Текст книги "The Dark Horse "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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«And I'm having you for dessert,» Dan said, his voice deep and velvety. He was braced over me, knee between my thighs, one hand keeping both my wrists pinned above my head – not easy to do to another healthy adult male.

I didn't have to glance at his crotch to know he was as excited as I was – though admittedly neither of us was as excited as the guy on TV behind us selling cleaning products at the top of his voice.

I said, in a very bad imitation of James Cagney, «Okay, copper. You got me fair and square.» His lean cheek creased in amusement. «Oh? You're going to come quietly?» «I always do,» I whispered.

His eyes darkened and he shifted his weight back onto his knees. The hand formerly holding me prisoner was now stroking me, feathering down from the outside of my wrists to the insides of my elbows. I generally didn't like anyone to see – let alone touch – the scars on my arms. «No hesitation marks,» Dan had said the first time his fingertips had brushed over the ugly tracks of scars. «You weren't kidding around.»

Now my arms went relaxed and heavy under that delicate touch. I murmured my pleasure. His free hand slipped inside my boxers.

I sucked in a breath, arching blindly into his caress, reached up and yanked the soft flannel pants down, running my hands down his lean flanks. His skin felt warm and smooth. «Open your eyes,» he ordered huskily.

I lifted my lashes. Every muscular inch of him was brown and supple; his black hair, thick and glossy, fell boyishly into his eyes as he gazed down so seriously at me.

I raised my head and kissed him, a little nip of a kiss. He kissed back, wanting more as usual, wanting it slow and deep and sexy. His lips were so soft. I stilled, opened to him. Our tongues slid together, sweet and spicy. Dan groaned in the back of his throat as though it were too good to bear, sending a little shiver down my spine.

I pulled him down on top of me and we settled into each other, his hand fastening on my hip, tugging me into that fierce bulge against my belly. My own cock throbbed in time to the pound of my heart as his hand found the elastic of my boxers and I raised my hips enough for him to hitch them off. The feel of bare skin lowering on bare skin was satisfying. Our dicks scraped up against each other, old friends and good neighbors, rubbing shoulders. «What do you want?» he said breathlessly, his breath hot against my ear.

I shook my head. Too hard to form the words when I was having trouble forming the thoughts. «You,» I got out. «How?»

«Suck me?» It came as a little plea. I was a lot more comfortable giving than receiving, but tonight I craved the idea of burying myself in that wet heat. «Please.»

He chuckled at the «please.» Maybe it was funny. He lifted off me, resettled and ran a light possessive hand down my tummy, fastening on my shaft. I murmured encouragement. He bent, kissed the head of my cock and took it into his mouth. Unbelievable.

It was like stepping into a golden bath – whatever the hell that means. Wet and hot and intense. Was it the warmth or the wetness or the pressure that felt so good? Maybe the mind-blowing combination of all three? This was where all that experience came in handy. He'd obviously been on the receiving end enough to know the little things that made all the

difference. Where I offered style, he gave substance and the wonder was I didn't shoot my load in the first five seconds. «Oh, my God,» I groaned, and it did indeed feel like a religious experience.

That crazy mix of glib tongue and soft lips and the graze of teeth: sucking, nibbling, licking – but it was mostly the sucking that felt so shatteringly good – hard and then easy and then hard. I couldn't help making abject sounds as he brought me to the edge, then tilted me back, then tipped me forward into the moment.

I spilled over into pleasure, moaning and tossing my head on the pillow like I was in a high fever.

Afterwards I just lay there spent and a little stunned, and he lapped up my cream, the rough rasp of his tongue reminding me of a cat – a big eat-you-alive cat – like a panther. He braced himself over me and when his mouth took mine, I could taste myself. «Fuck me, Danny,» I begged him huskily. «Yeah?» He kissed me again, hungrily. «Sure?» I nodded, moving against him restlessly, blindly. «I want it. I do.»

I could feel him hesitating. I didn't want him hesitating; I didn't want to have time to think. I wanted to ride this wave of sensation all the way out. Eyes closed, nerves still quivering in the pleasure ringing through my body, I urged, «Fuck me. Please fuck me.»

There was a dreadful little delay, cold air over my body, the slide of a drawer, a liquidy squirt. I opened my eyes. He was solemnly rubbing gel over his fingers. Lashes flickering on his cheek as he studied his slimy fingers. Oh, right. Preparation F. I closed my eyes hastily.

He moved next to me again, his hand brushing my dick. Just that accidental touch had my breath rushing in and out of my lungs, my heart pumping like mad. I scooted over to give him easy access.

He stroked and feathered, and then his well-lubed finger pushed into my tightly puckered hole. My eyes opened wide, breath catching. «Oh.»

I tried to make it sound pleased because if there's one thing I've learned both from therapy and from acting, if you pretend strongly enough and consistently enough, eventually the thing you project will become real. He smiled, but there was a little frown between his brows. «You're trembling.»

I gave him a twitchy smile. Not so bad. I could do this. It almost felt good in a too-much– sensation-crawling-through-my-guts kind of way. He slid his finger in and out in a tame parody of fucking and my breath quivered in my chest. It wasn't hurting. It felt … exciting. Alarming, but exciting. He finger fucked me gently awhile, and then said, «You want to take it to two?»

I nodded jerkily. I did. He wasn't pushing for anything more than I wanted myself.

He pressed his other finger in slowly. Sweat broke out all over my body. I bit my lip against a yelp. It wasn't that bad really, my body was accommodating him, it was just strange. So intense. So … familiar. «Relax. Try not to tense.»

I laughed unsteadily. Yeah, right. I had what felt like a steel pipe jammed up my ass and I was supposed to relax? Then he did something with his fingers and I stopped laughing. A thrill of pleasure rippled through my body. What was he doing? «How's that?» I grunted.

He did that thing with his fingers again. I moaned – even I could tell it was an encouraging moan. «This is nothing,» he said softly. «It gets a lot better than this.» I risked opening my eyes again. He was smiling, enjoying my reaction.

He knelt into the mattress, guiding my legs up to my stomach. I tucked my legs up –not a really comfortable position. I felt awkward and exposed, my butt hanging out. I didn't

know what to do with my hands. I couldn't reach him at this angle. I couldn't read his face. My heart started pounding hard with anxiety. My breath caught in my chest. His hands were big, like fetters around my ankles. His dick swung around like a cudgel, sweeping against my ass and thighs. He positioned himself, the head of his prick nudging against my anus like a torpedo lining up to fire. He prodded. A flare of pain went through me. He was too damn big.

The bigger the better, if you were a chick. Not so great for a tight-ass like me. «Wait!» I got out.

Dan waited, expressionless. A wave of cold sick panic flooded my gut. I brought my legs down and rolled away from him.

«I can't do it,» I said. Way melodramatic, crouching on the edge of the bed in this flight– or-fight response, but I was aware that by now he must be ready to throttle me.

He sat back on his haunches. No need to fight. No need for flight. He was frowning but his body was at ease. He wasn't coming after me. His voice was dispassionate. «We don't have to.» «I'm sorry.» He shook his head. Sorry was not necessary. «Not everyone likes it.» «You do, though.» Instead of answering, he said slowly, «We could try it the other way around.» «God, no!»

He gave a funny laugh. «Or not.» He reached out, touched my cheek. «It really is okay, you know.» «It's not that I don't want to …»

He got that speculative look – the very thing I wanted to avoid. «It can be painful the first few times. Especially if your partner isn't experienced.»

I shook my head. «There was no first time. No one hurt me. There's no drama here. I just – I can't explain it.»

Maybe not totally accurate. I closed my mind to the memory of my father's enraged face. The memory of spit-flecked words screamed in my face. «Gay? There's nothing gay about queers. There's nothing gay about taking it in the ass, getting butt-fucked by another queer. Men don't take it in the ass. Queers do. Are you telling me that's what you are? My only son is a queer?»

Dan said quietly, «Whatever is making you look like that, let it go. This isn't a problem for me, and I don't want it to be a problem for you.» I nodded.

A smile tugged at his mouth. «It's not like we can't find other ways to amuse ourselves.»

Sunday started out every bit as beautiful a day as Saturday. Dan and I woke up early, made love, went for a swim – although it was starting to get too chilly for swimming. Summer was truly over and autumn was in the air. I could smell the wood smoke down the beach from Mrs. Wilgi's cottage.

Dan suggested we have brunch at the Chart House, which, despite being the place in Malibu where all the tourists go, has good food, a spectacular view of the ocean and a casually romantic atmosphere. I admit I hesitated. I was a little wary about my personal life getting into the tabloids. I thought a person's private life should be exactly that, even if you were a «celebrity.» And the idea of photos of me and my gay lover in the National Enquirer or the Star took my appetite away. But I didn't want Dan to think I didn't want to be seen with him in public. More, I didn't want him to think that being with me meant he couldn't have a normal life, so I said, sure.

To my relief none of the dogs from the «Hollywood Hunt Club» lurked in the crowded parking lot. Inside, the restaurant was packed, but one of the perks of being a celebrity is that

we were seated right away. People at the crowded tables looked up and leaned over to each other as we wound our way to the table by the window. To my amusement, I realized that they were looking at Dan, wondering who he was, what they'd seen him in. Even in jeans and a sports shirt he had presence, style – not to mention striking good looks. He would never make it as an undercover cop, I thought. «What's so funny?» he asked, glancing at me over the top of his menu. I shook my head, smiling. He raised his brows and went back to his menu.

We ordered our meals, and the waitress brought our wine and warm sourdough bread crusty with garlic, thyme, and butter. I looked across the table at Dan and he was smiling. «Happy?» he asked.

And I realized I was. Very. And if that fullness in my chest meant anything, I was pretty close to falling in love.

He held his wine glass out and we clinked rims – and I didn't give a damn who saw. «Excuse me.»

I glanced up. There was a scarlet-faced kid with terrible skin hulking beside my chair.

He threw a nervous look over his shoulder at a crowded table taking up the center of the room. «Hi, my name is Sam Bowers. You came and spoke at my school last year and I just wanted to say thank you. It … meant a lot to me to …» His voice cracked nervously. «To hear about how it was for you.» I said, «You're welcome, Sam. I'm glad I could help.»

«I want to be an actor too. I've been in some school plays. This year I played Judd in Oklahoma and Iago in Othello.» «That's great.» «I got great reviews in our local paper. Well, for Judd.» I said, «That's excellent. Hang onto those clippings.»

«Everybody makes fun of me, but I don't care. They make jokes about the way I look. They call me queer bait. They're all a bunch of pricks.»

I wasn't sure what I could tell him. I hadn't been out in high school; I'd thought being dead was preferable. His courage awed me. «It gets easier as you get older. You won't care what people think.» As much.

«I don't care what they think now!» His face got redder, his eyes were too bright. He glanced at Dan and seemed to recollect himself. «Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. You're my hero.» «You're … welcome.»

He suddenly reached down and hugged me awkwardly, meaty arms clutching fiercely. I patted his back. Sam let me go and walked quickly back to his table, which was now staring our way and whispering. I glanced at Dan and was startled at his grim expression. «What's wrong?» «Nothing.»

I couldn't understand his tension. He couldn't be jealous. Did he view Sam as a potential threat? According to him there was no real threat – not anymore. «He's just a kid,» I said.

«I know. It's cool.» He gave me a quick smile that didn't quite soften the blue steel of his eyes.

The waitress brought our meals, sea bass for Dan and swordfish for me. We drank more wine. Sam Bowers and his family left, Sam glancing back at me several times – which did not go unnoticed by Dan. «You can't think that kid's a threat.»

«I don't.» He said, in answer to my obvious puzzlement, «It's just … you're very … accessible. Even after what you've been through this last year, you're not …»

He didn't finish it, and I realized he didn't want to make me self-conscious. Or afraid. He said instead, «You were great with him. Patient, kind. You're good with everyone. No star tripping with you; that's one of the things I noticed right off the bat.» «I'm not exactly A-List.»

«The biggest assholes in this town are not the A-Listers.» He smiled. «You'd be the same regardless of the roles or the money. You don't take it seriously.» That troubled me. «I take it seriously.»

«I don't mean the work. You're a professional. You don't take the celebrity thing seriously.»

«Oh. Right.» That was true. I wasn't that crazy about being a «celebrity.» I liked my privacy.

The waitress arrived with a dessert tray. Dan went for coffee. I chose cafe glace.

Dipping my spoon into the coffee-flavored ice cream, I asked, «What did you mean Friday night when you said you had been through therapy?»

Dan's eyes followed my tongue as I licked the whipped cream from the spoon. «I had counseling after I made the decision to be open about my sexual orientation on the job. Law enforcement is still a conservative and fairly homophobic profession; it wasn't an easy decision.» «What made you decide to come out?»

«It wasn't that I wasn't out, but I was very careful to keep the boundaries distinct between my personal and professional life.» That sounded uncomfortably familiar. «Don't ask, don't tell?»

«Right. Which to a degree I still believe in. I don't feel like it's anyone's business who I sleep with.» He sighed. «And … law enforcement is, in general, kind of a macho gig. We've

got more than our share of assholes on the force, so I guess I was glad to not have to take a stand. But I had a situation come up: a homicide suspect recognized me from a gay bar and tried to … let's call it 'negotiate' with me.» «You could have been undercover,» I pointed out.

He smiled faintly. «I could have, but I was a regular at that bar, and we both knew it. I realized I had to come clean to my superiors – had to put it all out on the table.»

I wondered what I'd have chosen in that same situation. «Were you tempted to go along with the blackmail?»

«No.» He met my eyes levelly. «I knew once I started down that slope there would be no stopping. I wasn't about to endanger a job I love. I was never ashamed of being gay.» «And what happened after you came out?»

«A few guys were assholes and a few guys were stand up, but mostly nobody really gave a damn. Except the brass. They saw an opportunity to reverse some of the bad press and capitalize on how diverse and sensitive the new LAPD was.» «Did the counseling help?»

«It did.» His gaze was curious. «You do all those public service announcements advising teens to seek counseling. You don't have faith in the process yourself?»

«It's not that. If I had been able to talk to someone when I was sixteen … things might have gone differently. Now I don't need someone helping me understand what I'm afraid of.» I was no longer talking about being gay, and we both knew it. I added, «And I don't think my fears are unreasonable.» He was smart enough to leave it at that.

When we got back to the house I turned on the phonograph and put on the 1954 recording of Louis Armstrong playing W.C. Handy. I carried a stack of prospective screenplays Steve had sent over earlier in the week onto the deck and settled into the lounge

chair, smearing suntan oil over my shoulders while the music wafted out through the open sliding door.

It was cooler today, the sun slipping in and out of clouds; the salty wind off the water had a nip to it. I wiped my hands together and leaned back in the chair, reaching for the first screenplay: Favored to Place. My eyes focused on the brown rag hooked to the deck railing. Not a rag. More like … a large toupee or something … furry. I dropped the script from nerveless fingers. The pages fluttered in the breeze.

Far overhead I could a seagull crying. What a weird sound that was. Like mewing. Like a cat. Like a fluffy brown cat. Or a fluffy brown dog.

I stood up fast, but my foot hooked and I tipped the lounge chair over, sprawling on the deck. I felt like I'd had the wind knocked out of me. «Dan,» I yelled breathlessly. «Dan! Dan!»

In the distance I could hear a jaunty trumpet sashaying into the opening notes of «Loveless Love.»

Along with the sudden lack of oxygen, I couldn't seem to get my footing. I kicked away the cushions and chair – unable to tear my eyes away from the thing nailed to the deck railing. Nailed by its tail … The screen door opened and Dan stepped out. «What the hell –?»

I scrambled to my knees. «It's the dog,» I gasped. «Mrs. Wiggly's dog.» I pointed, hand shaking. The consternation on Dan's face changed to something else. Something dangerous. «Get up,» he said. He reached down and hauled me to my feet. «Inside.»

He thrust me through the half open door, stepped in behind me and locked it. Guiding me by the arm, he edged me back a few steps. «Stay away from the door, stay away from the window.»

«He k-killed it,» I chattered. «While we were at brunch. He's watching the house. Why would he do that? That stupid little dog. How c-could he know – But I didn't want that!»

Dan brushed past, lifted a gun the size of a small cannon out of the clutter on the middle bookshelf, and I realized in a distant sort of way that although he had seemed to dismiss my fears he was, in fact, on high alert.

Moving past me, he unlatched the door. «Don't open for anyone but me. Understand?» I stared at him. «Sean,» he said sharply. «Do you understand what I'm saying?» I sucked in a quavery breath. «I understand.» «I'll be right back. Lock the door behind me.»

He stepped out. Gestured to the lock. I moved to the door and fumbled it locked. He motioned to me again, and I backed out of sight of the door.

Hearing his footsteps on the deck, I went to the window and, staying to the side, watched him cross the deck fast and jump down to the sand below. He disappeared from sight.

Chapter Five

The scrape of a key in the lock brought me to my feet. Dan stepped inside, caught sight of me and stuck the gun in his back waistband, walking across to me. «He's long gone.» «It's Hammond,» I said. «I know it.»

«Shhh.» He took me in his arms. «Sean.» He held me tightly; I couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. I didn't want to.

«He's alive. I know it.» I spoke into his chest, the words vibrating against the strong thud of his heart. «It's not Hammond.» He stroked my back calmingly. «This isn't Hammond's MO.» I raised my head. Met his eyes. «It has to be.»

«Sean, over a dozen witnesses confirm that he went into the aqueduct. He couldn't have survived that crash. It's not possible.» «Then where's the body? Why hasn't the body shown up yet?»

He said patiently, «It washed down the aqueduct and lodged somewhere. I don't know. But I do know that whoever is doing this, it's not Hammond.»

I was struggling against a riptide of emotions: fear, frustration, bewilderment all dragging me further and further from shore, from safety, from sanity. «Then who?» I cried, trembling. «Nothing else makes sense!» «You've got to calm down.»

«How can I be calm when you can't – or won't – see what's happening? What does it take to convince you? He's out there. He's coming for me.»

His hands clamped on my shoulders, anchoring me fast. «He's not getting you. No one is getting to you. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I stopped Hammond, I'll stop this freak too. He's not getting near you.»

«He's already near me!» I couldn't help it. My control was slipping. I heard my voice shaking and wild. «He's out there now. How could he know about what a pest that damn dog was? Tell me that? He had to have heard us. He could be listening to us now. This place could be bugged.»

«Jesus, Sean.» He pulled me close, holding me against him like he wanted to smother the words spilling out. «Stop it. Sweetheart. Stop. You're making yourself sick.»

He kept murmuring words I couldn't comprehend, but I understood that he was petting me, quieting me, and after a while I stopped ranting, stopped trembling, finally managing to slow those panicked shallow breaths that were making me lightheaded.

We moved over to the sofa. He left me for a moment or two. I scrubbed my face, wiping away tears I didn't remember crying. I rested my head in my hands and tried to think. Nothing made sense. The postcards had stopped but Hammond had escalated to violence. It had been all threats up until this point. What had changed?

Dan sat down beside me. Set a glass of water on the table. He held a small brown vial that I recognized from my bathroom cabinet. I had news for him; those pills were well past their expiration date – like me apparently. I watched him shake two tablets into his palm. «I don't want those.» «I know. But you need them.»

I gave him a hostile look. Anything I said now would be put down to my irrational state of mind. I held out my hand. He dropped the pills in my palm, I popped them in to my mouth, took the glass of water he handed over. I washed the pills down, handed him back the glass, stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes.

Dan brushed my hair from my forehead. I kept my eyes closed, rejecting that light, tender touch. «Just relax.» Yeah. Right. «Everything will be okay, I promise you.»

I swallowed. Didn't answer. Kept my eyes closed. He said that a lot: «I promise you.» But what did that mean? He couldn't promise me anything. Not when he didn't even believe me – when his main concern was to shut me up.

He kept stroking my hair. I didn't want him to. I didn't want to be comforted by him. I didn't like the fact that his touch seemed to find a way through my defenses, that he seemed to be able to converse with me through his fingertips and my nerve endings. I tried to shut out my response, but my scalp seemed to tingle beneath the deft fingers threading my hair. The tears stopped leaking beneath my lashes. The torpidity lurking at the edge of my consciousness eddied around and sucked me down. * * * * *

When I opened my eyes it was dark. I was lying on the sofa in the living room. Someone – Dan – had tossed the lambswool throw over me. The lights were off, but there was a fire in the fireplace. The shadows changed against the walls, flickering and indistinct. Never two the same – like Rorschach plates.

I turned my head. Dan was sitting in one of the chairs before the fireplace. His profile looked flushed in the firelight. He was staring at nothing in particular. I wondered where the gun was now. On TV and in the movies cops shoot people all the time. Dan told me he had only drawn his weapon a dozen times – and he'd only fired once. That was when he had shot and wounded a robbery suspect. He had been off-duty at the time. He had earned a citation for bravery, but there had also been an Internal Affairs audit. «What time is it?» I asked.

His head snapped my way and he stood up. I didn't want that. It was hard to keep the walls in place with him near me, and I wanted the walls up. It was safer behind the walls.

«How are you feeling?» He started to sit on the edge of the sofa, but I sat up, moving away from him. «Groggy. Sorry for the … hysterics.» «Sean.» I cut across his compassion. «What happened – while I was out?»

«I called the sheriffs and filed a report. Then I walked down to Mrs. Wilgi and told her what happened.» He added, before I did more than look at him, «A deputy stayed here at the house until I got back.»

I nodded. I wasn't thinking about who had been watching over me; I was thinking about poor Mrs. Wilgi who had loved that ugly little dog as though it had been her child. «No one is taking this threat lightly, Sean.» I refused to look at him. «I know.» «I've been thinking that it might be a good time to move back to the house.» I shrugged. «What's the difference? He knows where I live.»

He didn't speak for a moment, then he said, choosing his words, «If this is not Hammond, then he may not know that you have a home in the Hollywood Hills.»

I laughed derisively. «If? You mean you're willing to consider the idea that Hammond may not be dead?» «Yes.»

That surprised me, and I did look at him then, trying to read his expression in the gloom. His eyes glittered in the glow from the fireplace – a little spooky. «Are you humoring me?» «No.» Some of my tension drained away. «What changed your mind?»

«I don't know that my mind has changed – but I'm keeping it open. I agree with you that it is highly unlikely you would attract two aggressive stalkers in this space of time.»

Tiredly, I thought this over. He didn't think I was crazy; that was good, right? The fact that someone was out to get me: not so good. «When you said it wasn't Hammond's MO, what did you mean?»

«Hammond was what we call an Attachment Seeker. Killing the dog is more the action of a Rejection-based stalker – except the dog wasn't yours. You didn't even like the dog, so as threatening as the action seems, it could be perceived as a service to you.» Wearily, he added, «Which still doesn't make sense psychologically.»

«It makes sense,» I said. I'd done plenty of reading on stalkers all on my own. «He sees himself as rejected. He didn't get what he wanted from me and he's moved from simple stalking to intimidation and threats. Rejection-based stalkers are the most likely to turn to violence. Isn't that true?» «Yes,» he said reluctantly.

«If he's watching me, he knows that you and I are involved now. That could be the catalyst.» «Hammond wasn't gay.» «Maybe he was a closet case.»

«Either way,» Dan said, «We need to think about how best to ensure your safety. I think moving back –«

«I don't think the locale matters. We've got a great security system here and I can see anyone coming from a mile away.»

He looked unconvinced but didn't argue, and I guessed that he didn't want to pressure me when I was already emotionally distressed. That's one of the perks of having a history of breakdown. People don't like to upset you unnecessarily.

«All right. We'll leave it for now. I've already spoken to my captain and we'll have someone from Special Investigations here tomorrow on security duty.» «Who? I don't want some stranger in my –«

«Listen,» Dan said crisply, «We've got to have someone here during the day, and it can't be me.» «Why? I don't understand.»

«Because we're involved now, chief. There are protocols that have to be followed in order to authorize protection for you. We're dealing with a government bureaucracy, among other things.» «What other things? If you were the best person for the job before –«

He drew a deep breath. «It's … like a doctor operating on a family member. I can't be objective about your safety; I don't have any emotional distance, which means I'm not the best person for the job now.»

I opened my mouth to argue and he said, «I don't tell you what roles to take in your career; how about you don't try to tell me the roles to take in mine?»

His tone was even and he was still sort of smiling, but he was dead serious. I stared at him. Finally lifted a shoulder.

Sergeant Jack Markowitz had apparently transferred in from a neighboring police state – to his iron-jawed dismay. Tall, trim and no-nonsense, he showed up at the beach house at the crack of dawn on Monday before Dan left to drive into Hollywood. They greeted each other tersely, stepped out front briefly to discuss «the case,» before Dan came out to the deck to tell me goodbye. «Stick close to the house today – and stick close to Markowitz.» I raised an eyebrow and he said, «Not that close.» Markowitz watched stonily from the doorway as we kissed. «Can I fix you some breakfast?» I asked my new bodyguard after Dan drove off.

«No. Thanks.» Markowitz managed, looking like breaking bread with me would choke him.

I spent an uneventful morning working out and reading through the stack of screenplays Steve had sent over. Most of them seemed to consist of roles for strung out smart asses; I began to think being typecast as a gay man wouldn't be so bad after all.

At ten o'clock Maria let herself in the back door, like usual, and Markowitz scared the shit out of all of us by throwing down on her. Once we got that sorted out, Maria, with a lot of muttering under her breath, got busy vacuuming, and Markowitz amused himself «checking out the perimeter» for the nth time. By eleven o'clock I knew it was going to be a very long day.

Steve called after lunch. «I've got good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?»

I didn't know if I could take any bad news at the moment. «What's the good news?»

«Winston Marshall, the guy producing The Charioteer, has invited you to dinner tomorrow night.» I felt like someone turned the lights on inside me. «For real? Where?»