Because I know. I just know.
Less than twenty-four hours later, and I’m already falling in love with him all over again.
36
The Spotlight’s on Me
TJ
* * *
The fountains outside the Mark Taper Forum dance in the twilight. As I head to the doors, a canvas bag in hand with a gift in it, I stop to snap a photo of the theater and send it to Hazel. I’m so damn jazzed, and I need to share that with someone.
* * *
TJ: This is where I am right now.
* * *
Hazel: Are you telling me because you might die of excitement from seeing him and you wanted someone to know your whereabouts?
* * *
She’s a witch. A fucking mind-reading witch.
* * *
TJ: Yes, Hazel. When I die, I’ll be in a theater with seven hundred people and no one will be able to find me but you.
* * *
Hazel: I love being your person. Also, HOW THE HELL IS YOUR WEEKEND? Since this is the first I’ve heard from you, I assume it’s been a non-stop sex fiesta of epic proportions.
I stop, park myself on a bench, and stare at her note with a stupid smile on my face. She’s the only person who knows why I’m in Los Angeles. My other buddies just think I took off to the West Coast to see some friends.
Even though Hazel’s question is the math test equivalent of two plus two, I take my time typing before I hit send on a one-word reply.
TJ: Amazing.
* * *
She writes back with an image of my reply, edited.
* * *
Hazel: I fixed your response. I added ten exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!
* * *
I laugh, writing back to her when a familiar voice booms. “Are you bloody kidding me?”
I swivel around. There’s a blast from the past I didn’t expect to see tonight.
The inked Brit strides across the concrete, looking every bit the rock star he’s become. He’s got a leather jacket slung over his shoulder, a white T-shirt stretched over his chest, motorcycle boots, and double the ink he had when he served me coffee in Piccadilly Circus.
“Well if it isn’t TJ from Seattle by way of New York. Have I got a steam wand for you!”
I roll my eyes as William stops a foot away, then hauls me in for a hug. “I’ve missed your purges, William. How the hell are you?”
“Fantastic. I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I can’t believe you’re here, man.”
William gives me a look like I’m crazy. “I live in LA now. Course I’m here. I was touring, but I wouldn’t miss this for the fucking world. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
Well, why would you know?
Most of my closest friends in New York don’t know what I’m up to. My brother doesn’t know. But maybe William means Jude didn’t tell him, and he’d have expected Jude to mention my whereabouts?
“I flew out last night,” I say, and I’m dying to ask if Jude invited William to his play. But that feels like prying. “So here I am.”
“Brilliant. The show’s getting rave reviews. Our guy is doing so great, isn’t he?”
Our guy? He’s our guy now?
Settle down, jealous dragon. “He is,” I say.
William drags a tattooed hand through his floppy hair—rocker hair now, then shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I almost missed the chance to see him in this. I grabbed a ticket on StubHub last night when I knew I’d be back.”
That answers one question I had. William bought his own ticket. I don’t say Jude got me mine. But I sure as hell like that I’m the one with the star’s house seat.
“So, do you have business in LA?” William continues.
My brow knits, but then I quickly rearrange my expression since I don’t know if Jude wants it to be obvious that we’re a thing.
Shit, are we a thing?
I’ll deal with that later, but for now, I weigh possible answers to William’s question, opting quickly for the easy way out. I’ll omit. Besides, my agency has offices in Los Angeles. “Yeah. Agents and all, you know. So it made sense to see Jude’s play too,” I say.
William’s green eyes twinkle. “Right. It made sense,” he says, sketching air quotes. “You still have a massive crush on him, don’t you?”
Jesus. Is it obvious? “Don’t we all? He’s Jude Fox, after all,” I say, and there. Take that. I might not dance well on the dance floor, but I can tango my way around getting too personal.
“It’s impossible not to have a crush on him. He’s gorgeous,” William says, and it sure as hell sounds like he’s got a big crush. “Where are you sitting?”
“Front row.”
“Bugger. You got better seats than I did, mate,” he says, then glances at the canvas bag I’m holding. “Do you have flowers for him? Shit. I should get him flowers.” William peers around the courtyard area, hunting for a florist, perhaps. His gaze seems to land on a black and red wooden cart, full of flowers but also chocolate. “Sweets. He loves sweets. I’ll get him chocolate.”
I should tell William Jude won’t eat it. I should. But I don’t.
“Cool. I’ll see you later,” I say, tipping my forehead to the doorway.
“Why don’t we all get a drink afterward?” William suggests.
“If that’s good for Jude,” I say. I like William. At least, I did, and I think I still do. But I’m not making plans for the three of us unless Jude wants to.
We say goodbye, and William heads to the cart, while I go inside, relieved to get away from him. Which isn’t how I should feel around a friend.
Once in the theater, I tighten my grip on the bag, and grab my seat in the front row.
When a cool modulated voice tells everyone to take their seats since the show’s about to begin, I glance around the theater, soaking in the utter coolness of being here. As I survey the crowd, William snags his nearby chair and waves.
I nod, and a few rows behind him, a sharp-dressed man with a thick head of golden-blond hair swings his gaze around the auditorium from William to me.
The guy stops and stares at me for a few seconds. No idea what that’s about. Then it hits me. He probably recognizes me from the viral video. Twice in one day. It was too good to be true that I’d remain anonymous in LA.
Three minutes later though, I don’t care about anyone else. My phone is off, my attention’s on the red curtain, and the lights go down.
When they go up again, Jude walks on stage. “Darling, have you seen my public persona? I seem to have misplaced it, and I need it to get through the Abernathys’ dinner party.”
I laugh, and for the next hour, I hardly stop laughing. It’s like a modern-day Noël Coward script, and every scene is a showcase of how fantastic Jude Fox is when it comes to deft, sharp stage humor.