only really great sex could do, and his thoughts refused to stop replaying the events of the entire date. He was acting ridiculous. He didn’t normally crush on his dates nearly so hard. But something about Mick begged that sort of unadulterated adoration, something simpler, something familiar. Flopping down onto the couch, he debated picking up the phone and calling Mick to let him know he got home all right. Almost as soon as he had the idea, however, he laughed. Mick hadn’t asked for that kind of affirmation. He was a great guy, but if Spencer started treating him like he was the end-all, be-all in the gay dating world, he was going to chase Mick away. That was the last thing he wanted at this point, if only because they had to remain on amicable terms through the run of the play. 84

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He covered his face with his hands. Hell, amicable was the least of things he wanted from Mick. He had it bad. Sleep was still out of the question, though. That left reading, writing, or TV. TV won. Except nothing was on. At this hour of the morning, his only options were bad movies with tons of commercials, sitcoms, and infomercials. When he decided to pop a DVD in, his gaze strayed to the box sitting next to his front door, waiting to be returned to Octavia the following morning. He could watch one of Mick’s old shows. Mick didn’t want them anyway. It wasn’t like he was intruding on something private. He flipped through the videotapes like a kid in a candy store, reading each label carefully before sorting them into piles of maybes and nos. He was nearly through the stack when he found one labeled, “Mick gets drunk.” Spencer grinned. This one had to be good. The video was shaky at first, clearly shot by someone who wasn’t quite accustomed to using the camera. He or she kept adjusting it as they moved around the set, and every once in a while, Spencer had to turn his head sideways to try and make out what was going on. A party of some sort. One of Mick’s plays, and from what Spencer could make out, just the cast and maybe a couple people from crew. Then Mick stepped into view, and Spencer grinned. A twenty-something Mick was actually adorable. That was the only word Spencer could use to describe him. He was slimmer, with a Backstreet Boys haircut and a smile that never stopped, and his constant flitting amongst his cast testified to his dedication to them. Every time somebody stopped him to talk, they pressed 85

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another drink in his hands, a drink that always managed to be empty by the time he moved on. His gestures grew bolder, broader, his personal space shrinking. More than one person got a hug, which somehow morphed into pecks on the cheek, all the way until a not-that-different Octavia threw her arms around his neck and gave him a huge French kiss. That one made Spencer laugh out loud. Because Mick returned the kiss, then turned to the older gentleman standing next to her, and gave him the exact same kiss. “Where’s Nelson?” Octavia brayed. She twisted and turned, disappearing out of the camera’s view in search of this elusive Nelson. Nobody seemed as concerned about this guy as she was, and when she stepped back into focus with a slightly overweight young man with a shy smile, Spencer actually felt bad for him, since it didn’t look like he wanted to be the center of attention. Mick caught onto it, too. “Don’t, Octavia.” “Don’t what?” She made a grandiose sweep of her arm, sloshing some of her wine. “What am I doing?” Mick caught her elbow and pulled her mostly off-screen. Their hushed voices still managed to carry to the camera’s mic. “You’re embarrassing him.” “I’m not. He likes being the center of attention.” “No, you like being the center of attention. Leave him alone.” Octavia pouted. “But it’s fun. Why are you being such a spoilsport?” “Because I don’t believe in reincarnation.” “So? Nelson does.” “You’re treating him like a sideshow. Stop it.” “He’s talented. He should share.” 86

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“Not if he doesn’t want to.” “He doesn’t mind.” She craned her neck around to address Nelson and raised her voice. “Do you, Nelson?” Nelson glanced at the growing crowd and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me.” “See?” Octavia pulled free of Mick’s hold and patted his chest affectionately. “He doesn’t mind.” Another overextension of her arm practically emptied her glass as she addressed the group. “So who’s going first?” Murmurs and shuffles followed, until Mick rolled his eyes. “I’ll do it. Just to prove that it’s all nonsense.” Whatever it was, everyone scattered in preparation, like mice scurrying off. Spencer watched, fascinated, as a blanket was thrown over the set couch, and chairs scraped across the stage as people ringed what was obviously going to be the center of the action. Someone pressed another wineglass into Mick’s hand, and he drained it dutifully before allowing Nelson to lead him over to the sofa. “It’s really not nonsense,” Nelson said. “You just have to trust me.” Laughter erupted from the crowd. “The only person Mick trusts is Mick,” someone said. “This is going to be the shortest regression in history.” Mick stretched out on the couch. He was too tall for it, and had to rest his ankles on the far arm. “It’s going to be short, because he won’t be able to do it.” “If you say that now, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Nelson took a chair from the gentleman Mick had kissed and sat down next to the sofa. He partially blocked the view of the camera now, though Spencer could still see Mick’s face and shoulders. 87

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“You need an open mind.” “I’m open, I’m open.” “And closed eyes.” Mick rolled them first, but then obeyed. “Okay, now what?” The others fell silent, as if they were all holding their breath in fear of disturbing what was to come. Spencer had never witnessed any type of hypnosis before, and frankly, he was of the same opinion Mick was. But he watched with a growing fascination as Nelson leaned forward and started talking to Mick in the most soothing, melodic voice he had ever heard before. No wonder the guy was an actor. For a second, he flashed on how perfect he would have been in Dead Man’s Curve. Though he’d been drinking, Mick’s body was surprisingly tense when Nelson began, his feet upright rather than dangling, his biceps hard from being held still. But the longer Nelson went on, the more relaxed he became. The feet went first, slowly tilting forward in a more natural repose. Then, the shoulder slipped, a hand that must have been resting on his stomach falling onto the edge of the couch, just visible through Nelson’s legs. “This is all about you, you know,” Nelson said softly. “You, your breathing, your control. At the deepest, most important level, you’re the one with all the control here. You’re in no danger. You’ll feel no pain. You can end this at any point by simply deciding you want to. Do you understand, Mick?” “Yes.” “Let’s go back then. Go back. Look at your life like a long road, and you’re driving along it, and you can stop at any point to look at something interesting. Go back. Think about all the people you’ve met, all the places you’ve been, all the experiences you’ve 88

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had. Go back. You’ve been happy, you’ve been sad, you’ve been angry, you’ve been hurt. Go back. You’ve had a lot of life lessons, gained a lot of wisdom from them. Let’s find a time where a lesson you learned is impacting on your life today. Go back.” With each successive go back, Nelson’s voice got softer, until the very last one was barely audible. Spencer felt more than a little entranced listening to it himself. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for Mick in a warm theater, surrounded by all those people. The people onscreen fell silent. The only sound to come from the TV at all was the hiss of the videotape. The remote control weighed in his hand, whispering at him to fast forward, but Spencer kept his thumb locked, refusing to let it stray over the button. His gaze was fixed on Mick. Waiting. Like all the others. He wasn’t surprised at all to realize that he kept holding his breath, his skin electrified in anticipation. “Let go of the physical world and let your mind drift,” Nelson murmured. “Where are you?” Mick’s exhalation was a scant whisper of air. “Outside.” “Outside. Where outside?” “Next to the highway. We come here a lot.” A man in the background leaned in to speak with the woman standing next to him, covering his mouth at the same time. His words weren’t intelligible on the camera’s cheap speaker. “All right,” Nelson soothed. “You’re outside, near a road. What’s the weather like?” “Hot. Windy. The sun hurts my eyes. I forgot my sunglasses.” Nelson chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like New York.” “It’s not. It’s California.” Spencer frowned. He hadn’t known Mick had lived in 89

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California before. Was that why he’d gone to LA? Because he’d missed it? “What else do you see?” “The car. Traffic. A lot of it. The grass is brown this time of year because it’s so dry, but it’ll turn green in the winter. And…” His voice trailed off. The hand resting on the side of the couch twitched. “You’re the one in control,” Nelson said. “Don’t forget that. Separate yourself from what’s going on. You don’t have to be a part of it. Make yourself an outside observer.” He paused. “Are you just watching now?” Mick’s hand didn’t relax, but he didn’t sound agitated when he said, “Yes.” “Good. Now tell me again what you see.” “The sun’s reflecting off the highway. Off the cars. We— they—lay down on the dry grass. They’re watching the sky and talking about…the wind.” “The wind? How is this important to your life now? What are you supposed to have learned from this?” One of his ankles stiffened. His brows drew together into a frown, like he was thinking hard about the question. “I don’t know.” “Yes, you do,” Nelson coaxed. “You wouldn’t have taken us to this California highway without a reason.” “I don’t know,” Mick repeated, this time with an edge. His legs were rigid. Whatever he was seeing wasn’t as pleasant as he’d painted it. “I—they—I—the cars. They’re too fast.” Nelson apparently hadn’t liked Mick’s response either. He sat up a little straighter, and when he spoke, his voice had become more businesslike. “I’m going to bring you out of your relaxed 90

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state now, Mick. When I count to three—” “No! Not Mick!” His shoulders rose and fell more rapidly, his breathing so ragged, it was clear as a bell on the tape. His features contorted into what could only be pain, and he bolted upright, a single word torn from his lips. “Kip!” The second the actors on the screen started moving, Spencer jabbed at the stop button on the remote. It took three separate attempts to actually turn the video off, and even then, he was left staring at the TV, his heart thumping wildly. It seemed too insane to be a coincidence. But Mick had claimed ignorance of Kip Palmer prior to reading Dead Man’s Curve. And it wasn’t that unusual of a nickname. He could have been referring to anybody. Couldn’t he?

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CHAPTER 8 “That’s a wrap, everyone.” Mick tried not to look at his watch as the cast began gathering up their bags, but as he attempted to bury his eyes in the production book resting open on his lap, his gaze slid automatically to his wrist. Even keeping everybody late hadn’t managed to make Spencer magically appear. Disappointment soured his stomach. He thought he’d made himself clear the other night. He hadn’t been thrilled Spencer found it necessary to leave, but at least he understood the reasoning behind it. He was taking things slow. It had only been a first date, after all. A phenomenal first date, with even greater sex, but a first date, nonetheless. 92

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But that didn’t mean Mick had to like it. He’d waited outside the rehearsal hall until the very last minute the following day, ready to pounce on Spencer when he arrived. So what if it made him look silly? He liked Spencer, and he wasn’t about to hide it, especially with Jeremy making it all too clear that he’d fill in whenever necessary. Except Spencer never showed, and when Mick called him after rehearsal was over, the conversation had been short and stilted. “Sorry, there was some stuff I needed to do,” Spencer had said. “Oh, okay, no problem. We’re still on for Saturday, right?” “Saturday? Well, sure. Sure.” “What time do you want to come over?” “How about I call you about that?” What was Mick supposed to say? Anything but, “Sure, no problem,” would have sounded whiny and desperate. He had to trust that the chemistry between them was enough for Spencer. The only problem with that was Spencer never called. He’d waited all week for Spencer to show up. Each rehearsal came with new hope, and each one ended with the same bitter glance at his watch and a snap at Jeremy when he dawdled packing up his things. Even Octavia was avoiding him now, his ill temper more drama than she was ready for. He felt ridiculous about his reaction, but that didn’t seem to be enough to put a halt to his foul mood. Snapping his production book shut, he rose from his chair and crossed to the wall, intercepting Octavia before she could run away this time. “I need to talk to you.” Octavia sighed when Shelley cast a sympathetic glance at her and scurried away anyway. “Would this be easier if I take off all my clothes?” she said. “You can peel another layer off without 93

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getting blood all over them then.” Mick scowled. “Oh, stop it. I didn’t even yell at you today.” “No, you yelled at Jeremy, and Shelley, and that one chair that just wouldn’t do what you asked it to.” He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling again. Taking a deep breath before speaking only did a modicum of good. “This isn’t about the show.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, though she didn’t snap back at him this time. “Then what is it about?” “Spencer. Have you seen him since he gave you back the box?” Though her brow furrowed even more, it wasn’t caution this time. This was confusion. “What box?” “The box of stuff you foisted off on me. I sent it home the other night after our date to give it back to you because that was the only way to get rid of it.” “I don’t have the box. I haven’t seen Spencer since he showed up here for your date, in fact.” Now, it was Mick’s turn to be confused. “Why wouldn’t he give it back to you?” She shrugged. “Maybe you should ask him.” She patted his chest. “In fact, maybe you should ask him whatever it is that’s been eating at you all week. I know the cast and I would more than appreciate it.” He grimaced at her catty tone, but realized she had a point. If he’d done something wrong, the only way to find out what it was, was to ask. Not a phone call this time, though. He wasn’t giving Spencer a way to turn his back on him again. He stopped Octavia from getting onto the subway and hailed a cab for the two of them instead. Though he didn’t speak the entire ride to Brooklyn, he felt her attention on him the whole way. 94

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Curious. Speculative. Well, she would have to speculate a little bit longer. He refused to air his dirty laundry in public. Not until he knew more about what was going on. She tried one more time when they pulled up in front of the apartments, waiting on the curb while Mick paid the driver. “At least tell me the date wasn’t a disaster. Give an old woman a bone here.” Mick sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Damn. He really needed to get it cut. “It wasn’t a disaster. Satisfied?” No, apparently not. “But not what you expected?” “I didn’t expect anything.” “Okay, hoped for then.” He brushed past her with a shake of his head, then changed his mind when he reached the front door. He had to give her something. “It was better than all of it. Enough that I can’t wait to do it again, all right?” Sorrow flitted behind her eyes, or maybe it was pity. Either way, Octavia suddenly looked like the mother who’d just learned there was nothing she could do to help her kid with a problem. “All right,” she conceded quietly. “I hope everything turns out okay.” So did he. His palms were sweaty by the time he reached Spencer’s door, but he waited until Octavia had let herself into her apartment and locked the door behind her before knocking. The faint murmur of voices came from within. He really hoped that was just the television. The lock slid back, and the door creaked when Spencer pulled it open. Part of Mick was a little annoyed that Spencer looked so good. Why couldn’t his hair have been unwashed and pulling a 95

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Something About Mary, or why couldn’t he have been wearing his bathrobe, or why even couldn’t he have sported a few bruises to indicate he’d been mugged on his way home the other night and now needed Mick’s special TLC? But no. Spencer’s dark hair was as sexily unkempt as it usually was, and his lean body was neatly covered in faded jeans and a pullover with musical notes along the sleeves. His eyes were sharp and clear, too, searching Mick’s as he held the door open. He looked good enough to eat. Damn it. “Hi,” Mick said awkwardly, when Spencer didn’t speak first. Spencer glanced down the hallway before settling his attention back on Mick. “Hi.” “Rehearsal’s over.” Fuck, that didn’t sound lame at all. Why was this so hard? “I rode out with Octavia.” “Oh.” Though he didn’t look entirely pleased about it, Spencer stepped back and pulled the door open wider. “Come in.” A step over the threshold was a step in the right direction. Mick made sure not to push his luck by hovering just inside the room as Spencer closed it again. His mouth opened to ask about the box, when he spotted the item in question sitting in front of the TV. The videos were all neatly stacked inside, but one sat in the VCR, ejected from play but not entirely removed. Spencer had gone through them, obviously. Mick’s thoughts raced to remember what kind of incriminating things might have been on the tapes that might make Spencer decide dating was a bad idea. “There isn’t a problem with the show, is there?” The simple question diverted him back to Spencer, who stood more closely than he realized. The musky scent of his cologne 96

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filled Mick’s head, wakening every response in his body even though he knew this was definitely not the time for it. This close, all he could think about was how Spencer had attacked him after they’d both come, how his mouth had latched onto Mick’s neck and proceeded to clean away every drop of sweat that coated him. How he’d molded over Mick’s back when they fell asleep. How Mick had drifted off, thinking it didn’t get much better than that. It didn’t. He’d been dating for twenty-plus years, and never had a first date like that one. He was positive Spencer had thought so, too. The way he’d left, leaning into Mick like tearing away from his skin would literally be painful, the trembling kisses that made his toes curl. There was no way Spencer hadn’t been completely aware of just what a one of a kind experience it was. Which meant he was running scared now. This entire week…he’d just been too frightened of the intensity between them to face it. Coward. Anger sparked inside him. “No,” he said tightly, and pushed Spencer against the closed door. “I’ve got a problem with you.” Spencer squirmed, but when Mick tried to tighten his grip, Spencer surprised him by knocking one of his arms free. “I really wish you’d stop doing that!” He shoved Mick backward, hard enough for him to take several steps in an effort not to fall on his ass. When his legs hit the side of the couch, however, Mick couldn’t maintain his balance and toppled onto it. Spencer was on him in a flash, pinning him to the cushions with his wrists locked overhead. “You always think you can just take what you don’t, don’t you?” His dark eyes sparkled from some inner danger, a threat Mick wasn’t entirely sure wouldn’t be 97

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acted upon. “Mr. Big Shot Director doesn’t have to worry about consequences, after all. He’ll just pack up and disappear if he doesn’t like the results he gets.” His head spun. “What the hell are you talking about?” “You couldn’t wait for me to call. You just showed up here, unannounced, and when something I said, or something I didn’t say, didn’t meet to your liking, you decided to pin me to the wall. Just like you did that first time outside the pool hall.” “This has nothing to do with that.” “No?” He ground against Mick’s crotch, rubbing his semierection to full arousal with just a single stroke. Mick groaned, and triumph lit up Spencer’s eyes. “Feels like that’s what this is about to me.” Mick tried to summon the strength to throw Spencer off, but the intoxicating friction between their covered cocks kept sabotaging his attempts. “I showed up here, because I asked you to do one thing for me, and I found out you didn’t. Considering you were never going to call me back, what other choice did I have?” A muscle twitched at the corner of Spencer’s eye. Something Mick said had struck a nerve, but he didn’t have time to debate what it was before Spencer smashed their mouths together, attacking his lips with more teeth than tongue. The hint of copper tinted the kiss. He wasn’t the only one who was angry, but more importantly, he wasn’t the only one so viciously turned on at the moment, either. Mick hooked a long leg around the back of Spencer’s, trapping him in place. He’d thought the hunger when they had devoured each other upon arriving at his place after their date couldn’t be topped. Both of them had been driven by unfulfilled desire, some deep-seated yearning neither had completely recognized until the 98

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doors had been thrown open. But this was something almost feral in its ferocity, its claws slashing them into ribbons to lay the other bare. He shook from the force of it. Nerve endings ignited, erupted, then relit themselves again, just from the weight of Spencer pushing him down into the couch. Their first time might have been simple lust. This time was absolute need. The hand around his wrists slid upward, finding Mick’s and entwining their fingers. Mick could break the hold now if he wanted to. It was no longer as steadfast. Just a matter of shifting his weight, reversing their positions, and taking back the control he thought he’d had. He didn’t. Or maybe he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure which was the truth. He was, however, sure that he didn’t want this to stop, that maybe he’d known this was going to happen from the second he got in the taxi. Maybe this was what he’d wanted all along. Spencer skimmed his free hand down Mick’s arm, tickling along the underside and pit to his side and lower. Fingers pulled at his shirt in search of bare skin. The first contact stole what little breath Mick had left, and he tore away from Spencer’s lips to gasp and twist into the touch. “Oh, no, you don’t.” Spencer hooked his finger through Mick’s belt loop and pushed him hard against the couch. His hair brushed over Mick’s jaw when he ducked his head. In the next moment, his teeth sank into Mick’s neck, and the hard pressure when he sucked at the skin shot both pleasure and pain straight to Mick’s cock. He arched away from the sofa, into Spencer, against everything he craved. Sounds poured from his throat, more bestial than anything coherent, and his nails dug into the back of Spencer’s hand, heedless of any harm he might cause. He didn’t know where to focus. The constant pressure at his neck. The heat of Spencer’s 99

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fingertips slipping inside his jeans. The grind of their cocks as Spencer rotated against him. He couldn’t even remember what it was that had brought him to the apartment in the first place. It clearly didn’t matter. This was what counted. Spencer’s jerky breath flooded over Mick’s ear, raising goose bumps along his arms. “All I’ve done all week is think of you. Think about our date. About your bed.” His hand shoved deeper into Mick’s jeans, scratching across his skin as he dug to get beneath his underwear, too. “Tell me you want me to jerk you off.” “Do it.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if it was possible for him to come before Spencer ever touched his cock. “That wasn’t what I told you.” “What?” His mind raced. The details kept dancing away, replaced by the fire and fervor of Spencer’s touch. “You said, oh.” He pulled back, forcing Spencer to meet his eyes. “Jerk me off. I need you to touch me.” The denim burned against his waist from how quickly Spencer yanked his hand free. The button popped on his fly, but the touch he’d asked for didn’t come. His lips parted to ask why, only to be sealed by another kiss, Spencer’s tongue stabbing inside to demand and distract. Mick whimpered and let him take it all, wondering why he’d bothered to make Mick say it if he wasn’t going to actually do it. He would have repeated it if he could speak. Hell, he would have dropped to his knees and begged if Spencer asked for it. He nearly sighed in relief when Spencer finally pulled his cock free. Then that breath choked in his throat at the hot slide of another cock on his. Spencer refused to end the insistent kisses. With an equally relentless grip, he stroked their shafts together, fingers strong, 100

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power undeniable. The friction scorched every inch they touched. Did he know what that did to Mick? Mick didn’t think he cared. Hell, he didn’t care. This was too good, too fucking fantastic, to stop in any way other than the inevitable conclusion. Mick reached down and wrapped his hand around Spencer’s. The sudden addition jolted Spencer for a moment, but he quickly acceded, both of them stripping their lengths at ever more furious strokes. They soon gave up on the same deep kisses in favor of nips and licks at each other’s jaw. Mick suspected Spencer couldn’t concentrate on maintaining the rhythm they’d set, either. Each pull at their cocks hurtled them closer and closer to release, balls tightening, world narrowing, everything hotter, better, more exquisitely perfect than the second previous. He shuddered when Spencer’s palm slid farther on an upstroke, covering his wet tip and smearing the pre-come down the shaft on the way back down. When Spencer did it again and then a third time, his body exploded, his shaft jerking even within their grasps, long strings of sticky come shooting up onto his stomach and shirt. Spencer came only seconds later. His release wasn’t nearly as quiet as Mick’s had been, but the sounds he made were muffled by the burying of his face in Mick’s neck, the same thing he had done after their date, the same vibrations making their way through Mick’s body to dissolve the last of his frustration. They rocked like that in undulations that slowed to the point of stillness, and even then, neither seemed ready to be the one to end it. Mick certainly wasn’t. He could very well call it a day, and go to sleep here and now with Spencer’s weight bearing him down into the sofa for the next twelve hours. Lips, more pliant than before, more tender, forged a path up to Mick’s ear. He settled a kiss in front of the lobe, then peeled away, 101

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his eyes averted as he slowly rose from the couch. “I’ll get a towel to clean you up.” Spencer glanced down at him and grimaced. “And a clean shirt for you to borrow.” Mick wanted to grab him and make him stay, but Spencer’s words from his earlier attempt haunted him. He watched until Spencer disappeared. Spencer never looked back. “Damn it,” Mick muttered. He rubbed his clean hand over his face, digging at his eyes. His body was sated, but now that the veneer of lust had been stripped away, his thoughts insisted on an audience again. Something was clearly wrong. It couldn’t be so wrong that Spencer wouldn’t indulge in their attraction, but the fact that he couldn’t even meet Mick’s eyes was a sign too huge to not notice. When Spencer returned, Mick had already sat up and wiped away the worst of the fluid clinging to his skin and shirt. Spencer hesitated at the edge of the coffee table, the towel and T-shirt dangling from his hand. He’d already stripped out of his own shirt, though the one he’d put on in its place hung unbuttoned on his lean frame. His gaze refused to settle, flitting from Mick’s open fly to his chest to his neck. Everywhere but Mick’s face. “I’m sorry,” Mick heard himself saying. “I should have called before just showing up at your door.” The words shattered Spencer’s stasis, and he tossed both items onto the table in front of Mick. “You wouldn’t have found me. I probably would have ducked out until I was sure you wouldn’t be here anymore.” Whatever anger had fueled Spencer seemed to have dissipated with his orgasm, but that didn’t make hearing his confession any easier. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or was that a farewell fuck?” He knew his words and tone were bitter, but 102

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frankly, Mick didn’t care. That was exactly how he felt at the moment, and if Spencer was calling an end to their brief affair already, he wasn’t going to give him the courtesy of protecting his feelings. “That was…” Emotions Mick didn’t recognize ranged across Spencer’s face, until he hid them from view by covering it with his hands and sinking into the chair. “God, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.” The unexpected anguish in his voice tore at Mick’s resolve. Pulling his shirt off, he wiped down the rest of the come and tossed it aside before sliding to the other end of the couch. Closer was good. He had a feeling Spencer needed it, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “What’s been going on this week?” Mick asked carefully. “Anything I can help you with?” Spencer made a snorting kind of noise behind his fingers, then dropped them into his lap and slouched down in the seat. He leaned his head back and rested his neck on the rear cushion, staring up at the ceiling. Anywhere but at Mick, apparently. “I don’t know what that was.” It took a second for Mick to realize he was answering his earlier question. “I don’t mean it to be good-bye. I don’t think that’s what I want. But I just don’t know what’s going on. With us. With you.” “What do you mean, with me? I thought I made myself perfectly clear.” “You did. I’m just not sure it’s the greatest idea for us to get involved anymore.” He’d suspected it, but hearing it said aloud panicked him more than he would have liked. “Why?” Spencer rolled his head to the side, finally looking at him. “I 103

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saw the tape. I know about the regression.” *

*

*

He watched Mick’s face carefully, ready for any kind of reaction. His stomach dropped when Mick went pale, though to his credit, he didn’t bolt right that second. “I was drunk,” Mick said. “You can’t actually buy into all that crap, can you?” “It’s not quite as much crap as you think. I’ve been researching this week—” Mick rose suddenly with a snort of disgust. When he realized his cock was still exposed, he zipped his fly and started pacing around the room. “I don’t care what you’ve been researching, Spence. I was the one who actually experienced it. And I’m telling you, there’s nothing to it.” “Just because you don’t believe in it—” Mick whirled. “Do you?” His breath caught in his chest. That had been the grand question ever since he’d witnessed the regression the first time. He’d replayed that tape over and over again, trying to find proof that it was just a hoax, and when that did absolutely nothing, started doing what he did best. Research. Much of his week had been spent either at the library, or in various New Age shops scattered throughout the city. There was a whole subculture out there, people who believed in past lives and karma and destiny and fate, and Spencer had walked through their world—if only for a few minutes—wondering irrationally about the possibilities. Part of him had loved the idea. Keep coming back to earth to learn lessons or fix mistakes that were made in previous lifetimes? 104

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It was the obsessive-compulsive writer’s wet dream. Other parts weren’t nearly as enamored. A common conception was the belief people usually sought out souls they’d encountered before. Your brother in a previous life might be your son in the next. A lover could be an enemy. The lack of control over his own so-called destiny bugged the hell out of Spencer. It was like creating a fantastic script, only to show up opening night and come face to face with the Jesus of your nightmares. Most of all, and perhaps the shallowest of all reasons, it hurt his feelings that the only reason Mick wanted to direct his play was because he’d been—or believed he’d been—Kip Palmer in a previous life. “I don’t know what I believe.” Which was the truth, after all. “A week ago, if someone had mentioned reincarnation to me, I would’ve asked them what planet they’d joined Shirley MacLaine on. My point is, you never told me any of this. You said you’d never seen a Kip Palmer movie until after you’d read my script.” “I hadn’t. I didn’t lie to you about that.” He must have heard what that sounded like and grimaced. “I didn’t lie to you about any of it.” “Why is it that Octavia just so happened to send the script to you, then?” “Because it’s brilliant and she adores you.” “And because of that regression.” The pause Mick gave before responding was damning. “That’s Octavia’s problem, not mine. I have never mentioned or thought about that stupid party since it happened, except when Octavia brought it up.” “So she did bring it up.” “Just the once.” When it was obvious that answer wasn’t going 105

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to satisfy, he added, “After I came back. She thought I should tell you, but what she fails to realize is that I don’t believe in it.” He crouched down in front of Spencer, resting his hands on the chair’s arms to cage him in. “I. Don’t. Believe in it. I was the one Nelson was fucking with, and I’m telling you, I one hundred percent think my imagination went into overdrive and made all that shit up.” He seemed so sincere. It blazed in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the white-knuckled grip he maintained on the chair. He desperately wanted to convince Spencer that he was speaking the truth, and the funny thing was, Spencer believed him. He just thought Mick was blinding himself to a possibility just like he’d been skirting the possibility all week. “It was awfully coincidental, don’t you think?” he said. “The car. The setting. The accident. His name.” “Kip Palmer was killed on a remote road with no witnesses. They are entirely separate incidents.” “The regression wasn’t really focused. You could have been combining memories, or transposing them, or something like that.” “Which should be an even bigger hint that maybe it’s all a load of bunk.” The tone of his voice begged Spencer to listen. “Don’t you think it would have stripped away all the tricks your head usually plays on you and made the memories easier to access? None of it means anything. Which is why I didn’t bring it up. It’s inconsequential.” “Not to me.” Mick’s sharp intake of breath came with a jerk away from the chair. “So you think you can’t believe my motives now? Is that what you’re trying to say?” Spencer itched to reach out to Mick and make it better. Even now, hearing his disavowals, he wanted to forget everything he’d 106

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learned this past week and go back to the way things were. His body certainly wanted it. Even as furious as he’d been at Mick’s attempts to control him, to control the situation, he’d craved the man’s touch, the sounds he made, his taste. He’d needed the release, as much as he needed to breathe. But attraction wasn’t enough. He needed to trust Mick, and right now, he wasn’t sure he could do that. He wasn’t entirely sure he could trust himself, either. Kip Palmer had consumed his life. If there was even the remotest possibility Mick might have been Kip in a previous life, how could he know for sure he wanted to be with Mick for his own sake, and not because of this weird cosmic connection? When he took too long to answer, Mick shook his head in disgust and snatched up the clean shirt. “You’re as bad as the rest of them.” His head disappeared for a second as he yanked the shirt on. “Even if there was any credence to any of this past life crap, what difference does it make? What matters is what you do now. You can’t change any of the other stuff. This is the life you have. This is the one that matters.” He stormed to the door. “I’m guessing tomorrow is off, but starting Monday, I want you at all the rehearsals.” It took the unforeseen order to finally drive Spencer upright. “That’s sooner than we planned.” “Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind.” He paused on the threshold, his eyes hard. “Live with it.” The door slammed behind him, leaving Spencer staring at it blankly. Go after him. Don’t leave it like this. But his feet remained glued to the floor, minutes after Mick had gone. 107

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CHAPTER 9 Though Mick might have demanded his presence at rehearsals just to be an asshole, by the end of the second rehearsal after their fight, Spencer had never been more excited for anything. Mick was brilliant. No two ways about it. He’d known it intellectually, of course. He’d read the reviews. He’d seen just how crowded auditions were, based on the name of the director alone. He’d heard countless people extol Mick’s virtues. He’d even seen enough smidges of the process to consider him gifted. Sitting through entire rehearsals was something else entirely. He didn’t include Spencer at first. Spencer sat on the sidelines with his script open and pen in hand, watching as they finally moved beyond blocking to actual work. One of the first things 108

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Spencer noticed was how he required the entire cast to be present even if they weren’t going to be in the scenes that day. “The best way to serve the play is to know everything there is about it,” he’d said to Spencer on break, when he’d dared to ask Mick. “Good actors are sponges. They’re going to learn just as much watching me work with the others as they are if I work with them directly. And if they can’t deal with that, then they’re out of here and they know it.” They did, too. Octavia confirmed Mick’s methodology on the way home one night. “He doesn’t put up with nonsense,” she said. “That’s part of why he’s so good.” But only a small part. He worked scenes from the inside out, spending the first half hour discussing character and motivation with the participants before ever putting a foot on the rehearsal set. Spencer knew from personal experience that actors ate that kind of stuff up, but he’d rarely seen a director indulge in it so freely. Others most often did it the other way. Drive home the blocking and the script until the actor could repeat them without thinking, and then work on nuances. It was a valid method, provided there was enough time left over in the schedule to explore the characterization. Mick still focused on learning those rudiments. It simply added in the extra element that made his shows stand out from the pack. If they had still been on good terms, he might have joked around about Mick secretly wanting to be an actor instead, with all his focus on their needs, but they weren’t, and even then, he wondered if Mick would take it as yet another intimation about his so-called previous life. Probably. The topic was a sore one. Surprisingly enough, he usually forgot about it while they were 109

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actually rehearsing. Mick didn’t let him stay on the sidelines for long. Whenever someone questioned history, or pace, or motivations, Mick dragged him out to help resolve the issues. Both he and the actor in question would listen to whatever explanation he had to give, then thank him for the help before putting it into work. The first time it happened, Spencer thought he caught something in Mick’s eye as he turned away to go back to his seat—a gleam, maybe a hint of melancholy longing—but then it was gone, and he felt ridiculous for wishing Mick might miss him as much as he did Mick. The single best part of sitting in on rehearsals, though, was witnessing a moment that first week when one of the young actresses attempted to ad lib a section she’d already expressed dislike for. Mick held up a single hand, like a traffic cop. The entire room fell silent. “What’re you doing?” he said, pointedly addressing Wendy, the young woman. She glanced around at the others, as if looking for support. Nobody was willing to give it to her. When it was obvious she was on her own, she turned back to Mick and lifted her chin. “What do you mean?” In the darkness, Spencer shook his head. The girl was clearly an idiot. If she hadn’t learned yet that Mick was much easier to work with when you were upfront and owned your mistake, she deserved whatever censure was about to come. Mick folded his arms over his chest. At least two other people on stage backed up a step, Octavia included. “That wasn’t in the script.” His voice had gone low and eerily even. The hair stood up on the back of Spencer’s neck. “Why did you change it?” 110

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“I didn’t mean—” “Yes, you did. Why did you change it?” She plucked at a loose thread in the seam of her jeans. “Because it doesn’t flow right the way it’s written.” “Oh. It doesn’t flow. That sounds like an expert opinion. I must’ve missed the part on your resume where you’ve had your own plays produced in New York.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Well, no, but—” “Are you not capable of memorizing the lines as written?” “No, I can do it.” “But you choose not to.” “I thought it sounded better the other way.” Slowly, Mick advanced until he towered over her petite form. He didn’t use his size often. He usually didn’t need to. To her credit, though, Wendy didn’t back down. “Not that I should have to explain this to you again, but the lines are written this way to convey a sense of whimsy to the scene. The words were specifically chosen for the way they counter Kip’s contemporary language and the harshness of the current mood. Do you remember discussing this the first time you pretended to stumble over this particular dialogue?” She nodded, mute under his controlled onslaught. “Respect isn’t something that comes in drips or drabs. Either you do, or you don’t. Don’t respect the words, and you can’t respect the work. And anyone who can’t respect the work in one of my productions gets replaced by someone who does. Do I make myself clear?” Another nod. Mick immediately stepped back and dropped his arms as he melded into the darkness at the edges. “All right, people. From the 111

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top again.” Spencer stopped watching the rehearsal at that point, though he knew he might regret it if he got called out to help with something. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mick. Warmth that had everything to do with unexpected gratitude and happiness and nothing to do with something sexual flooded through him. Nobody had ever defended his work like that before. It was hard to imagine anybody ever doing it again. The rest of rehearsal went by in a fog. Mick never looked in his direction, even though Spencer lingered afterward in hopes of getting to talk to him. Jeremy approached as he slipped his pack over his shoulder. “So what do you think so far?” he asked, smile firmly in place. “I think Mick’s fantastic.” He flushed when Jeremy laughed. That had just slipped out. “The whole thing. It’s all fantastic.” “I love the way he directs. He’s really making us work for it.” Spencer laughed. “Yeah, that he does.” “Are you two still…?” He glanced back at where Mick and Octavia discussed something at the edge of the set. “You don’t seem as buddy buddy as you were at auditions.” Though he knew he should tell Jeremy the truth, Spencer couldn’t. Part of it was the fact he didn’t want to encourage Jeremy’s attention. The more he saw him in the part of Kip, the more uncomfortable the notion became of finding him sexually attractive. But then there was the part that even though Mick hadn’t made a single overture since their fight, Spencer couldn’t bear the thought of a clean break. Regardless of his hurt feelings, and how hard it was—or had thought it was—to trust Mick’s motivations, he still felt the draw. Even more than the physical attraction from the start. Much more. He wasn’t ready to ignore 112

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that completely. “Mick’s concentrating on the show, like he should be,” he said. “Better for you guys, right?” Only when Jeremy shifted his weight on his feet, angling less toward him, did Spencer realize how close he’d been. “Not so great for you, though.” It was impossible not to glance at Mick again. His mouth watered at the memory of the man’s heated kisses. “I’ll live. And I get a great show out of it, too. There’s no losing here.” “No, probably not. My loss, though.” Spencer offered what he hoped was a conciliatory smile. “Something tells me you won’t have to worry about being alone for too long.” As Spencer headed for the door, Jeremy fell into step beside him. “I was wondering one thing, though. I’m having problems getting into Kip’s head in the flashback scenes. You know, the stuff from when he was a teenager. You think you could offer me some help with that?” Considering he wasn’t that much out of his teens himself, it felt like a last ditch attempt to get Spencer alone. He pushed aside the satisfaction the flattery automatically generated to focus on the specific request. “I found one of his old high school yearbooks when I was doing all my research. I could bring it in and let you look through it. He’s not really in it that much, but if nothing else, it’ll help give you a taste of the period.” Disappointment at the suggestion flashed across Jeremy’s face, but as quickly as it showed up, it was gone. “That would be great. Thanks.” They stepped out into the evening sunshine, and without the boundaries of the building, Jeremy lengthened the gap between 113

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them. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Spencer gave him a wave and leaned against the wall to wait for Octavia. Should he have accepted Jeremy’s offer? They could have gone out for drinks, just as friends. There was nothing wrong with cultivating actors as acquaintances. You never knew who might make it big and provide a necessary contact sometime in the future. But debating it was purely academic. He knew Jeremy wouldn’t have been satisfied leaving it platonic, and he really didn’t want to give Mick any more reasons to hate him. He was doing the right thing by maintaining some distance. Octavia emerged alone and linked her arm through his, guiding him to the subway. Her age always made him feel guilty about not indulging in a cab to go home, but taxis were expensive, and she was more than understanding about his vehicle anxiety. He stuck by her side throughout the whole thing, though, and she always played her age more than it was, just to procure a seat. “You should call him,” she said unexpectedly, while they waited on the platform. Spencer sighed. “I see him every day. If he wanted to talk to me, he’s had plenty of opportunity.” “Why does he have to be the one to make the first move?” “He’s the one who stormed out.” Octavia didn’t have anything to say about that. She didn’t need to. The narrow sideways glance she shot him said it all for her. The ride home was lost amidst more unspoken questions and recriminations, though these came internally, not from Octavia. Would it hurt to try and talk to him, now that they had a little distance? Spencer didn’t even really believe any of the doubts he’d had when they’d fought. The confrontation with Wendy was 114

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definitely proof that Mick held the play itself in high esteem. Respect the words. Respect the work. Continuing that logic could only lead to, respect the man. Mick could have been telling the truth all along. None of the regression stuff mattered to him. The past didn’t matter. The play did. Spencer did. For their own merits, which was what he’d wanted all along, wasn’t it? He’d made his decision before they reached their stop. He’d call. If Mick wasn’t interested in talking or trying to work things out, he’d know soon enough. He waited until after he’d dropped Octavia off and found sanctuary in his darkened apartment. Though he had Mick’s cell phone number, he chose instead to call his apartment. He’d likely be home by now, and Spencer knew from listening to the cast complain that Mick often forgot to turn his phone back on after he left rehearsals. It rang incessantly, each tone destroying another nerve, until the voicemail clicked in. “Hi, you’ve reached…” Gripping the phone tighter was the only way to keep from hanging up. Spencer rubbed at his face while he waited for the message to finish, taking a deep breath when it was his turn to speak. “Hey, it’s Spencer. I guess you’re not home yet, which only proves my point about the trains since I’m in Brooklyn already.” He chuckled, hoping Mick realized he was joking around. “Listen, I’d like to talk. Not about the show, it’s not about that. About…us. If there even is an us to talk about anymore. I’d like there to be, if that counts for anything. But I should’ve believed you from the start, and I’m sorry I was such an asshole about it when you came by that last time. Call me. If it’s not too late, maybe we could even 115

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grab some dinner.” He almost hung up before he found the guts to blurt, “I miss you.” He disconnected then and tossed the phone onto the table, like he held a snake in his hand and needed to get rid of it as soon as possible. Mick might call back, or he might not. He might even be on a date with someone else at the moment, though that particular possibility had Spencer seeing an irrational red. He needed to stay busy in order not to think about it. What was it he’d promised Jeremy? Oh, the yearbook. Right. It was tucked in the back of a box with miscellaneous research materials that wouldn’t fit in any of his binders. Spencer grabbed a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and sat down at the table, flipping through its thick, glossy pages. He’d found the yearbook on eBay, from a search on Kip’s hometown. He’d only been looking for memorabilia from the area—to give the play a sense of verisimilitude, he’d told himself, even if he’d felt the low thrill of immersing himself in the town’s milieu while he clicked through the offered items. Kip wasn’t even in it very much. He’d only been a sophomore at its release. But the yearbook had been well-loved at one point, its owner a senior girl who’d been quite the social butterfly. Few of the blackand-white photos, both candid and posed, were bereft of commentary. Don’t forget the float! Behave yourself this summer! You’re my favorite Glee Girl! Everywhere, the shiny happy hope of a future bright with promise. He doubted such innocence could be found anywhere but the remotest corners of the country today. He flipped forward to the sophomores. Kip’s picture was tiny, hair pale, smile wide. There was still a faint layer of baby fat along his jaw. His face wouldn’t get that razor-sharp edge for another 116

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four years. No scribbles on these pages, but Glee Girl hadn’t palled around with underclassmen unless they were part of her various groups. These pages had had a tendency to stick together when he’d first received the yearbook. Nobody had bothered to look through them until he came along. With a sigh, he sat back in his seat and sipped at his soda, catching the edge of the yearbook to close it. His gaze drifted to the opposite page, searching for nothing specific, but lazy and undirected, a symptom of his mild melancholy. Waiting to find out if he still had a chance with Mick. Waiting to see his baby make it to the stage. Waiting for life to make a decision on whether or not he could come along for the ride. The picture of a girl with long dark hair and light colored eyes that twinkled with naughtiness even in black and white made him freeze. Goose bumps erupted along the back of his hands and up his arms. He recognized her. She stirred feelings in him that dissipated into nothingness when he tried to grasp them, but they were warm, light, freeing. Unknown, except not, even as he struggled to recall how he knew who she was. Her face appeared in front of his mind’s eye when his gaze jumped to the list of names at the end of the row. “You’ve told me how many times not to fight it? And there I was, fighting it.” “You weren’t. It was just the wind.” “You’re trying to make me feel better.” “Did it work?” “Buy me a chocolate Coke, and I’ll let you know.” The dream. The one he’d had in Mick’s bed. Her name was Alice Ramey. 117

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He didn’t remember noticing her before when he’d looked through the yearbook before, but in all fairness, he’d never looked at much of anybody but Kip. He flipped through to the index in the back. The school wasn’t nearly large enough to make it impractical to list every page each student could be found on. Alice Ramey was only on three—her class headshot, a posed picture of the girls’ choir in their stiff collars and long skirts, and a candid of a group standing around a car in a parking lot. Spencer knew that car. Kip should’ve been too young to drive it, but there it was in all its beat-up glory, exactly as it had appeared parked along the busy highway. A figure sat behind the wheel, but two burly young men blocked most of the detail, the shadows inside the car obscuring him even further. He’d never given this photo any attention before, but now, squinting at the driver, he knew without a doubt that it was Kip. He could practically smell the sunshine. He’d dreamt of her with Kip once or twice since that night with Mick, the last after their big fight. He’d not given it any credence, though now he wondered if he should have. So many details were similar to what had happened in Mick’s regression. The heat. The car. Kip. He’d created those for himself before witnessing what Mick had experienced. But had he created them? Could it have been possible they were memories? In everything he’d studied about reincarnation, he’d learned it was more than a little common for details of previous lives to come out in dreams. It was the brain’s way of coordinating the memories, rationalizing them away as artificial constructions for a pragmatic society that might believe past lives were folly. They were especially strong with young children, before they’d been conditioned to deny the possibility of memories 118

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they shouldn’t have had, but almost anyone could really experience them. He’d read plenty of stories where the unbelievable had happened. A child had recognized WWII planes and battles without any previous exposure to them. A woman had walked unerringly through a castle ruins in Scotland, recounting how it had been centuries earlier. Every finding had later been confirmed by three separate historical experts. A man on his deathbed begged for a priest to absolve him of sins, of an unsolved murder on the other side of the world that had occurred before he was even born. He’d been obsessed with Kip Palmer ever since hearing the man’s voice. He’d never done this kind of research for any other play, and he’d been dreaming more and more about him since Mick had come into his life. Mick had insisted all along he couldn’t have been Kip Palmer, and for the first time, Spencer trusted what he said. Because the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became he had been.

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CHAPTER 10 His phone rang as soon as he emerged from the subway. Spencer had to duck under the eaves of a nearby McDonald’s to give his eyes time to adjust against the evening sunlight before reading the display. As soon as he saw Mick’s name, his heart began to thump wildly. “I just got in,” Mick said after they’d exchanged quiet greetings. “Shelley and I stuck around for a meeting with the tech guys.” “Oh? How’d it go?” “Things are looking good. Everything’s right on track.” An awkward silence filled the line for several seconds. “But you said you didn’t want to talk about the show.” 120

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“No, I didn’t.” A horn blasted from nearby traffic, followed by someone’s shout of annoyance. Spencer turned away from the street to better hear Mick. “I’m glad you called.” “Where are you? You’re not at home.” “No, actually, I’m in Soho. I was on my way to meet someone.” More silence. Damn it, he should’ve phrased that better. The last thing he wanted was for Mick to hang up. “Do you want to do this a different time, then?” Mick asked carefully. “No, no, I want to get us sorted out. I meant what I said. Does it…” He searched for the words, wondering why they were so hard all of a sudden when words were usually his forte. Probably because they were so important. “…make a difference?” “What you said?” Mick sighed. “I thought it did.” “But…?” “No but. I just…I’m sorry. I guess I don’t have any right to be jealous of who you’re seeing. Just please tell me it’s not Jeremy.” “It’s not Jeremy.” Secret delight at knowing Mick was jealous accelerated his pulse even more. “I was actually on my way to meet up with Nelson Butler.” The name brought even more silence, though Spencer had expected that. Octavia had been surprised at first when he’d gone next door to get more information on the man who’d conducted the regression, but after he’d told her about watching the video, she’d nodded in understanding. “Mick lives too much in the now to consider there might be stuff in the long time ago that bears examination,” she’d said. “But you think too much about the long time ago to remember you’re still in the now.” She’d patted his chest as she’d handed over 121

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Nelson’s contact information. “Remember that.” He’d left knowing that whatever happened with Nelson, he was going to plant himself on Mick’s doorstep afterward until they fixed what had happened. The fact that Mick had called ahead of time didn’t change any of that. “I can call him and say I’m going to be late,” Spencer said. “I’d kind of like you to come with me, actually.” Mick made some kind of sound that was lost in the traffic noise. “You know how I feel about all that.” “I know. But…I’ll bet you’ve dreamed about her since we started working on Dead Man’s Curve, haven’t you?” The risk of looking like a fool was worth it, because Mick was worth it. “I told you. I wasn’t Kip Palmer.” “I know. I believe you. But you’ve never once denied that you could have been someone else. Like Alice Ramey.” His lungs refused to work right while he waited for the refusal, the slamming down of the telephone, the shouts of anger. Anything to indicate Mick was still there, that he’d heard the name, that he was actually listening to what Spencer had to say. “Where are you?” Spencer squeezed his eyes shut at the rush of relief. He rattled off the crossroads, then said, “If nothing else, Mick, I want you to know I should’ve believed you about the play. You’re the best director I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry I didn’t trust that, but I do now.” “Thanks,” came the soft reply. “Don’t move. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” *

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figured out as soon as he’d hung up that it would be a waste of time watching the subway exits. Mick would always elect to take a taxi before the train. His hair was rumpled, his moves hasty as he paid the driver, but the second his gaze lit on Spencer, Mick smiled. That alone made everything else worth it. “Does Nelson know you’re descending on him with company?” he said. “I never even mentioned you,” Spencer replied. “I didn’t want to abuse your privacy.” Mick shrugged. “If I thought I could talk you out of going there completely, I would. But I don’t think you’re going to be satisfied until you see this through to the end.” On impulse, Spencer caught the back of Mick’s neck and dragged him close enough for a short, nearly sweet kiss. “You’ve always gotten me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad of anything in my entire life.” Mick was still smiling when Spencer let him go. “Come on. You’ve got an appointment to keep.” Spencer caught his hand on the first step and didn’t let go until they’d gone the three blocks to Nelson’s fourth floor walk-up. Neither of them attempted conversation. The time for that would be later. Somehow, they both understood that. He pushed the buzzer for Nelson’s apartment, but it was answered immediately, like Nelson had been waiting for him. “Yeah?” “It’s Spencer Szabo.” He had to lean closer to the intercom to make sure he was heard over the road noise. “I brought a friend with me, is that okay?” “Oh, sure, sure, no problem.” 123

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When the latch released on the front door, Mick was the one to catch and hold it open. He followed Spencer inside and up the four flights of stairs, hanging back all the way until they reached the door. Even then, he let Spencer take the lead. Nelson Butler was heavier than he’d been on the video, though the shy smile was exactly the same. He exuded a sense of calm that Spencer felt even before he uttered a word, and when his gaze slid past Spencer to spot Mick, the delight in his eyes was genuine. “I didn’t know you were back in town!” he exclaimed. He immediately threw the door open more widely and gestured at them to enter. “How’ve you been?” While Mick and Nelson caught up, Spencer swept his gaze over the room. It looked like any other struggling actor’s apartment, college student chic with a devotion to theater posters. The New Age paraphernalia he’d mostly expected were nowhere to be seen. Nelson could have been anybody, anywhere. Just with a penchant for hypnosis. “Were you the one who told Spencer about the regressions?” Though Nelson’s question to Mick was clearly meant to be innocent, Spencer jumped in before Mick got put on the spot. “It was Octavia, actually. She was very enthusiastic about it all. She thought you could answer my questions for me.” “Oh.” His gaze jumped between them. “I thought you wanted to go under.” “You don’t—” “He’s just nervous,” Mick interrupted. “He’s never done it before.” Spencer stared at Mick. This was the last thing he wanted to see, wasn’t it? He’d been so vocal about it all being made-up nonsense. Even if Spencer had guessed correctly that his regression 124

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had told him he was Kip’s high school girlfriend, that didn’t necessarily mean Mick actually gave it any stock. Except he’d come out to Soho to go with Spencer as soon as he’d made the guess about Alice. And both he and Nelson were watching him expectantly, waiting for him to respond. “I really don’t want to be a bother,” he said. Nelson smiled. “Oh, you’re not. Just lie down on the couch. I’ll go get some water and be right back.” He left them alone, but when Spencer didn’t move right away, Mick cocked a brow. “You know you want to do this,” he said. “Stop worrying about me and relax. You can’t go under if you don’t relax.” He smiled. “Or drunk, but I think you’d rather not be able to blame it on the alcohol.” “You hate these things.” “So?” “So? That matters.” In two long steps, Mick stood right in front of him. His hand cupped the back of Spencer’s head to hold him still for a brief, hard kiss. “You matter,” Mick said when he pulled back. “If you’re not going to do this for you, then do it for me.” His thumb caressed along Spencer’s jaw. “Something tells me you’ll be much more pleasant to be around once you’ve gotten it out of your system.” Spencer laughed. He didn’t know about that, but one thing was certain. When they walked out of here tonight, the only direction he was going to be looking in was the future. The one he hoped included Mick. *

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“…Go back. You’ve had a lot of life lessons, gained a lot of wisdom from them. Let’s find a time where a lesson you learned is impacting on your life today. Go back.” Spencer had been half-entranced when he’d watched Nelson on the video. That soft, soothing voice hadn’t changed over the last decade. If anything, it was even richer, more powerful. It convinced him to let go of all the stress and fears that had been weighing him down for far too long and concentrate on his physical form. Without the flesh, the rest was cerebral ephemera, without intent, without purpose. Each might need the other, but right now, his mind didn’t care what his body was doing. It stretched out on something soft—Nelson’s couch—content to rest, unwilling to move without direct command. His limbs felt heavy, like they did in the space of those seconds right before he fell asleep. That microcosm had expanded to engulf more time, though, because even though he floated on the periphery of consciousness, he felt no tug to move toward or away from it. The only pull he knew was that of Nelson’s voice—go back—and it was that instruction he took to heart and obeyed. His chest rose. Fell. Rose. Fell. Breathing was such an elegant act, if you thought about it. He liked the certainty of it, the regularity. With every breath in, another would eventually come out. Nelson’s voice when it came again did nothing but distract him from the beautiful simplicity of his body’s functions. “Let go of the physical world and let your mind drift. Where are you?” Sun. Hot, scorching, blinding. Even the wind abraded where it whipped past his face. The scent of sand mingled with exhaust, and the back of his shirt stuck to the leather seat. 126

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“In my car.” “Where?” “Out on the road.” The asphalt shimmered up ahead, like water rippled across its surface. He could wear his sunglasses to help with the brightness, but then he’d lose the details. There wasn’t much better than being outside in the open air, the top down on the car and the whole, naked world stretching around him. “Driving.” “Do you know where you’re driving?” Nowhere, everywhere, that was the whole point of it, wasn’t it? To not have to worry about any of the real world constraints that came from being young, and good-looking, and unable to tell people no when all you wanted was to sit back and relax. “The desert. I needed to get out of the city.” Something whispered in the background, an itch at the edge of his awareness. He wanted to turn his head toward it and tell it to stop, but his muscles didn’t want to work, and this was far too comfortable a position to disturb anyway. “Sometimes, we all need to get out of the city,” Nelson said. “Why did you have to, this time?” He hated telegrams. Grubby little pieces of paper always bearing bad news, delivered by smug little assholes who would go home after work and boast about whose life they crushed today. Not in those words, of course, because they couldn’t actually know what the telegrams said, but who in their right mind ever thought they delivered happy announcements? “I needed to think.” “About what?” Guilt like he’d never felt before flooded every cell of his being. It tasted bitter, burning everywhere it touched, and he gripped the steering wheel hard enough to crack his knuckles. The burn 127

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pricked the corner of his eyes, too. He had to blink a few times before he realized those were tears, and a few times more to understand it wasn’t an effect of the wind. “What did you need to think about?” Nelson’s quiet question came again, filtering through the growing fog in his head. He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to talk. It was his fault, wasn’t it? If he’d only written more often. If he hadn’t left at all. If he’d kept even one promise, there wouldn’t have been a telegram, and there wouldn’t be any of the headaches of Hollywood, and there wouldn’t be Kip Palmer, wannabe teen idol. There’d be Kip and Alice, parked alongside the 5, flying kites and laughing when the wind won the fight. There’d be chocolate Cokes, and Sunday dinners with her parents, and maybe a little house off Main Street. There wouldn’t be illnesses and stupid starlets and broken appointments. “Spencer.” There was an edge to Nelson’s voice this time, though he didn’t raise the volume. “You’re the one in control here. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s all in the past. You’re just an observer. Step away from the scene and watch it like you’d watch it on TV.” Easier said than done. He couldn’t let go of the steering wheel, and his foot was too heavy on the accelerator. Images of Alice raced through his head, the worst of her being sick in bed, protesting to her father about letting Kip know she was sick at all. “She needs you,” the telegram had said. “Doctors say doesn’t look good.” She needs me. Needs. Me. 128

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“Three!” His eyes shot open. The textured ceiling blurred for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the change of depth, then sharpened into the stark white reality of Nelson’s apartment. Something tickled along his ear. His hand shook when he reached up to brush it away. His fingers came away wet. Sweat. His collar was drenched. Nelson sat at the side of the couch, his bland features pulled into a worried frown. “Are you all right?” He reached out to help Spencer sit up. “I pulled you out of it as soon as I saw I couldn’t get you to detach from whatever was going on.” Mick appeared at the corner of his vision with a tall glass of ice water in his hand. Spencer took it gratefully, and gulped it down. The trembling had stopped. That was good. The images were receding, too. “I’m fine.” His voice was surprisingly calm, but even more so, the jitters that had pervaded when Nelson had woken him up were actually gone. “Really.” “You didn’t say very much.” Appeased that Spencer was telling the truth, Nelson retreated to sit on the edge of the coffee table. “Do you remember it?” Spencer caught Mick’s worried eyes. He didn’t want to talk about it here, though honestly, he wasn’t sure he needed to talk about it at all. Mick might have questions of his own, and the last thing he wanted was to make him uncomfortable by discussing it in front of someone else. “Bits and pieces.” He shifted back to Nelson with a reassuring smile. “Was it too hard to put me under? I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to relax enough to make it work.” “Nelson has one of the best voices in town,” Mick interjected. “He can put a whole nursery full of screaming babies asleep, just 129

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by talking to them.” Nelson laughed. “Which is why I’m doing voiceover work now instead of being onstage. But yeah, you were fine. You came out quickly, too, which is a good sign that you were still in control.” “Me in control? I thought this was about putting myself in your hands.” “That’s what everybody thinks. But all I do is help you figure out where you’re going.” When it was clear Spencer didn’t completely understand, he gnawed on his lower lip before offering, “Think of it like a GPS in your car. I’m going to tell you how to get where you want to go, but ultimately, you’re the one who’s driving.” The analogy clarified it enough for Spencer to nod. “I suppose that makes sense.” A lot of things made sense now, actually. And now that he had some answers, he could finally let go of all the questions.

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CHAPTER 11 The sun had already set by the time they walked out of Nelson’s building, the streetlights casting sallow circles across the pavement. Spencer let out the breath it felt like he had been holding for the last ninety minutes, but couldn’t quite look over at Mick. It had been hard staying quiet about the regression while Mick and Nelson caught up on old times. It was even harder staying quiet now and not begging Mick to come home with him. “I like him,” he said instead. “It’s a shame he’s not doing stage anymore.” “Nelson’s always been smart about his abilities. He’ll go a lot further doing voice work than fighting for character roles.” Mick took a step closer to the curb, his gaze already scanning the street for a cab. “Are we taking this back to your place or mine?” 131

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His breath choked in his throat. “You still want to get us sorted out?” The shadows hid Mick’s eyes when he looked back at Spencer, but that didn’t stop everything in his body from going hot at the soft set of his mouth. “I want that more than anything. The question is, do you?” “Why wouldn’t I?” “I don’t know what happened to you up there. I don’t know…if that changed anything.” He didn’t need to see Mick to recognize the fear in his voice. Need drove him closer, and before Mick could stop him, Spencer pulled him into a full embrace. “The only thing that’s changed is I’m more sure than ever I need to get on with my life.” The scent of his cologne drove away any more of Spencer’s doubt. The comfort and ease he’d found with Mick from the start could no longer be denied, and damn it, he wasn’t going to do it anymore. He brushed a kiss over the stubble forming along Mick’s jaw, holding the man even tighter when a shudder wracked through him. “We make a pretty great team. I don’t want to lose that. Not for anything. Not for anyone.” Mick crushed him against his chest, arms stiff from the uncharacteristic force. “This past week has been hell. I thought just working together would be okay. It always has been before.” Spencer chuckled. “I didn’t do much working. Mostly, I just sat around and watched you be brilliant.” The compliment was enough to draw a matching laugh from Mick, and he drew back, though his hands fell to Spencer’s hips and kept him close. “You are so damn good for my ego. Can I keep you?” “As long as you promise to take me off the shelf and dust me 132

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once in a while.” He could drown in Mick’s smile. “I think once in a while is a very conservative estimate.” Their arms hooked loosely around the other’s waist as they separated and faced the street, Spencer waiting patiently while Mick hailed a cab. Within a minute, one pulled over. Just like he had after the concert, Mick pulled Spencer in after him and into the side of his body. “You don’t have to do this,” Spencer said with a smile, after the driver pulled onto the street. “I’m perfectly capable of handling the ride without you holding me like a baby.” “I’m not holding you like a baby.” He dropped a kiss across Spencer’s temple. “I’m holding you like a boyfriend.” Warmth washed through him. It was a little silly to be so pleased about such a high school word, but the sense of ownership that came with it was exactly what he needed right now. “Do you still think all the regression stuff is BS?” he asked. Mick glanced away and shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t know anymore.” “Because of what you saw tonight?” “Because you knew Alice’s name before I ever said a word about her.” They fell silent then, each lost in his own thoughts. Though he was wildly curious, Spencer didn’t want to press. Just the fact that Mick hadn’t immediately denounced the whole thing as poppycock spoke volumes. Regardless of what Mick might believe, Spencer knew what he felt, knew what he remembered. It wouldn’t take much research at all to confirm whether or not Alice Ramey was still alive, and if she had died, when and how. But he was fairly sure about what he would find. 133

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After his parents’ deaths, Kip Palmer had left his small town and high school sweetheart behind to live life in the big city, under the bright lights, under the hope of something more. He’d died thinking he’d let her down somehow. That need for completion had compelled Spencer to dig into the young man’s life, in search of answers to questions he hadn’t realized he was asking. Whether he verbalized it or not, Mick had recognized them, too. He might truly believe that Spencer’s play was brilliant, but something inside him had seen something more. Spencer didn’t think their coming together had ever been inevitable, not in the karmic sense that reincarnation always espoused, but nothing could stop them once they found each other. Again. As they were crossing the bridge, Mick cleared his throat. “This changes nothing for me, you know.” He hadn’t stiffened or otherwise changed his hold on Spencer. Spencer took that as a sign not to get alarmed. “What doesn’t?” “This regression stuff. I don’t live for the past. I live for now. I live for tomorrow. I’m not Alice Ramey, and you’re not Kip Palmer, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it.” Spencer smiled and lifted his head. “So would I. Two’s more than enough in one bed.” Mick’s answering smile was slow, but sure. He ducked his head and brushed a kiss across Spencer’s mouth, as sweet a one as he’d ever tasted. “It’s better this way, anyway,” Mick teased as he settled back in the seat. “You don’t like girls.” Spencer played along. “Oh, I like girls just fine. I just don’t want to have sex with them.” “Like I said. It’s better this way.” Their arms stayed around each other, even when Mick had to 134

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pay the driver. It was like they had to make up for the week apart, when the closest they could come to contact was the rare occasion of passing the production book back and forth. Spencer rejoiced in the solid shape at his side and wondered how in hell he’d managed to go so long without him there. As they stepped into his dark apartment, he decided he was going to do everything in his power to make sure Mick stayed there. He didn’t have time to reach for the light switch before Mick tugged him into another embrace. “I don’t want to talk right now,” he murmured against Spencer’s ear. His hands slid down Spencer’s back, leaving fire in their wake. “I want you to take me to bed and fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.” The suggestion made Spencer shiver. “I don’t want you to forget. I don’t want you to forget who either one of us are.” “That better not be a polite way of turning me down.” Mick bit down lightly into his neck, drawing yet another shiver. “Because then I’ll have to show you how serious I am about this, and I would really rather feel you inside me instead of the other way around.” “I’m not turning you down.” He caught Mick’s wrist, and, as hard as it was to tear away, moved around him to lead him through the lightless room. “Just making sure you know I’m fully aware of who it is joining me.” Mick followed him blindly, never faltering, never asking a question. With each step, Spencer’s conviction grew stronger. He knew before he crossed the threshold into the bedroom that he would fight tooth and nail to keep this man in his life for as long as humanly possible. If that was fate, so be it. 135

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An arm snaked around his waist, drawing him tight into Mick’s body. They still wore too many clothes for him to fully appreciate the arousal against his ass, but the soft feather of lips along the back of his neck more than made up for it. Moaning, Spencer dropped his head forward and let Mick explore. Every kiss erased another ounce of tension. Knots he hadn’t realized coiled beneath his skin slowly unwound, until his limbs felt liquid, and his cock strained against his zipper. “Mick…” he breathed, but whether it was a plea for more or a request to stop, he had no idea. Mick took it as the former. Tongue joined the exploration, followed quickly by teeth. Little nips sent sparks through Spencer’s veins, rejuvenating where the first caresses had melted him down. This was Mick’s magic. He did it with his actors, and he was doing it here, though it was likely completely unconscious on his part. He deconstructed the walls others threw up—whether it was an actor’s presuppositions or a lover’s anxieties—and then aided them in recreating something better, something marvelous. All Spencer could do was give as much back as he could. Which meant turning around and breaking that exquisite contact for the amount of time it took to do so. “You’ll have me bending over and begging for you, if you keep that up,” he said. “You give me that view, and expect me to keep my hands to myself? You’re not as smart as you look.” “Those weren’t your hands.” Light filtering through the window caught a flash of Mick’s teeth as he smiled. “You stopped me too soon.” Spencer grabbed the hem of Mick’s shirt and pulled it over his head. His own followed. He craved the heat of skin meeting skin, 136

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the coarse rasp of hair singeing away nerve endings as they ground together. They did each other’s jeans, slow, knowing. Patience would be rewarded. The careful stoking of their desire would allow an even greater release. Still, he gasped when Mick gripped his bare cock. His hands hesitated where he’d been shoving Mick’s jeans down his strong legs, and he held his breath as Mick stroked him once, twice, a third time. “You can let it out,” Mick said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes widened. He hadn’t been thinking that, at least not to his awareness, but now that Mick had said it aloud, the reality of his fear hung right there, tangible between them. Deliberately, he exhaled. “Maybe you should have kept up with that massage.” “Maybe I should just spend the next few decades proving you wrong.” Spencer smiled and grabbed onto Mick’s hips, tilting his weight back so they both fell onto his queen-sized bed. Mick was only on top for a moment before he rolled them over. They moved as if it was the most natural thing in the world—Mick spreading his legs to accommodate Spencer, Spencer finding the spot next to Mick’s head to prop himself up. Their cocks rubbed together, precome easing the way. The only thing to make it better was the seal of their mouths, both converging at the same time, both open and ready to accept the other. He lost the minutes they stayed like that. Even while Mick’s hands strayed over every inch of bare skin he could reach, Spencer never abandoned his mouth. Their tongues would tangle for long seconds, then he would suck Mick’s into his mouth and allow him 137

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the quarter to explore anywhere he wished. Even when he stopped to gulp for breath, he returned within moments, nibbling at a succulent lip, tracing the outline of a full curve. His mouth felt swollen by the time Mick stopped messing around and slipped his hand between their bodies. At the firm hand around his cock, Spencer pulled back and rested his forehead against Mick’s, their shallow breaths mingling into a hot storm. “Not that I don’t have problems making out all night, but someone promised to fuck me,” Mick teased. “It’s your fault. You’re too good a kisser.” “Ah…” He felt Mick’s smile, rather than saw it. “There’s that pump to my ego again. You better be careful. I’ll actually start believing all this good press, and then you won’t want anything to do with me.” “Never happen.” He honestly believed that. Considering everything he had already seen of the man, he didn’t think there was anything Mick could do that they couldn’t work through. When Mick started to stroke his cock again, Spencer met him with small thrusts, fucking his hand in anticipation of more to come. The tip nudged against Mick’s shaft every time Mick slid down to the root, until a path of slick pre-come coated the way. His chest tightened. Words wanted to spill out, but he held them back for now. Their time would be later. He needed to trust that words were unnecessary at this point. The friction heated. Pulling away took effort he didn’t want to expend, but he was going to shoot all over Mick’s stomach if they kept this up. Spencer pulled back, resting his weight on his knees as he reached for the nightstand. Mick tracked every movement. When the lube and condom appeared, though, he let go of 138

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Spencer’s cock to take them away from him. “I’ll do this,” he said. He pushed against Spencer’s shoulder, forcing him to sit back even farther. “You just enjoy.” Without Mick’s body beneath his, the room felt cold. Spencer fought the need to forget what Mick wanted and stretch out atop him again, bracing himself as Mick tore open the condom and rolled it down his cock. His hand dipped between Spencer’s legs, fondling his balls for a moment before deserting him again to pick up the lube. The first slick glide was even colder than the room. His gasp brought a smile to Mick’s face and another hard stroke down his length, some of the lube coating Mick’s fingers smearing across his sac when he reached the base. He was just starting to warm up again when Mick let him go, and he watched in hungry fascination as his lover bent his knees and slipped his oiled fingers between his buttocks. “What about stretching you?” he asked. Mick shook his head. “I’ll live without it, if you promise to take it slow.” He would have promised anything right then, without any prompting at all. The moment Mick moved his hand away, Spencer was on top again, angling his cock downward to seek out Mick’s hole. The muscle refused to give at first, even with all the lube. In the back of his mind, Spencer wondered how long it had been since Mick had been fucked, then dismissed the question as irrelevant when Mick wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer. Mick wasn’t holding back. He’d coiled one leg around Spencer’s hips to encourage him along, so it was easy to gauge how much was too much, how much was not enough. He rocked 139

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gently with Mick’s rhythm, knowing when he finally breached the tight ring, it would be more than worth it. Mick rained kisses along his collarbone with each careful thrust. Warmth enveloped him, brighter than any lights, and when the head of his cock finally sank into Mick’s passage, they both shuddered with relief. “Slow,” Spencer repeated. Mick’s mouth found his again. “Yours.” The single word declaration startled Spencer into jerking, but any discomfort Mick might have felt was masked by the fusion of their lips, the hard thrust of his tongue past Spencer’s, the tightening of his leg around Spencer’s hips. He sheathed his cock the rest of the way in smooth increments. He refused to consciously hurt Mick, not now, not ever. Nothing had ever felt so good. Heat and constriction beyond his wildest imaginings enshrouded his shaft, even when he withdrew to set up a languorous tempo until Mick was ready for more. His head spun. His skin felt brittle, too feverish to the touch. The steady caress of Mick’s lips helped distract him from coming too soon, but even that added to the bliss rolling within his body. Mick rose to meet each stroke. Though his cock was hard and heavy between them, neither reached to touch it. Mick seemed far more eager to touch Spencer instead, trailing nails down to his ass to pull him even deeper. He scratched along Spencer’s spine, across his shoulders, onto his neck to hold his head still for a more fervent oral attack. All he seemed to want was what Spencer gave. Spencer decided that would do for the moment, but there was no way he wasn’t going to give even more. He didn’t know who started moving faster first. It might have been him. Each shuttle into Mick’s ass radiated a burn through his 140

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veins that made him only crave more. It might have been Mick. He’d been hungry for it ever since they walked in the door. In the end, it didn’t matter, because their bodies took over, slamming against the other with a growing sting of damp skin to damp skin, hearts thudding, mouths colliding. Spencer struggled to keep his balance as he tried to reach between their bodies, but Mick grabbed his hand and entwined their fingers, breaking apart from the intoxicating kisses for the first time since they’d started. “Don’t need that,” he rasped. “Just fuck me.” He clenched around Spencer’s cock then, spurring him to drive into his channel with even more force. Spencer swallowed his cry, but there was a fresh fervency to their rhythm, no speed too great, no power too much. The tight walls gripped his shaft, daring him to go even harder, and just as the muscles clamped down on him, Mick’s cock jerked between their stomachs. Warm come smeared across their skin, chests and abdomens too close for it to travel very far. The added stickiness went straight to Spencer’s head, especially since he could smell it, too. His mouth watered, the hunger to taste him overwhelming. Next time, he promised himself. Because there absolutely would be a next time, and a time after that, and a time after that. His own release came only moments later. He couldn’t withstand the new tightness, or the way Mick held onto him as if he was something precious. He buried himself one last time and let the world explode, shattering to still blackness all around him. Mick’s long, sensual strokes down his back rooted him back in the present. “You better not kick me out tonight,” Mick said, a laugh in his voice. “The way my legs feel right now, I’d have to crawl out to 141

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the curb.” Spencer smiled. Pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, he eased out of Mick’s passage, but simply rolled to the side with Mick still in his arms rather than abandon his warmth just yet. “I’m not letting you go any time soon.” He closed his eyes and nestled into Mick’s neck, inhaling his salty scent, shivering when Mick did the same. “I think you’re stuck with me now.” “Good.” Mick’s arms tightened. “That’s been a long time coming.” It had. Too long. But the past didn’t matter now. The only step he wanted to take was forward. With Mick right there next to him.

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VIVIEN DEAN

Vivien Dean has had a lifetime love affair with stories. A multipublished author, her books have been EPPIE finalists, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Nominees, and reader favorites. After spending her twenties and early thirties traveling, she has finally settled down and currently resides in northern California with her husband and two children. For more information about Vivien and her books, visit her website at http://www.viviendean.com *

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Don’t miss Interlude by Vivien Dean, available at AmberAllure.com!

Sometimes, it’s better to be friends than lovers…or is it? Onstage, AJ Mobley is smart, clever, and commands attention. Offstage, he’s shy and lost to everything but his music. The reason for the difference? Tyrone Dahl.

For the past two years, AJ and Tyrone have been the star attraction at the Reno bar, Heat Wave. Their "dueling pianos" act is fast and funny, but their camaraderie isn’t just under the spotlight. They’re best friends away from the show, too. An opportunity to take their act to Las Vegas seems like the perfect next step in their careers. There’s only one problem— AJ’s been in love with Tyrone almost from the moment they met. He’s hidden it well; after all, Tyrone might be bisexual, but he’s also never lacked for company. AJ would rather be his friend than another notch on his bedpost. But Vegas beckons. And Tyrone wants to take the leap. The last thing AJ can ever do is deny his best friend…

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