True Hollywood by J Buchanan
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Copyright ©2008 by James Buchanan
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True Hollywood by J Buchanan
CONTENTS Published by Phaze Books True Hollywood About the Author ****
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True Hollywood by J Buchanan
Published by Phaze Books Also by James Buchanan Twice the Cowboy Lord Carabas "Mask" from Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Phaze in Verse Cry Melusine Twice the Ride Twice the Cowboy, Twice the Ride (print collection) "Burn Zone" from Coming Together Under Fire Lutin's Heir **** 4
True Hollywood by J Buchanan
**** This is an explicit and erotic novel intended for the enjoyment of adult readers. Please keep out of the hands of children. www.Phaze.com [Back to Table of Contents]
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True Hollywood by J Buchanan
True Hollywood An Urban Phaze novella by JAMES BUCHANAN [Back to Table of Contents]
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True Hollywood by J Buchanan
True Hollywood copyright 2008 by James Buchanan All rights reserved under the International and PanAmerican Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ****
**** A Phaze Production 7
True Hollywood by J Buchanan
Phaze Books 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222 Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC. To order additional copies of this book, contact:
[email protected] www.Phaze.com Cover art © 2008 Debi Lewis Edited by Kathryn Lively eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-59426-715-4 eBook ISBN-10: 1-59426-715-4 First Edition—May, 2008 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 8
True Hollywood by J Buchanan
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. [Back to Table of Contents]
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True Hollywood by J Buchanan
Rain thrummed against the roof of the car. The offbeat tempo of the windshield wipers filled the otherwise silent vehicle. Jason stared out at the night profile of Los Angeles. Superimposed over the darkness and streaked with rain, the ghost of his profile stared back at him. Dark hair faded into the margins of the evening. The dashboard glow added an eerie pallor to his skin and haunted his green eyes with angelfire. Shifting in his seat, he watched the city flash along the Hollywood freeway. Dots of red, white, and yellow scattered like Lite Brite pegs defining the undulating foothills with random color. He could literally watch the world go by through his own eyes. Jason glanced across the truck's interior. Barely lit by the dashboard light, the sharp, maple-syrup profile of Samantha Cherwlsy studied the rain slick freeway. "Thanks for driving, Sammie," Jason broke the silence. "Taking the bike out in weather like this would suck donkey balls." He ran his hand through his hair. Damn, he needed a cut. Maybe he could trade the gal in the apartment down the hall a trim for some riding lessons. She kept trying to get him to help her boost her acting resume with stunt skills. "No way I wanted to miss this." Sammie glanced over and smiled. "No problem. Any word on the Nazi Death Machine?" Sammie paid about as much attention to freeway traffic as some people paid overhead jets. Hell, when your job consisted of ramping Mini's off the 10
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fifth floor of a parking garage, what was a little rush hour congestion except an annoyance? "Well, yeah, it's going to take a few grand to fix the Jetta. Stupid car, I just don't have that kinda cash right now." He snorted and shook his head. "The strike's got me all fucked up. They had to shut down the two projects I was on once they'd run through the scripts on hand. A hundred people laid off on one show, forty on the smaller production." Fucking miserable world in LA these days, you couldn't even land a gig waiting tables. "At least I got a job at my uncle's dealership I can fall back on." With a quick look out the back window, Sammie cut two lanes of traffic onto the Highland Avenue exit. "Tell me about it." A straight shot off the freeway and then she angled them right. They sped past the Hollywood Bowl, abandoned and quiet in the winter rain. Palms, eucalyptus, and pine trees lined the avenue. Apartments turned condo, faded into trendy boutiques, then slid farther down the social chain into discount marts and fast food restaurants. Up ahead loomed the mega-mall complex housing the Kodak Theater. To fill the silence of the cab, he added an unsolicited explanation. "I get free maintenance on the bike at the dealership so I can keep it going. Little perks of working for a bike shop." Glitz, glamour, and commercialization: the foundations of the entertainment world encapsulated in a seven-story ziggurat. Sixteen-foot high mega billboards sparkled. Two giant, white elephants worshiped the trendy boutiques from their lofty perches. 11
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Jason tried to recall if he'd ever actually been there. Definitely not to shop. The stores were too upscale for his blood or wallet. Sammie just drove, didn't respond to his last comment. He didn't want to sit in silence right then, not when he knew where they were headed and why. "That's like ten minutes from my place. So even if the weather sucks it's a short ride." A right onto Hollywood Boulevard shoved overdone revitalization against their vision. A few blocks down and the street sank into remnants of past glory. Stars on the sidewalk competed with bums for attention as tattoo parlors and souvenir shops fought for tourist dollars alongside cheap lingerie outlets. With all the neon, this stretch of the boulevard never saw true darkness. A left on Vine slid them between non-descript office buildings. Really, the only thing indicating they'd passed the famous intersection was the street signs. "Not a fair weather rider?" she teased. "Tonight I am." Another left a bit down and Sammie wended her way along Santa Monica. Warehouses turned into mega dance joints jostled against actual warehouses. Between them, hidden studios burrowed into anonymity. The occasional up-andcoming or on-the-way-down playhouse broke the expanse of industrial non-signage. "I understand completely, doll." Her fingers drummed the steering wheel in time to the rain. "No sense going out in shit like this when you're not getting paid for it." 12
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Hollywood Forever Cemetery, with its grand gates and forlorn presence, flashed by on the right. Once again, Jason promised himself he'd go and see the icons of Tinsel Town ... that made fifteen such pledges for the year. He counted breaths, almost reaching six before he spotted the tiny sign lit by a single dim spotlight: By the Sword: Fight School. He could still smell the rubber mats and the sweat. Unoiled wood echoed in his memories with shouts and thumps as bodies hit the boards. All of it overshadowed by a booming, dominating, but somehow gentle presence. Ghost whispered phrases welled up to ring in his ears: Are you fighting or are you fucking? or I've seen five-year-olds with better balance! The Old Man, in your face and on your case, his shaved head reflecting the fluorescents and blood crawling up his neck and cheeks, would scream out his mantras. A voice Jason'd never hear again. You fuck up in here, I kill you. You fuck up out there, you kill yourself and maybe someone else. Treat every single stunt like your life is on the line. The Old Man's command, Jason repeated it to himself before every hustle. "Who all of the gang is coming?" He asked just to break the silence. "Mike, Reggie, Franco, Giovanni, Carolyn, Grace; the whole Chicken Cannon crew." Sammie hooked another right and darkness crashed about them. Only the occasional street light vainly attempted to pierce the night. "All the regulars from our gang, and you know he was teaching at one of the trade schools. Some of those kids are showing up. The ones he really took an interest in. His ex-wife, I think. His two sons 13
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might be there. One's flying in from Orlando, the other's driving down from the bay. It'll be like the old guard." A few more turns carved into Jason's memory and Sammie pulled to the curb. "Yeah, it'll be nice seeing everyone." He just wished the impromptu get together hadn't been occasioned by Jacob's death. Not like they all didn't see it coming. Some things, however, Jason would rather have ignored. For Jacob Mandalo, the Old Man, giving into old age was one of them. "You know," Sammie killed the engine. She leaned on the steering wheel for a moment, then blew out a breath and turned to Jason, "ah, I heard Ernie's gonna be here." Jason stopped, his hand on the door handle. "I didn't know." With a grunt, he yanked the handle down and shoved on the door. "But I would have been surprised if he didn't show." Jason slammed the door and ducked across the sidewalk, seeking cover under the lip of a tattered awning. As Sammie jogged around her truck, he added, "I mean, he was one of the Old Man's hot boys." "Yeah." Sammie hooked her arm through his and pulled him at a trot toward a storefront full of fogged windows. "Did you see him in Born to Die? I hear the movie sucked but the stunts were awesome." "Yeah, I saw that one." And The Left Hand of Midnight, Offered, Hell in the Rain Forrest, Slaughter at Mid-Tide and just about everything that Ernest Hill had ever done. "The stunts rocked. Ernie pops out of this building, pumping lead from an Uzi as he falls backward on that descender ... he fell, what, six-hundred feet on that wire? I'd guess a few takes to 14
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get that shot, and every one of them wondering are they actually gonna stop me before I hit?" "No shit." Laughing, she skidded to a halt at the door. Shadows moved behind the dingy panes. "And that horse gag in The Left Hand of Midnight." Sammie yanked on the door to the jangle of bells. She smiled. It wrinkled up her nose like a little kid's. "Holy crap, a Brody from a running horse, one of those stunt falls that looks super simple and still can kill you. And man, I'm surprised he walked away from it. I mean, you know, six inches either way and he'd have gotten his skull knocked in by one of the other animals." Sammie lightly punched his arm. "Cowboy-up, Jason. Sometimes you just got to take the gut punch even if it hurts. The Old Man would want you to play nice." Then she darted through the door. Following her, Jason stepped half a century back in time. He slipped out of his leather jacket and flipped it over his shoulder, immediately, regretting the maneuver. Wet, cold trails of rain ran down his back. Directly in their path, a jukebox spun actual records. Glittering blue vinyl upholstered booths. Pearly sea-foam green laminate graced every table and counter. Checkerboard tiles of white and green reflected against walls, covered to chair-rail height in chrome panels that matched the stools also edged in chrome. Each booth had its own mini jukebox. The Sock-Hop Café wasn't, however, chic or retro-trendy. Cracked vinyl sported patches of colored duct tape, and a glaringly off-color tile occasionally broke the pattern of the floor. Around the walls, just below ceiling height, black and white head shots of up-and-comers and never-made-its 15
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stared through grease filmed frames. Above the glass pie case a smattering of better kept photos reflected the faces of the few and far between who actually gone on to be famous. Behind the counter, two teenage girls, both bearing a good deal of resemblance to the man at the register, watched a small TV wedged into a corner. The man glanced up and Jason opened his mouth to ask about the people they were seeking, when the tail end of a story reached them. "And this stupid bitch, apparently, doesn't even know how to drive a car. Wham! Right into the back of an eighty-five thousand dollar Viper. That's what you get for letting the Talent do their own stunts." A tsunami of laughter rolled out of a doorway to the left. Jerking her head toward the sound, Sammie smiled. "We're with the insane people." As they wandered toward the commotion, a whip lean, sharp-cheeked woman looked up and out toward them. "Oh my God. Sammie! Jason! Oh, dolls, long time no see." She stood and beckoned them with outstretched arms. Each got a hug and Hollywood kisses to the cheek. "I'm so glad you came." "Wouldn't miss it. Have to send the Old Man off right." Sammie choked up as she spoke. "Looks like the whole crew made it." She waved across a group of men and women clustered round three tables pushed end to end. People jammed in as best they could. A few spilled over into nearby booths.
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"Hi, Edie." Jason greeted Edith Mandalo, the Old Man's ex. Jason hadn't seen her in forever. "Gotta have a last malt and heart-attack special on the Old Man, you know." They moved deeper into the room, trading hugs and back slaps. Giovanni wore the same tired haircut, although now grey dominated over brown. Still, the man could bounce a quarter off his abs. The last thing Jason'd seen him in, Giovanni doubled for one of those slightly grizzled but still sexy leading men. He'd been bulldogged by a heavy stunt punch, rolled down a hill, and come up swinging haymakers. He reached up and caught Jason's hand in a vice of a grip. "Hey, man, your eyebrows grew back." "No thanks to you." Jason squeezed hard back and popped Giovanni's shoulder with his fist. "You set me on fire and then tripped over the damn extinguisher. It was supposed to be a five-second, not thirty-second stunt. That's what you get for asking, 'What could go wrong, it's just a little fire gag?'" "Yeah, you know better than to ask, 'What could go wrong,' then everything will." A snort to the left from Mike punctuated the point. "The real question is," the gravely voice matched a florid face—shit, age wasn't doing favors for Mike, "did they get it all on film?" Mike's once bright red hair receded far enough now that the edge lined up with his ears. The guy next to him chimed in, "These bozos, of course they did." Wow, Reggie had gone to hell, too. Muscle turned to fat put them both out of the business. Last he'd heard, Reggie picked up a contractor's license and was building cheap houses in Chino. He had no idea what Mike spent the last few years doing. Once out of the game, former stuntmen 17
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faded into the deep-dead-body contingent ... people you knew were out there, but they only served as set dressing for the action. When he moved past Reggie a chorus of, "Chicken Cannon, Chicken Cannon," started and Jason groaned. Carolyn's off-key rumble added a counter to her sister Grace's whiny pitch. Both gals carried enough muscle to be scary. They pounded the table in time to their chant. "Ho-wa, howa, Chicken Cannon, ho-wa, ho-wa, Chicken Cannon." A young guy who Jason didn't recognize, maybe twenty at the oldest, looked at them like they'd sprouted horns. "What the hell?" Must be one of the new kids Sammie talked about. Jason rolled his eyes. Of course they remembered that. "Holy shit, the Chicken Cannon." Everyone from their gang remembered that. "We are not talking about the Chicken Cannon." "God, that was so wrong." That voice Jason recognized at the first syllable. His sight line ran smack into Ernie seated on a chair in the far corner, legs stretched across to prop his heels on a booth bench. Ernie's wry grin flashed as he added, "Nightmare inducing wrong." His teasing included the whole room in the joke. The subtle smile lingered on his strong, jawed face and seemed all for Jason. Laugh lines crinkled the corner of his deep brown eyes. Ragged edges on his otherwise military haircut spoke to how long it'd been since he had a part. Jason tended to pull stunts for cop dramas and war flicks. Attitude bearing, he carried himself like a warrior. Plus he could act, take a punch, and deliver a line on cue ... the most marketable stuntmen in the business knew how to 18
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emote. It earned him the bump on sets without having to take more dangerous stunts others risked for a hike over base pay. "What's the Chicken Cannon?" This time the question originated from a lean blond woman. Again, Jason didn't know her. None of the newbies looked like they'd survive a day on set. God, had he, Sammie, and Ernie ever been that green? "No," Edie protested, "oh, don't make me remember that." If anything, the drama she slathered on demanded they all relive it. Ernie thumped the vinyl seat with his heel before swinging his feet to the floor. "It was a cluster fuck." A jerk of his chin indicated he wanted Jason to sit. Jason took a deep breath, steeling himself for being that close to Ernie. For the Old Man's memory, he shoved the nasty parts of tossing Ernie out on his butt into the back of his brain. Then he faked a smile and sidled over to Ernie's side. The scent of wet leather wafted off of that old bomber jacket Ernie always wore. All his other clothes looked brand spanking new. "No!" Sammie's bray cut across the table as she dropped into a chair. "It was hysterical." Jason eased into the booth. Hesitant, he glanced over. Ernie smiled. That hit deep and hard, waking Jason's memories. How he smelled after a shower. What his mouth tasted like ... what his prick tasted like. It had been awhile since he'd been so near Ernie. They'd pulled stunts just because someone said it couldn't be done. Weeks where they hopped a plane to fall off a horse in Albuquerque, driven five hours to pull an all night fire-fight in Arizona, and then 19
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jumped another plane to drive a tanker into a wall in Barstow. They'd fuck like animals on the adrenaline rush from shooting gags that could have killed them. Then turn around and do it again. Breaking into his reverie, demands for the story hit him from all corners of the room. "Okay, okay." He held up his hands in mock resignation. What else were wakes for if not relieving the good times? They demanded laughter and punch lines. "There was a director on this low budget, craptastic splatter flick called Beaks." Someone slid a platter of cheese fries over. Jason grabbed a few, shoved 'em, in and kept on talking. "If the title doesn't say it, I don't know how else to convey just how bad the film was. They couldn't even get it picked up on a straight to video. It's non-union, of course, but I took it 'cause it was my first shot at a stunt-coordinator position ... and I've just come off this fucked up round of gag-break-myleg-recover-gag-break-my-arm. I'm thinking I need an easier job for awhile." Ernie punched his shoulder hard enough to sting. "And this mooch, begs us to do some gags so that the shoot's not, like complete crap." Then he rocked back on the rear legs of the chair and folded his hands behind his head. "Convinces us all to head out to Twenty-Nine Palms for three days. The girls," Ernie jabbed his finger at Sammie, Carolyn, and Grace, "actually got a hotel room. Greg, Mike, Numbnuts and I all had to share this skanky RV. And then the Old Man drags Edie down as well, which expanded the pool of day extras by ... oh, one-hundred percent." 20
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"Yeah," Mike almost choked, "and every time you assholes got to shagging in the back I thought the bolts on that drop down bed were gonna fall out. What we all put up with because we liked Jason." Rubbing his arm, Jason glared at everyone involved. He coughed and retuned to the main story. "The director has this scene where he wants bird parts shot through a combine. But every time we fed the shit through this World War II piece of farm equipment, it gummed up. So we figure out that what Dipshit really wants is to splatter the side of a barn with blood and feathers and shit." Edie wiped the tears from her eyes. "Oh, God, the memories." The tale hadn't reached the climax, but they all knew the track. Anticipation of the punch line already fueled giggles. It was good that they could make her laugh. The Old Man and she'd been together since creation. They'd met in the sixties after being thrown through the same window in a gag. Even though they'd split, they'd stayed best friends. His death had to hang on her hard. Happy to be the one to lighten the load for even a bit, Jason joined her laughter. Picking up the thread, Ernie snorted, "One guy on the set used to work for a poultry slaughterhouse. We can't afford prop parts with the way we're going through them. So we go buy, like, five hundred pounds of chicken guts: feathers, innards, and shit that's fallen on the floor or the refrigeration was off and they can't sell it. Big oil drums of nasty shit. And you found what?" He nudged Jason with his elbow. 21
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"I don't know." They'd been working so fast, rigging shit without a real plan. "This big old metal pipe, little bigger in circumference than an oil drum. And we mounted it on this frame so we could angle and aim it. I mean, basically we made one big, fucking air gun." Stunt coordinator, stunt man, and technician—one of the three, Jason hadn't trained for. "And we put wet, dead chicken parts in and blow it out for a test fire ... I mean it was like phbbbbtttt out the end like a fountain. Chicken feet and livers are dribbling out the end. "Moron the Magnificent starts screaming for, 'More blood, more parts.' It must be, 'Dramatic!' The guy acts like he thinks he's some big shot director." Jason rubbed his temples with his palms. "And, he's not giving us any time to actually work out the gag. Everything has to be now, so we're working on the fly. If there'd been people involved in the gag we would have walked, 'cause you can't do risk like that with lives at stake." "We've already got the bulk blood recipe, like, tripled." Ernie picked up the thread of the story as though they hadn't been apart for seven years. "We bought the local discount house out of low-end shampoo and all the red dye we could find." "So Ernie's mixing blood," Jason jerked his thumb at Ernie's chest, "and we try a second test shot. Well, wet soapy chicken don't shoot good, either. So then we got the bright idea to freeze the goddamn drums. Ernie here," admiration crept into Jason's tone before he could stop it, "does a hustle on the owner of the hotel coffee shop where the gals are staying. Sweet talks them into letting us use their walk-in 22
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freezer. By the way, has to be below zero to freeze shampoo. So the shit is rock hard. We cut the drum off the frozen shit. It's like this foot round, three-foot-tall bullet of frozen chicken parts, soap, water, and feathers. Looked just gawdawful." God, it really had been a massive cluster fuck. Grace and Sammie both chimed in, "Smelled worse!" "The director shouts, 'Roll sound.'" Ernie slammed the chair back down on all fours. "The Old Man gives the clear signal as the director screams, 'Action,' and Jason fires up this fucking Howitzer loaded with frozen chicken. Boom!" Emphasizing the sound effect, Ernie banged his fists on the table rattling plates, forks, and glasses. "This fucking piece of ice goes shooting out the end and knocks a hole the size of a Volkswagen into one side and out of the other of this goddamn barn." "It's sticking out of the dirt, in this twenty-foot-long trench, maybe fifty percent still frozen." Jason had to stifle the laughter before he could finish. "And there's this trail of red soap and chicken gizzards and feathers all along it. Splattered everyone within a radius of fifty feet with shit." "The Old Man looks at Jason, with chicken goo just running down his face." Ernie paused and Jason buried his face in his hands, knowing what was coming. "'Well Jason, my boy,' he called everyone boy, even the gals, 'Thank God they never give us stuntmen credit for anything. You may be able to live this down ... someday.' Then as he's walking away he's like, 'Of course, there's always the outtake reels.' We're all just dying." 23
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"And thus," Edie spread her arms to Heaven as if including the Old Man in the joke, "the legend of the Chicken Cannon was born." Jason fell into the laughter. It really was funny, especially since no one had gotten hurt. "After that, anytime a shoot started going to Hell and the director is demanding stupid shit, we'd all be, 'Yep, pull out the Chicken Cannon.'" When Edie recovered her breath, she put her hand on her chest. "Oh dear God, thank you all. I was really worried this would be hard. I've been barely holding it together for days. This, this is wonderful." She sniffled and picked up her shake. "Let's toast the Old Man, and somebody tell me another story!" Each tale of bravery, last minute save, or massive screw up was followed by a round of toasts to the Old Man. Jason never realized how much he touched so many peoples' lives. More members of the old crew drifted in until the room was damn near bursting. Jason found himself shoved farther into the booth, wedged in a corner between the wall and Ernie, who'd joined him. Ernie's leg pressed against his own. A lot of familiar and far too comfortable desires flowed in behind the contact. He should have shifted to another seat, moved across the room or something. It was like old times again. He and Ernie together. Years ago, they'd have closed the joint down, headed out for a drink at The Curb, and then fucked themselves senseless the rest of the night. Like he read Jason's thoughts, Ernie nudged Jason's shoulder, "You up for doing the rounds?" "You're headed over to The Curb?" 24
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"Yeah." Ernie looked up and smiled as Sammie slid into the booth opposite them. Then he turned his attention back to Jason. "We should go have a drink for the Old Man." "I don't know, Ernie." Jason wasn't sure he could handle drinking, Ernie, and memories. "Come on!" he wheedled. "You, Sammie, and me?" Casting out for back up, Jason pled more with his eyes than the one-word question, "Sammie?" He didn't want to leave yet, but alone with Ernie didn't seem a stellar plan. "You up for it?" "Sorry, doll." She shook her head. "I gotta run." "Really?" Ernie didn't seem all that put out by the news. "That's too bad." In fact, his hand ran down Jason's thigh. "Yeah, my sis is watching the wee one. She started tossing her cookies this morning, so I told her I wouldn't be late. I'm sorry." Sammie reached over and bumped Jason's hand with her fist. "I'll drop you off on my way home." Now Ernie squeezed. "You hitched a ride?" Blood vacated Jason's brain and headed south. He really shouldn't do it. "The Death Machine," he shrugged out an apology and tried to push out of the booth, "needs a major transmission overhaul and it's raining too hard to take out the bike." Ernie didn't move. Instead, he stared hard into Jason's eyes and moved his hand back up along the inseam of Jason's jeans. "Hey." Jason jerked his attention back to Sammie. She narrowed her eyes and shot him an are you crazy look in 25
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return. "I dropped a twenty on the table for our shakes and part of the food. Let's book." Smooth, seductive, Ernie hustled. "If you want to stick around, I'll give you a ride home." "You don't have to." What sucked was, Jason knew the hustle, saw it, and didn't care. "S'okay." Ernie smiled. They both knew he won. "Sammie needs to get home. You still live in Burbank? It's sorta on my way. Little detour, but not bad." A vain protest was meant for everyone but Ernie, "I don't want to put you out." "It puts out Sammie more." Jason couldn't stop staring into Ernie's eyes, barely hearing his words. Absently, Ernie waved Sammie off. "Run, Chiquita, I'll schlep this mooch home for you." "You okay with that, Jason?" She sounded like his mother. "Go." He swallowed and nodded, unable to tear himself away from Ernie. He used to blow off his mom, too. "I'm fine." Like booze, he knew Ernie was bad for him, but sometimes you caved to an addiction. Jason needed to drown in a habit for a night. A warm, comfortable and long absent craving worked its way though his frame. "Your baby's sick. You run. I'll be fine. This moron ... he's an ex, not a stalker." Sammie's exit started the general round of leave taking. Collecting coats, hugs, kisses, and promises not to be strangers started in the back room and moved out through the main dining room. Edie caught Jason before he made the door. "God, you know he was so happy that he put you boys together." 26
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Shoving his arms into his coat, Jason asked, "What?" Ernie had already moved outside and was sharing some joke with Giovanni. Shit, he'd already fallen into the pattern of checking where Ernie was. Seven years gone and he was dropping right back into old habits. "Well, I mean," she hooked her arm through his and followed his gaze out the door, "here's this stupid, green kid, with decent looks, doing his first hustle. Badly." Edie laughed. "All big and puffed up ex-Army Ranger, 'I'll do anything,' and swaggering. You know the Old Man, he sees right through that crap. Normally, that would have punted the kid to the curb, but he told me that little voice said, 'This kid's got something.' But he's got to push, 'cause the Old Man was exCorps. So he yanks him, gonna punch his buttons, 'Honorable, dishonorable or medical.' He figures medical or maybe dishonorable, because, you know, we're stuntmen ... we're the legion of failed everything else. "So this kid draws himself up and you know the Old Man hit a button, there's this fight building in his eyes. 'Dishonorable,' Ernie spits it out like he's cursing out the Old Man." For a while they just watched Ernie. "The Old Man pushes harder, he wants to see where the kid'll break, 'What you do, fuck up and kill someone? I don't need that level of fuck up here.' 'Hell, no,' and Ernie's way angrier then he should be. 'I got busted 'cause I sucked some idiot's meat and got caught by a homophobic shit of a Sergeant, you got a problem with me being a fag?' And the Old Man just smiles, 'cause you're trucking down the set." Patting Jason's arm, she smiled and nodded to Ernie, who wandered back in. "'Nope,' 27
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the Old Man says, 'see that good looking kid with those green eyes,' he tells him, 'well, he's the double for the main Talent. I'll put you driving a car or something easy but your job is to keep him outta trouble. You fuck it up, you never work again.'" Ernie palmed his face and groaned. "Not that story." Jason wondered why he'd never heard it before now. Especially since Ernie was the kind of guy who relived all old war stories, over and over and over. With a jab to Ernie's chest, Edie continued, "This kid stutters out, 'What?' Like he didn't hear right. Ernie was dumb as a stump back then." Before he could object, she waved the comment off. "The Old Man lays it out simple, 'Follow him onset, off-set, to the fucking honey-truck for a shit if you have to. You stick to him like glue. 'Cause I'm sick and tired of getting calls at three AM to pull his ass outta some fight in some queer bar. It's your people, as long as I don't get any calls, you stay employed on this set. Think you won't fuck that one up, grunt?' Then he comes home to me just pleased as punch telling me he's set up his first queer couple, 'cause he's just certain you two will hit it off. If you hadn't, you boys would have broken his record. The Old Man was the Jewish Matchmaker of the stunt industry." As he pulled the door open for Edie, Jason protested, "I wasn't that bad." He'd been burned and angry about a motorcycle racing career gone to Hell, but he didn't remember getting in that kind of trouble. Of course, if he'd been drinking hard, he probably wouldn't have remembered 28
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much about anything. Ernie'd been the one to kick his ass into some semblance of sobriety. The last of the lingerers held court under the awning. "No." Still talking to Jason, Edie slipped her arm free and kept them walking toward the group, "But the Old Man figured you'd either teach him the ropes or drive him out of the business. Either way, he'd be safe." With hugs for Jason and then Ernie as he followed them out, she added, "Plus, nobody's good for a stuntman except another stuntman ... you needed someone who knew what you did and why. Not somebody who'd be freaked every time you went on set." The crew on the sidewalk kept the good-byes going for at least fifteen minutes after the owner locked the door behind them. When the last person had waved off, Jason found himself walking down the sidewalk with Ernie. Everyone else bailed out on the final drink. Jason tried to think of a reason to really be disappointed that it was just him and Ernie, but couldn't. At least the rain had dropped to more of a mist so the walk was marginally pleasant. They quick-timed the two blocks around the corner to the windowless, black painted front of The Curb. Jason yanked open the door and darted inside. The place was as dark and dingy as he remembered. He headed to a set of empty stools at the bar, not that there was a shortage of seats. A few patrons gathered in tight knots or sat forlornly over a glass. The Curb might have once been a comfortable neighborhood pub, but years of smoke, sweat, and general district decline relegated her to a booze hound's joint. Seven years hadn't done much but add another layer of grime to the mirrors behind the long bar. Rickety 29
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glass shelves held bottles of cheap liquor for inspection. A giant flag took up the back wall while broken down booths lined the other side. A single pool table, felt having seen better days, hulked in the middle of the narrow room. The barkeep looked up from his book as they settled onto the stools. That guy, Jason didn't remember as part of the décor. "Two Millers," he ordered. The Curb only served Miller or Bud. If you wanted fancy you went somewhere else. Removing his jacket, he slung it over another vacant stool as the bartender snagged their beers from an under counter fridge. Jason dropped the money for the first round on the mottled orange surface of ancient shellac. He took his beer, ignored the change, and took a deep swig. The first drink always tasted the best. The wall of framed headshots reflected in the mirror, Jason realized hadn't changed at all. Maybe six dozen stuntmen, fight coordinators, and swordmasters hung in rows. They stared out into a smoke-stained tavern paneled in fake mahogany. In the seventies, The Curb had been the place for the rough and tumble guys and gals in the trade. Even drifting down, as the studios moved into the Valley and productions went on location instead of being shot in back lots, stuntmen kept up the tradition of The Curb. You knew you'd made it when Alphonso, the owner, asked if you had a picture for his collection. After a few swallows, Jason stared at his beer and broached the subject he really didn't want to discuss. "So, ah, how's what's his face? The studio exec." "Okay," Ernie shrugged. "I guess." 30
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"You guess?" Snorting, Jason glared at Ernie. They were at The Curb, they were drinking, they both knew where they'd end up at the end of the night, even if they pretended not to. Ernie glossing the fact they'd likely cheat on whoever Ernie was with didn't help matters. Jason didn't have anyone to cheat on. "Well, our relationship sorta went downhill a while back." Another shrug as Ernie picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Like with the house." Not enough drinks had gone down to lay the confusion at the feet of Jason's sobriety. "I'm not really understanding you there." A tight smile blew across Ernie's face. "You know he had that nice place up in Malibu and we just, sorta, I guess, lived there together for awhile." Jason only knew about it through scuttlebutt: rumors that hurt like hell. Even if he was the one who'd broken it off, well, being forgotten sucked. Oblivious to Jason's memories, Ernie continued, "The area burnt out a while back. It missed the house, but the hillside was just bare. Then the rains hit and thwoop, right into the canyon. We moved into this little studio for a while and realized we couldn't stand each other any more." Another swig went down before he added, "That was a couple years ago. Haven't been serious with anybody for a while." "Oh, wow, I'm sorry." Jason was and wasn't sorry. Inhibitions loosened by the beer, their last fight, welled back up. He'd been angry. He'd been hurt. Hate hadn't been part of it, though. They'd both fucked around. Exclusivity never really mattered to Jason. Still, there was an open relationship and 31
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then there was fucking everything that moved during a sex party. That he couldn't deal with. It just wasn't him. Risky, stupid behavior. Ernie'd called him a tight-assed prude when he'd confronted him. Bug-chaser, slut, candy ass ... several other hateful names passed Jason's lips during that go-round. He shoved Ernie out the door, yelling at him never to come back. Problem with those types of statements ... occasionally, people take you seriously. Next thing he knew, Ernie pops up at red carpet premiers escorting second-string starlets and drinking champagne on yachts in Newport. All of it without Jason. Somewhere between bitter and uncaring, Ernie growled, "Don't be. Steven was a pencil-dicked shithead." He downed the remainder of his bottle in one go and gave a high sign to the bartender to start another round. "So with the writers' strike ... how you faring?" Switching out the dead bottle for a new one, he added a redundant question. "Working?" Silence and pain of seven years filled with questions. Had to start to reconnect somewhere. Jason dropped his own empty on the bar. "Well, I had a great gig on a regular action prime-time show and a sometimes gig on a reenactment docudrama." He huffed out the frustration. "Then the writers walked out. We had three scripts for the new season. Shot those. Then they laid us all off. The educational shit dried up a little bit after." "That sucks." More drinking ate up time. Jason half finished his beer before he asked, "You?" 32
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"I've got a few movies in the pipes that were in preproduction prior." Ernie watched the beer swirl in the bottle for a while. "Those are still going forward. CGI's stealing a lot of screen time. Five hours of work here and there in front of a blue screen just doesn't have the thrill. And it's not as steady or as fast as I'd like, but it's work." "I hear that." Both downed the remaining beer and stared at the empties. "Like old times? Tequila?" They'd always finished off a night with the Old Man with a round of shots. "Great." Ernie waggled two fingers at the barkeep. "Two shots, Cuervo." When the drinks came, gold liquid fire in chipped shot glasses, they turned and raised their drinks to the wall of headshots. Somewhere, three or four rows up and across, their own, younger, faces stared out at them. The Old Man's was there, too, higher up and in a frame darkened by time. They slammed back the tequila. Ernie dropped some cash on the bar while Jason shouldered into his jacket. Jason realized Ernie'd never removed his coat, the bomber jacket he'd liberated off a set. Probably figured they wouldn't be there very long. Sunday nights ranked low as party time for most people. While they were inside the rain had started back up. Jason followed Ernie's run to his car. A damn nice and fairly new Nissan XTerra beeped and unlocked itself when Ernie punched the key-fob. Hell of a lot better ride than Jason's twenty-year-old Jetta. Sliding into an interior that still smelled vaguely of new car, Jason gave himself a moment to wallow in jealousy. Newish vehicle, high-end clothes—things Jason didn't usually 33
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see except on Talent. As he yanked the door shut, he tried to rationalize. Ernie'd always been better at the high paying gags, super risky stunts that gave you the bump. Then again, Ernie also knew how to hustle for jobs. He had the knack for showing up on set about the time some idiot got booted off filming. It was almost a second sense. And, once you were known, you were known. Hard core hustles were for stuntmen who didn't have a rolodex full of connections. "You know," Ernie slammed the driver's door, then twisted the key in the ignition, "I could use something to eat." Delaying things. They both knew where they'd end up. Still, it was awkward in almost a first date kinda way. "Pink's should still be open." "Sounds good." Pulling into the street, Ernie headed back into the nicer part of Hollywood. "Won't be much of a line with the rain." They dropped down to Melrose, aiming for La Brea. The sound of rain drumming on the roof mixed with the shush of the wipers and the muted hum of the radio. Otherwise, silence filled the car. Not a completely uncomfortable silence, but one that somehow captured really knowing someone and yet missing a big chunk of their life. Ahead of them, on the corner of La Brea and Melrose, sat a one-story box painted white and sporting red trim: Pink's, one of those LA late night traditions. Bright signs bordered in yellow and lettered in fuchsia announced chili-dogs, burgers, and other items. "So, what you doing now?" "Selling Harleys." A metal, under-lit awning covered the lines of patrons waiting to order from exterior service windows. Pink tiles walled up to the lip of the chrome counter, 34
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and steel pipe linked by chain kept the lines neat and moving. Not that they were really necessary on a night like this. Jason studied the small crowd for a bit before asking, "You?" Not too busy, the outside line didn't quite make it to the front of the antique store next door. In better weather, it might wrap all the way around the block. "Drive a limo for my dad's company when I'm off set." "Make good money?" "Okay. Tips are pretty good." Ernie angled the SUV into the back parking lot. "Keeps me from going stir crazy on weekends. I, ah, moved back in with my folks after the whole thing with Steven went to hell." Even with the rain, spaces ran at a premium and Ernie had to park a bit of distance from the building. They jumped out and threaded across a back patio strewn with concrete tables and plastic chairs. Most of the pink and white umbrellas were folded and tied down against the wind. They jogged around the corner and slipped to the end of the line. "What do you want?" Ernie pressed himself against the wall, avoiding the worst of the rain. The awning didn't quite cover far enough out to the side. If he wanted to keep from being thoroughly soaked, Jason had one choice. He squeezed into the small bit of space next to Ernie. "Is there anything other than a hot dog to order at Pink's?" The warmth of Ernie's body reminded him of lazy mornings in bed and evenings spent shaking the chill after a day on the slopes. Polo cologne ... God, he used to steal Ernie's jacket just to smell it when he wasn't around. How his hip fit right against Jason's like a puzzle piece, went right to 35
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Jason's groin. He shifted, trying to adjust things without being overly obvious. Ernie bumped his shoulder, breaking Jason out of his thoughts. "Well, yeah." To emphasize, he jerked his chin to the side. A painted menu was barely visible through the window. "Okay," Jason conceded, "but why would you want to?" With the skimpy crowds and normally uber-efficient service, they hardly had time to talk before their turn came. Ernie smiled at the gal taking orders. "Make mine a chili-dog." Then he glanced at Jason, asking, "You?" At Jason's nod he added, "Two then." Jason leaned into the counter. "Make 'em bacon chilicheese with onions." The smell of burger grease, chili, and steamed bread wafted out. Nobody really knew why Pink's hot-dogs tasted so damned good, they just did. Especially at one-thirty in the morning after drinking, few things compared. "You really are looking to gas us out tonight." Ernie fished some bills from his wallet, exchanging them for his change. Reaching over the counter, Jason snagged the tray. Hot dogs, smothered in dark chili and sprinkled with onions, hung out the end of buns. "I've thrown up on you," he teased, "after that, what's a few farts between friends?" He handed over Ernie's food and ducked into what passed for an indoor dining room at Pink's. They cradled the mess in tinfoil and ate standing in one corner of the dining room, hardly adequate to accommodate the number of people seeking shelter from the rain. The 36
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ubiquitous gallery of Hollywood celebs surrounded them. At Pink's, to get your face on the wall ... well, the names read like a red carpet A-list on Oscar Night. "So how you doing otherwise?" Ernie mumbled around a mouthful of dog. "Besides the work thing?" Nasty thoughts about what other long and hard things should be shoved between those lips hit Jason hard. He swallowed and choked out. "Surviving." God, how hard up was he if he was fantasizing about hot dogs? It had to be the corniest thing in the world. "I hear you." Ernie'd always been a master at eating and talking simultaneously. "We had some great times, you know?" "Yeah, it was a great crew." "No," Ernie stopped eating, "I mean you and me." Okay, he's rebounding, Jason reminded himself. Maybe a year or so since the break up with pencil dick, but rebounding. He promised not to get his hopes up. "That too, I guess." Nobody'd ever understood him like Ernie, though. He was so sick of having to minimize what he did. He'd get serious with someone, more than a few fucks serious, and they'd start freaking out when he'd tell them about rolling a car at ninety miles per hour. They polished off their dogs in about as much time as it took the cooks to make them. "I suppose we ought to head home." Ernie leaned against him, making space for someone else to move by. They didn't need that much space. Jason recognized it as a ploy by Ernie to rub his prick against 37
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Jason's ass. Felt damn good, that fucking cock as hard and thick as a goddamn beer can pressing into his butt. Jason wadded up the foil. Get home, get those damn jeans off, and feel that dick in his hand or mouth or ass. Any of the three would do. He licked the last little bit of chili off his fingers. Tomorrow, his gut and his morals would hate him, but it would be damn well worth it on both fronts. "Yeah, 'bout that time." Tossing the trash as he walked out the door, he braced himself for the rain. "You, ah," Ernie's arm slid across Jason's shoulder. Startled, he almost tripped over his own feet. Ernie seemed oblivious, finishing his question without pause, "don't have to be to work early tomorrow, do you?" "Naw." Jason ducked out of the embrace to clamber into the Nissan. He waited to finish his answer until Ernie'd gotten in and pulled out of the parking lot. "Sundays and Mondays they run skeleton crews ... Motocross tradition. Although, God, I haven't done Motocross since..." "Since you washed out of it." Ernie smiled from across the cab. Jason barked out a laugh. "Hey, like the Old Man used to say, 'Every stuntman is a failed something else.'" Traffic nearly vanished, at least by Los Angeles standards, as they eased up Highland Avenue and hit a short hop on the 101, before cutting over the back side of Universal Studios on Barham. Once over the hill, Warner Brothers dominated the right side of the road. Huge lit billboards advertised their most popular shows. A mix of modern boxes and 1920's buildings slipped by in the night. 38
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Across the 134, they made it to Burbank proper. As they passed the locked gates to Warner Brothers back lots on Hollywood Way, Ernie searched for cross streets at Jason's direction. He'd lived in the same apartment complex for ages. Jason bet Ernie could find his way dead tired and drunk off his ass. God knew they'd made that trip a few times. "So, things haven't changed much for you?" Not really needing the directions, Ernie located the correct building and made the turn to the hidden visitors' parking by memory. "Some." Damn, they'd been together almost as long as they'd been apart. "I moved to a different unit when they renovated the place." He swung out of the Nissan and fished his keys out of his pocket. "Nicer apartment than the old one." After slamming the door, he walked around to the driver's side rear of the SUV and waited for Ernie to join him. As Ernie slid out of the SUV, the silence hit. The same silence that gripped Jason every time he stepped off a building or his motorcycles wheels left the end of a ramp welled over him. Focus, complete clarity of inevitability: the knowledge that you'd committed to a course of action and nothing you did could change it now. Seconds pulled like taffy into a virtual hour of nothing but your thoughts. God, how Ernie moved. Animal. Feral. Confident. Jason missed Ernie's stuntman swagger. Those jeans gripped a butt almost too hard to grab ... almost. Jason wondered how many new scars hid under that t-shirt. He was going to kiss him again, trace the map of stunts, old and new, carved into Ernie's skin. Just breathe, he reminded himself, that's all you have to do now. 39
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Ernie stepped in close. His arms wrapped around Jason's middle. "Your car still sucks," he teased. It was as though they spoke in a vacuum. "Fuck off!" The hum of the never far off freeways vanished. No layered rumble of overheard traffic, helicopters, or jets from ten different airports broke their little bubble of space. "Come on," Ernie's lips brushed just behind Jason's ear with the whisper, "I'm screwing with you." "The Death Machine is wheels. I got a new bike, though." He ran his hand up Ernie's arm. Layers of muscle twitched. "You coming up?" The game, pretending they had a choice. The cameras were rolling and action called. There wouldn't be any second takes on this shoot. "You asking me to?" The kisses moved down Jason's neck, warming him up from the inside out. Jason slipped under the moment. It felt so good to be touching Ernie again, to be touched by Ernie again. "If you want." He'd missed that. "You're waffling, Jason." Jason pulled away. With a wicked grin, he grabbed Ernie's crotch and squeezed. "Get your ass into my apartment!" he ordered. "That better?" "Hell, yeah," Ernie grabbed his wrist, "I always liked it when you got bossy." Jason fumbled, but managed not to drop the keys twice getting through the gate and into his apartment. Ernie was on him the moment they stepped through the door ... kissing his neck, tugging his shirt out of his jeans. Sex hadn't been that urgent in ages. 40
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Twisting, Jason grabbed Ernie's face in his hands. He pulled him into a hard kiss and walked them back into the bedroom. Somehow they managed to find the bed. Ernie pressed against Jason and they fell onto the mattress and its tangle of unmade sheets. Legs spread to either side of Jason's, Ernie rubbed his crotch against Jason's thigh. "Fuck, man, I missed you." Ernie hissed against Jason's neck. "Don't lie, Ernie." Barely able to protest, Jason panted out, "You're bad at it." Ernie reared back onto his knees. "I'm not lying," he growled as he pulled the shirt off over his head. "I never, ever, fucking lied to you." Then Ernie bent forward and mouthed the denim straining tight over Jason's prick. Jason groaned and thrust into the pressure. It felt so damn good. He reached down and tangled his hands in Ernie's hair. It had been so long. If Jason let him go at it much longer, Ernie could probably get him off just like this. Jason needed Ernie out of his jeans ... hell, needed them both out of their jeans. So many nights he'd remembered this body, craved it. He pushed Ernie off and sat up. Fumbling with damp jeans and a button fly, Jason managed to open Ernie's jeans. Then he fought the fabric down until denim pooled around Ernie's knees. His hand dove into Ernie's shorts to find a prick that throbbed hot and solid. Ernie'd never win any prizes for length, but he was about as thick around as a fucking beer can. Damn good in its own right. Ernie's hand ran up Jason's side and under a damp t-shirt, the other shoved his jeans down. Tugging, Ernie pulled him 41
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free and wrapped Jason's prick in a warm hand. Ernie's tongue licked fire along Jason's jaw. When he found Jason's mouth and shoved his tongue between Jason's lips, they both lost it. Twisting and pulling on each other, they shed pants and shoes. Jason rolled beneath Ernie, pulling him on top. Their tongues fought the entire time. Even when Ernie reached over and dug in the drawer by the bed, they kept kissing and thrusting against each other. Desire would kill Jason if Ernie didn't get a move on. Like he read his mind, Ernie snapped the cap on the lube open with one hand. A momentary loss of touches and then Ernie's hands returned. Jason's ass spread for Ernie's slick, searching fingers. It felt so good, that slow burn coupled with the friction where Ernie humped his thigh. A wet trail of pre-cum soaked heat into Jason's skin. It'd been so long, too long since he'd been with Ernie. Even with the time, his body remembered. Jason didn't have to think to find the spots that made Ernie twitch. "Fuck," Jason panted, "I need it now!" "I didn't find anything else." Panic edged Ernie's voice. "You're out of condoms." Realities, holy hell, it took a moment to penetrate the lust induced daze. "Shit." He didn't want to stop. He couldn't stop. "You've played it safe?" "Yeah. Never go into a gag without my safety gear." Ernie dropped his head on Jason's chest. "Always, man. I never fucking trusted Steven enough." "Good." Jason wrapped his hand behind Ernie's neck and pulled him in. "That's why I always trusted you with my life." 42
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Just before their lips met, he added, "Even after seven years, I still fucking trust you." Ernie hooked his hands behind Jason's knees. Scooting up, Ernie rocked his hips up and back. His prick replaced his fingers, bumping Jason's hole insistent and hard. Then he pushed inside. Short, slow strokes worked past Jason's resistance. But oh, shit, Ernie was thick. It was like getting reamed by a fist. Each thrust was a little hotter, a little more intense. Finally, his cock sunk deep inside Jason's body. "Ah, fuck, I'm in," Ernie hissed into his mouth. Jason couldn't believe how wonderful it felt. Memories never closed in on reality. They still hadn't come up for air. Jason bucked beneath Ernie, spread wide by his fat cock. His own thick prick slapped hard against his stomach. Jason smelled the lust, the sweat, tasted in Ernie's kiss. Teasing Ernie with each roll of his hips, Jason's body reacted like they'd never been apart. Every little movement reverberated through his frame. Fire coiled in his balls, set to strike up his prick. Finally, Ernie twisted his face to the side, breaking their kiss. "You're so tight." Ernie slid out, almost all the way, and then shoved back in. "Like that?" Jason's hands wandered over Ernie's back and arms. "Yeah, it's so good." Jason's body took that cock again and again. Tongue teasing Ernie's ear, he laughed. "I want you to fuck me hard." "Hard?" "Real hard." 43
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Ernie dragged Jason to the edge of the bed. Grabbing his ankles, Ernie spread his legs wide and leaned over him. Jason's hips rolled toward the ceiling as Ernie rammed down. His hands roaming over Ernie's body with frantic touches, Jason found all the old scars and memorized the new. Like lightning strikes, his fingers sparked shivers in Ernie's frame. Each caress of that cock in his ass threw him farther off balance until Jason was nothing more than a twitching mass of nerves. Ernie pulled all the way out then drove back in. Jason groaned. He arched into the thrust. Then Ernie reared back and did it again. Jason gasped and jerked as Ernie pegged him right, slammed him hard. Jason threw his head back and moaned. Sweat dripping off his body, Ernie plunged over and over into his ass. Jason's hand then frantically stroked his own prick. Half-lidded mahogany eyes stared down at Jason. His blood smoked under that glare. Body bearing down on Ernie's cock, Jason came. Thick spunk shot over his belly. "Oh, fuck, Ernie!" Jason hadn't blown that hard in ages. Nobody rocked him like Ernie, before or after. As Jason lay panting, Ernie bent down. His cock slid from Jason's body, but Ernie didn't seem to care. Ernie licked skin, swirling his tongue in the silky musk. Damn, it was pretty. His hand toyed with the slick shine coating Jason's prick head. Ernie mouthed his stomach and then moved to his prick. Each time Ernie hit a sensitive spot Jason shivered. Finally, Ernie sucked Jason into his mouth, getting every last drop that he could. Jason's fingers played in his damp hair. 44
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When he came up for air, Ernie hissed, "Shit, Jason, it's been a long time." The whisper seared into Jason's spine. His whole body shook from it. Ernie leaned in to find his lips again. His own flavor coated Ernie's tongue. Nothing was sexier than sharing a cum-coated kiss with Ernie. Slowly, Ernie pushed back in. Jason was still tight, but relaxed and the pressure danced over his nerves with layers of chills. Ernie's prick felt even hotter, bigger than before. One more kiss and Ernie began to pound. Back arching to slam Jason's ass, Ernie was perfect. A goddamn machine made for fucking. Jason loved fucking him ... he just loved him, never had stopped. Jason jerked his hips and Ernie began to tremble. Ernie bit his lip ... the classic way he always backed it down. Nope, no way Jason would let him off that easy. Again he bucked beneath Ernie, bearing down, driving him to the edge like he knew he could. A split second later there it was. Ernie's face went tight with that incredible lost look of ecstasy that always took him over. His whole frame spasmed and cum filled Jason with wet heat. Too sated to move, like he'd always been after a fuck, Ernie slid to his knees and dropped his head on Jason's belly. With one of Jason's legs draped over Ernie's shoulder and the other dangling off the bed, Jason figured it wasn't a bad idea to just laze in the glow. Ernie's fingers played along the divot where his hip met his groin and made Jason shiver with the heat of the touch. Jason traced patterns on Ernie's back. This was really good. Ernie caught him right on a nerve and Jason 45
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jerked. Every time Ernie shifted, aftershocks crawled up his back. Closing his eyes, Jason just let Ernie's scent flow through him. Finally, Ernie crawled up onto the bed. "Man," he nuzzled under Jason's armpit, causing more afterglow tremors, "you're the best. Ain't a gag in the world that can match that rush." Jason shifted, pushing the rumpled covers down with butt and heels. Then he pulled Ernie close against him. "Promise me something." "Sure." Ernie tugged the blankets up to their middles. "Next time I freak out, you won't give up so easily." Ernie chuckled, "Damn straight. Even if you push me off a building, I'll come roaring right back." A softer edge crept into his voice. "I missed you so much, Jason." Ernie kept mumbling, "I missed you," as he kissed Jason over and over. It didn't seem like time passed at all. One moment Jason had Ernie wrapped up in legs and arms and mumbling post sex promises. Then the next thing Jason was aware of was shafts of light searing across his eyelids. Jason rolled over and blinked. Early afternoon sunlight forced its way between the shades. The only person under the sheets was Jason. He groaned, mentally kicking himself. Well, that's what he deserved for letting Ernie back in for one moment. Shit! At least he'd gotten laid. Rolling out of bed, he glanced at the clock on his dresser ... nearly one. He'd slept away his day off. Jason hit the can and shower. Goddamn, son-of-a-fucking-bitch! Not sure whether he meant Ernie or himself, Jason berated himself as 46
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he went through the motions of cleaning off and getting dressed. Still pissed, he yanked on a t-shirt and sweats. The only way Jason knew to deal with the level of hurt and anger was to bury the pain in a gag. The more dangerous the better. He'd taken some risky ass stunts seven years ago. It got so bad, the gags so dangerous and one right after another, the Old Man had stepped in and brought him back down. Thin as jobs were these days, Jason figured he might have to manage the unthinkable: find a looser bar and pick a fight. Adrenaline had to go somewhere or it'd eat his mind from the inside out. Saner options first, Jason dropped onto his desk chair, rolled to the file cabinet, and began to dig. The folder where he kept his headshots and lists of contacts wasn't in the drawer. Shit! He tried to remember the last time he'd done a hustle. He couldn't call it to mind at all. Maybe the reenactment job. That had to be it. Sitting up, he swiveled the chair to face his ratty old computer desk. On the top, next to the phone, the folder with his headshots sat open. No way had Jason left them there. A rattle of a key in his door killed the trying to reason out why. Jason jumped up. Before he managed more than two steps across the room, the door swung open and Ernie stepped through. From what Jason recalled, he wore the same clothes as he'd had on last night. That meant he hadn't gone home to change. Why? Ernie didn't rate as a neat freak, but normally he'd have scored at least a clean pair of socks. Jason made a mental note to go count the socks in his drawer before sputtering out, "How'd the fuck did you get in?" 47
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"I took your key, man." As if to punctuate the point, Ernie tossed a single key onto the cabinet as he passed the tiny kitchen. "You may have moved apartments, but you still keep shit in the same basic place." Ernie sidled up to Jason and shrugged. "So I snagged the one off your car keys." Okay, wanting to reconnect was one thing. Acting like seven years of absenteeism never existed, so not kosher. "What if I needed them?" How dare he pretend like everything was okay? Snorting, Ernie countered, "The Death Machine's toast, you always keep another house key on your bike keys, anyway." "What if I'd fucking gone down to the garage to get something?" Jason spat. "Been really funny if I couldn't get back in my place." "Shit!" Ernie back peddled. "Where's all this attitude coming from?" "What attitude?" Jason sneered. Even as he said it, he felt the bile building. Throwing the sneer right back, Ernie snapped, "The you're about to-rip-my-head-off-and-shit-down-my-neck attitude." Breathe, Jason reminded himself, when you're pissed you still have to breathe. He ran his hand through his hair and gripped his scalp. To hell with beating around the bush, subtle and Jason rarely worked together. "Why did you just leave?" Shit, why did he have to sound so whiny saying that? "Oh," Ernie snorted, "you wanted me to wake you up and say goodbye?" Instead of angry, the tone came off good natured, friendly, familiar. "Maybe I should have given you a good morning fuck?" Then he laughed like it was no big deal. 48
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"Look, I'm sorry." Ernie shrugged, "I got a call and had to go hustle. You can understand that." That sucked the fight right out of Jason. Work, goddamn it. The fucked up thing was Jason could understand the need to bolt. You snooze, you lose; the name of the game in a stuntman hustle. And it galled him. He wanted to be pissed at Ernie, lay into him. Jobs were jobs, and slim pickings with the strike on. He dropped onto the couch, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared. "Land anything good?" He mumbled the question into his chest. "Yeah, I think so." Ernie sat down next to him. "Sorry I just sorta took off." His hand on Jason's knee stripped another level of irritation out of Jason's frame. It was hard to be mad at someone out trying to hustle. "Didn't want to wake you up." Uncrossing his arms, Jason blew out a bit more of the anger with a breath. "So, it's a good gig then?" "Pretty good." Excitement oozed from Ernie, sparked in his eyes. "Four-week location shoot in South America. I'll be right under the second unit coordinator, sorta a sub-coordinator." A location shoot ... fuck. The news brought the aggravation back in spades. Jason shifted and tried to keep his tone even. "Wow, that's great. Four weeks. When do you head out?" Just as soon as Jason got a shot at getting Ernie back, he was leaving. What a jerk, both of them. Ernie for being a damn sexy son-of-a-bitch, and Jason for letting that sexy son-of-a-bitch get back under his skin in one night. "As soon as possible. They need a bunch of guys who can do the Special Forces gig. I'll get a few lines. The guy who 49
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had the gig, Marshall, broke his hip on an air ramp." Ernie slid his arm around Jason's shoulder. Jason tried not to tense or pull away. "I worked with him on a couple military specials a while back so he called me and told me to get my ass over to the hospital 'cause the coordinator was coming by." Jason rolled his eyes. "You hustled in a hospital room?" Only Ernie could pull off a stunt like that. "Fuck yeah!" With a slap to Jason's thigh, Ernie disentangled and jumped off the couch. He headed across the room and around the breakfast bar. "And I mean Marshall was going to call anyway, he said, and put me on." Jason lost sight of him momentarily as Ernie yanked open the fridge and leaned in. He popped back up with two cans of beer. "Got the script and the specs, realized he needed a second in command and a few guys who could work like a team." Oh, God, they were going to celebrate. Jason forced a smile. "That's perfect, man." "Pretty damn sweet." Ernie walked back to the couch and held out a can. "You know, Jason, you need new headshots. The ones in your desk ... way outta date. Your passport still good?" "Why were you messing with my headshots?" It took Ernie shaking the can in his face before Jason took it. "And why do you give a shit about my passport?" he grumbled as he popped the top. Years ago they would have headed out for drinks and steaks at Damon's and then home to a serious fuck session. Jason'd take the meal if Ernie offered, but to hell with him if Ernie thought he'd get another go in the sack. 50
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Instead of the sofa or chair, Ernie sat on the coffee table. Like he was trying to ramp up Jason's enthusiasm, he prodded, "Four weeks, South America, Brazil I think." He took a swig of his own beer. "Anyway someplace we don't need major visas for." Why did he say we? Jason thought he missed something. Suspicious, he narrowed his eyes and stated the obvious, "You're going to South America." "So are you." Ernie leaned in. "I got his gig. You get the one he wanted me for. They're letting me pick two more guys. Marshall'd already filled out three others. Hit Giovanni up on my way back. He's all for it." "Just like that?" Jason snapped his fingers dismissively. "It's all done and settled." "Well, that's how hustles usually go." Sliding off the table, Ernie knelt between Jason's legs. "Things happen quick in the biz ... and you don't have any irons in the fire." Disgusted, Jason growled, "No, I mean we fuck, so you think we're back together?" "No." Ernie set the can behind him then ran his hand up Jason's leg. "I know we're not back together." His touch shredded all the objections welling up in Jason's brain. "That's a ways down the road. We run into each other again and I realized here's my shot. I was a stupid, horny asshole trying to convince myself I was a hot piece of shit by fucking anything that moved. I, ah, fucked things up." He sounded earnest, contrite ... Ernie'd rarely been earnest about anything. Jason couldn't think of a time Ernie acted apologetic in all the years they were together. "But, God, I missed you. I 51
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know we can't go back to the way things were." Both his hands locked on Jason's thighs. He pleaded, "But you and me, maybe we could try again. It'll give us four weeks to figure out if there's something still there, something we can make work. It's worth a shot, right? Tell me you think, maybe, there's a tiny chance." Fuck, what he'd wanted seven years ago. What did The Old Man used to say? You rarely got a chance for a second take in a gag, always grab it, if offered. "There's a tiny chance." A tiny chance, but a chance all the same. Jason never really wanted Ernie to leave, he just wanted him to know he needed to put Jason first. Maybe time taught him that. "You know, four weeks on set, gonna be real close quarters." Hopefully time kicked Ernie's brain into gear and gave him the message or it was going to be a really rocky four weeks. "I know." Ernie's bright smile filled with hope, "I want to keep you in as close of quarters as I can. And if it don't work..." "Hey," Jason bent forward and covered Ernie's mouth with his hand, "never jinx a gag by saying 'what if it doesn't work.'" [Back to Table of Contents]
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About the Author James Buchanan is a multi-published author of homoerotic romance. James grew up in a small Southwestern town, hours away from any other small Southwestern towns. A stint at the State University, where he ostensibly majored in English, garnered him a degree useful for being someone's secretary. The absolute lack of employment opportunities led James to Southern California. After a stint in County Mental Health (administration, not client) he ran screaming into the field of Law. James has been practicing for nine years and someday he might even get it right. Visit James at www.james-buchanan.com for more information on his books.
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