Title: Fire And Ice

Series/Sequel:

Fandom: ACTION

Pairing: Peter Dragon/Cole Riccardi

Author: Valeria

Published: 1999.12.17

Rating: NC-17

Status: Complete

Archive: Anywhere you like

Disclaimers: Characters property of Christopher Thompson Productions. Lines from "Fire and Ice" property of Robert Frost. Where public figures are mentioned, their names are used in a wholly fictitious matter; any similiarity to their actual thoughts or behavior is purely coincidental.

Summary: A story which takes the episode "Blowhard" in directions that the Fox network Standards and Practices department would probably not have allowed. Dialogue from the actual episode is incorporated to a large degree. Many perceived blanks are filled in with a vengeance. Liberties are taken. Feedback is welcome.

Warnings: Contains explicit m/m sex, rampant political incorrectness and a whole lotta swearing.

Notes: Many of you have probably already seen this story on the Jaymohr-Action list or on RareSlash...my apologies if this is getting repetitive, but our listdad did ask me to post this here, so blame him. :-)

The Truman Capote anecdote mentioned in Part 6 was taken from Lawrence Grobel's fine biography of the director John Huston....just so you know that whatever other failings Peter Dragon may have, he isn't a complete film-history illiterate.

Special thanks to Rachel for beta reading and encouragement.

INT.--PETER DRAGON'S HOUSE--3:05 A.M.

"Cole, just, uh...you're not gonna hit me, right?"

An exasperated sigh. "I'm not gonna hit you, Peter--"

"Cole, I *do* understand. I understand more than you could--"

Shit. What the fuck now? Peter racked his brains for a palatable lie. *I understand you're gonna wreck the blockbuster hit I FUCKING NEED to salvage my fucking career...*

"--possibly imagine. You wanna know why?"

Cole Riccardi. Tenth-grade Our Lady of Angels dropout turned failed longshoreman turned one-man action hero cottage industry (the hit movies--Red Snow, Guns of Saigon, Citizen Militia, Big Trouble in Upper Volta--the G.I. Joe knockoff, the T-shirts, the lunchboxes, the keychains, the oven mitts, the comic book...). Cole Riccardi, sure-fire box office for going on a decade and a half, reigning poster boy for trigger-happy ultra-aggressive supermacho bimbo-pumping Hollywood manliness, stood in Peter Dragon's living room with hands on his hips and righteous indignation in his eyes, demanding to know why he couldn't flounce out of the closet tomorrow--*tomorrow!*--and inform the ticket-buying world he was a paid-in-full Pink Triangle Brigadier.

"Tell me, Peter," he demanded, looking none too appeased.

Dragon was bleary from interrupted sleep, slightly self-conscious in his robe and more than a little incensed at this latest shit-outta-luck. A bargain he'd gotten the guy for, a lousy chicken-scratch ten million--Riccardi was almost *forty* and his last movie tanked, it was only fair--and this was what he got in return. You get what you pay for...and with Dragon's (and Riccardi's) last movie, the all-too-aptly titled Slow Torture, one of the biggest bombs in Variety's recent memory, *neither* of them could afford for Cole to go fluttering his fairy wings. Not that Dragon expected *Cole* to figure that one out, though. Fucking brain-dead mannequin...why the fuck couldn't he stick with the rainforest or assisted suicide or some other, safely innocuous Actor Issue? No matter. The only important thing now was convincing the guy to stay the fuck in with the hangers and sachets.

"Well, Cole, the truth of the matter is..." *That your pecs and your ass siphoned off most of the cells God meant for your brain.* "...and, um, I'm trusting you with my life here..."

*That is to say, my career. My fucking career, Riccardi, that you are about to jettison so you can run off and take a bite outta the Desert Peach. No fucking way, sister. You sank Torture, you're not deep-sixing Gun Club too.*

Beverly Hills-fucking-Gun Club, merrily slicing and fraying his nervous system with an abandon even the thickest, most comforting Xanax haze couldn't ameliorate. One goddamn box-office stinkbomb, *one* in a whole *career* of packing fat sagging Middle American asses into the seats year after clockwork-regular year, and he was on his hands and knees to a financial "syndicate" of one Superfly wannabe and a trio of camel-jockey pederasts, sucking until he choked while Adam-fucking-screenwriter-pussy-nervous-breakdown-Rafkin reamed the other end with his whining too-sick-to-works. And when *they* got done with him there was Bobby G, the Anaconda, always hovering in the background for his take and taste...and now, to top it all off, his ten-million-sans-points star suddenly decided he wanted to tell the world he was Jim Dandy the Ass Pirate. No. Enough was fucking *enough!*

"I too, uh...am a..." Oh, fuck it--an *actor.* He'd believe anything. "A...friend of...Dorothy's."

The ice-blue eyes narrowed, surprise giving way almost immediately to scornful disbelief. Shit, there was actually a neuron or two firing away in there...

"Peter, what do you take me for?" Cole demanded. "What about that tape of you and Sandra Bullock?"

Dragon felt a brief stab of satisfaction. He *knew* that little off-the-cuff project would have legs...even if good old Sandy's box-office magic was sinking faster than her thirtysomething tits. DragonFire could still give the public what it wanted. "She's the one that drove me to *men!* I mean..." A carefully calculated rueful glance. "Don't make me relive it, Cole."

That did it--shit, yes! The pitch went right over the plate, the big guinea fish was on the grappling hook (or something like that--Jesus, three in the *morning!*). He could see Cole relaxing, visibly...what the fuck did *he* have to be nervous about? The guy was a mass of abs and pecs that he, Dragon, wouldn't have had if he spent every waking hour in the gym; plus, he was a good head taller. Not fair. There had to be a fucking plastic surgeon *somewhere* who'd figured out how to make people taller, it was the dawn of the goddamned millennium...

"I know," Riccardi said, relief suffusing his voice. "Because I've been there too--for me, it was Carrie Fisher."

*Carrie Fisher?* Jesus, talk about scraping the bottom of the poon barrel...unbidden, Dragon's brain offered up a picture of Riccardi and Fisher, Princess Leia doughnut-do and all, side by side in a narrow bed like a posed pair of dolls. It made no sense from any angle, so he erased it...Mexico. Maybe there was a surgeon like that in Mexico, they could do all kinds of shit down there without an AMA or FDA to get up their asses. "See? There you go. I mean, they make great *friends,* but..."

Cole was leaning toward him now, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, like a kid wanting to spill every last secret he had. Cut *that* off at the pass, s'il vous plait... "Cole, sit down, wouldja please? Just relax."

Almost mechanically, the other man obeyed, perching on the edge of the black leather couch and tapping his fingers nervously against his teeth. Dragon followed suit, careful not to sidle up too close. Now Riccardi wouldn't even look at him; he was staring at his feet. The sight was highly gratifying...once again, Peter Dragon was in charge of the situation. His turf, his terms. Was Wendy still awake? He almost hoped not; he didn't want her coming down here and spoiling the moment. *His* little moment of triumph. Some pleasures were purely for solo consumption--though he hardly expected an ex-hooker to accept that. It'd cut into business in a big way.

*Friends, whores, party favors--whatever. Not wives, though, women make shitty wives. I should know. Ironic, huh?*

Keep up the spiel. "Cole--yeah, I'm *gay,* man! I'm gayer than a leather piñata! Cole, don't you think *I* wanna walk down the street and go, 'Hey, world! This is who I am! I dig men!' "

Riccardi looked up at him, stricken. Shocked recognition in those eyes, understanding, honest-to-God *compassion*...Jesus, this confirmed the guy was really a faggot if nothing else did, they lost it at one Judy Garland trill or the drop of a crocodile tear. Other than Bobby G, of course, the cold-blooded Lizard King of the fudgepackers.

"Peter, I had no idea," Cole said softly.

Up close his face had an odd photonegative quality, deeply tanned skin set off by sunbleached hair--dark hair, but with an unexpected, burnished light to it--and the famous pale blue eyes. Cat eyes, whose color might have looked watery on anyone else but in that face...you searched them almost instinctively, seeking some palpable, unnamable necessity in their depths.

*Necessity.* Shit. *Mental note of new discovery--when tired and pissed off, Peter Dragon is downright fucking poetic.* It could come in handy sometime...

Dragon kept his expression solemn. "Hey, now you know. Cole--" Time for the patented Earnest Voice. "We have a secret that we have to keep. We have a secret that the people in the audience, they *want* us to keep."

Burnished hair, icy eyes. Downright fucking poetic...what was that thing they'd all had to memorize in high school? *Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice/But I something something whafuck perish twice...* Jesus, he was two levels past punchy. Riccardi was nodding solemnly, and...

Okay, he *knew* for a *fact* that there'd been at least a foot of space between them when they sat down, but now the side of his thigh was somehow pressed up against Cole's. Dragon had barely registered the heat, the firmness of the pressure, when he saw Riccardi's hand reach up and stroke his cheek.

"Peter, you are *so* brave."

Absolutely *enough* girl-bonding, because the hand was now cupping Dragon's chin, fingertips lightly caressing the sides of his face. Cole's palm was soft, almost silken, and warm as...of *course* the fucking thing was soft, lazy-fuck actor S.O.B. never *did* anything with it remotely resembling real work. He should...

Weird feeling, having someone you'd seen in seventy-millimeter Sensurround closeup nine dozen times actually *there,* inches away from you, staring--at *you.* No screen, no lens. Even after you'd dealt with these guys in person for years, with their minus I.Q.s and their killer B.O. and their tantrums and DUIs and underage girlfriends (*boyfriends?*--oh, Jesus, fourteen-year-old girls are one thing but DragonFire can't handle a "man-boy love" scandal, Riccardi, you stupid fuck), and their idiot ramblings about their "art" and their *utter* and *complete* lack of any *shred* of fucking gratitude--even after that, and with no trace of fresh-off-the-boat starfucker left in your soul, you could still get a little lurch in the gut to have one of them right there, face to face with you.

It was one of the many, many reasons he fucking *hated* actors.

"No, I--" Dragon took Riccardi's hand between his own, clasping it with what he hoped was a convincing bonhomie. "I'm not, Cole. That's why I need your...courage, to help me get through this. Okay?"

Cole was nodding now, deadly serious, with a newfound resolve in his eyes. Lock, stock *and* barrel! Shit, actors were the stupidest cocksuckers on earth...Cole's hand was even softer beneath his own fingertips.

"If you can do it, I can do it," Cole said. He sighed. "Yeah...this may take a little while."

Peter nodded encouragingly. "Yeah." *That's right. Hopefully, the rest of your goddamned career.* He kept hold of Cole's hand, almost absently squeezing it. "Let's just, uh...let's just be there for one another."

Oh, *perfect* touch...good. Mr. Fire-and-Ice was almost doe-eyed with gratitude.

"I don't know about you," Riccardi said tentatively, "but I could sure use a hug."

"You want a hug?"

A hopeful little nod. Hell, why not? "You *got* a hug, pal. Okay?"

He put his arms on Riccardi's back, not really around it; brisk little back-pat, manly little laugh. Cole let out a long exhalation of breath, and put his head on Dragon's shoulder.

Cole's hair brushed the side of Dragon's neck; Peter felt a vague ticklish sensation, a small electric current jumping along his nerves. He'd been bracing himself for the old actor B.O., none of them ever seemed to take a fucking shower--a little Eau de Johnny Depp--but Riccardi smelled clean, and good. The scent of some no-nonsense brand of soap, bay rum aftershave, a shampoo he couldn't place. And underneath it, the man himself. It was...Cole's cheek was soft too, resting there in the hollow of his shoulder, but for the cheekbone's startling sharpness.

The other man's arms had tightened around Dragon, hanging on. Strong arms, thick tree-trunks compared to a woman's...almost instinctively, Dragon embraced him in earnest, hands meeting each other along the other man's back. Odd feeling, being unable to easily encircle the other person's body, envelop it...distracted as he suddenly was, he did hear Cole sighing sharply.

"I feel so close to you now," Cole whispered. He was shifting his body by minute degrees, easing it toward Peter's in such a way that--

*No.* Enough, not when he was in a fucking robe and no way to conceal a possible--"Cole, hey...Cole." He pulled back, quickly. *Nothing, it's nothing, it's three-something in the morning and I'm fucking out-of-my-mind tired and--* He swallowed hard. Get it back on his turf, his terms. "We're *sisters* now. We can't get any closer."

Something was wrong. Riccardi was nodding, again, but there was a strange expression on his face; one Dragon would have dubbed ironic, if he'd thought a ten-million-dollar rump roast could ever have a clue what irony was. Just sweet-talk the guy out the door and...

Those eyes, leveled right at his. That little lurch, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

"No," Cole responded. "But we can sure as hell try."

He eased back on the couch, and with one swift motion pulled the tie of Dragon's robe open.

*********

"What the hell are you doing?" Dragon demanded, a half-second too late. He was suddenly very grateful for the tank shirt and shorts--scant cover though they were next to Riccardi's jeans and leather. Laugh it off, probably just a little fag-bonding joke...his nervous half-snicker became a yelp when he felt Cole's fingers hooking around the waistband of the black shorts, skimming the skin of his abdomen.

"Cole?" he repeated. "What the *fuck* are you doing?"

The other man stared right at him, smiling almost beatifically. "What am I doing? Something I've wanted to do since the day we met." Both his hands rested on Peter's hips, kneading the black cloth, the flesh beneath it. "But see, I thought it was just *me,* Peter...until now."

Under the pale blue ice of his gaze there burned a slow fire.

Dragon shook his head. Wrong, *WRONG,* take two! "Okay, look, Cole, believe me when I say I'm flattered, but--"

"It's okay, Peter." Cole's voice had gotten softer, softer but no less deep, and purposeful. "I understand. You've been going through just what I have...the lying, the pretending." His fingers were back under the waistband of Peter's shorts, pulling at them just a little. "You get all caught up in that, and then it's like you can't even *remember* what you really are after a while. You just feel"--the undershirt was being pushed up, both Cole's hands now stroking Dragon's skin--"miserable. And *wrong,* and like you want...something you can't *ask* for anymore. Right?"

*Jesus H. Fuck, please in thy mercy save me from philosophizing nance actors, amen.* "No, no, that's not--see, what I'm trying to *say* here, Cole, is that--"

*No.* God. Kisses against his abdomen, soft teasing touches as Cole's hands started pushing the shorts down his hips. *Take three. Just push him off and--* God, that felt good, Cole's mouth lingering wetly in one spot, sucking gently at the skin there before touching down somewhere else...his whole body was tensing, deliciously, anticipating where that mouth might land next. Wendy never did this, she was so matter-of-fact leading up to--

*To what it looks like he's about to--a guy, this is a fucking GUY, what the fuck is your problem stop this right fucking NOW before you end up--* As Cole's tongue dipped into his navel and warm fingers found his cock, Dragon moaned out loud.

"Cole--" he gasped. Fingers stroking the underside of his cock, moving upward, firmly cupping his balls. "We can't do this."

*A guy, a fucking GUY--* What had happened here? He was *sure* that he had--he was writhing now, blindly arching himself toward Riccardi's touch. "We can't--" *Pull away, restore dignity, kick him the FUCK out of the house and off the picture and--*

"Ssshhh..." Riccardi was kneeling in front of him, hands maintaining their meter. "It's okay, Peter. Relax."

"*No!* I mean, I'm not--we *can't*--it--"

Cole rested his hands on Peter's now-bare hips, making a muffled, soothing sound as he drew the other man deep into his mouth.

Dragon froze, one hand clutching at the sofa arm. Riccardi's tongue slid slowly down the length of him, and back up again.

"Oh," he said, almost matter-of-factly. "I guess we can."

The luscious, sweetly wet feeling of the man's mouth, now concentrated in the most exquisite spots, no possible way to escape it...the burnished silk of his hair brushed the insides of Peter's thighs, feather-touches next to the tight, tugging warmth of his lips. Peter held himself steady on the couch, an arm stretched along the sofa back, studiously not looking down. Sensing his reluctance, Cole murmured something else, another inevitably unintelligible noise; the slight vibration against his cock, the gently reassuring, almost fatherly tone of it, made Peter shiver violently. The muscles along the back of his head felt tighter, buzzing with some incredible, newfound tension.

"Oh," he repeated, more quietly this time. "That's..."

It had suddenly gotten hard to breathe. He opened his mouth for air, and the sound of his own ragged, shuddering breath startled him. Not breaking the slow, lapping rhythm of his tongue, Cole let his hands wander, pressing firmly against and then encircling Peter's ass, fingertips stroking the cheeks. The feel of those fingers, moving downward to brush tormentingly against his balls before sliding, unashamedly, into the cleft and...

Peter kicked his feet hurriedly; he meant to throw Cole off him once and for all before disaster struck but instead he was struggling with his shorts, twisted just below his knees and making it impossible for him to move as his body--not his brain--was commanding him. Cole wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, his other hand pulling the shorts down and off, and resumed his caresses; Peter spread his legs wider, bracing his feet against the floor and stifling an out-and-out groan against the sofa cushions as Cole's mouth started moving more quickly, more eagerly. *That's...it...* He bit into the leather, briefly, eyes nearly closed and hips thrusting hard as a sneering, back-brain voice howled increasingly faint protests.

*Stop it. Stop him NOW.*

*No. I can't move--*

*The fuck you can't.*

*I CAN'T.*

*Well--whatever you do, you stupid fuck, just don't look down.*

He shut his eyes and forced himself to imagine Wendy down there, doing her work...Ex-Bitch Janey (*making* her do it, over and over again until she choked, spit up), Sandra, that sweet little C-cup redhead in the DragonFire commissary, Miss December Playmate...his eyes flew open when in the midst of the amorphous pussy parade there came Bobby G, eyes glittering derisively as he lined up for his take and taste. He shuddered again, this time in sincere horror, before the pleasure riding his body enfolded him once more.

(Fatherly?)

Cole's hands, now clutching and letting go to the tempo of his busy mouth, to the tempo of Peter's own thrusts against it, one finger starting to disappear up the ass...Peter threw his head back and clenched his teeth as it hit him, a *liquid* heat, golden and pure in every aching muscle and making him want--*no.* The redhead, Sandra, WendyJanethe--*no, not them, this, I want THIS, I want HIM doing this to me I want HIM--*

Riccardi's hair, dark and fiery all at once; his eyes closed in concentration but so sweetly, surprisingly long-lashed, lids masking that pale blue ice. Ecstasy was a shot of memory across the bow, the words of that long-ago poem coming back in a rush as Peter threaded his fingers in Cole's hair, holding on for dear life: *Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice, from what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire...*

He was moaning unashamedly now, frenzied with need, he *couldn't* have stopped, not if Wendy and Jane and Bobby G and the entire fucking world came downstairs with a film crew and his grandmother in tow and--*but if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of--*

Arched in an excruciating bow against the sofa arm, he felt himself at once leave his own body and plummet thunderously back into it, one gasping knot of sweat and cries and unbearable, blessed release. Cole rode the wave of it, so calmly, swallowing the sticky, heated spurts as he reached his hands up to hold his lover steady, watching mesmerized from beneath his lowered eyelids.

*I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice--*

Peter kept his face pressed against the sofa; his breath betrayed him, every last mouthful of air a sated shudder.

*Is also great--*

Cole stayed kneeling where he was, planting a fervent kiss against the inside of Peter's thigh. "Oh, my God," he whispered. "Oh, my God..."

*And would suffice.*

********

Peter started, feeling Cole's arms around him again; he hadn't heard *or* felt the other man rising from the floor. He couldn't move, couldn't look up and meet those eyes. Cole's hand against the back of his head, gently pushing it onto one leather-covered shoulder.

*I don't know about you, but I could sure use a hug...*

Kisses, soft ones, along the side of his face, touching that sensitive little spot just behind his ear. His muscles were jelly, his skin one great cooling sheen of sweat. Cole was whispering heatedly, "Peter, I knew I wanted you but I never thought that--I--we--"

He broke off, then grabbed Peter in a fierce hug. "You're so beautiful when you come, I just...sorry." More kisses. "I'm sorry, I get like this sometimes during--"

"S'okay." Peter's own voice made him jump a little, the sound seeming to issue from somewhere outside him. He kept his forehead pressed against Cole's shoulder, against the faintly worn leather of his jacket. The other man's fingers ran lightly over Dragon's back; he was increasingly conscious of his own nakedness, nothing under the open robe but a tank shirt now pushed nearly to his armpits, but pulling away seemed a vague, faraway option. He could practically smell Riccardi's own, unsatisfied arousal, coming off the man in waves, but the hands wandering beneath his robe were almost...cautious. Respectful, even.

*Respectful.* The word, the idea, jolted him a little from his stupor. *I'm still the boss around here...all appearances notwithstanding. Good. The beautiful Peter Dragon's still in charge of the situation. Just accepting a little--tribute, from somebody who owes me his fucking career. That's it. Now, just send him on his way, and...*

He drew back, pulling the undershirt down; stifling another long, irregular breath, he slid his other hand down Cole's chest. He hesitated just a moment before pulling the belt buckle loose.

The loud, pleading rattle from Cole's throat, the longing in those cat eyes, was more than gratifying. Dragon's own come drying on the man's lips...see? This *settled* it, he was *in charge* of the situation and he'd *proven* it by getting Mr. Guns of Saigon down on his knees. See? He had the man, himself, literally in his hands...Cole groaned and thrust into the tentative caress. Good.

What would it feel like, the absolute most vulnerable part of someone else's body right *there* in your mouth, at the mercy of your teeth...another taste of power. Another possession. Wasn't it? He'd never thought to ask Wendy, if anyone would know she would; but what the hell. A once-in-a-lifetime experiment (*never* to be repeated), the proverbial bird in the hand.

(Not that Cole's doing *him* had been anything but submissive. Obedient...down on your knees and suck, actor. But this would be...different. Yes?) The guy was raring to go, it wouldn't take long--he'd have him begging for it in seconds flat. *Begging,* just the way Dragon liked people behaving around him...not that Cole had done that to *him.* He, Peter, hadn't acted this way, wide-eyed and panting harshly as warm, questing fingers stroked him from shaft to tip, lingering at the slit with an almost cruel precision. Cole was jerking against his hand now, beyond caring, whispering over and over again between clenched teeth, "Please, Peter, *please...*"

Begging. There. *You see?* Peter shrugged the sweat-sticky robe off his shoulders and slid with studied indifference to his knees, between the larger man's legs. He closed his eyes and--

And Cole was leaning over him as he coughed and gagged, still kneeling, fist pressed to the hollow of his closing throat. "I'm sorry, Peter," the other man said quickly. "I pushed you too hard and--"

"No," Dragon managed to gasp, red-faced. "Fine, no problem--" Shit, it was harder than it looked. So to speak. Cole still hovered and fussed, the bobbing, engorged genitals in ridiculous contrast to his stricken, contrite expression. *Five minutes, everybody...*

"Long time, huh?" Cole said gently, touching his hair. "A little out of practice?"

*Oh, you could say that...* Luckily, Riccardi took the silence for assent. "It's okay, Peter, just...your hands, that's all I--look, don't be embarrassed. Okay?"

*Embarrassed?!* Well, this settled it--not an actor anywhere on the fucking planet who didn't secretly want to direct. *Oh, that's okay, I'll PERMIT you to jack me off before I leave, since you're so OUT OF PRACTICE and you've EMBARRASSED yourself so disgracefully...think you're fooling me, Mr. That's-Okay-One-Upsmanship? Forget it, pal. I handle the rewrites here.*

"Peter, are you sure you're all right? I'll--"

"Sit back," Dragon ordered, his voice sharp. From the corner of one eye he could see his discarded shorts, a dark crumpled pile on the floor. He leaned back on his bare haunches and ran his hands up the length of Riccardi's legs, rubbing the tautly defined muscles in slow, deliberate circles. His breath labored and uneven, Riccardi did as he was told, ass hitting the couch again with a soft but audible *thud.*

Peter's fingertips pressed tentatively against the juncture of Cole's leg and torso, the delicate crease of skin there. The smell of the man was making him slightly dizzy. It was like going underwater, he decided...deep breath...eyes closed...

*There.* Held and pinned, the most vulnerable part of the man between sharp, natural knives. Why would anyone...

How the hell had *he*...no. That was different. It *was.* Just like this was.

Above him, Cole let out a long sigh and twined his fingers in Peter's hair, careful not to pull. His fingertips rubbed the back of Dragon's neck, slowly, lightly. The muscles in his thighs trembled, pressing against Peter's head; fighting claustrophobia, Peter dared himself to look up. Cole's head was back, his eyes half-shuttered, throat exposed...distracted by the sight, he let his teeth get away from him and saw Cole jump and wince at the sudden, scraping pain. Peter turned his head away sharply. Jesus, strike *two* in under two minutes, it was fucking...

Embarrassing.

When he looked up again, Cole was staring down at him with an expression of amused affection. Like he was some fucking *puppy-dog* or... *Just get the fuck up and get him out of here!*

Riccardi suddenly smiled at him--not the thousand-kilowatt shit-eater he gave the cameras but a warm, human smile. When Peter felt himself returning the gesture, he quickly pressed his forehead into Riccardi's thigh, cutting the moment dead.

How the hell had he gotten himself into this again?

"You're *sure* you're all right," Cole repeated.

"Mm." *Don't look up. That only makes trouble...*

"Peter...I meant it. You don't have to do this." A shuddering breath. "Really."

The sound of that voice, so accommodating but so thick with lust.

Deep breath...eyes closed...

Better, now. Easier. Just don't look up.

Cole held back a little, clearly anticipating some further, perhaps more injurious snafu; slowly, Peter felt him relax, begin moving his hips in conjunction with the mouth that enveloped him, the wet tongue-strokes. Peter tilted his head a little, taking Cole in deeper, surprised at how easy it was.

"Uh-huh," Cole said quietly, again putting his hands to Peter's head, holding him a little more firmly this time. "It...*yes.* That's right..."

"Aggk att?"

"Yes. That's..." A low, rumbling laugh. "That's good, Peter...like that. Yes. There. That's good..."

*********

INT.--PETER'S BEDROOM--NEXT DAY

The guy was a goddamned tease, that was all there was to it. He had Dragon pinned down, arms held above his head--one strong, long-fingered hand encircling both his wrists--and was steadfastly *not* touching him, save for the kisses. Sharp, exquisite little insect bites against the side of his neck, a nipple, the soft flesh between his collarbone and armpit. Peter squirmed in half-hearted protest, lifting his chin to accept another kiss beneath it. They were both laughing, quietly, sizing each other up with mock glares. Cole brushed his lips against the side of Peter's jaw, his mouth...

"Jesus," Peter muttered, almost giggling. His voice in his own ears sounded downright...*coquettish.* Shit. "Cole..."

"What?"

Whose voice was that?

"Col...?" What the...the sun, already high in the sky. His own bed. Him in it, by himself. Wendy leaning over him, clearly puzzled at the response to her wakeup kiss.

Oh, *fuck.*

"*Col..d!*" He bolted upright, rubbing his biceps fretfully as his gut did somersaults. "It's cold in here!" *Oh mother-of-God fuck...no. Jesus. What the hell else did I...*

Wendy shrugged, a little impatiently. "All right--I'll turn off the air conditioning. I gotta go..."

His shirt. Sitting up, he angled a quick glance at the floor by his bed. Maybe he'd taken it off half-asleep, or...no. As he'd feared, it was still downstairs, probably on the same pile as his robe. He'd been far too preoccupied with the hasty downstairs-bathroom shower and the ferocious tooth-brushing (twice) and the mouthfuls of extra-strength Scope (five of them), staggering upstairs in a daze after making *sure* the shorts betrayed not a hint of foreign sweat or jism or bay rum...shit, shit, *shit.*

Wendy was fully dressed, he noticed--or as fully dressed as she ever got, anyway. Old habits died hard. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Gotta get to the hospital--I got a phone call." She hesitated. "It seems Adam's had the teeniest of strokes."

Dragon stared at her in horror. "Adam Sandler had a *stroke?*"

False alarm, thank God--just the screenwriter-pussy doing more of his hypochondriac shuffle. He was *done* with that idiot kid when Gun Club was finally in the can, *finished*...Wendy barely bothered saying goodbye. Off to Saint Mary-Up-Our-Lord-and-Savior's-Ass or whatever the hell hospital it was. Left via the back way, anyhow--wouldn't pass through the living room. Thanks, God. He could get rid of last night's remaining evidence, quickly, before the maid arrived...

He threw himself back onto the pillows and studied a fixed, imaginary point on the ceiling, investing all his concentration in that one blank spot. He had learned long ago, when making his first forays into the Industry, that the best way to deal with whining actors and grasping agents and loser writers (was that redundant?) and cannibal lawyers (*definitely* redundant) and every other sort of flotsam and jetsam that spewed onto his psychic shores was to focus, with laserlike intensity, on a bit of nothing. A spot over the babbler's shoulder, on the top of his own desk, at his feet if the situation called for seeming humility--just concentrate on a blank bit of space in front of you, and the idiot would start to fade from immediate consciousness as if physically conjured away. Plus your fixed eye-focus got you bonus points for being "intense." Tune out *and* intimidate all at once...perfect.

He kept his eyes trained on a small white spot on the expanse of white ceiling, consciously willing the previous night out of his mind. It was all fading away now, everything that had happened, every last memory of...

Cole's face, during...events. Afterward. Kissing, fervently, not caring anymore what the hell he was tasting as long as he had Riccardi's mouth against his.

*Blank. White. Absolute nothing...*

His lips against the side of the man's neck, to get the taste of his sweat. Fingers in his hair.

Shit.

Punching a pillow in frustration, he turned onto his side. Strategy two, then: close examination, which would inevitably *prove* that he had in fact come out on top. Think about it. Without *any* urging or coercion on his part, the guy had literally gone down on his knees for Peter Dragon, *literally.* That right there told you *all* you needed to know, pure and simple. Sure, he enjoyed it--why *shouldn't* he enjoy it? Who wouldn't take honest-to-God *glee* in exercising that kind of power over someone else, for God's sake? That kind of...superiority. Besides, when you got right down to it, not much difference between a woman's tongue and a man's. Didn't signify anything. There. Peter Dragon, producer, world lining up to suck his alpha-dog cock. As they should be. Whole incident explained and put away.

Which really didn't explain why he had then voluntarily, without any urging or coercion on Riccardi's part, gotten on his own knees and--and after not one but *two* perfect chances to back out, he--

And afterwards. The kisses. Not all of them Cole's.

*Power! See, I was getting him as out of whack as he tried to get me, by doing that, and that just proves that I--*

*Oh, don't make me fucking LAUGH.*

Great. The little back-brain voice was piping up again, after a whole night of enforced silence. Just what he needed.

*You, go the fuck away--I don't need this right now.*

*Yeah? Make me.*

He owed a lot to the voice, to be honest. That little green-lighter and nay-sayer was his guiding thread through the Industry labyrinth, just *knowing* which scripts were the real shit and which were merely shit, which bimbos and himbos wouldn't shoot their box office wad after just one go-round or two, which pictures would open wide and which were locked tighter than a Mormon's knees. Hell of a track record, it had.

But of course, this was the same voice that had *assured* him Slow Torture would be a runaway hit.

*Petey, my boy...we all make mistakes. But please just do yourself a favor and own up.*

*Fuck you.*

*Oh, really. Power? My ass.*

*Fuck YOU.*

*Why don't you just admit that YOU wanted Cole Riccardi to fuck you so badly that--*

*FUCK YOU!*

*--that you could taste it. So to speak.*

He shook his head violently, drop-kicking the voice back to his subconscious. He ground his teeth.

Stupid little fucker. It was *obvious* that he, Peter Dragon, front-brain Peter Dragon, was in the right and back-brain Peter Dragon didn't know shit. It was all about power--he had it, Cole acknowledged it in the simplest and most efficient possible way. Actions speak louder than words...especially from that meathead. And then he, being carried *somewhat* further away by the whole experience than he might have anticipated (yes, see, he could admit this very easily, he was *not* in denial), quickly righted the balance of power yet again by getting Cole all in a lather. Throwing a few faggots on the fairy barbecue. When you analyzed it--really sat down and took a good, long look at it--it had *nothing* to do with sex or lust or desire or any of that shit. At all.

Which really didn't explain why the memory of it was getting him hard.

Enough thinking. Stretching one arm out to the nightstand, he grabbed the phone and began punching in numbers. Heidi Fleiss's conviction had been the best goddamned thing to happen to the local pussy trade--once any monopoly's market stranglehold is broken, competition flourishes in the vacuum and, ultimately, drives consumer costs down to an efficient level. Translation: the more pimps, the cheaper the poon. He remembered that much from Econ 106 way back when, that and the teaching assistant's incredible tits.

The "corporation" that would later appear on his credit card bill as Bracken's Temp Services was very pleased to hear from him--as who wouldn't be--and equally pleased to arrange for one of their friendly, well-trained representatives to appear in his office that day at 12:30 pm sharp. Hanging up the phone and strolling downstairs to retrieve the rest of his clothes, Peter felt infinitely more cheerful; some under-the-desk ministrations from Sierra or Dakota or Montana would be just the thing he needed to set him right as rain.

********

INT.--BOBBY G'S OFFICE--DAY

And what a fucking day. A dead fucking *goat* on his office coffee table--nice little Godfather nightmare, thanks *very* much--followed by Momo the Sand Pilot, Mr. Goat-Giver, trying to shoot down *his* "old, withered" casting picks, and on top of everything else he had goddamned Stuart giving him the hairy eyeball. (There wasn't really such a thing as "gaydar," was...fuck. Of course not and even if so this time around it would be dead WRONG.) And now--on top of everything else--another visit to Bobby G's stately pleasure dome, another calling onto the carpet. Bobby just *loved* to do that to him, *loved* it...and now, of course, dear sweet Bobby was *pretending* to agree with Momo just to shove it in Peter's face. Pretending, after he had as good as creamed his hand-tailored-in-London slacks when Peter talked Riccardi out of Patriot Fist IV and got him signed to Gun Club. But now, just to shove it in Peter's face, he was ordering Riccardi off the picture.

"Time out--you guys are *discussing* things behind my back? That's not gonna happen. The only person that produces a *Peter Dragon* movie is Peter Dragon!"

Great way to try and argue his case, standing there like some kid barging in on the grownups with their cognac and cigars. He knew better than to take a seat without express invitation, though...not in *this* Hellfire Club of an office. Called on the fucking carpet. Again. His nerves were already piano-wired enough without having to put up with this shit; the Xanax wasn't helping, and the session with Sierra (he *knew* he should've held out for Dakota, but he'd been in a hurry) hadn't been nearly as refreshing as he'd anticipated.

Bobby G gave him a wide-eyed look, a deliberately fake mien of innocence. "Nobody's questioning your *authority*--we're just telling you what to do."

Cole? Off the picture. Unilaterally decided. Choruses of agreement from Dick and Momo, the peanut gallery. *Fuck* them. "Impossible. I just signed him to a ten-million-dollar pay-or-play deal."

"Well, that was not prudent." In an instant, the wide eyes went narrow, bulldog face contorting into a near-snarl. "Get *rid* of him. Find a way. If you don't--this ten million comes outta your end."

"No, I--no. Nothing's coming out of my end, I mean nothing's going into--nothing's coming in or *out* of my end, how's that! Okay? You know what I'm doing right now? I'm going to fire Cole Riccardi from *my* picture because *I* thought of it! If anyone has a *problem* with that, they can suck my--"

Oh, *fuck.* "I have to go."

He made a hasty retreat from the office, hurrying through the main hallway as if it were on fire. Shit, *fuck,* *fuck* them all...schoolboy stammer, Bobby G laser-beaming him as he took another draw on that hand-rolled-in-Havana. Freudian slips like banana peels, everywhere in his...of *all* the people he *didn't* want to see after last night which meant nothing so forget about it, his lordship Gianopolis was first and foremost. *Humiliating* him, like...

Fuck. Just like usual. The faggot wasn't subtle. Always that weird *glitter* in his reptile eye, like he knew every last one of your goddamned secrets and was about to broadcast them to a worldwide audience. And it was a brighter, eviler glitter for *him,* Peter Dragon, than just about anyone else. That wasn't just healthy paranoia talking--even Stuart had once said as much, in passing. The faggot loathed him. Him, Peter Dragon, uniquely. He'd never been able to figure out exactly why.

Stopping by the entrance to the commissary, he took a long breath. No matter. He'd been handed his solution to the whole...just in case Riccardi, actor-moron that he was, was getting any idiotic *ideas* about...Riccardi was almost forty and his last movie tanked, he was past his sell-by date and souring on the shelf. Purely a business decision. Get him off the picture--avanti, allez, away.

Far, far away.

*********

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

He spun it out as best he could. *His* fault, rotten advice, wonderful brilliant thespians needed to find wonderful brilliant work in wonderful brilliant New York City. Time to *find* yourself! Time to get the hell *out* of this tired rotten corrupted town and stay away, for-*ever*...yes. Forever.

Sitting next to him on the hotel's cream silk couch, Cole smiled, his eyes warm and affectionate. He stroked the side of Peter's face, laid a tentative hand on his shoulder...no matter. Actors were nauseatingly touchy-feely by nature and he'd be gone soon enough.

"Peter--Peter, walk away with me, won't you?"

What the fuck were those things on his robe--birds of paradise or something? Jesus. Sea-green, with fucking birds of paradise...subtle as Large Marge at a softball tournament. "I *can't,* Cole, I--"

Cole's fingertips against his face were gentle, their touch insinuatingly warm...no. No. That was the damned five-alarmer in the fireplace--that and the candles strewn around the room. Vanilla-scented, of *course.* "It's a courage that I don't have."

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu...taking it to heart, Cole was, God bless the limp-wristed dago dimwit. His eyes were full. "Well...we'll always have our special night together," he reassured Peter. "I'll never forget that."

The strong, long-fingered hands. Those eyes, staring straight into his, searing him with their icy blue. Mercilessly sweet mouth that...JaneWendytheredheadSierrastopSTOP.

"Yeah, and I-I-I-I won't forget that moment--ever, Cole." He stared down at his hands. *Stammering,* shit, fuck. Twice in one day, find the goddamned eighth-grade speech therapist and sue her ass...

"*Encore, mi amore?*"

Peter looked up, quickly, eyes widening. Cole leaned forward and...

"No, Cole. No. I mean--" *Fuck, what the--yes. Brilliant. I've got it.* "You're worth *so* much more than just one night."

Touchdown! Goal! The Dodgers win the pennant, or something, who gave a fuck-all about sports but the idiot was buying it! Well, of course he was...an *actor* being told he was God's gift to stage, screen *and* bedroom? How could it fail? Time for exit, stage left. "I'm gonna go now, Cole, 'cause I don't--I don't want you to see me cry."

Brilliant, *perfect*--he was almost giggling with his own cleverness as he rose from the couch and gave Cole a few reassuring pats on the shoulder, side of the neck. Brisk, manly, impersonal. The guy was *swooning.*

"Peter," Cole said, his voice soft and fervent. "Peter, you dear, dear--"

Dragon stumbled and lost his footing on the thick hotel carpet, lost it because Riccardi had reached up and seized his arms, pulling him downwards. He managed only a "Wha--!" of shock and protest before Cole's mouth covered his own, parting his lips with unapologetic force.

"I'm sorry, Peter," the other man murmured, between kisses. "I'm sorry but I can't just let it end like this."

"Cole--" He was pinned now, Riccardi straddling him, the other man's weight flattening him to the couch as muscular, silk-covered arms cradled his back. Peter flailed, one leg kicking instinctively and hitting the air before Cole deftly hooked a foot around it, drawing it into his bodily embrace; he kissed Peter with noisy, greedy smacks, a thirsty child gulping down a tall glass of water.

"Cole--Cole, okay, no. Stop it, this--"

"I know, darling, I know--this is crazy, this"--smack--"is just making it harder"--smack--"for the both of us. But I can't help it, Peter--"

*Darling?* Jeez oh fuckin' pete... "Cole, uh, it--you--" Smack. "Cole, we just *talked* about this, okay? We just went over *all* the--you have to stop." Smack. "*Now,* Cole! Jesus! I'm not fucking--"

The smells of sweat and bay rum were filling his nostrils, overpoweringly strong; soft silk and hard muscle covered him like layers of his own skin. Cole's fingers trailed slowly upward from his shoulder blades to the back of his neck, rubbing with firm strokes. Without thinking Peter arched his neck toward the touch, the tilt of his head allowing Cole to catch his mouth once again in a deep, wet, endless kiss.

Peter's own hands reached out, still trying to fight--and then the kiss, Cole Riccardi's kiss, the feeling of *this* mouth and none other against his own, hit him with the shocking rush of a wave striking the shore. It seized him in its grasp, pulled him away to willingly drown. His struggling hands grabbed at the other man greedily, ferociously; he gasped for air, and the gasp became a long, surrendering moan.

*Yes. I--* No. He wasn't--he liked--

Cole's hands were getting rougher, more possessive. *Good. Yes.* Had he said that out loud? He wasn't thinking straight, he--

*He's leaving tomorrow. Nobody ever has to know.*

He wasn't thinking in words anymore but in sensations, reactions; he twisted uncomfortably as his suit jacket bunched up beneath him and then felt Cole tearing at the thing, pulling it off none too gently before wrapping him in a back-breaking embrace. He moaned again when Cole caught his earlobe between his teeth, biting hard, then sucking soothingly at the small wound. Peter's hands fumbled at the front of Cole's robe, groping for the belt as he and Cole pressed against one another, their hips pushing together in a relentless, grinding rhythm. His eyes were closing, his tongue tasting the skin hidden beneath the robe--tautly stretched over the clavicle, a thinner and more delicate silk--when he suddenly felt Cole grab his wandering hands and wrench them aside.

Peter's eyes flew open. Cole stared down at him with a falcon's merciless, piercing gaze, azure ice in its depths. The ice was melting, burned away in the heat from their bodies. Peter opened his mouth to protest--to *beg*--and felt Cole let go of his hands; he rested his forehead against Peter's, his breath a loud rasp.

"No," Cole whispered.

"But I--you--" What had he done? He had fucked it all up *again,* somehow, he--

"Not here."

"But--" *Here. Not HERE.* Comprehension hit just as Cole started pulling him from the couch, staggering a little as their feet briefly tangled together; they did an awkward dance, punctuated by kisses and sharp breaths, before Cole broke free and grabbed hold of Peter's hand, propelling him toward the bedroom.

*Just once. Just this once, because nobody ever has to find out.*

The bedspread was dragging on the floor; they had wrestled it nearly off the bed, along with the birds-of-paradise robe, trying to crawl under the sheets still entwined. Their breathing, harsh and ragged, filled every corner of the room. Cole's mouth sucked and licked feverishly at Peter's enervated skin, hands trembling just a little as they undressed him. The knot on his tie pulled slowly, painstakingly loose, each button of his shirt so *carefully* undone...Peter cried out, and Cole kissed him harder, pulling the trousers and shorts off him with more speed than grace.

The guy was a tease, no two ways about it. He had Peter pinned against the mattress, arms held to his sides, avoiding any touch save the long, heated kisses on Peter's chest, throat, the smooth stretch beneath his chin. The torment of it was endless, and agonizing. Peter threw his head from side to side, hearing wordless sounds from his own throat, begging sounds; he wasn't laughing, not like in the dream, and when Cole pulled away, no more kisses anywhere--still clasping his wrists, not letting him touch--he let out a noise very close to a sob.

Cole studied him, almost dispassionately, ice-blue eyes steady and piercing as a hawk's. A falcon's. His lips lit briefly against Peter's ear.

"Peter?" The sound vibrated gently against the side of his face. "Turn around."

Peter knew that voice. It was a Riccardi trademark, the quiet, measured, utterly decisive tone in which he would declare some swarthy screen villain's imminent doom. Bargain-basement Clint Eastwood for aging mall rats...a weary old trick. It made him shiver with desire.

Cole put a hand against Peter's shoulder.

Peter rolled over, his chest tight with lust and panic. He could stop this now, he could beg off and stick with what he knew he could handle and...no. *No.* He pressed his face to the mattress, writhing as Cole traced the length of his spine with kisses, lingering where the swell of buttocks began. He couldn't stop this because if it *did* stop, he was certain he would die.

He groped blindly with his hands, reaching for a pillow, curling his arms protectively around it. His hands clenched into fists and he flinched, almost jerked away, when Cole's fingers made their first tentative push. The fingers quickly withdrew. Peter kept his head down as he heard a loud creak from the mattress, heard a bedside drawer opening and the hurried fumbling for something, and--

He jumped again when he felt Cole's fingers, now coated in something cool and slick and wet. They pressed and rubbed at his ass, pressed hard; they traced the cleft, moved slowly inward. Easier, this time. Peter spread his legs a little, accommodating them. Instinctively.

So much easier.

Cole shuddered out loud, and the soft, acquiescent noise Peter made in response inspired a ferocious spate of kisses. The back of Peter's neck tingled with them; his ears were burning. He was being devoured alive. This wasn't happening. This wasn't really--*oh, Christ--*

Peter's eyes closed hard as he lifted his head and his hips from the mattress, his breath growing faster, louder. A groan tore from his throat and he felt Cole hurriedly wrapping an arm around his waist, yanking him backwards, as good as forcing him up on all fours. Peter braced his palms against the mattress and wriggled unashamedly against the slick, invasive fingers, exquisitely hurtful; against the cool, wet hand now pinching his nipples, scratching his Adam's apple, almost clawing its way downwards again to stroke his attention-starved cock. He threw his head back, willing himself to concentrate, to *memorize* this moment--but he was suddenly there, he was *completely* there, every last nerve in his body was centered on Cole's caresses and when the fingers slid from his ass, he nearly wept in protest before he felt talons sinking into his shoulders, felt Cole holding him steady and still as he entered him.

"*Yes,*" Cole moaned as he worked his way inside. "Peter, oh my God--"

His ass was *burning,* tears coming to his eyes as he was stretched, penetrated; he was on the verge of shouting *stop, it hurts too much* when the burning became a slow, steady flicker of pleasure, a liquid fire flowing through him more heatedly at each new thrust. Some small part of him was mortified; he was being *ridden,* worked over (how the hell did women stand it--someone *in* them, over them, owning their insides every time). Possessed. Fucked *and* fucked with, and Peter Dragon was *not* one to stand for--

The fire was rolling over him, searing his nerves, his muscles, torturing him with its sweetness. He moved against Cole's thrusts in a frantic rhythm, each wave of sensation stronger and more unbearable than the last. Peter opened his eyes and stared almost mesmerized at his own hands, tendons thrown into sharp relief as the flushed fingers clawed at the mattress; raw, animal sounds tore from his throat, from Cole's, spiraling together like bodies locked in ecstasy. Ridden, possessed--and he never wanted it to stop, the very idea that the man in him, over him, owning his insides, might not stay inside him forever was unforgivable. Bent over, on his knees, on his *hands* and knees with no way to run or hide; and he wanted more, he wanted to give Cole every last sweat-soaked inch of skin, to turn himself inside out until there was nothing left to expose or yield...

He tried to *say* it, to tell Cole what he wanted, but what came out was a wordless near-wail that made the other man groan in response, sinking the nails of one hand deep into his flesh. *Good.* He wanted, he *needed* to feel that delicious knife-edge pain, he needed Cole to fuck him, hurt him, heal him, own him--

"Peter--Peter, oh God, yes--*God!*"

A choked whisper right by his ear, the sound a lingering hiss in his head. Cole's teeth took hold of the earlobe, biting again with astonishing gentleness; soft, precise fingertips found the wildly sensitive spot behind his balls. Those two exquisitely small, perfectly targeted caresses were what finally pushed him over the edge. His eyes squeezed shut again and his clenched, clawing fingers unfurled as he screamed into the pillow; an uncontained, ecstatic violence spasmed through him, consuming his whole body in its heat, reducing him in an instant to spent embers and ash.

Shudders racked him but he barely sensed them at all beneath the dark, satiated haze that had spread over his senses. But Cole was still there with him; as he clutched the mattress for dear life, he could blessedly *feel* Cole lose his last vestige of self-control and fuck him with an almost brutal frenzy--no more holding back, no more making love, good, *good*--that quiet, measured voice rising wordlessly from a gasp to a guttural howl as Cole held Peter down, as he screamed his name, as he came.

Cole collapsed on top of him and Peter didn't move, couldn't move, for there was nowhere else he could go; the rest of the world had vanished, everything and everyone in it consumed by the fire that had devoured them both. There was nothing left but Cole. But him. But *them.*

Nothing.

**********

"Peter," Cole murmured.

"Hmm?" Peter didn't look up, letting his head stay cradled where it was on Cole's bare shoulder. He had been floating somewhere between waking and sleep in the other man's arms--he didn't know for how long--not quite dozing off as Cole touched him with soft, slowly trailing fingertips. They outlined the muscles of his back, his legs, his shoulders with a tingling lightness, their path slicked by the sweat from both their bodies. The sheets were trailing off the bed, the hotel's air conditioner going full blast, but Peter felt very warm.

"What is it?" he asked.

Cole's fingers moved carefully over Peter's shoulder, over the raised and reddening scratches they had made there, and traveled across his back. "You okay? I kind of..." Cole hesitated. The hand stroked the small of his back, then reached down to cup one buttock, squeezing gently. "I was a little rough on you."

Cole sounded sincerely worried. *Was* he sincerely worried, or...Peter raised his head slightly, meaning to searchlight the other man's expression, but sheer sensual laziness made him lower it again. Sincere, bullshitting, whatever. This wasn't a studio board meeting and he felt too good to care.

"I'm fine," he finally said. To his chagrin, he felt himself smiling a little. "You just kind of...caught me off guard."

What the hell. *That* was certainly the truth.

He felt Cole shift against him, curling his other arm around Peter's back. "I know," Cole replied. "I didn't mean to--I *didn't,*" he insisted, as Peter started to laugh. "I was going to just say goodbye, and...and that's it. Really. But you, you just--" A short, apologetic sound. "You just *do* things to me, Peter. I--I don't know."

A kiss against his ear. It touched on the bite spot, stinging a little. "I don't know," Cole repeated.

Cole's fingers threaded through his hair, making idle half-combing motions, then rubbed his scalp. Peter ran his palms along the other man's back, feeling slightly amazed at his own lack of momentum. When the hell had he last felt so...*relaxed* in bed, afterwards? Jesus. Usually the time to roll over, zip up, cut that unavoidably (and accursedly) vulnerable moment as short and as dead as possible. If they were gonna take advantage of you--and everyone everywhere was trying to get one over on everyone else, that was just human nature--*that* would be a ideal time to try and do it. Always keep 'em at arm's length; even if other, less pragmatic body parts had gotten somewhat closer. Just common sense.

It would *especially* be common sense now, considering...

He traced small circles between Cole's shoulder blades. Maybe a few times with Jane, early on. *Very* early on, before the bitch showed her true colors. But a few times with her, he had just let that unavoidable little moment linger. Savored it, even.

His hand moved more slowly on Cole's back as his eyes started closing; Cole rested his cheek against the top of Peter's head. "You're falling asleep again," Cole murmured affectionately.

"What?" Peter's fingers found the scapula, pressing for a moment on the jutting bone. "I didn't fall asleep."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I *didn't.* I drifted off a little--"

"Peter--" Cole shook his head, smiling. "Yes, you *did.* You were dead to the world for a while there--"

"What?" He pulled abruptly away, Cole's embrace not quite letting him sit upright. "I fell *asleep?* How the hell late is--"

Peter angled his head toward the green glow of the nightstand clock: twelve-forty. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Wendy was out with friends tonight, thank *God*--some sort of little whores' family reunion--and had vaguely mentioned she'd be back around two. If he left right now, this instant, that gave him *just* enough leeway to make it home, shower off the last vestiges of Cole and climb into bed. Time to roll over, zip up and get a move-on.

He settled back against Cole's body, his cheek on the smooth coolness of a pillow. Cole's fingers brushed against his cheekbone.

One whole weekend, very early on, he and Jane hadn't ever made it out of bed. They *meant* to, they did, but time got away from them--all the talking (what the hell *had* they ever had to talk about...no matter), spooning, sleeping, fucking. They ordered Chinese food and ate it in bed, replenishing their strength. It was during one of those go-rounds, that weekend, that Georgia had been conceived.

"I guess you have to get back to Wendy," Cole said suddenly. His voice was careful, neutral.

Peter shrugged a little. "She went out tonight. She won't be back for a while." *Though I should be on my way, nonetheless...right now.* He stretched his legs out, toes pointing at the foot of the bed.

Cole raised himself on one elbow, looking down at him. The blue eyes were hooded, unreadable. "So you can maybe stay here," Cole said. "For a few more minutes."

"What?" *Sorry, babe...gotta leave, gotta go. Peter Dragon's a busy man.* "Yeah...sure. A few more minutes...what? What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just..." Cole smiled a little. "Peter and Wendy. Never thought about that before."

"Guess that makes you Tinkerbelle, huh?"

Cole stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. He kissed Peter's forehead, his lips making a small explosive sound. "See, Peter, that's exactly what I like about you. You've got a sense of humor. *Nobody* in this damn town's got that."

He eased himself a little closer, one long bare leg resting up against Peter's. "Everybody else thinks they're the most important person around. Like the whole machine'd just *stop* without them." He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly inches from Peter's face. "They all take themselves so damn seriously..."

Their mouths fit perfectly together. It was something Peter had noticed before; none of the usual awkwardness, the neck-cricking angle-and-adjust of the first kisses. That was a surprise. Their tongues entwined and Peter's hands slowly sank into Cole's hair, amazed anew at the almost girlish silkiness of it. Cole sighed into Peter's mouth--an abrupt, startling sound--and eased himself back on top of the other man without breaking the kiss. Peter finally drew his head back a little, catching his breath as pale blue eyes stared straight into his, unyielding and avid. He resisted the urge to close his own.

"I guess you have to get back, too," he said without thinking.

Cole frowned in confusion. "Back where?"

"That guy."

The frown deepened. "What guy?"

"Whatshisname," Peter said impatiently, wincing as he flexed one pin-prickling arm. The other man still looked lost; not a rare state of events with him, granted, but it was a bit disconcerting. "The guy you were talking about the other night."

"Peter, I have no idea--"

"The guy you said you wanted to--walk down the street with or whatever. What--" He broke off, feeling his face redden, as Cole gazed at him in growing bewilderment. "Don't you *remember?* You said you wanted to walk down the street with some guy and say he was your husband or something and--what the hell are you *laughing* about? I didn't just make this up!"

Jesus, the guy was *chortling* now...Peter tried to pull away and was stopped by the weight of Cole's body. Cole took Peter's face between his hands.

"Peter..." His expression was soft. "There isn't any guy. There's never been someone who--someone that serious. That was just--" He frowned again, a small furrow forming between his brows. "What's that thing where you say something like it's real, but it's just a symbol? It's not really there?"

Peter stared at him, taken aback. "A metaphor? Is that what you mean?"

"Yeah--*that's* it." Cole smiled, hands now caressing Peter's shoulders. "A metaphor. I knew you would know." Another kiss, against his temple. "That's sweet, though..."

"What? What's *sweet?*"

"You." The smile became a grin. "You're jealous."

"What the--" Fuck. Stupid fucking actors, in so much goddamned love with themselves...moron. "I'm not *jealous,* for Christ's sake. I just wondered--"

"Yes, you are." Cole kissed the bridge of his nose, a cheekbone, hands still firm on his shoulders. "You *were.* When you thought there was someone who--"

"I am not *jealous.* I am not fucking *jealous,* all *right?*"

"Of a...*metaphor.*" Cole took Peter's lower lip between his teeth, deliberately biting a little. "And it's sweet."

Peter shook his head in disgust, turning away. Let it go...it was late and he clearly wasn't dealing with even a room-temperature IQ. Typical. And what the fuck was he *doing* here, anyway, playing ass-grab with a goddamned *actor?* Out of his mind...

"Peter?"

More kisses, against the side of his face. That little spot behind the ear that Cole had discovered on him, turned to again and again. *That* spot...not quite where the ear met up with the jaw, but a minute degree north of it. Hard to pinpoint. Cole kept finding it, unerringly. It made his muscles tense and his bones melt.

"Peter? C'mon...look at me."

There was a note of anxiety in Cole's voice. Peter swiveled his head back, almost defiantly facing down those eyes. Falcon's eyes. He suddenly thought of his grandfather's ranch; the birds the old man had raised for sportsmen, hunters, the movies. Daniel Dragovich, falcon wrangler. He'd been allowed to help feed them a few times, holding their precious mice out to them with a mixture of pride and utter disgust. His grandfather watching him, ready to step in if they divebombed an eye socket or chomped a finger to the knuckle. They had looked as purely, determinedly anxious for their food as Cole did now.

For *him.*

*Sorry, Riccardi. Very sweet--I know you like sweet--but you lose. Thanks for the fuck, though...'preciate it. Get some sleep, your plane leaves early. Oh, and have a nice life.*

"Peter?"

Cole stared down at him, unconsciously biting his lip. Obviously afraid he'd fucked everything up. Peter *should* be feeling good about that, he knew. Triumphant.

He'd found the old man, lying glassy-eyed and still on the floor of one of the aviaries where he'd fallen. Heart attack. Uncle Lonnie had had to stop him from opening the cages. Releasing all the birds, every one.

*Leaving. Now.*

Peter wove his fingers together at the nape of Cole's neck, drawing the other man closer. Their mouths met, and locked, each breath merging seamlessly into a new kiss. Cole's fingers stroked his chest, pinching a nipple, then wandered downward.

"Can you stay here a little longer?" he whispered.

Peter closed his eyes as his own hands found Cole's buttocks, squeezing hard. His breath was quickening.

"Can you stay?" Cole repeated.

"What are you asking me?" Peter said, his voice calm and quiet in his ears. His own teeth seized the tip of his tongue, holding on for a moment.

Cole was silent for so long that Peter opened his eyes again. Cole reached out and brushed a stray, dark-blond lock from Peter's eyes, mouth quirking a little.

"What am I asking?" "Yeah."

A pause, and another, self-deprecating smile. "*Encore?*"

Peter focused on the sound of the word itself, running it through his mind. *On-korr-ay.* He couldn't say it out loud, his mouth was too busy to allow that. Cole squirmed a little as their tongues caressed, then pressed closer against him.

"What is it?" Cole asked, minutes later.

"What? Nothing." Peter's voice was stifled against the pillow.

"Peter...you're kind of incredibly tense."

"It's *nothing.*" Peter turned his head until his chin nearly touched his shoulder, then gave up; the angle of vision still wasn't what he wanted. "It just...didn't you ever think it was kind of..." He broke off with a curt, embarrassed chortle. "Fucking someone you can't *see.* I didn't think that--I mean, you don't really ever get over how funny that--"

His words were cut off in a startled breath when he felt Cole seize his shoulder; he had barely registered the pain--Midas de Sade touch, *right* on the goddamned scratches--when he found himself suddenly, and with alarming ease, flipped over on his back. Disorienting. He envisioned a roach, one of the large chocolate-brown kind he sometimes found doing calisthenics in his kitchen (he'd have fired the maid, Lupe--a.k.a. Lazy Lupita the Frita Bandita--*long* ago, if not for his sentimental memories of a February night spent with her, her sixteen-year-old cousin, a bottle of Cristal and a specially modified Hoover Upright). A roach. Helpless on his back, legs waving. He'd always had a real admiration for roaches...ugly, bottom-feeding motherfuckers who could tramp right through the Ice Age *and* nuclear winter without losing a minute's sleep. Kind of an Industry paragon, really. He'd said that to Wendy once, who looked at him like he was completely insane.

Cole's hands moved away from the scratches, gripping Peter's forearms; he deliberately pressed his full weight against the smaller man, not letting Peter stretch out his legs. Their groins met and the pure electric jolt of it made Peter flinch, biting his lip to choke back a moan.

Cole smiled, the faintest bit of triumph in his eyes. "Is this better?" he asked.

*Hey, kids, here's Mr. Science with Petey the Rutting Roach! Look at him wave those spindly little legs around...just keep watching, boys and girls. We've got one hell of a biology lesson for you little buggers today.*

Those eyes were searing him. He tried to move but couldn't, pinned as he was with his legs doubled up and back against his chest. He craned his neck forward, and Cole got the hint, lips lingering teasingly against Peter's chin and the corner of his mouth before kissing him in earnest.

*And after Mr. Science, kids, it's Professor Riccardi with our fun Italian vocabulary lesson. Today's word...*

Cole's mouth was at his throat, tongue lapping at the hollows. Peter pushed his head forward, leaning it against Cole's shoulder...it took a little longer this time, but he finally made himself clear. That little spot, not quite where the ear met up with the jaw. The long, rough kiss made it tingle, and finally burn.

*Today's word. On-korr-ay.*

Cole drew a bare fraction back and Peter inched a bit farther down the mattress, the top of his head just brushing the distressed and abandoned pillow. Cole's hands caressed Peter's thighs, still pushed up close to his chest, before spreading them apart.

*The next thing I remember is having my knees in my ears...*

"What?" Cole whispered. "Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing." Peter's teeth grazed the other man's neck. "No reason."

"You sure?"

Peter pressed the balls of his feet against Cole's chest, holding him back a little; extricating his legs, he draped them over Cole's shoulders.

Wendy would be late; hours late. He just *knew* she would be. Call it john's intuition. She just had to be.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, this would all never have happened. So he could do anything he wanted. Ask for anything. He looked right into the ice blue eyes.

"Kiss me again," he said.

"Say please."

*Oh, that's nice. Giving ORDERS now? Giving ORDERS to Peter fucking Dragon?! Shit. We ARE getting a bit above ourselves now, aren't we, princess? Say please, turn ar--say please. Uh-huh. Fuck you.* Rapid-fire through his brain, Peter ran a series of possible replies...not *too* far above Cole's pretty little grade-Z thespian head, but irreparably and devastatingly wounding all the same. He smiled sweetly in preparation. Lull them into a false sense of security...then go for the kill.

And he heard himself say, softly, "Please kiss me again."

He took direction well, Cole did. Maybe he wasn't such a bad actor after all.

*********

INT.--PETER'S OFFICE--DAY

"And then you have a meeting with Corbin Williston at 1:30--"

"Who the fuck is Corbin Williston?"

"Guy from legal. Apparently blowing up Rodeo Drive's gonna leave us open to mucho liability, permits or no permits...public nuisance, reckless endangerment blah blah yadda yadda. Just say we're changing the script and give 'em the usual end-run."

"Thanks for the advice, Stuart, I'd be fucking *nowhere* without you. You think I got where I am without knowing how to bullshit a fucking *lawyer?* Why don't you explain how I should hold my dick when I piss? I could *really* use the help, my bathroom walls look like the snow outside a doghouse..."

Stuart paced before Peter's desk, glancing in some puzzlement from the small slip of paper in his hand to his boss's face and back. Peter was oddly subdued today, not really...ah, well. Not his concern. "And the initial casting meetings for the part of Caleb--"

"Jesus," Peter groaned, rubbing a fretful hand over his forehead. Only ten a.m., and already his temples were throbbing. "Just handle it yourself, all right, Stuart? I don't have the fucking energy to deal with it today."

"Peter--"

"I said, *forget* it. No dice." He stifled a yawn. "What the fuck did you set up casting meetings for, anyway? All of this has to go through Bobby."

Stuart shrugged. "I was trying to be efficient. It wasn't my idea to axe Riccardi."

Peter glowered at him. "And it wasn't *my* idea to option this fucking script in the first place, Stuart, so you wanna keep the PMS to yourself?" Another yawn. "What then?"

"That's it." Stuart crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the trash. "Nothing else."

"Okay. Great. Wonderful." Another fucking fourteen-hour day. Enjoy it while it lasts. When (if) this fucking movie (ever) got off the ground, it'd be eighteen hours at a clip, twenty-four, thirty-six...

Dragon closed his eyes for a moment, and kept them shut for several more. When he opened them, Stuart was standing over him, a look of concern on his face. "*What?*" he demanded irritably.

"Uh...nothing, Peter. You just looked like you were about to fall asleep there for a second--"

"You have that effect on me, Stuart, face it. So what are you gonna do about this casting meeting?"

Stuart ran a hand through his hair. "What I usually do. Tell them you couldn't make it, give them an abbreviated read-through, pick the dozen or so Bobby'd probably most want to fuck and let the gods of the casting couch sort it out."

"With a couple left over for *you,* right, Mr. Efficient? Your sloppy-blowjob seconds?"

Stopping in his tracks, Stuart grimaced a little. Well, he'd left himself open for that one...never mind the fact that it wasn't true. Peter liked to keep you on your toes. Sticks and stones; let him have his bit of fun. He watched the predictable grin start to blossom on Dragon's face, then frowned in puzzlement when Peter suddenly looked down at his desk, the smile dying. One hand ran absently through the blond hair, clutching and letting go. He seemed...pensive. Troubled. Not terms Stuart usually associated with his boss, in any capacity.

"Peter? What is it?"

"Nothing." Dragon stared intently just past Stuart's shoulder, eyes laser-beaming a small bare spot on the art-covered walls. "Keep the nice ponies in Bobby's stable--just as long as *I* don't have to deal with it."

Nodding briskly, Stuart pulled another piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "Okay...uh, while I was at it I put together a list of alternate screenwriters, just in case Adam...just in case. Richard Price and Jerry Stahl are both available--if they don't think they're too good for us because they've got *real books* under their belts." Stuart rolled his eyes. "They'll all be out of print soon enough. Anyway. Kevin Williamson's been hinting around about hopping onto this...don't laugh, he actually *liked* Slow Torture. This Tom Stoppard guy's been doing some interesting work--"

"Stuart--"

"Hell, if we get desperate enough we can just hit the Web. I'm telling you, Peter, you would not *believe* the number of idiots who just throw their stuff out there and think we're gonna hand 'em a five-picture deal. You ever get bored, just type 'aspiring screenwriter' into Yahoo and see what every other housewife in Kansas does in her spare time. We could steal this stuff free and clear without ever--"

"Stuart?" Peter glared blearily at his assistant. "Why the *fuck* are you telling me this?"

Stuart blinked. "Because Adam is--"

"*Adam*--why do you say this stuff like I'm just supposed to *know* it, Stuart? Who the fuck is *Adam?*"

"Adam Rafkin."

"Who?"

"Our screenwriter, Peter. On Beverly Hills Gun Club. Adam Rafkin."

Peter frowned. "Oh. Right." He rested his cheek against a hand curled into a fist. "So why the hell are you wasting time scouting replacements if we've *got* a screenwriter? You need more work that bad, Stuart, I can always--"

"Peter--" Stuart heard his own voice rising in exasperation, and quickly paused to collect himself. "Peter, Adam is in the hospital right now. Remember?"

"So? Who gives a fuck? That's no reason he can't write. Jesus, Truman fucking Capote managed to bang out half a script when he was lying there with a jawful of infected teeth and--"

Stuart put his piece of paper down and rested his hands on Dragon's desk; a most impolitic move, but he needed to get his boss's attention. "Peter? Adam had a stroke a few days ago. The doctor said that he may have had a whole *series* of small strokes, and this is just the first one they caught. He also said that there's some aphasia, which may or may not go away. Meaning, that even *if* Adam gets out of the hospital any time soon, he may not be in a position to write a coherent *grocery list,* much less a screenplay." Stuart drew his hands back. "Do you understand?"

Dragon let out an angry gust of breath and shook his head in disgust--whether at Stuart or Adam or the situation itself was unclear. "Stuart?" He bared his teeth like a dog, grinding them unconsciously. "Just...just take *care* of all this, okay, Stuart? Do your *job.* Okay? Don't keep giving me updates every minute and a half on what's falling apart, just *fix* it so I don't have to hear about it. Now."

Stuart nodded nervously. Peter grabbed a memo from his desk and studied it intently, waving one hand in dismissal: *Go fix. Good boy.* Stuart looked a little closer, and realized the memo was upside down.

"Peter..." He mustered his courage. "Are you all right?"

Dragon looked up, startled, then furrowed his brow at what he was supposedly reading. "What? Great, fine, never better. Your concern is very touching, though." He put the memo back on his desk, fingertips furtively turning it rightside up.

"Okay, uh...just thought I'd ask." He folded the list of writers neatly into fourths, then eighths. "It's just that, you know, Peter, you've just seemed a little...distracted, the last day or two."

"Distracted?"

"Well--"

Peter sighed heavily, the sound of a wise man beset by fools on all sides. "Yeah, Stuart--I'm kind of *distracted.* That couldn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm trying to get a seventy-million-dollar movie made when I have *no* star, *no* script, *no* director and Zamfir, Master of the Pan-Fluting-Obvious for my assistant, now could it? Now, I've got an idea--how about you go out and do what I fucking *asked* you to do, and leave the head exam to someone who doesn't have *his* head up his poor lonely neglected *ass,* okay? You think you can *manage* that?"

Stuart's face reddened. "I'll get right on it, Peter," he promised, making a beeline for the door.

"Uh...Stuart?"

"Hmm?" He paused in the doorway, pivoting on one heel.

"You wanna get me a list of alternate screenwriters I can throw in front of Bobby? Just in case Adam actually goes and kacks on us, I wanna be ready."

Stuart opened his mouth for a second, then quickly closed it again.

"No problem," he said. "I'll have it on your desk this afternoon."

*********

Alone at last; thank God for small mercies. Stuart's mosquito-whine voice could drive Candy Lightner to the Stoli. Peter let his head sink onto the desk, cradling it on one arm, and closed his eyes.

He'd gotten home sometime after four, sneaking out of the soundly sleeping Cole's bed and into the soundly sleeping Wendy's. A hasty sluicing at the bathroom sink--he was too exhausted, and overwhelmed, for an actual shower--and an interminable interval spent staring at the bedroom ceiling, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and Wendy's soft, almost inaudible snoring. He'd barely been able to look her in the eye at breakfast; she'd had to ask him three times in a row to pass the coffeepot, then gave up in exasperation. Everyone seemed to be speaking to him through layers of cotton batting. He was so tired...

And distracted.

It wasn't like he *had* to sneak around on Wendy...they'd both had their little, so to speak, *intervals* with others. Oftentimes in front of each other. Unspoken agreement, civilized adults acknowledging their needs, no fucking around with the pathetic Middle American monogamy fetish (why even bother *leaving* Indiana or Iowa or Idaho if you still wanted to put up with that shit?). Besides, she was a fucking *whore,* for Christ's sake--she could handle it.

And the very *thought* of her, much less anyone else, finding out--no. Shit. There was *nothing* to worry about; Riccardi was gone, history, outta town. Incommunicado somewhere fucking *else,* where he couldn't screw with Peter's movie or his head or his life. Problem solved.

He was never going to see the guy again. Ever.

Sighing heavily, Peter raised his head by levitating the arm it rested on, leaning his elbow on the desk. The sharp edge of a paperweight poked it insistently. He forced his eyes open, studying the office door. Behind it he could hear the faint noises of conversation--a hum of voices, the words themselves lost in a steady murmur of sound. Everyone's voice was sounding like that to him today.

Images floated up from the lower depths of his memory, refusing to disperse. The cold, hard color of the man's eyes; the steady, soft warmth in them when he smiled. A real smile, not a cinematic shit-eater. Fire and ice.

After a moment's hesitation, he pushed the intercom button on his desk. "Stuart? Get in here."

Not two seconds later, Stuart poked his head tentatively through the door. "Yeah, Peter?"

Like a well-trained Labrador, the guy was. It should have been quite gratifying, but Peter felt a sudden surge of irritation. "I need you to find a bookstore near here. Or a library or something. There's something I need to--what? What are you *looking* at me like that for?"

A half-hour later Stuart was back, not trying to hide his bewilderment as he placed a copy of The Complete Poems of Robert Frost on his boss's desk. As the office door closed again, Peter rifled impatiently through the index until he found the right page. Was the razor-wire Peter Dragon memory failing him, or...

No. He'd gotten the poem right. Every line.

They'd all had to memorize it; that one, and "Nothing Gold Can Stay." Fucking state-mandated semester of speech class...everyone traipsing to the front of the room to reel them off, the same two fucking poems over and over again. When his turn came he stood there listening to his own voice degenerate into a mishmash of consonants, his face hot and his tongue a skipping record needle: *Sssss-s-sssome sss-sssay th-th-th-the w-w-w-w-orl-l-ld w-w-will...* The whole room was dying laughing, beautiful tawny-haired tawny-skinned Michelle Wefler so far gone she was leaning against her boyfriend for support. He ignored the teacher's frantic motioning to him to sit down, stammering his way to the finish line with chest-tightening fury as his engine. He got a passing grade out of sheer pity. Fuck Robert Frost.

Tawny-skinned Michelle-ma-belle Wefler, who literally screamed with laughter when he made the mistake of asking her for the time of fucking day; who got the whole cheerleading squad to go into a chorus of dry-heaves every time he passed them in the hallways. The same Michelle Wefler whose mouth-watering ass came strolling in to see DragonFire's new president a fateful twelve years later, hoping--nearly *praying*--that their *deep, profound friendship* in high school would help her finally get a foot in the old Hollywood door. She'd been learning the hard way, Michelle had, that pompons and drill teams didn't amount to shit in the real world. Seeing the sullen, resigned expression in her eyes as she knelt on the carpet of his office and slowly unzipped his fly had been, at that point, *the* honest-to-God triumph of his life...she didn't get the audition he promised her, of course. He made sure of that. Dragon found himself grinning at the memory.

Running his fingers absently across the book's flyleaf, he concentrated all his mental energy on Michelle. Another spot on the wall--which was exactly what she amounted to. Pushing Cole into the back of his mind, *from* his mind, *out* of his mind...

There. Mission accomp--enough. *Out* of his mind.

Out of his mind.

Gritting his teeth, he slammed the book shut and shoved it across his desk.

********

INT.--PETER'S BEDROOM--NIGHT

"Well," Wendy announced, climbing into bed and grabbing the remote, "Adam's in intensive care."

"Adam who?"

"Adam *Rafkin,* the writer. He went a little shocky when I told him about the rewrites."

Whatever...more pussy games from the hired help, quel surprise. Peter was feeling infinitely better; an afternoon nap during the faux-casting session and a raw-throated screaming match with Corbin Williston, Esq. (game, set *and* match to Peter fucking Dragon, as if that weren't written in the stars) had restored a good ninety percent of his equanimity. The other ten would soon be his after a good roll in the hay and...he blinked in surprise to look up and see Cole Riccardi's picture shit-eating-grinning from his TV screen.

"...Entertainment Television got a call today from one of the world's biggest stars, Cole Riccardi, who gave us this exclusive--and if this doesn't knock your socks off, your socks are *way* too tight."

"*What?*" Wendy sat up in bed, avidly anticipating the coming scandal. Peter's stomach lurched for a second, but he kept his cool.

"Turn this up," he commanded. Was the guy going to...well, it hardly made any difference if he outed himself now, he was off Gun Club and everyone knew it. Why not enjoy the flaming car wreck as it happened? The guy was *uniquely* a fucking moron...

Cole sat stiffly in a director's canvasback chair, one hand clutching an untouched frappa-something-or-other as he gazed solemnly into the camera. Wendy leaned forward expectantly.

"...like to take this opportunity on cable television to lighten a load on Cole Riccardi's heart." Riccardi nodded to himself, a small flicker of nervousness lighting in his eyes and quickly vanishing again. "Cole Riccardi, arguably one of the world's biggest stars..." A resolute little smile. "...is gay."

A burst of laughter from the studio--who could blame them?--and Cole looking distinctly annoyed. "*Gay,* yes. It's not funny."

Dragon snickered a little to himself as he watched the spectacle. Well, the guy'd done it--gone, finished, deep-sixed, and he, Peter, wouldn't *ever* have to justify making him DragonFire non grata. *Thank you, Riccardi...thank you, you absolute fucking moron of rare degree. Hope you enjoyed your fifteen minutes, 'cause it's a loooooong way down...*

Medium close-up on Cole, the soft blue of his shirt making his eyes almost azure. "I wasn't going to do this," he confided, "but, uh, a very wonderful...dear friend helped me make my decision."

No. This couldn't...he wasn't...

"This kind, kind soul also shares this same secret..."

Oh, shit. Oh, *fuck.* Oh, *no.*

"Could I see the remote?" Peter asked in a strangled voice, feeling a vise on his chest tighten in rapidfire turns. "Okay? I'd like to watch 'Veronica's Closet'..." Wendy shot him an incredulous glance, clutching the remote possessively. Oh, *shit...*

"My friend."

Oh, *Christ*...no names, no names, no fucking *NAMES*...

A smile of reminisce, Cole's voice growing softer. "My boss."

*Bobby G! That's it, they'll think he's fucking Bobby G! Worst-kept secret in town, fine, GOOD! Just--*

"My lover."

So, *this* is what deer felt like when a Mack truck came a-barreling down their--please God, please *God.* "Could you change--" Wendy was eyefucking the screen, not even listening. Please *GOD*...

"Peter Dragon." Cole's eyes were steady, calm, alight with determination. "Someday, you will thank me for this."

Peter stared straight ahead, frozen, as the headlights washed over him. His head was filled with the futile screeching of brakes.

"*Thank* you?" he repeated aloud, in disbelief.

Wendy shut the TV off. Peter looked down at the bedspread, studying it as though it held the answer to all life's questions.

"*Wow,*" she said thoughtfully, an edge of real amusement in her voice. "Now, is it *just* older guys? Because I have a little brother who'd like to break into show business..."

Peter closed his eyes and pulled the covers over his head.

"Peter?" Wendy leaned over the unmoving lump of blankets. "Relax, for God's sake. It isn't..." The mattress squeaked as she sat fully upright. "Peter, you know, you've been acting really weird for the past few days--at least now I know *why.*"

"Weird?" Filtered through the covers his voice was muffled, defensive. "What do you mean, *weird?*"

"I don't know, just...out of it. Not on the ball. Distracted. Will you come out of there, for God's sake? Stop being childish."

A long pause. "It's not true. And I am *not* distracted."

Wendy sighed in annoyance and grabbed at the covers; one of Peter's hands snaked out, protectively snatching them back. "Peter, will you *please* surface for air so we can talk about this?"

"No! Because there is--there's *nothing* to talk about, okay? It's not true!"

"Well...whatever you say, Peter. Getting hot under there?" She slid her own legs outside the sheets, putting the remote on the nightstand. "It's a beautiful thing, you know, seeing someone you care about fall in love--"

He threw the covers off, glaring into her openly giggling face. "You think this is funny? It's not fucking *funny!*"

"No, sure isn't," Wendy managed, wiping her eyes. "Cole said so--"

"Wendy, for Christ's sake it's all *bullshit!* He made it all *up!* He's pissed off that I axed him from Gun Club and he...it..."

Under her gaze the words died in his throat. *Rules for sound living: Never lend anyone money, never cast a leading lady over thirty and never ever try to lie about sex to a hooker.* As he again gazed down at the bedspread Wendy patted his shoulder, just a little patronizingly. One finger lingered against a fresh series of scratches.

"Peter?" she ventured.

He shook his head stubbornly, not looking up. "He's pissed off about the fucking movie. It isn't *true.*"

"Peter..." Wendy smiled a little. "See, one thing about you, Peter, is...well, you can really be kind of loud in bed." Her hand moved to the back of his neck, massaging lightly. "Or on the couch, as the case may be."

His head shot up. "The couch?" he repeated, his eyes wide. "What are you talking about?"

"The night Cole came over. Remember? You went out to talk to him and--"

"And you *saw* it? You *saw* it all? What, you were just *standing* there and--"

Wendy removed her hand, and smiled. "What exactly *did* I see, Peter?"

Peter stared at her, his gut dropping twenty floors. Wendy was almost beaming in triumph. "You tricked me," he finally said, his voice soft with rage. "You fucking *tricked* me into--"

"Peter? Honest to *God,* relax--"'

"No! No, I don't *wanna* fucking relax because you're playing head games with me! What the hell kind of--"

"Oh, for Christ's *sake.*" Wendy rolled her eyes. "Peter, I didn't *have* to hear anything. What the hell do you *think* I'll think when you spend about an hour getting rid of the guy--"

"Wendy, that is *not* what--"

"--and run into the *shower* when he leaves, and still smell like his goddamned aftershave that he *bathes* in when you come back to bed, and the next morning when I wake you up--"

"Will you fucking *listen* to me? It isn't what--"

"And the next *night,* you get home six hours late, reeking of sex and with a nice new set of fingernail marks *all* over those shoulders--and at breakfast, by God, you seem to be having *distinct* trouble sitting down."

Peter's face burned. "You're out of your--"

"*Distinct* trouble. Poor little virgin." She tap-tapped her fingertips against the scratches, making him wince. "And you thought I wasn't going to notice? Jesus Christ, Peter, give me credit for having *one* working brain cell, okay?"

He couldn't answer. He turned his back on her, curling onto his side and self-consciously pulling the covers over his injured shoulders. Wendy studied him dispassionately for a few moments.

"By the way," she added, "I'm not mad. In case you were all *worried* or something."

Peter craned his neck back around, studying her face. "What do you mean, you're not mad?"

Wendy laughed again, utterly unperturbed. "Peter, this is *Hollywood*--if you haven't at least seriously contemplated bisexuality, you're hopelessly out of the loop." She patted the blankets covering his hip. "Welcome to the dark side."

She had that wise-old-whore look in her eyes, the look that always annoyed him to no end. Like *he* was some kid fresh off the fucking bus from...Christ. God. "Okay, look, you wanna make up these little *fantasies* in your head about where you *think* I was, Wendy, I guess it's a free fucking country and *I* can't stop--where are you going?" he demanded fearfully, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"To get a glass of *water*, okay? Will you calm down?" She folded her arms across her chest, once-overing him with an objective eye. "And please try getting some rest. You need it."

As she tripped down the staircase toward the Evian, Peter burrowed further under the sheets. If he could just stay here, forever, everything would work out just fine...oh, fuck. Oh, *fuck,* he was in trouble. His stomach churned. He needed another Xanax, but that would entail getting up--and he also knew the state he was in, it wouldn't be any help. *Big* fucking trouble.

Maybe the story'd die on the vine. Maybe nobody would be interested in...oh, *Christ.* Like this wouldn't be *the* infotainment six-inch-letter headline of the year, the man Vanity Fair had dubbed "Schwarzenegger with a soul" announcing he was butt-buddies with *the* number-one producer in Hollywood. Fuck...maybe it wouldn't affect *him,* though. Right? Mr. and Mrs. Doublewide Trailer, in their immovable stupidity, didn't know who the fuck *he* was, didn't understand how much more *important* he was than the marionettes on their Cineplex screens...*his* name would probably just drop right out of it. Everywhere.

Except, of course, in the town where it really *mattered* that people knew, and where everyone *would* know, and where tomorrow, mere *hours* from now--oh, God. He was gonna be sick.

Reaching out one arm, he snapped off the light and closed his eyes. Nightmarish scenes danced behind his eyelids, all of them all the more hideous for being utterly plausible--*predictable.* National media coverage--*international* media. Public humiliation. Rack and fucking *ruin.* All of it, *all* of it, because of one little...because of two...because of one small, ongoing series of mistakes. *Not* fair.

Peter slid completely back under the covers, willfully shutting out the world; it'd be in his face soon enough, God knew. It wasn't his movie anymore...he was one of the marionettes now, right up there with a camera lens in his face, klieg lights freezing him like a deer on the highway. He had no idea how it might all unfold. He had no real idea what to expect next.

All he could be completely certain of was that somewhere out there, down in the audience, Sandra Bullock was laughing her ass off.

END