36
The Spotlight’s on Me
TJ
The fountains outside the Mark Taper Forum dance in the twilight. As I head to the doors, a canvas bag in hand with a gift in it, I stop to snap a photo of the theater and send it to Hazel. I’m so damn jazzed, and I need to share that with someone.
TJ: This is where I am right now.
Hazel: Are you telling me because you might die of excitement from seeing him and you wanted someone to know your whereabouts?
She’s a witch. A fucking mind-reading witch.
TJ: Yes, Hazel. When I die, I’ll be in a theater with seven hundred people and no one will be able to find me but you.
Hazel: I love being your person. Also, HOW THE HELL IS YOUR WEEKEND? Since this is the first I’ve heard from you, I assume it’s been a non-stop sex fiesta of epic proportions.
I stop, park myself on a bench, and stare at her note with a stupid smile on my face. She’s the only person who knows why I’m in Los Angeles. My other buddies just think I took off to the West Coast to see some friends.
Even though Hazel’s question is the math test equivalent of two plus two, I take my time typing before I hit send on a one-word reply.
TJ: Amazing.
She writes back with an image of my reply, edited.
Hazel: I fixed your response. I added ten exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!
I laugh, writing back to her when a familiar voice booms. “Are you bloody kidding me?”
I swivel around. There’s a blast from the past I didn’t expect to see tonight.
The inked Brit strides across the concrete, looking every bit the rock star he’s become. He’s got a leather jacket slung over his shoulder, a white T-shirt stretched over his chest, motorcycle boots, and double the ink he had when he served me coffee in Piccadilly Circus.
“Well if it isn’t TJ from Seattle by way of New York. Have I got a steam wand for you!”
I roll my eyes as William stops a foot away, then hauls me in for a hug. “I’ve missed your purges, William. How the hell are you?”
“Fantastic. I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I can’t believe you’re here, man.”
William gives me a look like I’m crazy. “I live in LA now. Course I’m here. I was touring, but I wouldn’t miss this for the fucking world. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
Well, why would you know?
Most of my closest friends in New York don’t know what I’m up to. My brother doesn’t know. But maybe William means Jude didn’t tell him, and he’d have expected Jude to mention my whereabouts?
“I flew out last night,” I say, and I’m dying to ask if Jude invited William to his play. But that feels like prying. “So here I am.”
“Brilliant. The show’s getting rave reviews. Our guy is doing so great, isn’t he?”
Our guy? He’s our guy now?
Settle down, jealous dragon. “He is,” I say.
William drags a tattooed hand through his floppy hair—rocker hair now, then shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I almost missed the chance to see him in this. I grabbed a ticket on StubHub last night when I knew I’d be back.”
That answers one question I had. William bought his own ticket. I don’t say Jude got me mine. But I sure as hell like that I’m the one with the star’s house seat.
“So, do you have business in LA?” William continues.
My brow knits, but then I quickly rearrange my expression since I don’t know if Jude wants it to be obvious that we’re a thing.
Shit, are we a thing?
I’ll deal with that later, but for now, I weigh possible answers to William’s question, opting quickly for the easy way out. I’ll omit. Besides, my agency has offices in Los Angeles. “Yeah. Agents and all, you know. So it made sense to see Jude’s play too,” I say.
William’s green eyes twinkle. “Right. It made sense,” he says, sketching air quotes. “You still have a massive crush on him, don’t you?”
Jesus. Is it obvious? “Don’t we all? He’s Jude Fox, after all,” I say, and there. Take that. I might not dance well on the dance floor, but I can tango my way around getting too personal.
“It’s impossible not to have a crush on him. He’s gorgeous,” William says, and it sure as hell sounds like he’s got a big crush. “Where are you sitting?”
“Front row.”
“Bugger. You got better seats than I did, mate,” he says, then glances at the canvas bag I’m holding. “Do you have flowers for him? Shit. I should get him flowers.” William peers around the courtyard area, hunting for a florist, perhaps. His gaze seems to land on a black and red wooden cart, full of flowers but also chocolate. “Sweets. He loves sweets. I’ll get him chocolate.”
I should tell William Jude won’t eat it. I should. But I don’t.
“Cool. I’ll see you later,” I say, tipping my forehead to the doorway.
“Why don’t we all get a drink afterward?” William suggests.
“If that’s good for Jude,” I say. I like William. At least, I did, and I think I still do. But I’m not making plans for the three of us unless Jude wants to.
We say goodbye, and William heads to the cart, while I go inside, relieved to get away from him. Which isn’t how I should feel around a friend.
Once in the theater, I tighten my grip on the bag, and grab my seat in the front row.
When a cool modulated voice tells everyone to take their seats since the show’s about to begin, I glance around the theater, soaking in the utter coolness of being here. As I survey the crowd, William snags his nearby chair and waves.
I nod, and a few rows behind him, a sharp-dressed man with a thick head of golden-blond hair swings his gaze around the auditorium from William to me.
The guy stops and stares at me for a few seconds. No idea what that’s about. Then it hits me. He probably recognizes me from the viral video. Twice in one day. It was too good to be true that I’d remain anonymous in LA.
Three minutes later though, I don’t care about anyone else. My phone is off, my attention’s on the red curtain, and the lights go down.
When they go up again, Jude walks on stage. “Darling, have you seen my public persona? I seem to have misplaced it, and I need it to get through the Abernathys’ dinner party.”
I laugh, and for the next hour, I hardly stop laughing. It’s like a modern-day Noël Coward script, and every scene is a showcase of how fantastic Jude Fox is when it comes to deft, sharp stage humor.
The whole cast has me transfixed, but especially the lead. The guy I would fly across a country for again and again. The guy who makes my heart hammer. The guy I want to make mine, all mine.
When the first act ends, I stretch my legs and head to the lobby bar to grab a water. As I wait in line, someone taps my shoulder.
“Hey! Any chance you’re TJ Hardman? Please say yes.”
I groan privately, then fasten on a smile before I turn to face the good-looking blond dude behind me. “That’s me.”
He sighs in relief, even wiping his hand across his forehead. “I hoped so. I saw your video this morning. A colleague sent it to me.”
Oh, joy.
“And I had to introduce myself. Couldn’t miss the chance—I am one hundred percent Team TJ.”
He reaches for his phone, and since I don’t want to prolong this encounter, I cut to the chase. “Sure. We can take a selfie.”
“I won’t turn that down.”
He slides in next to me, and we smile for the camera. When he slips the phone into his pocket, I’m ready to take off, but he puts a hand on my shoulder. “That’s not the reason I’m interrupting your intermission,” he says, his tone shifting to all business.
“Okay?”
“I started your book right after I saw the video. Holy balls. It’s amazing. The romance, the humor, the angst as he falls for his best friend’s brother. I’m halfway done and it’s . . .” He presses his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss.
“That’s great,” I say, my shoulders relaxing. At least the video’s been good for one solid book sale.
“I work at Webflix. I could totally see your book being a film. A TV show. Anything,” he says, then gives me his name.
Robert Walsh.
I flashback to the conversation Jude and I had in London.
Robbys are wankers.
This guy probably is. And besides, it’s Hollywood. My agent’s parting words on this topic were: Hollywood will start calling, but don’t believe a deal is done till the ink is dry. And even then, it’ll likely be in disappearing ink.
I do love being repped by a realist.I smile like Mason would want me to.
When Robert asks for my agent’s name and says he’ll be in touch, I figure nothing will come of it, even after I grab my water, then Google his name when I’m back in my seat, and learn he is indeed an executive at Webflix.
But who isn’t these days? I don’t even email Mason. Besides, I’m here for Jude.
I settle back in and watch the second act, where the entire cast transports me to London, the place where I was happiest. Except Los Angeles is making a damn good case to snag that top spot.
When the cast takes the curtain call together, I can’t contain the biggest smile I’ve ever felt.
That’s my guy, on stage, captivating a packed house.
After one more group bow, Jude scans the audience and quickly, very quickly, his eyes land on me. He flashes a smile that’s both for the entire theater and for one guy only. And it says: when everyone is gone, you’re the one I’ll leave with.
It’s the most intimately his spotlight has ever shone on me, and I don’t want him to ever turn it off.
After a long line of autograph-hunters finally peters out, it’s just William, Jude, and me outside his dressing room.
“So glad you could be here,” Jude says to the fellow Brit. “I did not expect to see you.”
“I like to surprise you,” William says, then hands him a box of chocolates.
Jude grins. “You’re the best. Thank you, mate.”
Then William kisses Jude on the cheek. I burn a little. Okay, a lot. William steps back. “My band is playing at The Holy Cow this week. The club is ten times better than the hole-in-the-wall joint you saw me play at in London. You men should come see me. I’ll get you VIP tix,” he says to both of us.
I don’t even have a chance to fashion a reply since Jude’s got this handled entirely. “Send me the details. You never know if it’ll work out,” he says and it’s a perfect answer, since it’s perfectly noncommittal.
William drops a kiss to my cheek and turns around. As his boots clomp on the floorboards, Jude surveys the backstage area, grabs my hand, and hauls me into his dressing room. “Love him, but I thought he’d never leave,” he whispers, sounding relieved as he snicks the door shut.
“He wasn’t even here that long,” I say, completely forgetting whatever shards of jealousy stabbed me a minute ago. I have a selective memory with Jude. My brain clears everything away but the good stuff.
Like Jude’s performance, like this chance I have to tell him what it means to me. “You were amazing. I laughed the whole time. I was completely transported. You’re so real,” I say, and it’s everything I wanted to say when I watched The Artificial Girlfriend, Our Secret Courtship, and Afternoon Delight. “You make me believe.”
“Really?”
While his question is a question, it’s not full of doubt. It’s imbued with hope.
I don’t even try to lighten my answer with something cheeky like And I’m not just saying it to get in your pants. I keep it simple. “It’s true.”
“Thank you,” he says, and I can feel, too, how much he wanted me to like his performance. “I have to tell you a secret now.”
I tense, since secrets can destroy a good thing. “A good secret or a bad secret?”
“It’s good.” Jude runs a hand down my arm. “When I was on stage, I heard you laughing.”
“You did?”
“You have a very distinct laugh.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize that.”
He squeezes my biceps. “That’s a good thing. I liked it. It gave tonight’s performance a little something extra.”
Before I get too caught up, I need to give him his gift. This isn’t the moment to talk about anything but him. I hand him the canvas bag, hoping he likes what I got him and why. “I didn’t get you flowers.”
He laughs softly, glancing at a farmer’s market worth of roses, sunflowers, and daisies in his dressing room. “Do you think I don’t like flowers?”
“I actually don’t know if you like flowers, but flowers felt like something anyone could get the star of the show.”
“And you’re not just anyone,” he says, his tone warm and sensual.
I want to be his only one, but no way will I say anything resembling that. “So I got you a canvas bag. I figured you’d need it for the chocolates and flowers everyone else gets you,” I say drily since I definitely need jokes right now.
He laughs, then peers into the bag, arching a brow. He takes a blueberry from the carton and pops it into his mouth. “You are the only person who’s ever given me blueberries.”
“I’m a practical guy,” I say, but that’s not why I stopped by Trader Joe’s before the show. I wanted him to know I listen to him. I listen to everything he says.
Jude takes one more, then sets the bag down on the edge of the chair by the mirror. “But how does it taste on your lips, I wonder?” He returns to me, offers me the berry. When I part my lips, he brushes the tiny fruit seductively along my bottom lip.
I’m not into food play, but hell, I will be if it warrants that dark glimmer in his eyes. My tongue darts out, and I bite down on the berry, the juice hitting my tongue. I finish it quickly. “Find out,” I whisper in invitation.
He dips his face, kisses me with the barest trace of his lips, then backs off. “Tastes like the start of my dirty fantasies.”
I shudder, anticipation rushing through me from his heated stare . . . at my duck shirt. I’d been wondering when he’d finally notice what I wore. “You like this too?”
“Like it? I fucking love it.” He darts out a hand, fingers the top button, plays with my chest hair right above it. He travels down the buttons, undoing the first one, then presses a hot, possessive kiss to my pecs.
“I thought you might,” I whisper.
“As soon as I saw you at the end of the play, all I could think about was my dressing room fantasy. This.” Jude drops down to his knees, unzips my jeans, and frees my cock from the confines of my boxer briefs. “Do you have any idea how much I love sucking your cock?”
This man. I’m trembling already as I thread my fingers through his hair. “Show me.”
He bends his face to my dick, presses a hot tease of a kiss to the crown. “Ever since I invited you to LA, I’ve been getting off to thoughts of this every night.”
He draws the head of my dick between his lips, watching me watch him.
“Just . . . this?” I rasp out.
With a nod, he swirls his tongue around the head, then stops. “I get so fucking hard sucking you off. I love the way it drives you wild,” he says, then licks a long, tantalizing stripe down the underside.
“You drive me wild, Jude,” I say, my voice shaky as he plays with my dick.
“The way you taste. The way you smell,” he says, letting go to run his nose along the space between my thigh and my pelvis, inhaling me. Then he returns to my dick, flicking his tongue over the head as he cups my balls. “Most of all,” he says, slow and seductive even though he doesn’t have to seduce me. I’m already seduced. “I love what it does to you.”
My legs shake. My pulse surges to the sky. That’s what he does to me. “The second you touch me, I want to explode,” I confess.
“I know.” He swirls his tongue over the head, then he drops his mouth down on my dick, taking me all the way.
“Fuck yes. Like that, just like that.” My head thumps hard against the wall. My hands clamp around his skull.
All his teasing disappears as he sucks with ferocious purpose. I have to watch him. Have to record every filthy image. I stare down at the man on his knees, his gorgeous lips wrapped around my dick, his noises wet and obscene. His hands roam up and down my thighs, and the whole time, his blue eyes pin me with a daring look.
As I grip his head, I’m grunting, growling. Someone could walk by and hear us. Jude clearly doesn’t care, since he unzips his pants, takes out his dick.
The sight of him hard sends hot spikes of lust straight to my balls. “Gimme your palm,” I tell him.
He thrusts up his hand as he lavishes unholy attention on my shaft. I spit in his hand, then he grips his cock, stroking. I can’t stand how good this feels. How turned on I am. How I want things I haven’t wanted in ages.
Someday soon, really soon, I want to ask him to fuck me.
The second I picture him spreading me open, my orgasm taps on my shoulder then knocks on the door of my back. “Gonna come, baby,” I warn, then I slam my fist against my mouth. I have to bite my knuckles so I don’t shout in pleasure.
I come so hard my knees nearly buckle. As he lets go of me, I want to slump against the wall and savor the aftershocks.
But I’ve got a bigger mission.
In a heartbeat, I get down on the floor, push him onto his back, and kneel between his legs, taking over for his hand. I draw him deep, and that’s all my guy needs. One, two, three sucks, and he’s shuddering. “Yes, fucking yes. Take it all.”
I happily, greedily swallow his orgasm, drinking every last drop, humming around his shaft till he laughs, then pushes me off. Then we slump next to each other on the dressing room floor.
I’m exhausted and elated. Especially when he whispers in my ear, “Are you really leaving tomorrow?”
I’m so high on him that all I can think is what a good question that is.