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2020-11-04
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2004-07-14
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Fire And Ice 2: Strong Sweets

Summary:

Cole Riccardi's coming-out has unexpected consequences, not all of them good

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: 1

Notes:

Fandom: Action
Pairing: Peter Dragon/Cole Riccardi
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Characters property of Christopher Thompson Productions. Lines from "The Most of It" and "To Earthward" property of Robert Frost. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made.
Herein lies Part One of the now novella-length (!) sequel to "Fire and Ice," starting the morning after Cole's E! Television announcement. Like last time, you can throw all that sensitivity training out the window (this is Peter Dragon we're talking about here, after all) and also like last time, enough swearing to make David Mamet blanch. The smut is yet to come--for now, we merely have thick layers of attempted plot and character, plus a little bit of UST. So consider yourself warned. Part Two is in progress, man. Like, right now. Dig.
The financial chicanery in this story is loosely--exceedingly loosely--based on a real-life scandal that almost sank Columbia Pictures back in the late 1970s. You can read all about it in David McClintick's fascinating Indecent Exposure, which narrates the tale in terms even a non-CPA can enjoy.
Holden Van Dorn's witty and incisive comments about homosexuality are adapted from actual remarks made by Mel "Don't Look at My Ass" Gibson in an interview of a few years back. The "spoiled meat" comment is courtesy of Mel's fellow progressive thinker, John Huston. The word "assholerics" was coined by James McManus in his now out-of-print novel Ghost Waves-- as it suited Peter and his universe so well, I couldn't resist stealing it.
It ain't even done yet, but still there's folks to thank. Namely, my invaluable, beyond-the-call-of-duty beta reader Beth Ann (http://www.certando.net/bethann), a.k.a. "Master of Puppets," who hasn't yet given up on seeing some actual sex in this story. Thanks as well to Susan, Dine, Minette and everyone else who sent early feedback on that posted excerpt and told me to keep going. And to the eminent Mr. Frost for his vaguely evocative poetry.
Dedicated to the late Jack Warner, who famously declared that all screenwriters everywhere are nothing but "schmucks with Underwoods"--thus proving that clearly, Adam Rafkin's ancestors also worked in The Industry. God help them.
Your feedback loki@netnitco.net, needless to say, is exceedingly welcome.

Chapter Text

Fire And Ice 2: Strong Sweets
by Valeria


EXT.--HOLLYWOOD FARMERS' MARKET--MORNING

"Were you watching?"

"I can't believe--"

"Did you see it?!"

"Okay, I don't believe it. It's probably a big joke or something."

"Well, I'm not surprised. His age, never married--"

"What about that thing with Carrie Fisher?"

"Overcompensating. Don Juan syndrome...same with Dragon, that fucking prick. I swear to God, I was laughing my ass off--"

"Okay, wait, that can't be true. Haven't you seen that tape of him and Sandra Bullock?"

"Who hasn't? But I heard that wasn't really Sandra Bullock at all--it was a lookalike hooker, and the whole thing's faked. Trick lighting and everything. Dragon had it filmed on purpose just to counteract all the rumors."

"What rumors? I never heard any before last night--"

"Look, okay, maybe Riccardi's actually queer, but there's no proof about Dragon, right? Except what Riccardi said? Maybe he made it up because he was pissed about Gun Club."

"So why not just say Dragon's a fag? Why would he say they both are if it isn't true? Look, I screwed Riccardi's second assistant's gofer on Citizen Militia, according to her he's not exactly a rocket scientist. Hell, he's not even a junior-high science teacher--he couldn't make up something this good if he tried. Besides, I've heard...stories, about Mr. Wunderkind Producer."

"Spill. Now."

"Okay...but you didn't hear it from me. Holden Van Dorn? You know, that junkie Leo wannabe from Sharkeytown U.S.A.? Dragon's been fucking him since he was fourteen. Swear to God."

"Well, shit, that's nothing--I thought you were gonna say he was fucking a writer or something. Talk about scraping the barrel bottom--"

"I resent that."

"Find another table, then. So what's Master Van Dorn have to say about all this, like it matters?"

"Holden? I heard he set up the whole thing. He brings home guys for Dragon to fuck while he watches, and that hooker Dragon's got on the payroll--Wanda or whatever her name is--she's got this Nazi uniform and a Milton Berle-sized strap-on, and she blindfolds them both and pisses on them after she--"

"Oh, you are so full of shit it's not funny."

"It's true! Authentic World War II swastika armband and everything--I saw it on the Internet!"

"And I read that Madam Alex bio you got the Nazi strap-on pissing shit from, okay? Big creative writer here--"

"Look, for the final fucking time, it's all a big lie, okay? Riccardi gets fired, he gets his panties in a bunch and--"

"How's everything at this table, gentlemen?"

"Now that you mention it, the wheatgrass juice is too warm, the organic buckwheat pancakes are rubbery and if it takes you that goddamned long to get one dish of pine-nut butter over here, I'd rather have Christopher fucking Reeve as my waitress. You were saying?"

"So did he get fired for being queer, or what?"

"Wouldn't you? What the fuck are they gonna do with a fairy action hero? You think you can get any box office outta that, once the freak-show draw's over? Look at Anne Heche--she came outta the closet, and even with Harrison Ford that movie lost seventy million dollars."

"Isn't that illegal or something? Firing him for that?"

"Who cares if it is? It's just good business sense."

"Okay, I really resent the completely homophobic turn this conversation is--"

"Look, go fuck yourself, all right? You can use this pine-nut butter--I think it's fucking rancid. Smell that, you think it's rancid?"

"I still can't picture him with Riccardi. I mean, the guy's so old."

"Look, it is entirely possible that Dragon is a fag but that he's not actually fucking Riccardi, right? Theory A, Theory B, Theory C. I'm going with Theory B myself."

"Wait, wait a second--what were the other two theories?"

"I can't take any more of this--I'm leaving."

"Have a nice life--take Ginny Gimp the waitress with you. Okay, look. Theory A--He's a fag, he and Cole are fucking. Theory B--He's a fag, he and Cole are not fucking. Theory C--Cole's a fag, that we know for a fact, but as far as Dragon's concerned he's full of shit on both counts."

"What about Theory D? Dragon's a fag, he and Cole and Holden are fucking. Theory E, he's bi and he and Cole are fucking, but he and Wanda whatshername are also--"

"Wait, wait a second, let me write this down. You got a clean napkin?"

"Peter Dragon...Christ. Just when you think you've heard everything."

"Shit, this pen doesn't work. Fucking Mont Blanc pen, and it doesn't--wait, got it. Okay. Theory A..."

********

INT.--PETER'S LIVING ROOM--MORNING

He hadn't bothered getting dressed yet, but there hardly seemed any point, as there was no way in sweet hell he was going into the office. Wendy was under orders to say he was in an all-day meeting with Beverly Hills Savings; an obvious lie, to be sure, but while actually showing up was out of the question, calling in sick was purely pussy. Hell, he could in fact be having a meeting right here, in his robe--hadn't these people fucking heard of teleconferencing?

Shit.

He sat huddled in one corner of the black leather sofa, fingers curled around an untouched Domaine de Beaulieu--"It'll calm you down," Wendy had said, practically shoving it and two Xanax at him on her way out the door, "I hope"--and one bare heel drumming rhythmically against the floor. Strewn across the sofa cushions were fistfuls of Gun Club paperwork, all of it backlogged, all of it needing his personal imprimatur...all of it lying there untouched so he could pretend he was actually working, not sitting there like a stone statue bird-dogging the telephone as it rang. And rang. And rang.

"Peter? Uh, this is Stuart...Peter, why didn't you say something? I knew something was going on, but I never thought that..." Pause. "Peter, we have to talk, okay? We should have lunch, or--we just have to talk. Any time you're ready." Pause. "It just gets easier from now on, Peter, trust me. It just--call me, all right? Okay? Uh, hang in there and stuff. This is...wow. I mean--anyway. Call me." Click.

"Boss? This is Lonnie." Pause. "Jesus, I got reporters crawlin' up my butt every time I go out the door--look, you got nothing to worry about, okay? I told 'em all, I said, I've known you since you were knee-high to a wood tick, and I know for a fact you ain't no dick-grabber." Pause. "Are ya?" Pause. "Well, I guess if you are, you could do a lot worse than Riccardi. He's kinda old for you though, isn't he? Anyway, don't you worry about a thing, okay? Either way, I got it all under control. I can keep 'em off the scent." Click.

Peter sighed inwardly. Lonnie had everything "under control"? Uh-huh. Lonnie. Five'd get you ten there'd be helicopters landing on his front lawn by noon. Actually, that was pretty much a given...fuck. Why hadn't he listened to Jane back in the Pleistocene when she'd started nagging him about putting in a helicopter pad, why, there was enough room for one and he'd have been able to make a swift getaway without getting jumped by Jimmy Olsen on his own doorstep...but no, he had to be a cheap fucking bastard, didn't he? Trust the bitch to be right about this one thing, years before it could've done him good, so typical...

"Mr. Dragon? This is Jon Barrett from The Advocate. We were hoping to arrange a joint interview with you and Cole Riccardi..."

"Mr. Dragon? This is Louise Shalin from the L.A. Times..."

"Mr. Dragon? This is Melinda Wolski from the Hollywood Reporter..."

"Mr. Dragon? This is Scott Carrier from the Gay and Lesbian Film Journal..."

"Peter Dragon? This is Mario Chiaroscuro from Queer Fist Monthly. Okay, first of all, I'd like to know who the hell you think you are hiding in the closet like some scared little girl, while your queer brothers and sisters are getting their asses kicked in the streets of this fascist country every goddamned day so you can go out and fuck movie stars, all right? I mean, what do you pathetic little assimilationist assholes think, that if you're straight-acting enough they won't come and round you up for the death camps once George W. Fuck grabs the White House? Think again, Mary--your ass is just as much grass as any screaming sissy-boy's out there, and I for one won't be crying about it. 877-3444, call me to arrange an interview for the May issue. You prick." Click.

"Peter? Hello, this is Lawrence Gardner of Coming Out of Homosexuality United--a fine, upstanding member of our organization who works for Pacific Bell was kind enough to pass your phone number along to me. I know we've never spoken before, Peter, but I just want you to know that there are people out there who understand your struggle with sexual sin and the self-loathing you must feel at having chosen such a filthy, unnatural, blasphemous lifestyle that violates every known law of God and man. We can help you, Peter--with supportive, Bible-based reparative therapy, you too can walk away from the gay lifestyle and embrace the love and emotional healing that only heterosexual marriage can provide you. 1-888-COMEOUT. Remember, the Lord loves you, even as He despises your terrible, soul-destroying sins. If you could pass Mr. Riccardi's phone number along to us, by the way, we'd really appreciate it. I hope we hear from you both very soon. Yours in Christ." Click.

"Peter? This is Momo Shabong. Peter, what is this I hear about you and Cole Riccardi? I thought I told you, I do not want that old, dried-up man in my picture, and now I find out he is an old, dried-up gay man--I need someone young and sexy. And not running after boys." Pause. "And now I hear that he is running after you. But these rumors, of course they are not true. Yes?" Pause. "Be honest with me, Peter. I am the backer, I deserve to know." Pause. "You know, Peter, from certain angles you look very much like Mr. Ricky Schroeder--"

"FUCK!" Peter screamed, throwing his glass in the direction of the phone. An arc of cognac gleamed richly in the light, then splattered ingloriously over an end table; shards of snifter littered the floor a foot short of their target. Crumpled piles of paper followed, blizzarding the room as the phone rang yet again. Fuck Cole Riccardi, fuck that--wrong train of thought. Dammit...better, yes. Good. Goddamn him, goddamn him, GODDAMN him...

"Peter? Pick up." Pause. "Peter." Pause. "I know you're there, you stupid fuck. Pick up the goddamned phone before I--"

Fuck it. You wanna share fairy tales, asshole? Great. Fine. Peter marched over to the phone, performing a series of artful plies to avoid stepping on the razor-edge remains of his own tantrum, and grabbed for the receiver. Silent seconds passed. He was not gonna be the one to speak first, he picked up like he'd been told--requested--and that was the beginning and end of--

"Bobby." No answer. "Okay, look, Bobby, I think we both know why you called and there is a simple explanation for--"

"My office. Two this afternoon. You understand? Tell Beverly Hills Savings your meeting is cancelled." His boss's voice was ominously quiet, infused with a slow-dripping venom. "I said, do you understand?"

"I--" Jesus. What the fuck was he gonna say? National media, international, it--"Yeah," Peter finally replied. "I understand."

"Well, thank heaven for small mercies--Peter Dragon understands something on the first try. By the way, if you don't want to be in deeper shit than you already are, you'll bother showing up on time. For once." Click.

Peter slammed the receiver into its cradle and let out a shout of pain; one stray glass shard had found its mark, slicing a long bleeding comma into the side of his foot. Half-shuffling, half-hopping toward the stairs, he gritted his teeth and watched the thread-thin trail of red with grim satisfaction: another debit to add to an ever-growing mental account sheet, entitled Cole Riccardi Will Pay for This (in Fucking Blood).

Tally thus far: Outing him (fifty thousand debits) when he wasn't even fucking queer (fifty thousand more) on fucking goddamned television (fifty million), thus causing a re-opening ulcer (twenty thousand), sick insomnia (thirty thousand), loss of work (three hundred thousand), looking like an idiot in front of Wendy (one hundred thousand), Jane (two hundred fifty thousand), Bobby G (two million, easy) and the whole rest of the fucking planet (one hundred million), thereby causing him enough righteous anger to shatter Waterford crystal (three thousand, cut-rate because the glasses were a wedding gift from Bitch Senior, Jane's mother), spill brandy (five hundred), rose-tattoo his foot (twenty thousand) and--fuck--bang his ass on the sharp edge of a step while trying to sit down (ten thousand). Sum total? Too justifiably upset to tally it just now, but Cole would never quit paying, ever. He'd track him down in New York or Aspen or Guana or the Seychelles or wherever the fuck he'd gone, kick his fucking fairy ass and then rip him a new asshole for starters, then--

Something was prodding him painfully in the hip (five hundred). Peter shifted uncomfortably, then realized he was sitting half on the step, half on...a book. The Complete Poems of Robert Frost, to be precise. He'd brought it home from the office, yesterday...why? He couldn't remember.

He eased the book out from under his thigh and studied it closely. Poetic-type jacket cover, already looking dogeared, a setting sun shining through some silhouetted New England trees...very tasteful. He hated "tasteful," a nice bland euphemism for everything timid, anemic, boring and ordinary that Middle fucking America could love because it was so safe. Oh, gracious, Mr. Merchant-Ivory, your movie was so tasteful--not like what that vulgar Peter Dragon turns out, none of those icky nasty explosions and tits and machine guns to get Grandma all upset...fuck that (Beverly Hills Gun Club, shit, fuck, who the hell were they going to get for--twenty-five million debits for bowing out of the picture, never mind that he talked Cole into it, it was still all the fucker's fault for being fucking stupid enough to agree).

Cradling his injured foot in one hand, he flipped the book open and leafed idly through the pages. Nature shit, flower shit, woods shit, bird shit...kid getting his hand cut off by a saw (thanks, Bobby F), dead hired man, dead baby buried in the backyard, depressed guy stomping on dead leaves...Christ. Heal-all (whatever the fuck that was--his foot could sure use some) and rotting bodies, his favorite two subjects in the world. And the two-roads-diverged crap and blah blah blah...making a face, he skipped a half-inch of pages ahead.

Some morning from the boulder-broken beach/He would cry out on life, that what it wants/Is not its own love back in copy speech,/But counter-love, original response...

Yeah, great, profound--Poor Lonely Fucked-Up Loser Me. Quit sitting around the beach like a fucking moron and go accomplish something, why dontcha...nah, I think I'll just sit here and scribble poems about a bunch of rocks. Jesus. He thumbed onward.

Who could they get to play Caleb, whose career was hot enough to get the asses in the seats but cool enough that he wouldn't demand points...Leo? Forget it. Brad? Not bloody likely, not after the fiasco on the Ripcord set (like it was Peter's fault the moron forgot to close the door of his trailer and her husband, the Teamster, just happened to come barging in and--thousands from the tech crews' salaries to keep that one out of the press, never mind the shooting delays for all the reconstructive surgery). George Clooney? Tied up with Patriot Fist IV. Antonio Banderas? Please--just what the audience wanted in an action hero, Speedy Gonzalez with abs. Think...

Love at the lips was touch/As sweet as I could bear;/And once that seemed too much...

Good, more of this. The guy was a one-note...Keanu? Points-worthy again after The Matrix, forget it. Johnny Depp? Yeah, he'll pack the theaters. Vince Vaughn? Christian Slater?

...I lived on air/That crossed me from sweet things,/The flow of--was it musk/From hidden grapevine springs/Downhill at dusk?

Ed Furlong? They weren't that desperate...Holden Van Dorn. Peter drummed his fingers against the page, frowning thoughtfully. Holden Van Dorn...on the skids but still (for now) big enough. For now, meaning sign him fast before he speedballed himself into oblivion--sometime next Tuesday, the rate he was going. But good enough, assuming some little houseboy of Bobby's wasn't already good as cast. Plus there was nothing...connecting him to Dragon, no nasty rumors floating around about--anything. Like drugs, say. Never been drug buddies, the kid snorted more coke before breakfast than he, Peter, did in a month...so he didn't have to worry about that.

About drug rumors.

Bobby G. What the fuck was he gonna say to...another one hundred million debits, for the inevitable fiery train wreck this afternoon would be. Pay the cashier on your fucking way out, Riccardi...pay, and pay, and pay.

I had the swirl and ache/From sprays of honeysuckle/That when they're gathered shake/Dew on the knuckle/I craved strong sweets, but those/Seemed strong when I was young;/The petal of the rose/It was that stung.

The petal of the rose? Botany 101, Frosty--it's the THORNS that sting. Idiot.

Now no joy but lacks salt,/That is not dashed with pain/And weariness and fault;/I crave the stain/Of tears, the aftermark/Of almost too much love,/The sweet of bitter bark/And burning clove.

Riccardi would have been perfect for the part, Peter knew it. He--okay, so by technical standards the guy was a horseshit actor, his visible spectrum of emotions permanently stuck on red, but he had that...he had that that. Okay? Fucking stupid way to put it, but there weren't words for what Peter was talking about. The old studio heads used to put it the exact same way: A star, an honest-to-God bankable star, had that unnamable, indefinable, charisma-hardon-hormonal-mindfuck hold on the audience, known in the short-and-sweet as it. Not crafted by an agent, manager, publicist, studio...just there. Innate. It was as it was. And the audience couldn't get enough of it. The most important principle of showbiz, embodied: Give me more of THAT.

And a bunch of piss-poor yid peddlers built a fucking empire on it, so...

So.

When stiff and sore and scarred/I take away my hand/From leaning it hard/In grass and sand,/The hurt is not enough;/I long for weight and strength/To feel the earth as rough/To all my length.

Peter closed his eyes for a second.

Two million debits...deducted. Yes? Because...

Because nothing. NOTHING.

No. No leeway, no mercy, nothing, the chicken-shit-for-brains had somehow outfoxed Peter fucking Dragon and that made him the enemy, and the first rule of battle was no mercy to the enemy, ever. Burn their villages, trample their crops, sell their wives and children and after making them watch it all, slice their heads off and stick 'em on fucking poles. A little warning to the next Hun or Vandal or Saracen on the horizon: This Will Be You. He'd get even with the fucker. Somehow.

I long for weight and strength...

His foot was throbbing. Shoving the book off his lap, he grabbed hold of the banister with both hands, pulled himself standing and began limping painfully upstairs.

********

INT.--COLE'S HOTEL ROOM--DAY

Cole Riccardi, tenth-grade Our Lady of Angels dropout turned failed longshoreman turned one-man action hero cottage industry turned--curiosity, has-been, role model, hero, pariah?--sat on the ivory silk couch of his hotel suite's living room, ignoring the flickering TV and the incessantly ringing phone and trying, without any success, to figure out how he had come to owe the government so much money.

Brows knitted into an auburn furrow, he scanned the creased, fingerprint-smudged IRS notice for the dozenth time, learning for the dozenth time that Niccolo Riccardi had failed to report ten million dollars of income paid him the previous year by DragonFire Productions, and was now responsible for back taxes and interest on same. This made less than no sense to him, as he was certain he had reported every last cent on Slow Torture--his only project in 1998--and as much as everyone seemed to want to forget about it now, he'd coughed up his fair share. Hadn't he? The whole reason you hired an accountant was not to have to worry about...it must be a mix-up, his Gun Club fee would have been ten million and the computers probably screwed up the years. Or something.

He tossed the piece of paper aside and rubbed his forehead fitfully, trying to ward off an incipient headache. What grade had it been--fourth, fifth?--when his teacher had actually given them that old line about the magical wonderful world of reading, words coming alive on the page...that was the problem he'd always had with books, and reading. The letters refused to sit still; they danced incessantly before his eyes, leapt up and reversed themselves and landed back down again looking like deranged hieroglyphs. The effort of deciphering them was physically draining (and let's not get started on numbers, adding, dividing...ten million dollars?).

That was one thing he hadn't even considered when he jumped into--tripped and fell into--this whole acting thing: He'd be reading scripts. A lot of them. And expected to read, and memorize, whole pages of rewrites. Cold sweats, every time he got the same script in a new color of cardstock cover, signaling another last-minute revision; stage fright (set fright?) was nothing next to that. One thing he definitely wouldn't miss.

Dora, his housekeeper of going on ten years, had walked in one morning to find him sitting with the revision of a revision strewn over his lap, rifling through the pages in escalating panic. Out of pure desperation, he choked out a scarlet-faced request, and got a calm price-per-page offer in reply; cash only, please. Dora and her little hand-held tape recorder (two listens and he had it down cold, including stage directions and margin notes) had been his private, usurious lifeline ever since, to the point that he hardly read anything--billboards, cereal boxes--without hearing her softly accented voice in his head. IRS notices, newspaper headlines. Action Hero's Coming-Out Stuns Hollywood, Mr. Riccardi. Rumored Romance with Hollywood Power Broker.

Stuns Hollywood. Hardly--they'd get bored in a few weeks and move on. But for now, he was it. He didn't particularly want to be it, he'd been finding being it increasingly tiresome these past few years, but he'd known full well what he was getting himself into. So be it.

The newspapers, covering the carpet near his feet; the TV news, entertainment features, cable, local, national; international, Jesus. Weren't there wars or something going on they could talk about? Apparently not. He hadn't planned to do this (I swear, Peter, I didn't), it had dogged him quietly, relentlessly for months, years...what if. Everyone knew. What if, no more lying, no more hiding, what if, what if...it all went away. What if...right now? Why not right now?

What if. Become is. Just like that.

His parents had taken it surprisingly well, though they'd quickly changed the subject to the local weather (rain in northern California, who'd ever dream). The ones who had resorted to death threats, prayerful hysteria and bouts of weeping were his agent, publicist, manager...fine. Let them. He wasn't going to be needing them, their approval, anymore (him, a grown man, being handled like some zoo animal). He'd said everything he wanted to say and now he was off the hook, he was free, to...to do, well, something. Not acting, ever again--no more scripts. It'd been a fun ride, he wouldn't deny that for a second, but it had become a rickety, monotonous roller coaster, the same loops and curves and sudden drops over and over and over again. Never jumped the track, not once. Never hit the clouds.

Not like the night before. Starting right here, on this very couch. Only the night before, Jesus...

He reached down and gathered up the newspapers in one sweep of his arms, throwing them onto the coffee table. His fingers were shadowy with ink...his own name, smudged on his hands. Cole Riccardi, black, white and read all over.

The sweetness of it all, that's what had really shocked him; after all the horror stories, after never once hearing Peter's name without it being preceded by "that asshole." Their first face-to-face meeting, the initial script read-through for Red Snow (God, no more read-throughs--he'd died and gone to heaven), he'd sat not five feet away from the guy, mumbling his lines as best he could manage and trying not to look in Peter's direction too often. He'd always been a sucker for blond hair and blue eyes, that look you weren't supposed to call "all-American" anymore. The bartender at a place on West Hollywood he'd snuck into and out of for years had noted acidly, and accurately, Your whole diet is one big slice of Wonder Bread. Well, fine--you couldn't help who you did or didn't want to fuck. And Peter...the first thought that flashed through Cole's mind, like some kid spying a new toy: I want that. It's MINE.

Not very poetic, maybe, but that's how it happened. Mumbling his lines, glancing sideways at the man as much as he dared, feeling desire surging up so powerfully he was frightened that someone might smell it on him. Peter, thank God, was too busy screaming obscenities about the screenwriter's mother to notice.

Four movies with the guy, not counting Gun Club; beyond the undeniable lust (worthless lust, the guy was depressingly straight--he'd thought), working with him was...interesting. The yelling, cursing, threatening, table-slamming, equipment-throwing, infuriated exit-stage-lefts--frankly, Cole was amazed that anyone fell for it, that it made them scuttle around looking so scared. You didn't grow up in a Sicilian household without knowing emotional puppet theater when you saw it. Get past it and the guy was smart; useful smart, here-and-now smart, do-your-fucking-job smart. When he was around, things got done--no sitting around the trailer for fourteen hours waiting for the director to stop jacking off. That, Cole knew only too well, was a rare gift in this business. And though the guy obviously loved the business--thrived on it--he still understood what crap it all really was. Cole could tell. He could see it, sometimes, in Peter's eyes: those unmistakable, heartening flashes of Can You Believe This Shit?

He'd known he was in trouble when, during the (endless, all too aptly named) Slow Torture shoot, he'd caught himself indulging in those dangerous, self-inflicted, irresistible little mind games. Peter would, somehow or other, discern his real feelings...maybe. Nothing would have to be said, of course, no risk taken (humiliation, ruined career, everybody's favorite punchline), but the guy would know. Maybe. And maybe, afterwards...when shooting wrapped...

Maybe nothing. He'd done his job, Peter did his, never the twain shall meet. Day after over-budget day of no-chance-forget-it dragging by, filled with silent, teeth-grinding anger; at Peter for not being clairvoyant and himself for being such a fucking moron. Again. And again. At the premiere party he got very drunk, welcoming the excuse to put an Industry-schmooze hand on Peter's shoulder, throw an arm around him. Kissed him on purpose, a loud smack on the cheek in full view of the cameras. Peter didn't like being touched without express say-so, that much you figured out within about three minutes of meeting him. Cole did it anyway. Peter's skin was soft beneath his lips, the blond hair smelling clean and sweet even with its faint tincture of cigarette smoke. Everyone at the damn premiere had been smoking...nobody figured it out, that kiss. Peter included. He'd thought.

Cole put his head back and closed his eyes. Thank God he could go home in a day or two, the remodeling and repainting on his Malibu place that had sent him here almost completed (breaking down walls and windows, spending all that money solely because he was bored with how the place looked--that would be coming to an end). He was never going to get a decent rest in that hotel bed again, not with the memories that overwhelmed him every time he lay down in it. He'd jumped the guy, no other word for it, Peter would never have made a single move if he hadn't gone ahead and...but then, the response he got. The reward. That's okay, Peter. You don't like being touched, don't want it, never asked for it, keep away keep away keep away keep--now. Yes. Endless artless teasing, unwitting stringing along, and then...

And then. Jesus, then. And afterward, after all that (too much too soon, maybe--he hoped not, he hoped that he hadn't come on too strong and scared the guy off for good), both of them lying shocked, exhausted, still. He'd drawn his arms back around Peter slowly, carefully, fully expecting him to shy away again; instead, he felt Peter's hair brushing his shoulder, the hollow of his collarbone, as Peter deliberately pressed the full length of his body up against Cole's. Cole could feel the other man's chest rise and fall with ragged, uneven gasps. He held him tighter, almost rocking him against his shoulder, listening as Peter's breathing became deeper, calmer, a steady descent into sleep.

And then...again.

He'd been skeptical at first, then deeply moved by Peter's spontaneous confession that he, too, had been trapped in the closet for years (this goddamned business, this goddamned town, "liberal" Hollywood my ass). All that time, the two of them working on movie after movie, together twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day, attending premiere after premiere alone or with some fellow arm-candy fraud, on the set on the lot on the...all that wasted time. This goddamned town.

Too much right from the start, he'd come on too strong, he knew that, but he just couldn't resist. And neither could Peter, thank you God...feeling Peter's hands and mouth those first few times, their awkward and clumsy hunger, he'd sensed immediately that the guy was many years out of practice, or--all right, say it--he'd had no practice at all. The idea, the silly fantasy that he, Cole, might actually have been the first, the first, filled him with a surge of dark excitement that made him feel vaguely guilty. Stupid little ego trip, it...the first. Jesus, baby.

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Hot and bothered? Try stoked. But he had to hold off for a while. A few days. A day or two, at least--enough time for Peter to get over being, well, outed. By him, his own lover. On television. Cole hadn't planned it to work out that way (Peter, I swear), but the moment had just seemed now-or-never right and it wasn't like he did it from spite; he cared about the guy, and if you cared about someone, you did what was best for them even knowing they might not like it. (That's what his mother had always claimed, anyway.) Well, he was saving someone he cared about from shame, hiding, misery. The poor man, so hemmed in by this damn town that he couldn't, might never have...someday, Peter would thank him. He would. Just not for a while yet.

A day or two. Peter would be furious--give him a day or two more to cool down, then call him. He'd still be angry, Cole knew that, but he'd come to see the rightness of it in time. He'd stop being scared (the fear Cole had felt in him, the flashes of it before everything became subsumed in that sweet, wild enthusiasm--it made Cole feel sad and protective and, yes, he hated to admit it but it was also ferociously arousing). He'd understand. He would. And when he finally did understand, then...

Then.

Cole drummed his fingers against the sofa arm.

He had to see the guy again. That was not an option.

He looked up and blinked as he saw his own face reflected back at him from the TV screen, a magenta-lipsticked anchorwoman mouthing words as his picture seemed to float behind her. Not lifting his head from the sofa cushions, he reached for the remote and sent himself hurtling into oblivion.

********

continues