Fire And Ice 2: Strong Sweets

by Valeria

Fandom: Action

Pairing: Peter Dragon/Cole Riccardi

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Characters property of Christopher Thompson Productions. Lines from "The Most of It" and "To Earthward" property of Robert Frost. No copyright infringement intended, and no profit made.

Herein lies Part One of the now novella-length (!) sequel to "Fire and Ice," starting the morning after Cole's E! Television announcement. Like last time, you can throw all that sensitivity training out the window (this is Peter Dragon we're talking about here, after all) and also like last time, enough swearing to make David Mamet blanch. The smut is yet to come--for now, we merely have thick layers of attempted plot and character, plus a little bit of UST. So consider yourself warned. Part Two is in progress, man. Like, right now. Dig.

The financial chicanery in this story is loosely--exceedingly loosely--based on a real-life scandal that almost sank Columbia Pictures back in the late 1970s. You can read all about it in David McClintick's fascinating Indecent Exposure, which narrates the tale in terms even a non-CPA can enjoy.

Holden Van Dorn's witty and incisive comments about homosexuality are adapted from actual remarks made by Mel "Don't Look at My Ass" Gibson in an interview of a few years back. The "spoiled meat" comment is courtesy of Mel's fellow progressive thinker, John Huston. The word "assholerics" was coined by James McManus in his now out-of-print novel Ghost Waves-- as it suited Peter and his universe so well, I couldn't resist stealing it.

It ain't even done yet, but still there's folks to thank. Namely, my invaluable, beyond-the-call-of-duty beta reader Beth Ann (http://www.certando.net/bethann), a.k.a. "Master of Puppets," who hasn't yet given up on seeing some actual sex in this story. Thanks as well to Susan, Dine, Minette and everyone else who sent early feedback on that posted excerpt and told me to keep going. And to the eminent Mr. Frost for his vaguely evocative poetry.

Dedicated to the late Jack Warner, who famously declared that all screenwriters everywhere are nothing but "schmucks with Underwoods"--thus proving that clearly, Adam Rafkin's ancestors also worked in The Industry. God help them.

Your feedback loki@netnitco.net, needless to say, is exceedingly welcome.

Fire And Ice 2: Strong Sweets
by Valeria

EXT.--HOLLYWOOD FARMERS' MARKET--MORNING

"Were you watching?"

"I can't believe--"

"Did you see it?!"

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

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

"What about that thing with Carrie Fisher?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Spill. Now."

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

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

"I resent that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About drug rumors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So.

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

Peter closed his eyes for a second.

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

Because nothing. NOTHING.

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

I long for weight and strength...

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if. Become is. Just like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then...again.

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

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

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

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

Then.

Cole drummed his fingers against the sofa arm.

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

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

********

INT.--BOBBY G'S OFFICE--1:59 PM

His first thought, as his feet sank into the wine-colored flowers of the office's Persian rug, was a silent prayer of thanks that for once Bobby was greeting visitors fully dressed. Say what you would about the man, he was refreshingly, astoundingly uninhibited--full-bore colo-rectals and wang-dang-doodle shaking in front of God, Grandma and the entire Von Trapp family, no fucking problem. Peter could only aspire to be such a free spirit...he took a deep breath as he approached Bobby's desk. The other man sat immobile behind the ocean-liner-sized expanse of teakwood, expression reminiscent of a Roman emperor who'd just dispatched a dozen annoying Nazarenes to the arena; his elbows rested on the pristine desk blotter, chin on the meaty fist of his entwined fingers. The large round eyes never left Peter's face for a second.

"Have a seat, Peter," Bobby said, voice doing a tissue-thin imitation of friendly regard. Trying, and failing, to flash an equally bullshit-encrusted smile, Peter slid into an uninviting mahogany behemoth of a chair and waited for the full-frontal assault. Nothing--Bobby just kept staring. And staring. Silence descended like a blanket of sodden wool; several minutes' worth, or at least that's how it felt. Peter nodded a little, hoping the gesture would prompt actual words...no luck. Shifted back and forth in the chair. Licked his lips a few nervous times. Tapped one foot against the chair leg. Studied the glassy polish of paneling on the opposite wall. Started pulling uncomfortably at his tie--

Cleared his throat. Fine, faggot, you win this round. Congratu-fucking-lations. "Okay, uh...Bobby." He forced a smile; a lighthearted, casual little smile. (Why shouldn't he smile? There was no reason why he shouldn't, no potential PR nightmare looming over DragonFire like the fucking Sword of Demosthenes or whatever the hell you called--)

"Okay. Uh, I think we both know, uh, why you wanted to talk to me today, and, uh, there's not really any reason for you to...it's really not what you're probably thinking, okay?" Throw in a little laugh, and--no, shit, that was supposed to be casual and offhand and instead he had coughed up a nervous fucking chortle, and why the FUCK wouldn't the asshole open his fucking mouth and respond like any other normal--Christ. "It's, uh...okay, I have no idea why Riccardi did this, but I'm guessing he's pissed off about the movie and so he decides to go mincing over to a few reporters and--"

"Did you fuck him?"

Peter blinked. Bobby was a stone statue, eyes sweeping over his president of production like slate-blue searchlights. His bald head was just slightly less shiny than the wood paneling.

"Excuse me?" Peter finally said.

Bobby bent forward a little, chin still resting on his hands. His voice suggested an irritated Special Ed teacher: "Did, you, fuck, him?"

"Bobby, I--for Christ's sake, I just told you that--"

"Let me put it another way. Did he fuck you?"

"I--" Another, better laugh this time, just the right timbre of contemptuous amusement. Good. What the fuck--why not just feed it all back to Bobby, the whole thing, dripping sarcasm? Put one over on the (Lincoln Tunnel-sized) asshole, let him try and figure it all out...yeah. That's right. Yeah, that's right, Bobby, you called it. Uh-huh. He came over to my house, and he sucked my cock and I sucked his, and then I kissed him and tasted my own fucking come in his mouth, how about that, and then I went over to his hotel room and he fucked me up the ass not once but twice and I never in my whole life imagined anything could feel that good and just fucking KISSING him was the most incredible--

Peter stared down at his hands, silently trying to command his face to stop being on fire. No. Upon further reflection, the sarcastic approach was a little beyond Bobby's miserably literalist mind and...oh, fuck. Christ. He raised his head, slowly and reluctantly, and was treated to the predictable sight of Bobby shark-smiling from ear to shining ear. Outgunned by the Anaconda, in about thirty seconds flat. Again.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Peter almost snarled. "The guy's got a bug up his ass about Gun Club and he--"

"Peter."

Bobby's smile was a sunbeam; he was now leaning at a forty-five-degree angle to his own desktop, like some sailor tacking into the wind. Peter swallowed. His fucking ears felt hot.

"The thing is, Peter," the other man began, his voice a sinuous ribbon, "I know you. I wish I didn't, but I do...and one thing I know about you is that you'd hump a syphilitic goat in the middle of Rodeo Drive, on live television, if you thought it'd get a picture made. It's one of the few things I genuinely admire about you. I also know that whatever other native talents Cole Riccardi may possess, finding his dick with both hands and a flashlight isn't among them--in other words, we both know he is too fucking stupid to ever personally manufacture a stunt like this." Bobby straightened up abruptly, the fingers beneath his chin now industriously church-and-steepling. "Given that, I think we both know that he didn't just pull this particular idea out of his ass...and, well, that's where you come in."

He tilted his head like a bird, giving Peter a quizzical glance. "So what exactly happened?"

The knot in Peter's stomach was starting to spark, and glow red. "Bobby? For about the fifth fucking time now, I said that nothing--"

"Peter? Don't insult my intelligence."

"Bobby, you're not listening to anything I--"

A loud, derisive cackle. "Oh, c'mon, Peter...if you're gonna try and throw me off the scent, I think you can do better than this. Now, repeat after me: 'I did not have sexual relations with that man, Mr. Riccardi--' "

"BOBBY, FOR FUCKING CHRIST'S SAKE NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENED SO JUST MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS, ALL RIGHT?! NOTHING HAPPENED! NOTHING!"

Crashing silence. Peter rubbed his forehead violently with one hand, a vain attempt to scour away the fury he felt literally bubbling out of his pores. Oh, Christ, he'd done it now...Bobby pursed his lips thoughtfully, no longer smiling, but wearing an expression of deep, profound satisfaction.

"All right, Peter," he said, after a few moments. "I believe you." He allowed a brief flash of mirth to light up his eyes, vanishing as quickly as it was summoned. "But see, the rest of planet Earth...they don't know your pure and earnest heart half as well as I do, and they might take a little convincing."

He rose abruptly from behind his desk, pacing thoughtfully, hands clasped at the small of his back. "Now, we're on the horns of a dilemma here, I think--if we don't do some sort of damage control, it's going to cause obvious problems. However, if we deny it too vehemently, we get tagged as 'homophobes' "--Bobby enunciated the word with some distaste--"who doth protest too much." He stopped in his tracks, giving Peter a raised-eyebrow glance. "Have you ever noticed that, Peter? The way that when people deny something over and over again at the top of their lungs, they tend to look like they're lying through their teeth?"

Peter smiled sweetly. "Oh, you mean like when people set up incredibly elaborate double lives in order to disguise some pathetic little secret about themselves that the whole entire town already knows? Yeah, you're right, Bobby, that is pretty goddamned sad--"

"Here's our strategy," Bobby cut in, as though no one had spoken. "Matt Damon."

Peter frowned, trying and failing to decipher this sudden non sequitur. An Oscar for screenwriting--like bagging the Pulitzer for best piece of men's room graffiti--and a smug, horsy Pepsodent grin that made Peter want to smack the fucker into next Tuesday (of course, the guy actually deserved an Oscar for pretending he wanted to fuck that slice-o'-skank Minnie Driver, but...). "Bobby, look, he is all wrong for Gun Club, all right? The guy's a mutant J. Crew photo with Mr. Ed's teeth--"

"You aren't listening to me," Bobby snapped. "As usual. I'm not talking about Gun Club, I'm talking about you. Your little problem, remember? Your spin on this is Matt Damon."

Peter ran his fingers impatiently through his hair. "Bobby, no offense but is this a language I don't speak?"

Bobby settled into his chair again, shaking his head rather sadly. "Peter?" he queried gently. "What other actor inevitably seems to get mentioned whenever Matt Damon is interviewed? Every single solitary time?"

A nonplussed snort. "Ben Affleck. His fellow genius. What's the--"

"Exactly. And what activity are Messrs. Damon and Pythias--I mean Affleck--constantly rumored to be doing? Together? With each other? Think, Peter."

Peter felt the muscles in his jaw start to clench.

"They are rumored," he replied, "to be fuck buddies. Rumored."

Bobby allowed the corners of his own mouth to turn upward. "Very good, Peter. And tell me, when this subject rears its ugly little head, what does Mr. Damon do? Does he yell?"

"Okay, Bobby, I get where you're going with this and I really do have a meeting to--"

"Answer me, Peter. Does he yell?"

Ten million more debits, Riccardi. Twenty. Thirty. "No," Peter muttered. "He doesn't."

"Very good. Does he shout?"

"No."

"Excellent." Bobby's grin was a honeycomb, dripping sugared malice. "Does he curse the reporters, and start hollering at the top of his big blond robust lungs that nothing happened?"

"No."

"Perfect. Well then, Peter--what does he do?"

Peter pressed his fingers to one pulsating temple. "Bobby? The schoolteacher routine's cute but it's getting on my last--"

"What does he do, Peter?"

No answer. Peter inched down further in his chair, hands clutching the smooth mahogany arms as one heel sullenly rat-a-tatted the parquet: the classic Guidance Counselor's Office Slouch. Forty million. Fifty. Sixty.

Bobby leaned forward again, interlaced fingers resting prayerfully before him. "I'll tell you what he does, Peter. He just--laughs it off. It's such flattering testimony to their incredibly intense, yet completely and utterly platonic friendship. It's so sweet, the queers wanting a certified hundred-percent het like him in their ranks so badly. It's so silly. It's so inconsequential...do you understand, Peter, or do I need to spell it out some more?"

Laugh it off. My whole fucking LIFE is ruined, you want me to--"Yeah," he answered wearily. "I understand."

"I'm so pleased. In that case, Peter, I suggest you find a tape recorder and rehearse a nice casual, flattered tone of voice for any reporter who starts crawling up your ass--and until then, try your level best to control yourself. Got it?"

"Bobby, there is fucking nothing to control, I keep telling you that--"

"Got it?"

His heel hit the floor with a hollow thud. "Yeah, Bobby. Yes. I got it."

A tight little smile. "Good."

Silence, again. Peter straightened up, shoulder blades just skimming the chair back, waiting for the cue that would spring him from Bluebeard's chamber; he knew enough not to haul ass without imperial invitation. Minutes passed. Bobby just sat there, impassive and utterly indifferent, doing a four-Xanax Roto-Root on Peter's nervous system. Deep breaths, completely calm...don't lose it now, rip Stuart a new asshole later, that's what he's there for... Oh, Christ, Stuart, just champing at the bit to welcome him to the big old fag sisterhood. What'd they give you for that, a deluxe gift pack of poppers? All tied up with a nice pink ribbon and--I will kill you, Riccardi, I will fucking KILL you.

"So," he finally said. "I was thinking of Holden Van Dorn. For Gun Club."

Bobby considered that, then nodded a little. "I'd be very happy with Holden Van Dorn."

I bet you would. "Uh...okay." Peter made a tentative motion to rise from the chair. "I guess that's all that we--"

"Oh, Peter," Bobby interrupted, his tone studiedly casual, "there's something I almost forgot." Eyes surveying his desk, he plucked a piece of paper from atop a small pile and extended it toward Peter. "I received this in the mail this morning. You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, would you?"

Peter reached for the paper, fingertips just grasping the edges, and frowned in confusion as he read. A letter on IRS stationery, informing Robert Gianopolis IV that he owed back taxes plus interest on twenty million dollars unreported 1998 income. Twenty million? Chump change to the cocksucking Daddy Warbucks...Bobby wanted him to be a fucking accountant now? "Why the hell would I know anything about this?" he demanded, handing the letter back.

Bobby shrugged. "Oh, I don't know...I just thought that you might. I don't know why. Not that I haven't been enjoying this immensely, Peter, but shouldn't you be on your way? All those appointments you've got scheduled today..." He waved his fingers in Peter's direction, the motion of someone flicking dust off a tabletop, and began absorbing himself in a memo.

Rising from his chair with as much sangfroid as he could muster, Peter left the room without a backwards glance, gait changing from stroll to stalk the moment he crossed the magic threshold. He did, in fact, have an extremely important appointment to keep; someone out there owed him in a big, big way, and it was time to get out that baseball bat and aim directly for the kneecaps.

********

INT.--THE HOTEL ST. JAMES--AFTERNOON

He had no idea whether the guy was still in his suite or already Lear-jetting to parts unknown, but didn't bother stopping by the front desk to find out. As he impatiently punched the elevator's up button, Peter could swear he felt it, sticking to him like some damp miasmic fog: the nudges, the glances, the stares, the out-and-out snickering. Christ. Everybody, everywhere, suddenly thinking they could screw with Peter fucking Dragon, all because one overbuffed overmoussed skin-bronzed skin-puppet piece of fairy dust thought he could pull a fast one on--"What the fuck are you LOOKING at?!" he yelled.

The hotel maid who had been tentatively approaching Peter's shoulder--hoping to use the shortcut of a non-service elevator--turned and fled with her armful of linens, unpleasant flashbacks involving Guatemalan soldiers dancing in her head. The twin doors finally opened and Peter almost threw himself inside, seething in blessed solitude as each floor softly beeped its way by. Kill, death, torture, blood, pain...the goddamned hallway carpet was muffling his steps to whispers and he was in the mood to stomp on something, someone, right fucking now. Start with a fist slamming into this nice hard wooden door, good, over and fucking over again--

His fist hit the air as the door flew open, Cole Riccardi frowning angrily. "What the hell is--"

The pale blue eyes widened, irritation giving way to surprise, and then delight. Cole smiled and reached out eagerly, grasping the fingers of Peter's other hand in his. "Peter, my God, come in and--"

Peter wrenched his hand free. "You asshole," he snarled.

The smile vanished. "Peter? Okay. Uh, I know we need to talk--"

"Asshole. You fucking piece-of-shit asshole, I swear to fucking God--"

"Peter? Come inside, all right? You can yell at me all you want in here--" Cole stumbled against the doorframe, unceremoniously shoved aside as Peter shot past him and marched into the hotel suite's living room. Standing there dead center with his fists clenched at his sides, Peter didn't turn when he heard a quiet, resigned sigh, the door shutting behind them both and the approach of cautious footsteps.

Fingertips lightly touched his shoulder, sending him almost airborne. "Don't touch me," he commanded, his teeth bared. "Don't you touch me, ever again--you understand?"

"Okay, Peter, okay." Cole held his hands up, a half-hearted don't-shoot gesture. "Just--sit down, all right? Sit down and we'll talk--"

"Stay away from me."

"I am, Peter, I swear. See that chair over there? It's all the way across the room from the sofa, you can sit there and--just calm down. Okay? Please?"

Peter studied the other man, feeling his rage ratchet down one infinitesimal notch. Ill at ease, doubtless scared he'd fucked up (oh, Riccardi, you have no idea)--already, Peter had the clear advantage and the fight hadn't even begun. Save the real vitriol for the later, bloodier rounds...he took the proffered chair, watching Cole seat himself on the long, cream-colored sofa with his hands gripping his knees. "You wanna talk?" Peter demanded. "Fine. Start talking."

Cole nodded, and for a second held the tip of his tongue between his teeth. "Okay. Peter, look, I know you're upset--"

That got a loud snort of derision. "You know. You know nothing, you fucking cretin--"

"Peter, just calm down. This isn't as terrible as--"

"Calm down? I don't wanna fucking calm down, you asshole--you're ruining my life!" Peter was hissing from between clenched teeth, hunched forward like a cat ready to pounce. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me, Riccardi? Do you have any idea how you've fucked with me? I've got a fucking clue for you, you fucking pizza queen--nobody fucks with Peter Dragon like this and comes out of it in one goddamned piece, YOU GOT IT?!"

Shit. Peter'd meant to stay meat-locker-subzero cold for starters, meant to let Cole beg and plead and whine his pathetic I'm-sorries like a cringing poodle puppy and then kick the fucker square in the ribs, metaphorically speaking...instead he was already hoarse from screaming, could feel the blood pounding through his veins. He rubbed his bruised knuckles against the padded chair arm's rough weave, deliberately tormenting the nearly raw skin. Just shut the fuck up and let him grovel--"You got it?!" he demanded. "You GOT it? Or am I asking too much for a fucking actor to understand plain fucking English--"

"Peter--" Cole held up his hand again, the referee at a particularly vicious soccer match. His expression was somewhere between wary and impatient. "I understand. Okay? I do. And I swear to you, Peter, I did not plan any of this--"

"You didn't plan any of this." Peter was almost grinning now, shaking his head in infuriated mirth. "The fuck you didn't. You get a good laugh outta this, Riccardi? Make the big producer look like a fucking moron in front of every single solitary asshole bottom-feeder he's gotta work with day after fucking day--"

Cole was shaking his head now, eyes wide with astonishment. "Peter, no."

"No? Fuck, no--fuck, yes!"

"Peter, listen to me!"

"Fuck you!"

The other man stared up at the ceiling for a long second, eyebrows arching skyward. "Okay, Peter, this isn't going anywhere--"

"Yeah!" Peter let out a crimson-faced bark of laughter. "You finally figured that out, huh? I'm really impressed, Riccardi--it's fucking Flowers for Algernon here! You're really putting those thirty I.Q. points to good use and I told you don't ever fucking touch me again."

Cole, who had taken barely two steps in Peter's direction, halted where he stood. "Peter--" He ran a hand through his hair. "A word in edgewise here--"

"Don't touch me."

"Don't--what the hell am I, Plastic Man? I'm standing in the middle of the fucking room, Peter, and in case you hadn't noticed that means you're out of reach, and if you EVER call me 'pizza queen' or anything like it again you'll be lisping it around the teeth I knock out of your goddamned head, YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

Peter flinched. Cole was flushed scarlet, his own teeth grinding away like little millstones; even from a good fifteen feet away, Peter could feel the man looming over him, his rage making the air between them vibrate. Okay--so the guy had a temper. Regroup, rethink strategy, keeping in mind person with said temper was a head taller and a hell of a lot stronger and with a last name like Riccardi, who knew what kind of well-connected stiletto-happy friends he had...from nelly-Zen to bellowing butch in two-point-five flat. Jesus.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and looked down at his feet. His cut foot was acting up again, scraping painfully against the leather of his shoe; he rubbed the toe of the other shoe against the laces, a surreptitious attempt to loosen the damn thing and ease the pressure. No luck.

Cole took a deep breath, obviously trying to collect himself. Getting enemy to lose it, finally...point to Dragon. Being forced to back down (somewhat), due to imminent life-and-limb danger...point to Riccardi. Throw in that extra point Dragon awarded himself automatically--he was on enemy turf here, Cole had home court advantage--and the away team was still ahead. Good. "You wanted to say something?" Peter prompted.

"Do I have permission to talk now, Peter? Thank you. That's generous." Cole folded his arms, still glaring at Peter. Peter kept his eyes on the carpet. One of Cole's bare feet stretched flat against the cream-and-gold rug, the other had its heel dug in and toes pointed upward; long, narrow, deeply tanned feet, their angles delicate as a pencil drawing's. The hem of one blue-jean leg was fraying, its fading threads dangling like fringe.

The silence lasted so long that Peter finally looked up. Cole's arms were still folded, but his posture had relaxed a little; his expression had softened. Peter leaned back in his chair, studying him. Plain white T-shirt, threadbare jeans--wearing his man-of-the-people costume today, apparently--his dark hair unruly and pale blue eyes heavy with obvious fatigue. Peter felt a sudden flash of sympathy, one he swiftly smothered in its cradle.

"Okay," Cole began. "First of all, Peter, I did not plan any of this--I didn't," he insisted as Peter let out another laugh. "Let me finish. I didn't plan this, it just kind of happened and...and I went with it. All right? And...and I was trying to help you. I honestly was."

Peter considered that one for a long second. "Help me?" he said evenly. He felt himself smiling, the sort of faux-boyish grin he'd give Bobby whenever the latter tried shoving budget cuts or shooting deadlines up his ass. Aren't I charming? Eat my shit and fuck you. "How exactly was this supposed to help me, Cole? Just out of curiosity, y'know."

The other man nodded, apparently not in response to anything said so much as to gather his thoughts. Peter had noticed that before; an odd little habit, not quite at the level of a tic. Just something you remembered. Peter'd seen the guy do it a dozen and some times in read-throughs, first few days of filming...get him nervous enough, and it was like watching one of those head-on-a-spring ceramic dolls people from Arkansas or wherever stuck in the backseats of their cars. Normally that sort of thing would make him want to throttle the offender into permanent immobility, but...

"Look, Peter," Cole replied, "it's like I said the first night we...the other night. My life was hell, and--"

"And that's got what to do with me, Cole? I--"

"Wait a damn second, okay? My life was hell, and I just couldn't stand it. I was--I've been living in a box, all right? And I put myself in there, I know that, but I thought..." Cole put his hands to his head for a second, clutching at his hair. "I don't know what I thought. But I knew I couldn't do this anymore. I mean, for God's sake, I'm forty-four years old--"

That got Peter sitting up straighter. "Forty-four? You're thirty-seven." Pause. "Right?"

Cole smiled ruefully, shrugging a little. "Publicist, Peter...I was saying, I'm forty-four years old, and I've been--thirty years of this bullshit is enough. Okay?" He started pacing, a few steps forward and abruptly back. "And then, you know, I decide to do this, and I--you were the first person I told, Peter. I mean, actually said the words to, okay? And then, you tell me that..." Cole glanced at Peter again, the fading anger in his eyes supplanted by sympathy. "I couldn't just let you keep pretending too, Peter--I know how bad that can get. I know how it--it poisons everything. All right? Everything in your life." He stopped in his tracks. "Someone you have...someone you have real feelings for, you don't just let them stay trapped like that."

Peter considered this for a few moments.

"Cole?" he finally asked. Careful, low-key...God only issues one set of balls per customer. "Do you understand what you've done to me?"

"Peter--"

Deep, cleansing breath. Remember, he's an actor...cause and effect, far beyond the workings of his pretty little bird brain. Spell it out. "Riccardi, see, I'm a producer. I can't do my job unless I can keep people jumping when and how high I tell them to, no questions asked, you understand that? I need--"

Peter sighed in exasperation; why did he actually have to spell this patently obvious shit out? "I need respect to do my job, okay? I need people to be intimidated by me. I need people to be scared shitless of me."

"Peter--"

"But now--thanks to you--people think they've got one over on me. All these miserable pathetic whining little ass-sucking losers who couldn't produce a fart at a fucking bean-eating contest, they now think they've got some fucking secret of mine in their sweaty little palms, and that they can just stand there and laugh at me when I--"

"So tell them to go fuck themselves! What the hell is the--"

"Look, are you trying to miss the whole fucking POINT of what I'm--" Stop. Calm. Regroup. Another of those deep, cleansing breaths, right up through the lungs, goddamned brain-dead actor doesn't...okay, settle for a deep breath, period. He was leaning forward now, elbows poking out like wings, fingers worrying each other--between the door and the chair's cloth he'd torn the fucking skin off his right hand. His foot was killing him.

"Cole." Good. Calm, collected voice. "Okay, uh, this is what I'm getting at here, all right? People think they know this big secret about me now, that they've got one over on me, and--" He broke off, shaking his head in frustration. "Cole, look--I'm not gay. All right?"

Cole shrugged. "Peter, I know you like women too. I mean, that doesn't change how I feel about--"

"No, you're not getting it, Cole, okay?" The laces on his shoe finally gave way, and with a sharp, stifled intake of breath he got his foot free; small bolts of fire shot halfway up his shin. "I didn't say I was bi, I said I'm not gay. I like women, all right? I mean, okay, regardless of...we, the other night, it..."

Firebolts in his face now, to match the foot. Stop. That train of thought is not leaving the station.

"Look, Cole, I don't know what the hell, you know, happened there, but--"

"We had sex," Cole noted matter-of-factly. He sank into the nearest chair, a few feet away from Peter, legs reaching straight out in front of him.

"Yeah, I know that, Cole--I'm not fucking stupid, all right?"

"I didn't mean--"

"Can I fucking finish one sentence here, would that be okay? Cole, look..." Peter ran a hand through his hair. "Everything kind of--I don't know why I did that, all right? I mean, I'm not gay. Okay? I like women. That's it. And, and I'm sure that somebody who--somebody of your, your inclinations might think you were a good-looking guy, but I'm not into that, okay? And..."

Terrific. Eloquent as Helen Keller before Anne Bancroft...Peter couldn't meet the other man's eyes, and concentrated instead on the outstretched bare feet. Feet like a pencil sketch; you could have traced it, actually, a long graceful line from the curve of his neck over one thickly muscled arm, down his hip, his calf, right to the toes of that upward-poised foot. Peter suddenly remembered a high school art class, attempting to draw a still-life while keeping his eyes strictly off the paper itself. There was a name for that little exercise, he couldn't remember it right off the top of his--

"Cole, things just happen sometimes, y'know? People do fucking weird things, and they can't explain it, and--it wasn't because I wanted you or something, okay? Sorry, but that's just the way it is."

There was a long pause. Peter finally raised his head again, and saw Cole staring at him with an unyielding expression.

"Peter?" he said softly. "I've done this before too. It doesn't help."

Peter blinked. "Done what?"

"You know what."

Cole's eyes were steady, and knowing. Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I'm not doing anything," he said irritably. "I'm just being honest with you, Cole--I mean, you want me to be honest. Right?" No answer. "It--Cole, look, whatever you're thinking that's not it, okay? Sorry, but--"

"Peter?" Cole rested his own hands on the arms of his chair, sitting back. "You don't even know what I'm thinking."

Something small and nervous skittered through Peter's gut, and lingered there.

"Fine," Peter said. "What are you thinking?" And if it's good riddance, then fuck you too, asshole.

The other man nodded a little. "Peter...okay, um, the other night, it..." He bit his lip. "I can't speak for you, okay, but I just...it's been a long time since anything felt like that. With anybody." Cole hesitated a second. "And I know that you...it was great, Peter, you were great. But I kind of, uh, I sensed that you--that it's been a while since you were with someone, that way. And maybe...I kind of pushed you too hard and--"

"What're you saying here, Riccardi? You think I can't handle--"

"Peter, let me finish. I think maybe I, uh, came on a little strong and...and that, and the whole thing last night, it got you a little freaked. And that's okay, Peter, it really is--"

"Listen, Riccardi, you can quit flattering yourself, because it takes a hell of a lot more than that to make Peter fucking Dragon lose his--"

"Will you let me FINISH? Jesus!" Cole slammed a fist against the chair arm. "Peter, I understand if you're freaked, and I'm sorry if I pushed you into something you weren't ready for yet but please, do not sit there and tell me with a goddamned straight face that you were just feeling 'fucking weird'! Okay? You made me spell it out, all right?"

"I made--" Peter put a hand to his forehead, a thoroughly inadequate shield against a truly masterful mindfuck. How the hell had this happened? He'd come here clearly holding the upper hand, righteously enraged at what had been done to him and his reputation and his fucking ability to work in this asshole-strewn town, and now this Malibu-Ken twinkletoes was throwing him completely off his game, just by...no, no more fucking points to Riccardi, if he was gonna be put through this shit he was keeping them all for himself--

"Peter?" Cole's voice was gentler now, quieter. "Look at me. Please." Long pause. "Peter, I don't mean to yell at you, okay? It's just that you keep saying these things to me that I know aren't--Jesus, Peter, what did you do to your foot?"

Peter glanced downward, and saw a dark red stain spreading rapidly across his light gray sock; swearing under his breath, he quickly removed his foot from proximity to the carpet. "Nothing."

Cole, his eyes wide, had already risen from his chair. "Let me take a look at that--"

"I said it's nothing, all right?" Oh, fuck, that hurt...Peter tried forcing it back into the shoe, and the jolt of pain make him almost yelp. Too late--Cole was now in a shoe-salesman crouch, clutching Peter's calf in one hand and pulling the ruined sock off with the other. "Cole, will you--get up, all right? I'm not--"

"Christ--look at this." Cole was now cradling his foot in one large, smooth palm; Peter tried jerking his leg away, and Cole's other hand almost instinctively tightened its hold. "Peter, when did this happen?"

What the fuck, the guy had a nursemaid fetish going now? "Cole, it's--this morning, okay? I stepped on a piece of glass, now will you please let go of my goddamned foot?"

Cole looked up in alarm, the clumsily cut, bloodsoaked gauze he'd just peeled from the wound held between two fingers. In the light from the nearby end table's lamp his eyes were glacially blue, their pupils shrunk to pinpoints. "Did you see someone about this? A tetanus shot--"

"It--what do you think, Cole, I was in a fucking alley somewhere? It's clean, all right? I dropped a glass and stepped on one of the pieces, let go of my foot--" He winced out loud as Cole touched a tentative finger to the cut itself, a pained hiss escaping from between his teeth.

"Hang on a second, Peter." Cole abruptly rose and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom; Peter barely had time to unfurl the sticky, abandoned sock before Cole returned bearing a washcloth, a handful of bandages and a small brown bottle. "Give me your foot," he ordered.

"Cole, will you for fuck's sake--"

Cole seized Peter's leg again with little ceremony and, ignoring his attempted kicks, wrapped one arm around it and got to work with the iodine. Peter finally gave up and let the other man swab the side of his foot, watching silently as he briskly wiped away dried blood and applied butterfly bandages with a frown of fixed concentration. From his vantage point Peter could see the top of Cole's head, the thin white line of scalp twisting through a thick thatch of burnished hair; not entirely untouched by time, to be sure, but no out-and-out bald spots (plugs, had to be--forty-four years old, Jesus, didn't completely look it). The arm immobilizing Peter's knee was warm and reassuringly solid, the crook of the elbow soft against the cloth of his trousers...he felt his leg relaxing into the touch, and yanked the muscles taut again like a coachman pulling at the reins.

The iodine stung like salt but his foot felt marginally better, its burning ache reduced from boil to simmer. Cole tilted his head for a moment, examining his work, then looked up. "How's that?"

"Incredible," Peter replied sourly. Cole just kept staring up at him, not rising, not relinquishing hold of his leg. What was this, some kind of game now? Suit yourself, buddy--someone felt the urge to assume humping-dog posture in the presence of Peter Dragon, he sure as hell wasn't gonna tell 'em they were out of line. This was the town for Teflon kneepads, after all...sure, keep that up, Riccardi, stay kneeling, that worked out like I never in my wildest nightmares imagined it would the last time you--

He started a little. Cole's fingers were firmly cradling the back of Peter's calf; the wounded foot rested easily in the palm of his other hand. Christ, all the guy needed now was a glass slipper and--no, he'd already as good as worn one of those today and it wasn't any fucking fun...

"What's so funny?" Cole asked, his voice softer. The warmth from his palm was seeping slowly into the sole of Peter's foot, soothing the gnawing burn. Peter looked down at Cole's fingertips, watching with almost clinical detachment as they stroked the ball of his foot, his toes. The thumb slowly traversed the delicate skin along the edge of the arch, drawing the same long line over and over again.

"What is it?" Cole repeated.

Peter swallowed, and stared, and didn't answer. Cole's other hand was stroking the back of his leg, just below the knee...touching, and retreating, and returning again, leaving a trail of sensation in its wake. The pale blue eyes never left his face.

Contour drawing. That's what you called it, when you kept your hand on the paper and eyes on the subject. What the fuck it was supposed to teach--other than that drawing something blind was a bitch--Peter had no clue, but...

The other night. Afterwards, after that little repeat performance, his legs over Cole's shoulders and heels still pressing into the long, strong expanse of the man's back. He hadn't yet managed to regain his breath when he felt Cole grabbing greedily at one of his ankles, clutching a foot as it slid back toward the mattress; the other man laughed quietly as he kissed the side of Peter's foot, letting his lips travel slowly and wetly from shin to toes and back again. An experimental finger against the sole, searching in vain for ticklish spots. Peter'd kicked at Cole a little--not angrily--and gotten pinned to the mattress for his trouble. The full weight of the man against him, pressing him into instant docility, a heavy blanket of sinew and silk that was like nothing he'd--

He wrenched his leg violently away, nearly hitting Cole square in the jaw. Unfazed, Cole put a hand against the chair to steady himself and rose to his feet, silently observing Peter as he hurriedly pulled the besmirched sock back on, loosened the laces of his shoe. Peter kept his head bent down, now flushed with--anger, with rage, with hate because he'd lost every fucking point he'd had, again, again, and AGAIN, what the fuck is WRONG with you, you fucking DIPSHIT MORON--

"Peter?" Cole said quietly. "I meant it, I'm sorry I caught you off-guard. I know that you...I understand how you feel. I do."

Oh, you understand all right, Riccardi. You understand you THINK you won, so you'll just be so fucking GRACIOUS in your little alleged victory, try and show me up even more-- "Whatever," he said briskly, pulling gingerly at his shoelaces. "Don't worry about it." Good. Calm, offhand, indifferent.

"I didn't mean what I said about knocking your teeth out, I just got pissed off--"v "I said, don't worry about it." He fumbled with the laces, tying a clumsy bow, and froze when he felt Cole's hand on his shoulder.

"Peter, I'm gonna be--Peter? Look at me. Come on." Cole removed the hand, waiting until Peter's eyes finally met his again. "I'm going home tomorrow, the remodeling on my place is pretty much done and--"

"I thought you were going to New York," Peter interrupted. His suit jacket was crumpled; not getting up from the chair, he straightened it with abrupt, impatient gestures.

The other man smiled. "That was your idea, Peter, not mine. Just let me give you my number, we need to talk some more about this--"

"There's nothing to talk about, Cole. You pulled your little stunt, fine, just go ahead and--"

"Peter."

"What?"

No answer. Peter tried glaring at Cole, steadily, poisonously, then settled for a good intense fuck-you stare...all right, just an intense stare. A stare. A look. A glance.

His eyes darted away, concentrating instead on his own hands as they rested in his lap. Cole stood casting a shadow over Peter, close enough that he could almost feel the man's breath against his neck. His face.

"Can I give you my number?" Cole asked again. "Please?"

A long moment passed. Finally, Peter nodded.

There was the slow scritch of a pencil against paper; without looking up, Peter silently accepted the crisp cream-colored note that materialized beneath his nose. Phone number including area code, a Malibu address. Not all that far from Bobby G's Taj Mahal spread, as it happened--world's biggest fucking small town, this town. Had he known that, back in the day, he might never have bothered leaving the genuine sticks...he shoved the paper into his breast pocket and got up with a small grunt of effort, careful to put his weight on his good foot as he half-limped toward the door. Cole didn't follow him.

"Peter," a voice called as he reached for the doorknob. Without thinking, he turned to see Cole still standing by the chair; long, heavily muscled arms drawn across the T-shirted chest, his eyes piercingly light against the bronzed planes of his face. Mr. Clean with hair. And minus the self-satisfied expression--he seemed to be hanging back almost as if for his own protection, shoulders slightly hunched and lips forming a straight, wary line.

"You might still want to see a doctor," Cole said. "About your foot."

Another nod. "Yeah," Peter offered. "Okay."

Too neutral, that tone of voice. Not nearly dismissive enough, not nearly...reaching backwards with one arm, Peter yanked the hotel suite's door open, pointedly turned his back to Cole and exited stage right.

Standing before the teeth-grindingly slow hallway elevator (Monsieur Star could easily have afforded the deluxe suites, the ones whose elevator doors opened into your own private foyer--no, doubtless that would've screwed with the inexorable "uncorrupted by Hollywood" persona, that and throwing away ratty-ass blue jeans), Peter did his level best to assess the situation objectively. Wrongheaded strategy, right from the get-go. It was unfair but true: Up against someone that much bigger, kicking and screaming just made you look like a frustrated toddler. And never mind that he'd somehow, unforgivably, lost his train of thought--went in whirling like the fucking Tasmanian Devil, and ended up slamming his skull smack into a tree. What he should have done was fired Cole's whiny emotional salvos right back in his face; hauled out the sneer, the cold shoulder, the over-the-head riposte (down, for fuck's sake, how many times did you have to fucking punch the down button before--). It wasn't like he hadn't been handed a wealth of ammunition, for Christ's sake. Oh, we need to talk. We've got feelings to discuss--I'm an actor, I fucking lie for a living, but I know all about feelings, I feel for you, Peter, I've got real feelings for you--

The elevator doors must have been standing open for several seconds without his realizing it, for they began sliding closed. Peter lunged for the down button again, scooting hastily through the three-quarter doorspace and trying to ignore the sharp twinge vibrating up his leg nearly to the knee. Fuck--maybe he did need a tetanus shot. If he woke up tomorrow with something football-sized at the end of his ankle, that'd be a good hint...

That hand cradling the back of his knee, touching him where the skin was at its absolute thinnest, the nerves crowding like schools of fish to reach the surface. The trouser leg's fabric had muffled and masked the sensation, the pain in his dangerously bare foot was a thankful distraction...referee awards no points. Game called on account of rain.

The lobby, small mercies, was good as deserted; Peter headed out the hotel's embossed double doors with his head down, making sure any camera lenses that might be gazing back got only a tracking shot of blond hair. As he walked, one hand strayed absently toward his breast pocket, checking periodically for the small slip of cream-colored paper.

********

EXT.--BENWAY CENTER OUTPATIENT CLINIC--MORNING

"I really like this script, Peter," Holden Van Dorn giggled fervently.

Peter smiled back, Mr. Six-Days-Clean-and-Sober's artistic epiphanies filling him with an overpowering sense of satisfaction. Perfect look for Caleb (young, dark, pretty but not-too, the mean-spirited emptiness in his eyes magically distorted by the camera lens into what some horny Premiere bitch had dubbed an "air of smoldering mystery"). Hot enough to carry opening weekend, cooling off enough for a no-back-end deal--and fuck if the kid didn't just love whatshisname's literary fucking masterpiece of a script. It was Shakespeare between cardstock, it was lightning in a bottle, it singlehandedly revived the tired old genre of Beverly Hills militia brats wasting deserving rich assholes right and left before getting blasted to oblivion by the noble young FBI agent who had infiltrated their ranks, sparing only the sadly misled yet still-salvageable token hottie (Holden would have "suggestions" that gutted the whole fucking thing, of course, but that was the hired help's problem). Sign the contracts, wave bye-bye to Detox Mansion, stock up enough Valium and Demerol and Librium to cushion the crash from--whatever the hell the kid was addicted to this month, pay off the insurance carriers and kick this fucker into overdrive...

"I really do like this script, man," Holden repeated, sitting huddled on the marble courtyard bench in a blue-striped robe Peter could smell from three feet away. Matted curls of hair stuck clammily to Holden's forehead; his liquid brown eyes glittered as he paged haphazardly through the screenplay, fingers leaving oily smears. Jesus, the kid was so excited he was trembling--okay, that was probably the siren song of one last chemical cocktail shaking up the kidneys, but it was highly gratifying nonetheless (either that or the kid was Michael J. Foxing on him--enough fistfuls of Ecstasy over enough time could do that, couldn't they?--in which case Peter was going to start shitting Twinkies).

Peter leaned forward a little, doing his best baby-you're-a-star-I-love-ya: eager yet deferential expression, warm ingratiating grin, valiantly feigned indifference to the mephitic funk seeping from his soon-to-be leading man's library-paste skin (a weirdly fishy, metallic B.O. so strong you could almost taste it, a base note that was for all the world like rancid tater-tot grease--Jesus, what the fuck did they feed you in this place?). "Of course you do--it's a great script. And it's perfect for you."

Holden nodded solemnly, gazing down at Gun Club Preliminary Draft #7B as though it were the final existing copy of the Yalta Agreement. "Okay. Okay--what about the twelve steps?"

"I've been through this place twice." Okay, driven by it twice on my way to the ski lodge--close enough. "What step are you on?"

"Two."

"Two?" Shit. Step One, I Am a Laughably Pathetic Fuck-Up...what was Step Two, anyway? Peter'd been hoping the kid had at least started hitting the Higher Power crap (Step Seven? Eight?), DragonFire was more than willing to step in and take godly command of the little shithead's life...oh, fuck, just redouble the insurance budget and get the asshole signed. "Well, let's get that sobriety on the fast track--we'll knock out three through ten in the car and eleven and twelve on the plane, whaddaya say?"

Holden nodded conspiratorially, a wet gleam suffusing the Botticelli eyes and overripe lips; a sticky-looking wet that made Peter think of drool, of snail trails. The kid was radiating the very word "unhealthy"...where the fuck were they gonna put him until shooting started, keep the press off his ass until he actually looked tanned, rested, putting life back together with the help of God's grace and newfound self-esteem? (Fucking asshole goddamned reporters, choking Peter's voicemail, clogging his answering machine, fucking lying in wait in the DragonFire parking lot--what a pure relief to be out here in the middle of sober bumfuck nowhere...)

"Okay," Holden repeated, "cool. When do we leave?"

Peter smiled again: I Love Your Work, I Am Your Friend. "First day of the rest of your life, Holden--no time to start it like now, huh?" Yes, two hail-fellows-well-met they were, two brothers in arms setting off on an inestimably exciting adventure...he rose from the bench and started strolling away, not waiting for Holden. The kid would be along toute suite, he still knew what side his bread was buttered on even if--

"Peter?" Holden called. Peter turned on his heel; Holden sat there, studying him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher.

"What is it?" he asked. Another smile. I Find Everything You're Thinking Fascinating.

Kohl-curve eyebrows rose, suddenly and sharply. "Okay, uh...there's something I gotta know before I, you know, commit to this. Okay?"

Peter returned to the bench, straddling it, rearranging his face to reflect an easy, friendly air of concern. Your Problems Really, Really Matter To Me. "What is it, buddy? Look, whatever it is, we can work around--"

"Okay, uh...look. It's not like I'm prejudiced or anything, but...it isn't true, right? All this shit people are saying?"

No. The middle of sober bumfuck nowhere, the kid couldn't have heard...that couldn't be what he was talking about. Peter didn't flinch. "What isn't?"

Holden ran a hand through his hair, failing to dislodge the tangles. "About you being this big faggot."

Did he flinch that time? Peter wasn't sure. A sudden wave of tense heat traveled lightning-fast from his chest up to the back of his head, gripping the muscles like a fist, then vanishing again. Rehearse a nice casual, flattered tone of voice...

"You're kidding, right?" he laughed. "Come on, Holden--me? How many times have we worked together, for Christ's sake? You ever see me trying to ride your ass? You know me better than that!"

The laugh was forced and he could hear the wobble in his own voice, like some sudden mike-feedback distortion jolt; but Holden was laughing too, the little fucker was snickering like he'd just heard the world's funniest joke. He bought it--Peter could see it in those spit-shiny eyes. Hook, line and sinker...all right, Peter. I believe you.

"I figured!" Holden's face split into a giant smirk of relief, baby-shark teeth exposed and glistening. "I mean, I saw that tape of you and--"

"Yeah," Peter nodded briskly, keeping a smile tacked in place. "Exactly."

"But I had to be sure, y'know?"

"Absolutely." Appreciative nod, understanding little chortle. I Concur With Your Fully Valid Concerns. "Hey, you know the bullshit people like to sling around in this town--"

"Do I ever, man!" Holden shook his head ruefully, eyes rolling moistly in their sockets. "Christ! Like, I mean--me." He leaned confidingly toward Peter, one hand reaching beneath the robe to grab at his dingy T-shirt collar. "Would you believe the number of people who think I'm some kinda addict? Me? Just because I'm here? I mean, shit, you party a little too hard once or twice and all these little fuckin' Puritans start shitting goddamn bricks--"

Peter threw his head back, letting out a long and sincerely appreciative guffaw. The last time Holden had partied "a little too hard," he'd narrowly avoided headlonging his Porsche into a busload of Missouri tourists. At ten in the morning. Not that the odiferous little fucker remembered this, of course, he'd been forehead-to-the-wheel in a heroin-honeymoon trance--though he was in better shape than the fifteen-year-old daughter of Parnassus Pictures's production VP, who'd managed to OD right between his knees. Holden was shit-lucky to be alive, and not because of the tourist bus...

He clapped the younger man briskly on the shoulder. The kid didn't duck or shy away; a good sign he might honestly be buying it. "See? That's exactly what I'm saying, Holden. All these losers who can't control themselves--you don't belong here with them. You need to show 'em that you--are you okay?"

"Fine," Holden replied, between violently chattering teeth. "I just get the shakes sometimes, I think I have low blood sugar or some shit--yeah, you're right. You're right. I need to get out there and fucking work." He grinned at Peter, a gesture that failed to steady his jaw. "Riccardi really left you guys up shit creek, didn't he? Jesus."

Peter shrugged. "Hey, it's the business, right? People run off and do crazy things, you can't--"

"Yeah, well, I've heard stories about him all along, you know what I'm saying?" Holden ran his tongue along the edges of his teeth, a quick swipe of paste-coated pink. "Fag. I mean--" One hand flung itself skyward, a what-can-you-do stab at the air. "Pussy, for Christ's sake. What the fuck is there not to love about that, huh?"

Peter shook his head, eyes glancing momentarily to the heavens. We Are Completely And Totally In Agreement. Keep smiling. "I know...I know."

"Yeah?" Holden braced his palms against the stone bench, rocking twitchily back and forth. "That's like a fucking relief, okay? I mean, you know, not like I didn't believe you--but, like, for a second I'm thinking I can't fucking talk to you anymore--"

Are we still smiling? "Nope, nope--no problem, Holden. You can always talk to me--"

"I mean, shit, I can't turn around anymore without running up against some little faggot or some"--distaste creased his pretty features--"bi-sex-ual. Yeah. I'm bi. Translation, I fuck up the ass just like a fag does." He frowned in thoroughly confused indignation. "What the fuck would any chick want with that? I mean, you actually let a guy fuck you up the ass, you think saying you still like pussy makes it okay? That's it, man...you're like, I dunno, spoiled meat or something at that point--"

"Yeah." Nodding, nodding, bright-eyed smiling love ya ain't that the truth get the fucker SIGNED. "You have a point."

"Fuckin'-ay I do." One chicken-bone leg drummed incessantly, kicking against an invisible reflex hammer. "People get all pissy if you come out and say it, but come on. Right? I mean, it's not rocket science, okay--dicks are for chicks, and assholes are for shitting. How fucking stupid do you have to be not to figure that out?"

Peter's lips pressed together, almost painfully, then parted again. "Right. Got it. I understand, Holden, I heard you the first time--"

Holden cackled gleefully. "Did you see the guy, man? Riccardi? On live fucking television! Shit, they had it on in the common room here--we were all, like, dying. 'Yoo-hoo, everybody!' " His voice skittered up to a shrill falsetto. " 'I love to suck cock and get AIDS! Isn't that thooper? I think I'll just bend over right now and give everybody a little--' "

"Holden, for the FINAL GODDAMNED FUCKING TIME, I get--"

There was a tight, sharp-edged band around his chest, compressing his voice into a snarl. Peter shut up quickly, staring down at his own tightly clenched hands. Holden, though, was instantly contrite.

"Hey, man, I understand. You got Riccardi saying all this shit about you, he bailed on the picture--I mean, it's good that he bailed, Jesus, who's gonna pay money to see that? But it's cool." His mouth turned upward, bright and rubbery as a new eraser. "I'm ready to work, man."

Peter nodded, watching impassively as the pronounced spit bubble clinging to the corner of Holden's mouth burst and a viscous white trail dribbled down his chin. Didn't wipe it off. Probably didn't even sense it. Stay calm and project a friendly, open, utterly accommodating demeanor. My Life Is Inestimably Better Because You Are In It.

"Okay, then," he said softly. "Let's go."

"Cool." Holden swept the edge of his robe around him with a flourish. "I gotta go get dressed--"

"I'll wait."

Peter swung his leg around the bench, jumped up and started marching in the direction of the residential buildings; his new Gun Club star stumbled briefly--having pinioned his thighs in the twists of the robe--then untangled himself and started tracing the other man's rapid footsteps. As he got shoulder-to-shoulder with Peter he flashed an anxious grin, one of those eager, obsequious, we're-friends-now-right? actor-smiles he just had to have learned in some theater class. Without slowing his pace Peter returned the gesture, easily and effortlessly. Do My Movie, Eat Shit, Suck Cock and Go Die, You Drooling Brain-Dead Pants-Shitting Supercilious Little Asshole Junkie Motherfucker.

********

EXT.--COLE'S HOUSE--MORNING

He was feeling good today, downright invigorated despite his now-habitual three hours' sleep. Yesterday's "discussion" had been every bit as bad as he'd feared, but Peter was coming around, slowly, very slowly; Cole could tell. The heated accusations and idiotic epithets ("Pizza queen"? What box had he dragged that one out of?) had died down with surprising speed, replaced by a sort of quiet confusion that was actually almost touching. The poor guy just got, well--overwhelmed, and lashed out. A lot. He'd get over it. Give him a few days, and...well, who knew?

Cole smiled to himself, enjoying the warmth of the midmorning sun against his skin as he drove down the short stretch of private highway leading to his house. Something else to look forward to, moving back in after the long months of remodeling. A childhood in a cramped three-family saltbox with five older sisters had made the very idea of having so much space all to himself, all his own to knock down and rearrange as only he saw fit, whenever he liked, endlessly appealing even after these many years. He'd started taking way too much of this way of life for granted, he knew, but never that. House-proud, he guessed. The smell of fresh paint in any context still made him oddly happy.

When he pulled into the driveway, he saw Dora standing there waiting for him; not her usual habit, even less so that she should almost run toward the approaching car. Cole had barely pulled the key from the ignition when she was right there at the front fender. "Mr. Riccardi--"

"Dora!" He extricated his long legs from behind the steering wheel and gave his housekeeper's shoulders a brief squeeze; she suffered the embrace, then pulled back a little, anxiety creasing her narrow, fine-boned face.

"I tried calling the hotel," she said, "but you'd already left--" He was already at the front door, only half-hearing her. "Mr. Riccardi--"

"I know--reporters all over the place, right?" Cole frowned a little, fingers curled around the doorknob. "I'm sorry for sticking you with all of that, Dora. I didn't--"

"No." She was shaking her head, a hand on his forearm. "It's not that. Mr. Riccardi, there's something that I need to tell you about--"

Cole stood in the front hallway, admiring the newly spacious foyer. He'd been right to have that wall knocked out, even if it cost a little more than he'd meant to spend; and Dora had been right to steer him--none too subtly--to that particular shade of eggshell. Lifeless on the sample page, downright...luminous, on the walls. "They'll get bored soon enough, trust me," he called over his shoulder, striding toward the back of the house. "Give it a month, tops, they'll all find something else to talk about--did you get a look at the whole place, Dora? I gotta see the living room first--"

"Mr. Riccardi!"

She was struggling to keep up with him as he headed for the living room, humming a little to himself. Perfect, everything looked exactly like he'd pictured it in his head, colors, everything...luminous. That was a good word to remember. He rounded a corner, stopping only briefly to nod approval at the downstairs guest room before reaching his destination.

This was his favorite room in the house, the one that had singlehandedly sold him on the place four years ago. Its high ceiling and wide expanses of windows gave the illusion, at the right times of day, of a vastly bigger open-air space flooded by sunlight. The outside wall was a single sheer pane of glass, offering a spectacular display of the beachfront itself and the terraced hills beyond; opposite it was an expanse of pure white--now smelling faintly of new paint--that Cole had always left completely plain. The light itself was decoration enough...

He walked a few steps into the living room, and stopped in his tracks.

There was a seashell's quiet roar in his ears. Over it, he could hear Dora's approaching footsteps.

"I tried to tell you," she said, standing at his shoulder. "I--you had already left."

Cole nodded silently.

Every last pane in the side windows had been methodically broken, leaving an empty and gaping latticework of frames; shattered glass sparkled in the midmorning sunlight, thickly powdering whole expanses of oakwood floor. The glass wall was intact, allowing anyone who entered to instantly read the five-foot-tall message scratched deep into its surface: FAGGOT. The white wall had been given far more ornate redecoration. A solid scrawl, stretching from floor nearly to ceiling, of black Magic Marker and bright red paint...crude human figures crouching like dogs, sucking each other off, squatting and shitting in each other's faces, disembodied cocks erect and coming. AIDS Cures Queers. Save a Kid, Kill a Fag. Leviticus 18:22. Cocksuckers Die. Faggots Burn in Hell. Jesus Will Kill You All.

Cole looked the whole room over again. And again. He turned toward Dora, studying her face; he felt a sudden, quickly fading flash of suspicion, one which left him deeply ashamed.

"How long has this been here?" he asked, his voice calm.

Dora put a hand to her graying auburn hair, fingers skimming the surface of her scalp. "Everything was fine when I left last night. I got here an hour ago and--I found this." She surveyed the room, craning her long neck. "I didn't touch anything. I needed to speak to you, I wasn't sure if you'd want me to call the police or have this kept quiet or--" She broke off, biting her lip. "Mr. Riccardi, I have told you and told you that you need to get a better security system."

Cole stared at the glass wall, feeling something hot and acidic crawl through him like a slow snake. They'd misspelled their little message, put two T's at the end of...no. That looked like it was meant to be a cross. Yes, Dora had told him, more than once; waged a ceaseless campaign, after one particularly unhinged female fan had managed to scale the main fence and get past the electronic sensors to pound incessantly on his front door, in the middle of the night. Once she'd made it as far as an upstairs bedroom before she was caught. She needed to speak to him, to be with him--it was her right, the right of a woman who'd finally found her long-lost father. Wrong on so many counts, Dora had commented wryly, gripping the sixty-year-old interloper's forearms firmly as she frog-marched her from the house.

"No," he finally said. "No police."

"Mr. Riccardi--"

His head was hurting. Somehow, he knew aspirin wouldn't help. This was his room, his house, it... "I've already got enough reporters crawling over this place. Forget it. Are any of the other--"

Dora shook her head. "I checked everywhere. This is the only room they touched. I don't think they took anything, but...you'll have to make sure of that yourself."

How many hours had it taken to cover that entire wall? A lovingly detailed mural of filth--it had to be the work of more than one person. Or one very angry, very determined person, with a whole long night on his hands.

Someone who knew this was his favorite room.

Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, Cole stared at the floor, trying to make a mental list. Anyone he'd brought back here in the past few months, the past few years (a short list, so few and he had been so careful), anyone he'd actually talked to about anything that mattered instead of just getting down to...no. One (or more) of the dozens of workmen who'd tramped in and out of here the past six months--far likelier suspects. Right? Maybe it was just a coincidence. This room. His room.

"Mr. Riccardi, we have to call the police."

"I said no," he replied, his voice sharper than he intended. "Call Frank." Frank, the "personal security representative" he'd been assigned back when those useless sensors had been put in. "Tell him we've got a big problem here. Then I guess we need to get the damn paint guys back in here, and somebody to replace all the windows, and--"

Dora was shaking her head violently. "Mr. Riccardi, you need to file a report. You need to tell the police someone is after you--"

"Nobody's after me, for Christ's sake." Cole pointedly turned his back on the living room and started back down the hall. "Some idiot broke in here and got his jollies messing up my house--fine. Easy to fix that."

From the corner of one eye he saw Dora open her mouth to argue with him, then close it again, her expression unreadable; a sure sign of anger, though whether with him or the vandal(s), or both, was an open question. She had never taken well to having her advice disregarded, dismissed. Too bad. Cole reached for the phone sitting on a side table, punching in the security company's number himself; voicemail, of course. Paying Christ knew how much to these idiots and the system didn't work, couldn't get a human on the line...he hung up, gritting his teeth.

"What are those tabloids paying now, if you send them stuff like this?" he demanded. "Five hundred bucks a story or something like that, right? For anonymous tips?"

"I wouldn't know, Mr. Riccardi," Dora replied stiffly.

"Whatever it is, call the painters and the glass people, and offer them however much more than that will keep them quiet." He pressed the base of one hand to his temple. "Please."

She sighed a little under her breath, and nodded as she reached for the phone.

As Cole walked away he could hear the low murmur of her voice behind him; always even, always soft no matter whom she spoke to or what she had to say. It was a comfort, in its own distant way.

A random idiot, pissing on something of his just to say they'd done it...one of the established hazards of the life he'd freely chosen. That was all it was. He was not going to blow it up into something bigger than that.

Wandering aimlessly into the downstairs guest room, he sank down on a couch and sighed as he stretched his legs out in front of him. The light was hurting his eyes; he closed them hard, letting his head loll backwards onto the cushions. He needed to unpack, needed to check for damage or theft Dora hadn't caught, needed to figure out what he was going to do about the living room and Peter and the security company and the IRS and the reporters still clogging his answering machine and the whole rest of his life. Right now, though, he just felt very tired.

********

INT.--DRAGONFIRE FILMS--AFTERNOON

Home again home again, jiggety fucking jig. Mission accomplished. Holden sprung. Necessary paperwork signed (in the car), notarized (on the plane), faxed to Stuart (car again), Señor Speedball himself temporarily ensconced in a roach motel out on Highway 2. The kid was always blithering in interviews about his gritty anti-Hollywood boho dark side; matted orange shag carpeting and mouse turds in every nook and cranny should make his soul sing. Said motel's suitably awestruck manager entrusted--for far less than Peter'd been bracing himself to pay--with Holden's care, feeding and methadone supply until more suitable digs could be dug up.

The kid was already nodding off (or on the nod, who fucking cared) on the piss-stained goldenrod bedspread by the time Peter left. Bye-bye, baby, don't deep-throat your own puke before you help save my fucking career...sweet Christ, even for an actor, a uniquely pestilent little piece of apeshit (the smell in the car--the metallic tater-tot B.O. funk penetrating the defenseless upholstery, Lonnie taking frantic whiffs off a gas-station pine-tree air freshener he'd plastered to his nose). Free at last--until the goddamned fucking movie, the twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day of placating and wheedling and conciliating and killing himself trying to play nice with that walking waste of jism--God, he needed a hit, a no-question box-office hit, just one more fucking hit to wipe Slow Torture and another too-recent fiasco out of all those miserable jealous conniving little minds...

Striding past the reception desk--noting, and ignoring, Stuart's frantic hand-waving in his direction--he headed straight for the sanctuary of his office and slammed the door behind him. Some sanctuary: Wendy bolted from the wide leather couch and to her feet the minute he stepped inside, nearly tumbling off her electric-blue fuck-me slingbacks. "Peter--"

"Well, I got him outta there." Peter wandered over to his desk, examining the pile of phone slips snowdrifting his chair with a sour expression. More media shit, more Riccardi fallout, a never-ending cavalcade of--he tossed a fistful of slips in the trash without even looking them over. No time for this. "Took about four hours longer than it should have to get to get the fucking doctor's authorization, but--"

"Peter--" Wendy thrust her hands into her pockets, looking wary. "Look, there's something important I have to tell you."

"So? Tell it." He grabbed the new Variety off the coffee table. DragonFire Producer Declines Comment On--fuck. He hastily thumbed ahead. "Medical authorization...you wanna explain that shit to me? I mean, you go to some spa to get a lousy high colonic, and if there's a guy on the staff with M.D. after his name they suddenly own your whole ass? Jesus Christ, I had to practically promise Dr. Giggles my suite at Pebble Beach before he--"

"Peter."

Her voice had an urgent edge that made him look up from his paper. "What?" he said irritably. "What is it?"

She studied her feet for a moment. "Peter, I really think you should sit down for this."

Peter frowned. Whatever other failings she might have, Wendy wasn't prone to amateur theatrics. Which meant... "Something happened to Georgia."

"No."

"That fucking stuntman's family rejected the wrongful-death settlement. Talk about your greedy goddamned--"

"No."

"David Geffen just sent me a dozen roses."

"No."

"Then I'll stand. What is it?"

Wendy bit her lip intently. "Okay. Uh...the hospital called this morning, while you were away? And apparently...Peter, last night Adam apparently, uh, took a turn for--" She let out a loud sigh. "Oh, hell. Adam's dead, Peter."

Peter stared at her. Wide, bottle-green eyes stared back, unnerved but unyielding. Silence filled the room.

"Who?" he finally asked.

Wendy closed her eyes for a brief moment. "Adam Rafkin, Peter," she said quietly.

"Who?"

"Our writer. On Beverly Hills Gun Club? Adam Rafkin?"

"Oh. Right." Peter frowned, the forgotten Variety creasing beneath his fingers as he tried to process this non sequitur. "He's dead?"

"Yep."

"Oh." The frown deepened. "So what's the problem?"

Wendy took a long, deep breath, the air whinnying through her nostrils. "Peter? Do I actually have to stand here and explain why the sudden and unexpected death of the person writing our screenplay is something that we should--"

"Wendy, he was a fucking writer--for Christ's sake, you just answered your own question!" Rubbing a hand against his forehead, Peter tossed the Variety aside and threw himself into his desk chair. "You know how many whining, pretentious, ass-sucking little English majors come to this town thinking that knowing how to string two syllables together is somehow gonna make them famous? You ever been able to order a drink in this town without the waiter shoving a spec script down your throat? We need a replacement for Rafkin? Go outside and throw a rock--I guarantee you'll nail one between the eyes!"

"Uh-huh." She nodded, a tight little smile blossoming on her face. "So I guess this means you won't be helping me find a new screenwriter?"

Casting an incredulous eye on his vice-president of production-cum-whore, Peter swung his feet up onto the desk, kicking aside a teetering pile of unread memos. It collapsed softly, like some paper soufflé, and began drifting slowly to the carpet. "Wendy, I've got work to do, okay? I--I mean, have you listened to anything I've said? I've got Holden shooting up roach spray at Motel Hell, his goddamned rehab counselor"--he spat out the phrase with a scornful chuckle--"is fucking threatening to sue me if you can believe it, we've got no co-star, we've got no director, Bobby G's riding my ass, the entire fucking world is up my ass, and you want me to drop everything and go running after a bunch of shitheads with laptops to beg them to do what any trained chimp could manage to--"

"Okay, Peter, okay. Fine. I'll do it myself. All right?" Wendy pulled one high heel off, perching on her right foot as she massaged her toes. "I'll find another guy. You won't have to lift a finger. Just don't come screaming to me when you can't stand his rewrites and--"

"This is not fucking rocket science, Wendy." With a practiced flick of his fingers, Peter sent a Mark Cross pen spinning across the desktop. "Okay? Throw rock, hit chimp, drag back here, done. I'm good as certain you can handle it--now Stuart, he'd fuck it up for sure, he got us stuck with whatshisname in the first place, but you I can count on." He flashed a not entirely sarcastic smile. "All right?"

Wendy mirrored his smile, slowly and deliberately, still balancing on one stockinged sole. "That was beautiful, Peter," she responded. "I'm very moved. In fact, I'm so moved, I'd better go sit somewhere for a while to recover--oh, I know! I can go sit in a meeting! You know, that meeting with the legal people that you refuse to just grit your teeth and go to, even though we can't start shooting anything until they finalize our permits, which is kind of academic since you still haven't even tried to find a director--"

Peter's smile grew wider. "Wendy? Where did I just say I've been all morning? If you think it was fun watching that little piece of shit circle the bowl for five goddamned hours, maybe next time you can go scampering off into the desert to play nanny to--"

She shook her head forcefully, waving an arm at his face like an epileptic traffic cop. "Okay. Okay. I take it all back, you've been doing all the work, I'm asking way too much for you to show a little gratitude when I--"

"Gratitude! Since when do I have to be grateful that someone does their fucking job around here?"

"You don't. Okay? Forget it." Shoving her foot back into the abandoned shoe, she grabbed her sequined handbag from the couch and slung it over her shoulder. "Look, I gotta go. I'm already a half-hour late for this damn meeting, I was waiting for you to get here so you could hear about Adam from me and not--" She shook her head. "Never mind. I'll see if I can start scouting out replacements before I leave."

Peter frowned sharply, drawing his feet back off the desktop. "Leave? What are you talking about?"

"This weekend, Peter. I'm going away for the weekend, remember?" She put a hand to her hip, regarding him with impatience. "I told you this at least a week and a half ago--"

"Since when?" He sat up straighter in his chair. "You never said--"

Another sigh of annoyance. "Yes, Peter, I did...you just didn't listen. As usual. Today's Thursday. I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon. I'll be back Sunday night. Okay? That ring any bells?"

Peter scoured his memory, and came up blank. Whatever...she was clearly pissed at him, God knew why (as if it were his fault Barton Fink burst an artery) and could use some cooling off. He nodded. "Okay, well--fine. This weekend." He picked up the pen again, tapping the desk. "By yourself?"

Wendy hesitated a second. "Well...as it happens, no." She glanced down at the carpet. "Since you asked."

"Anyone I know?"

Wendy bit her lip, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Peter, I thought we sort of agreed never to interrogate each other about--"

"I'm not interrogating you, Wendy--Jesus." Peter laughed, not quite casually. "Am I allowed to be curious? That's all it is, okay, I'm not saying it matters whoever he--"

"She." A pause. "Since you asked."

"Really."

The sheer avidity in his voice made Wendy roll her eyes. "Her name is Lisa and she works in the accounting department here and no, this time you can't watch. Okay? Can I go to my meeting now?"

"Who's stopping you?" Peter shrugged. He couldn't quite keep the little grin off his face. "Have a lovely time."

Wendy smiled blandly. "Sitting around a conference table for three hours with half a dozen attorneys? Yeah, that's an experience I'll always treasure...beats working the ABA conventions, I guess. See you tonight."

She strolled from the office without another word. Not five seconds later there was a hesitant scratching at the door, as though some mouse were trying to burrow inside, and Stuart poked his head past the threshold. "Peter--"

Peter brandished the pen like a toy soldier's sword. "Stuart? If you're here to present me with my fairy wings, get out now before I drop-kick you through the window."

Stuart cautiously approached Peter's desk, clutching a piece of paper. "Uh, actually, Peter, this is kind of business-related--I mean, it's not technically business-related, I guess, but I thought--"

Goddamned cringing nervous-nancy piece of...Peter grabbed the paper, scanning it impatiently. A creased and smudged IRS notice, informing Stuart Glazer he owed back taxes plus interest on six hundred thousand dollars in unreported income for 1998. Please contact your local IRS representative, refer any and all questions to-- "Stuart, what the fuck does this have to do with me?" he demanded. "Or with anything? This better not be some kind of hint for a raise, I've had too shitty a day to put up with your whining about--"

"Peter--" Stuart's voice dropped to a pained whisper. "I'm being audited."

Peter made an impatient prompting motion with his free hand. "And I care because...?"

"Well, I--Peter, it's just that I know this is some kind of mistake, this is almost three times what I made last year and I figured maybe you could--"

"Stuart?" Peter smiled sweetly, then crumpled the notice into a compact little ball and placed it delicately in his assistant's palm. "I have work to do."

Stuart's face suffered a series of rapid-fire contortions, then subsided again. He nodded, and began smoothing out the ruined notice without looking at it. "Sorry to bother you, Peter," he said mechanically, heading for the door before he could be ordered out.

"You wanna cry on somebody's shoulder, try Bobby G," Peter called out, fingers Morse-coding the desk blotter. "He got one of those too."

The other man turned, looking highly surprised. "He did?"

"Yep." Peter shrugged, entirely disinterested. He picked up the paper again, flipping airily through the pages as he spoke. Bank Fraud Investigation Widens After--so what the fuck else was new? And what the hell did it have to do with studio contracts or box-office returns or...Jesus, do your job, Variety. "He showed it to me, like there's anything I can do. And whatshername, that secretary with the...Gina? She was bitching about some IRS thing yesterday morning--" One hand sliced at the air in exasperation. "You know, God forbid anyone around here worries about penny-ante shit like getting goddamned movies made, so all you little whiners can come running up to the trough and suck it all down the minute the work's done, and then start squealing that your taxes are too high--I mean, is it just me, or am I DragonFire's fucking Little Red Hen all of a sudden?"

Stuart was frowning distantly, looking lost in his own thoughts. His expression was that of a soldier trying to decipher some cryptic, urgent telegraph from the front.

"Of course, Peter," he replied absently. "You're absolutely right."

********

INT.--COLE'S HOUSE--NEXT EVENING

The place was cleaner, anyway. The powdered-sugar glass was swept off the floor, empty frames tacked with plastic sheeting, scratched-in epithets covered with brown paper, ruined wall veiled in long dirty-white dropcloths emitting the faint scent of turpentine. It'd have to do--however long wrecking the living room had actually taken, it was a fraction of the eternity that fixing it would clearly require. The glazier was waitlisted, replacement glass was on backorder and get all that graffiti painted over in one damn day? Forget it, buddy--whaddaya think, you wave a wand and the primer coat just applies itself? You know how many gallons of Endangered Ivory you need to cover a wall this size, for Christ's sake? Now, for perfectly reasonable triple-overtime rates...

Jesus. Had to give the painting crew credit, though--didn't blink an eye when Cole ushered them in and showed them what they'd be brushstroking. A few exchanged glances, then one shook his head and declared to nobody in particular, That permanent marker's always a bitch to cover up. Straight to work, not a blink of an eye. Now, that was professionalism.

Either that, or they knew exactly what they'd be finding when they walked through the door.

Cole shook his head impatiently, dismissing his own thoughts. He stood with folded arms in the middle of the living room, eyes surveying the damage and the tentative repairs over and over again. There was a brisk night breeze coming in off the Pacific, rattling faintly against the window sheeting; the salt smell of it, sneaking in from behind the gaps in the thin plastic, mingled with the air conditioning and made the latter seem stale and sour in comparison. He should actually open a few windows. Upstairs, where someone couldn't come along and--

He was not going to make a production out of this, no matter what Dora had to say about it. Somebody fucked with him, he was getting it fixed, end of story. People's homes got broken into all the time, famous or not. The world didn't love people like him--fine, he already knew that. He wasn't going to run screaming to the police about a few broken windows.

His house. Fine, he'd made the unavoidable bargain when he went into this business, the public owned a pound of flesh and could grab for it whenever they liked--but this was supposed to be his place, his refuge, the one free-standing part of him that nobody could touch. He'd never understood his working colleagues who actually invited television crews into their homes, showing the whole damn planet what they owned and where they kept it, exhibiting like museums...that was just bare-bones wrong. A home was supposed to be about quiet, rest, keeping the world out.

Inviting the world in. The world inviting itself in. It wasn't right. It was insane to destroy something just to show that you could. Insane to reach out and claim any kind of ownership over someone else's home, the right to enter it, the right to ruin it because what you really wanted to do was hurt the person who--

Cole turned abruptly away from the windows, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he wandered from the room. Hadn't accomplished anything today besides staring at the walls--he needed to call his accountant about this tax thing and try and calm his (soon-to-be-ex-) agent down and...the phone on the hallway side table, he suddenly realized, had been ringing insistently for God knew how long. He marched over and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, faggot."

He bit his tongue for a moment, not answering, which seemed to gratify his caller. "Nice night--you enjoying it? Kind of cool out. I hope you don't get a chill, what with all those broken windows--"

The voice was relaxed and cheery, about as sinister as a soap commercial and just as undistinguished. "Who is this?" Cole demanded, then rolled his eyes at his own words. Oh, sorry, Mr. Riccardi--I thought you recognized my voice. I'm Marty Johnston of 1805 Cielo Drive, I'm the guy who broke into your house last night...

"Must've been pretty upsetting for you, huh? Coming home from Suite 1637 at the Hotel St. James where you've lived for the last eighty-seven days to find that waiting for you? I mean, I know how big you people are on interior decorating."

The snake was back again, twisting and slithering inside him at a nauseating speed. Hang up the phone, right now. "Who are you?"

"You know, every time I turn around there's some ass-licking cocksucker like you in my face, on my TV, telling me I gotta give 'em this, give 'em that--you know what? I don't have to give you jack shit. How about"--the voice was skittering up higher, verging on shrill, but still almost insanely cheerful--"how about you start obeying God's fucking LAWS and then maybe we'll have something to talk about, okay? How's that fucking sound?"

Hang up the phone, hang... "Who the fuck are you?" he shouted. "You wanna talk so bad, buddy, try backing it up with--"

"You're dead. You and all your faggot friends." Click.

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, listening to the dial tone's nasal buzz; his hand reached out all by itself to slam the receiver into its cradle, then did it again for good measure. Eyes squeezing shut, he pressed the fingers of one hand to his forehead, trying to will the heat rushing through his skin--and gut, and nerves--to subside. That was not a death threat, you and all your friends might be a wish but it wasn't any sort of--goddamned cheerful asshole, fucking with my house and my head and--

The phone rang again.

Don't answer it. All part the little game this guy was--"What do you want now?" he almost snarled through clenched teeth.

"You know something? We're getting fucking sick and tired of this."

Cole frowned. Another voice, a good octave lower and incongruously petulant. What the hell was going on here? "You're sick of it?" he demanded. "I'm the one who's getting screwed with here and--"

A very nasal laugh. "Oh, you're getting screwed now? That is decidedly rich. Look, you can tell your boss that we're sick of playing games. We want some reciprocity on this little deal, and we want it right now, you understand?"

Deal? His boss? What the...? "Look, what are you talking about?"

"Don't play stupid, okay? You tell him to pull himself off Jorge the Cabana Boy and--shit, you know what? Get him on the phone, right now. He doesn't fucking listen to anything that--"

Cole grabbed at a hank of hair with his free hand, pulling hard. Deep breaths, calm down, hang up... "Look," he said, each word a bullet, "there isn't anyone here to put on the phone. There's just me, and no bosses, and no cabana boys, and I don't know what the hell this deal is you're talking about so just speak English, okay?!"

There was a long pause at the other end. "Is this Leonard?" the voice finally asked.

Okay, this settled it--he was high on the paint fumes and this phone call wasn't even taking place. "No," he said, smiling brightly without realizing it. "This is not Leonard. I don't even know a Leonard, all right? And even if I did I wouldn't tell him that you--"

"Uh...is this 847-1875?" The voice sounded suddenly and inexplicably panicked.

Oh, Jesus Christ. "No, it's one-eight-five-seven. You've got the wrong damn--"

Click.

Cole stared into the receiver for a moment, then replaced it more gently than before and headed for the front room. That was...strange. Above and beyond the whole cabana boy thing. He really should just turn the damn phone off, he was in no mood to deal with psychos who'd somehow gotten his private number (Frank? You're my security guy, I pay you to deal with--), or with whatever the hell had just hung up on him. And it wasn't like he was waiting around for anyone to--

Okay, fine. So he was hoping for someone, for a certain person, to maybe call him. Maybe. So what? He could look forward to hearing from someone, that wasn't a sin, it didn't make him some kind of...

Teenage girl, sitting around waiting to hear from the football captain. No, this was different. It was just that he couldn't adopt the obvious solution and call himself, it would get Peter upset again and they'd be back at square one--what the hell was the guy so upset about? Fine, Peter wasn't thrilled at being front-page news but for Christ's sake, it would go away in a few weeks--and Jesus, it wasn't like Cole was stalking him or something, hitting on him after he'd said no. He'd said yes. Many times. Cole'd been there to hear it. It had been...

He was getting a little tired of this.

What's the matter? a voice asked. A teenage boy's voice, full of mocking bravado; the fragment of a decades-old memory, once utterly cherished and now nearly forgotten. You scared or something, Nicky?

Speaking of football captains.

Quit calling me that. You kiss me first. Then I'll--

What? You'll what? Bet you won't. You're all talk...

Hated this, these dumbass games of phone chicken. These dumbass you-first contests. Always had to judge the right moment, the right way to word things, couldn't just come out and say what you wanted to or--Will you just CALL already, Peter? What is the damn problem?

He threw himself into an overstuffed mint-colored chair, extracting a magazine from between the arm and the seat cushion and flipping through it without interest. Gwyneth, Nicole, Angelina, Cameron, Ludmilla...that was something else he'd noticed these past few years, his full-lipped, skinny-hipped, vacant-eyed "leading" ladies getting younger and younger and younger. Hell, Peter had said it--he was fake-gnawing on the breasts of girls who now reminded him uncomfortably of his nieces. Nephews, some of them, so thin lately they barely had any breasts left to gnaw...that's how he knew he was getting old, he could distinctly remember a time when the actresses were, well, fleshy. Not puppet heads on sticks, prematurely chicken-necked from not enough weight and when you considered the camera added fifteen pounds...

Cole tossed the magazine onto the coffee table, resting his elbows on the chair's pleasantly worn arms; his forehead leaned against his hands, their fingertips pressed together in an inverted V. Two hours. The night was still (relatively) young, he'd give Peter a little more time. Say, the rest of tonight. He'd call tomorrow if he got nothing. Since he couldn't just call right now, for God's sake, and quit playing chicken.

Even though, apparently, he also couldn't even answer his own fucking phone without...

He stretched his legs out and wriggled into a more comfortable position in the chair, the cushions molding exactly the right way against his back. He'd owned this flea-market remnant for how long now, eighteen years? Next to all the new furniture, it looked not motheaten but pleasingly antique.

He'd known the risks he was taking, saying something like that on national television. Whining about it now wasn't going to change anything. Sticks, stones.

Crashing through his windows. His house.

********

INT.--PETER'S HOUSE--THAT EVENING

Solitude, pure sweet untrammeled solitude: a haven, a refuge, a fucking relief. He'd unplugged the phone, filled a plate with leftovers, camped out on the wide leather couch with the trades and the new Playboy and the new Ovitz bio (about as "tell-all" as an official Disney press release--shit, after all the first-rate stomach-turning eighty-percent-true dirt Peter had spilled in three separate interviews, he wasn't even quoted by name, trust a fucking writer to always overlook the really good stuff), and now lay sprawled with his injured foot propped on a pile of cushions, nursing a longneck and leafing indignantly through Chapter Six: "The Scourge of the New Hollywood."

The New Hollywood--Jesus. He shook his head in disbelief. Meet the new Hollywood, same as the old Hollywood-- if the bitch would bother doing about five minutes of research, she'd quit her mama-hen cluck-clucking over the new unprecedented Industry assholerics and write something fucking worth reading. Sam Goldwyn and Jack Warner and Louie Mayer and all the rest of 'em made Ovitz look like the amateur prick that he was, and their movies actually came in on time and under budget and they had the actors and writers under their fucking thumbs where they belonged--and were they not kicking screaming lifetime-achiever titan assholes to a man (and yes, emphasis on man, though nowadays you were supposed to pretend that made no fucking difference)? No, we need sensitive Hollywood types, pussyfoot pussies letting the writers whine and bitch and hand-wring (and fucking die on you, but that was hardly Peter's problem) and the directors futzing about their "craft" and the actors drooling and tantruming and sitting there on their little fucking rehab center benches, giving you a mouthful of shit about someone you happened to--

Peter let out an exasperated sound, slamming the book shut and letting it drop to the floor with a flat thud. Twenty-five dollars' worth of pap...there was a dead tree out there that should sue. He bit absently into a piece of Havarti.

Nearly two days now, and that earnest little rap session with Holden was still pissing him off every time he thought about it. Why the fuck did he care? The kid was an actor, a thing, a toy for the public to play with and knock against walls and discard after it lost its shiny new paint--what the hell difference did it make what he thought about anything? And Peter honestly gave a shit if Jiminy Junkie hated queers? If he were smart (yeah, a smart actor--about as likely as finding a retarded brain surgeon but hey, miracles happened every day), he'd keep it to himself or risk the makeup guys shitting in his face cream...but again, not Peter's problem. A fucking toy.

He picked up the Playboy, giving an appraising producer's eye to the cover girl pouting behind masses of platinum-straw hair. Tits-ahoy in the centerfold, staring dreamily into the camera like her bare ass was some sort of divine revelation. Dream on, sweetie. He'd seen better, many times...but then, of course Peter Dragon would have a sharper eye for such things than some drooling seventy-some Midwestern fart who fucking lived in his pajamas. Why the hell hadn't the Playboy board of directors or whoever axed the guy already? What a figurehead. Oh, sure, yeah, old Hef was fucking those twenty-year-old twins, just give him L.A.'s entire Viagra supply and he could maybe get it up for about five minutes at a--

Spoiled meat. For such an inarticulate little piece of shit, Holden had quite the way with words, he did...spoiled. Fuck. If anyone, anything, was spoiled, smelled spoiled, spoiled rotten, it was--why did Peter care? What the fuck had any actor ever said on any subject that actually mattered--he didn't care. Christ, it wasn't even like Holden was talking about him, anyway.

You know me better than that...

Did you see him on television? Riccardi? We were, like, dying...

Peter put the magazine down. The back of his neck, pressed against the sofa's padded black arm, was starting to ache; he inched into a more upright posture, rubbing at it with his fingers. His hand ran slowly through his own hair, slowing, stopping poised where it was. Just beneath the onion-skin of his scalp, he could feel the steady pulsing of a vein.

He'd never given a shit if someone he worked with was queer or not. Oh, sure, it was potentially great ammunition to have against your Industry friends and loved ones, always valuable to have that extra arrow in the quiver just in case a little (purely self-defensive) character assassination was in order--but that was just playing to the room. Taking advantage of the public's cretinous beliefs to dispatch an enemy. Call it Machiavellian Puritanism. But it wasn't like he actually cared. Suck cock, eat pussy, hump antelope...whatever. Besides, Wendy had said it--this was Hollywood. Can't deal with queers? Can't deal, period. Go be a used-car salesman in Orange County or something. And a little experimentation, Christ, that wasn't...it didn't make you...

You let a guy fuck you up the ass, you think still liking pussy makes it okay?

"Fuck you," he said out loud. His voice cut through the silence like a slap.

Fine, what the little drug-addled fucker said about anything didn't matter in any way, shape, form--but that didn't matter because it wasn't right. Worthless shits like that didn't have a right to point their fingers. They had no right to piss on something that happened to somebody else and that they had no fucking clue about, something that was an absolute and utter shock--ice water, that's how it had felt. It was like being thrown into ice water that produced its own slow heat, one minute your teeth were click-chattering in your ears from the cold and then without warning you were so warm, it was pulling you under like some incredible wave and then you were shivering for completely different reasons and wanting, needing--

No.

You let a guy fuck you up the ass...

He leaned his elbow against the sofa arm, forehead pressed to his palm. He swallowed, his tongue traversing his upper lip in a slow, nervous line.

You need to talk, Peter?

And Mr. Back-Brain pipes up, fresh off the triumph of suggesting Holden Van Fuckface for Gun Club. His little Industry guiding light. Perfect timing.

As always, Peter. You were saying something about ice water and sex? I'm a little confused...but of course, so are you.

I am not confused. I am not CONFUSED. I KNOW what I fucking want, okay?!

You do, huh?

Yeah. I do.

Peter, babe? No comment.

He hadn't even had the sense to fucking stay away. Oh, no. He kept going back, he'd gone to Cole's hotel room, he'd stayed three-quarters of the night, he'd gone back and written down the guy's fucking number and--and it wasn't like him with anyone, just lying there afterwards, pulling close and drifting away and outright inviting them to do their worst. Here I am, my guard's as far down as it'll go and I'm rarin' to get fucked over--so ask me for anything! Tell me anything! I feel so good right now, I'll believe every fucking lie you tell me, every that-was-great, every give-me-this-give-me-that, every I-need-you, every I-love-you-I'll-never-go-I'll...

He grabbed a Hollywood Reporter from the table, opening the crisp pages with shaking fingers. The letters danced angrily before his eyes, and he put it aside again. His palm worried his forehead as he stared at the floor.

Oh, yeah--and you'll believe me, too. Congratulations. Fuck me? Fuck YOU.

All right. Let's analyze this calmly, rationally. Honestly. Just the facts, sir. Fact number one: He'd fucked--no, be honest. He'd been fucked by Cole Riccardi, too many times now to say it was pure accident or happenstance. He'd been fucked, by him. Period. Fine. Fact number two: He'd liked it. In fact, he'd...no, he wouldn't go that far. No. He liked it, period. Which was mind-blowing enough. But it was the unvarnished truth. He had. Liked it. Wanted it.

So much.

He put the half-empty plate of leftovers aside and sat up straighter. His fingers began curling tightly, unconsciously, around the sofa arm. Think about something else. Something else. Think about--

Hollister. Hollister, California. His grandfather's ranch--yeah, ranch. Grandiose word for a motley falcon aviary in the middle of dusty bumfuck nowhere. His home, his too-good-for-a-job mother's hated home, ever since his father had...gone away on them. The summer he was--eight? Nine? Around the time the fucking stuttering had gone from bad to worse. He'd wandered home one hot summer afternoon to find his mother pretzel-wrapped around one of the feed delivery men, fucking him like it was going out of style. Which, if the rest of the world had spied them, it instantly would have--God, the stubbly, gelatinous, library-paste flab of her, even now, such an utterly nauseating memory...

They hadn't seen or heard him. He hadn't gotten any more of a maternal eyeful than her bare arms, legs, screwed-up distorted library-paste face, thank God...he'd ducked quickly into the bedroom doorway's shadows and watched, just for a second, in a sort of mesmerized disgust. Disgust. Mesmerized. By the delivery man's back, facing him, a long and beautifully broad expanse of muscle. Sweat had shone on the smooth, tanned hollow of his spine, on the sharp wings of the shoulder blades, on the thick hunched braid of shoulders Peter had instantly longed to touch, to run his child's hand over, and he had forced himself to turn away, walk away, not to think about it, knowing somewhere in the pit of his stomach that this was--not--

His eyes pressed shut. No.

Oh. Shit. No.

Yes. He had. He had. Then. Now.

Always.

He'd had dark hair, that delivery man. The one Peter could never look in the face again; not after that afternoon. The planes of Cole's face were more delicate, the cheekbones higher, the nose longer and straighter...but the dark hair. The pale blue eyes. The long curves and muscled lines of both their bodies. The same.

Oh, God.

Didn't see it, did you? At all.

He swallowed hard. He didn't have any reserves left against it, that little voice.

No. I really didn't.

Why the fuck wasn't Wendy here? He needed to talk to her, right now...not only was she one of the few genuine three-digit IQs he'd ever met in this idiot's paradise, but she'd fucked, sucked, spread and bent over for everything on two legs (four, for all he knew--but why speculate?), and if she couldn't help him figure this out, then he was well and truly beyond all help. She should be here, right this goddamned second, not gallivanting off to fucking Palm Springs or wherever (of course, not even the courtesy of a damned phone number), doubtless munching the dyed-to-match rug of some moronic little accounting-department girl-Friday even as he sat here, needing--

He shook his head violently. Women. Women. He liked--

Peter, I know you like women...too.

On further reflection, it was a damned good thing Wendy wasn't around. He didn't know what he really needed right now, but it sure as fuck wasn't her airy sidelines commentary, her amused little worldly-wise pronouncements--he didn't need, or want, anyone's so-called advice. Finger-pointing. Laughing. They could mind their own damn business, all of them. It was nobody's fucking affair if he, Peter, had pressed up to Cole as closely as he could, afterwards, trying to absorb the man through his own skin, breathe him in with his whole body; if when he'd rested his head against the side of Cole's neck and the other man ran a single finger along his cheekbone, slowly, over and over again, he'd suddenly felt a heated rush of pure affection that for one second, one lightning-flash, made him want to do something fucking pathetic like actually grab the guy's face between his hands, kiss him until--

He had retreated to a huddle in the sofa corner. His legs curled beneath him, the cut foot pressing with a dull, muted throb against the back of his thigh.

That rush of affection, a sweet pain gripping his gut, throat, nerves, letting go the second it really started to hurt; and more than that, something darker and richer that he could feel flowing through him, flooding his body, retreating to a tidepool in his chest the second his breath came back. Burning him. A stoked fire, of need.

He pressed his forehead against the palm of his hand; fingers entwined in his hair and refused to let go. They pulled, hard. A distracting pain. Not distracting enough.

Oh, Jesus Christ--he was going crazy.

Just for a split second.

Series To Be Continued...