Prince of the Playhouse (9 page)

“How did you know you liked fashion?”

He grinned. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about Shakespeare?”

Gray shrugged. “I’m interested.”

Ru rested his head against the cushion. “My mother took in sewing. I used to rearrange her supplies, and then I started sewing things of my own. Not a popular pastime in my neighborhood, trust me.”

“What about being gay?”

“What about it?”

“Was that popular in your neighborhood?” Ru glanced up, but Gray seemed to really want to know.

“Hell no. You’d rot in hell before you came out.” He frowned. “That didn’t mean nobody got ass fucked. I used to think some of those guys were queer, since they liked to ball other dudes so much.”

“What guys?”

Ru sucked in breath.
Shit.
“Just the guys in my neighborhood. That’s all.”

“Did they leave you alone?”

How the hell did they get on this topic? “Yeah. Shouldn’t we go back to the inimitable William S?”

The knock on the door turned them both around. Ru glanced at Gray, who rose. “I told him to deliver the food about now. I had him bring salmon since I know you like it. Is that okay?”

“Perfect, darling. Like you read my mind.”

Gray opened the door, took several large bags from someone outside, and closed the door after him.

“You didn’t pay him.”

“It was Chris. I asked him to pick up salmon from Rick’s.”

“But he didn’t drive you here.”

“Too ostentatious.”

Ru shook his head and went to get plates to set the table. “Is it worth it? Trading all your privacy for wealth and fame?”

“No.”

Ru stopped at the dining room table and stared. “Wow. I never expected that answer.”

Gray brought the bags into the kitchen, with two furry palace guards flanking him. “Maybe it is for some people. Not for me. It’s like I never got to choose.” He shrugged. “I know. Like Artie said, ‘Oh, poor baby.’”

“No, I understand. While I’d like to be a successful fashion designer, even reaching the top of my profession won’t keep me from walking on the street, going places I want to go, or being whatever way I choose. You don’t have any of those luxuries.”

Gray sighed, and it came from somewhere in his soul. “I was nineteen when I hit big. I’m from a small town in Michigan where I was a big fish in a tiny pond. I wanted to impress my father, buy my mother a new house, get a fast car. I hadn’t the slightest idea what that meant.” He cocked half a smile. “I sold my soul to Ferrari.”

“You could quit.”

Quiet.

Ru turned to find Gray gazing at him with wide, storm-filled eyes. “Weird, man. I’ve heard a lot of solutions, but nobody ever says quit.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be a downer.”

“No. It points out that I have choices. I like that idea. Thanks.”

“One thing money does do is give you options.” He grinned. “Or at least that’s my assumption.”

Gray wobbled his head. “Not really. It makes you an industry. You can’t imagine how many people live off what I do. It’s terrifying. You know. You’re a successful designer. You must keep a ton of people employed.”

“No.” He planted a hand on his hip. “I’m
almost
a successful designer. I still have Fashion Week—and
Hamlet
—between me and that goal.” He poured some kibble in the two dishes he kept for the dogs. “Until then, I’m just a dog feeder.”

Ru dished the human food from its takeout containers onto his white plates—cheap but chic—then walked into the small dining area and set out place mats and flatware. He gestured to the seat and Gray sat. Holy Mother, Gray Anson in his dining room. “Do you like wine?”

“Sure.”

“Red okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Ru poured two glasses of a pinot noir he’d opened the previous night and delivered the glasses, then grabbed his own plate and sat across from Gray. Flopsy and Mopsy came from the kitchen, licking their lips, and lay down on either side of Ru’s chair.

Gray raised his glass and held it out to Ru. “To choices.”

Ru clicked glasses. “I’ll drink to that.”

“So
Hamlet
’s that important to your career?”

Ru forked in mashed potatoes and closed his eyes briefly in homage.

“Good?”

“Oh yeah. My kingdom for Rick’s garlic mashed.”

“Wrong play.”

“Yes. Poor Richard.”

“So about
Hamlet
?”

“Oh yes, I guess. I mean, every critic on earth will come to see you, so they can’t help but see me. It’ll be great publicity.”

“Way to give a guy the willies.”

“You’re going to be fabulous, trust me.” Ru chewed slowly. Divine salmon, moist and loaded with garlic butter.
Should I say it? Hell.
He looked down at his plate. “Of course, the costumes will up my public awareness, but real credibility comes from commissions like your fiancée’s wedding dress. Penelope has both the society connections and the Hollywood connections. To a fashion designer, that’s gold times two.” He looked up as Gray downed a huge mouthful of pinot, coughed, and caught some drops of wine on his napkin.

“Uh—Ru, would it be really bad—I mean, uh, I never exactly asked—I don’t know when we’re really getting married. Will it set you back a lot to not have that commission? I mean, like, for a while? Or—” That gorgeous caramel skin glowed bright pink.

He wanted to smile. Laugh. Lie on the floor and kick his heels. “Oh no, of course not. I never would count on that. No reason she’d choose me when she has the world of fashion at her feet.” He sipped wine. “But she did make it sound like it was coming up soon.”

Gray frowned and pushed away the last of his salmon. “I know. Don’t tell anybody this, okay? Hell, even my parents think we’re engaged. But I never asked Penelope to marry me. Never. She’s just assuming we’re going to do it, and I don’t know—I mean, I’m still pretty young, and she’s older than me. Anyway, I just haven’t set any dates, so she shouldn’t be getting people all excited about some fucking wedding that may never happen.”

There it was. Ru’s whole chest glowed. “So, not the marrying kind?”

Gray stared at his wineglass like it was a crystal ball. “They fix me up with dates to help my image, then the women get all excited and think we’re joined at the hip.”

“But you’ve been dating Penelope for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. How do you know that?”

“Like I said, I’m a fan.”

“I like her better than some of the women they’ve hooked me up with.”

“She seems very nice. And God knows, she doesn’t need your money. Her family’s so rich.”

“Yeah. It’s great to know she’s not a gold digger. And some girls just want to fuck all the time and—” He actually gasped. “Sorry. That’s way too much information.”

Holy shit. Don’t react.
Ru grabbed their nearly empty plates and carried them to the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”

“No. It keeps me awake.”

“Like milk?”

He made a
heh-heh
sound. “Yeah. I do. Guess I never grew up.”

Ru poured two glasses of milk and got some chocolate chip and some lemon cookies from the cabinet. Arranging them on a plate, he said casually, “I’ll bet movie stars are too tired for sex. I mean, us mere mortals think you guys must be balling all the time, but Jesus, when would you fit it in?” He carried the plate to the table, glanced at Gray, who was staring at the place mat, then went back for the milk. When he returned, Gray accepted the glass and the plate.

“Can we sit in your living room? I really like that couch. I promise not to spill the milk.”

“I like it too. Sure. Let’s take our dessert in there.”

Gray settled back on the sectional, complete with dogs flanking, and Ru sat opposite. “Where’s home for you? I mean, I know about the house in Beverly Hills, and the Paris apartment, and the Colorado ranch, but where do you really feel cozy?”

Gray sipped milk, his long lashes making fans on his high cheekbones. “On this couch, I guess.”

Well, Jesus, that made Ru want to cry.

Like someone flipped a switch, Gray looked up and smiled—the famous one. The one Ru now knew was phony as all hell. “You sure do know a lot about me.”

Ru munched lemon cookie. “Like I said—fan.”

“That’s really nice. These cookies are great.”

“Yes, they’re not free of anything.”

Gray chuckled.

“It’s not just me. A lot of gay men like you, Gray.”

A tinge of pink attacked his cheekbones. “Oh? That’s great. Happy to be loved by somebody other than rednecks.”

“You must have gay friends.”

He frowned. “Probably.”

“You don’t know if your friends are gay?”

“I don’t have a lot of friends.”

Who the hell would have believed he could feel so sad for the world’s biggest movie star? “Want to attack another soliloquy?”

For a second he just looked at his glass, then tipped it to his perfect lips, drank the milk down, and leaned forward. “No. I think I need to go through and mark all the places that just don’t make sense to me. Could we work again tomorrow?” He smiled. “I sent three seamstresses who are supposed to be the best to your place. Shazam, right? They’ll be there tomorrow morning. Put ’em to work.”

Ru laughed. “Okay, a bribe like that deserves respect. I can meet you at lunch if you want, and then we can talk about later timing.”

“Perfect.” He stood, his pure physicality dominating the room. Flopsy and Mopsy even looked a little awestruck. Gray crossed to the entry and pulled his hoodie from the closet, then slipped it on.

Ru walked over and looked up at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gray smiled that other smile. The one that lit his eyes. “Yeah.” He reached up a hand, and Ru almost shied away. Man, that would have been a mistake. Gray slid a lock of Ru’s long, floppy bangs through his fingers. “And yeah, you’re right. I don’t have much sex—with women.” He walked out the front door, and Ru slowly folded to the floor.

“THUS CONSCIENCE
does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.” Gray stalked to the edge of the apron and snorted in disgust.

“Okay, hold there. Let’s break for lunch before we commence with Ophelia’s entrance.” Gray kind of ducked as Artie walked down toward the stage from the audience. Artie grinned. “Shit, man, that was so much better. I mean, that was great.”

Gray let out his breath and shrugged. He’d barely slept all night, he’d worked so hard on the new understanding Ru had given him.
Be cool.
“Good. Glad it’s closer to what you want.”

“It was really good—and individual.” He slapped his arm. “Great job.”

Oh man, he wanted to tell Ru. Funny how just those ideas Ru had given him made the lines come alive. Young, angry, guilty. He bounded off the stage and up the aisle to grab his laptop case from the seats where he’d left it.

“Gray, hold up.” Benson came striding toward him.
Damn.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing for lunch?”

“Uh, working with my drama coach.”

“Drama coach? I didn’t know about that. When did she come down to Laguna?”

“It’s not Maria, okay? I’m working locally, and it’s doing a lot of good.”

“Obviously. I saw a part of that scene. So who’s the miracle maker?”

Gray frowned. “Thanks for your fucking vote of confidence.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant you came a long way in a short time.”

“Yes, and I’m going to be late for my appointment.”

“Where’s Penelope?”

Gray grabbed his case and started walking up the aisle. “I sent her home. I told her I had too much to do.”

“You need her here.”

“Shit, I can’t cater to her and her mother and father and every effing relative. She’s got no clue how much this play means to me, and she doesn’t really care.”

Benson gripped his arm and stopped his forward motion. “That kid playing Horatio is a fag, and the whole world knows it. So are the costumer and probably a bunch of others in the cast. You gotta have the protection, Gray. You need the female before they start taking more photographs to prove you’re a homo.”

“I haven’t seen any drones since the day we got here. I’m careful.”

“You’ve got no idea where the paparazzi are hiding. You know that.”

He pulled his arm from Benson’s grasp. “Can’t I ever have five fucking minutes of a life? I don’t want her here.” He stared at Benson. “I don’t care what you think is best, is that clear?”

“Of course, Gray. You know I only want what’s best for you.”

“Of course.”
Like shit.

“You may think I only care about my paycheck. But what I make is a percentage of what you make, so you need to care about it too.” He patted him like a kid. “Hell, I know it’s gotta be tough.”

“No, you don’t know. It’s not your bare ass they’re photographing.”

“Then cover that million dollar butt, baby. So who’s the drama coach? Somebody I know?”

Gray stared down at him. “Yeah. Ru Maitland, the costume designer.” He turned and left the theater with Benson’s voice ringing behind him.

“Gray Anson, you’re shitting me.”

Outside on the sidewalk, he ducked under a tree and looked up. It was only about four blocks to Shazam.
Damn, no hoodie.
He propelled forward at a fast walk, shoulders hunched. If he wanted a cap, he’d have to cut over to Forest Avenue.
Too many people.
Better take his chances.

He stopped at the light that separated Laguna Canyon Road from the shops of downtown Laguna Beach.
Come on.
Several people came up to the intersection. One woman glanced over, and he saw her whisper to her friend. The light changed and he took off at a trot across the street, then jaywalked—jayran?—to the opposite sidewalk, and from there kept trotting to Ocean Avenue. There he slowed.
Better not run.
Somebody running attracted more attention than a walker. Looking in shop windows, he kept turned partly away from the tourists and locals passing him.