We continue like that the next day. I head to meetings, and he disappears into his meet-cute world in coffee shops. On Tuesday night, we go to The Holy Cow to see Lettuce Pray. It’s a packed house, and the crowd goes wild for the lead singer. When the show ends, William texts and asks us to meet him at a dive bar around the corner, someplace he won’t be recognized. Once he’s there, he slams back shots so fast he’s unsteady on his feet after a mere twenty minutes.
That’s what I was worried about.
“C’mon, buddy,” TJ says gently. “Share a Lyft with us. Let’s get you home.”
“Awww, I thought you blokes would never ask,” William says with a dopey grin.
When we’re in the back seat, he’s between us, wrapping an arm around me, then TJ. “You’re both so fucking hot,” he says. He kisses my cheek, then TJ’s. “If you ever want to have a threesome . . .”
TJ shoots me a seriously deadly stare as he answers, “No, William. I’m not sharing Jude. With anyone. Ever,” he says, firm and clear.
William laughs, shaking a finger at TJ. “I fucking knew you were here in LA for him, not business like you said.”
“Of course I’m here for Jude,” TJ says, his tone underlining my name and what I mean to him.
I get hot all over. I needed that—a little possession from my . . . obsession.
We deliver William safely into his home, where he flops onto his couch, humming a tune. TJ pours a glass of water and sets it on the coffee table, and I find some aspirin.
“My mates are the best,” William says, and I tell him I’ll check on him in the morning.
We return to our waiting car, and as the driver peels away from the curb and into the hazy night, TJ points back toward William’s house. “I guess that’s what he’s struggling with.”
“I think the fame is hard for him,” I say.
“Good call on going to see him,” TJ says, then he’s clearly done talking about William since he pounces on me, pouring all that possessiveness into a kiss that doesn’t stop when we get home. His ownership continues in bed for a good, long time.
The next morning, I take off early for Malibu, ruffling TJ’s hair as he lies in bed. He mutters something about seeing me tonight—that he’ll be in a coffee shop all day writing.
“Of course you will,” I say, then I’m gone. Maybe tonight, I’ll ask what happens after Los Angeles.
No, I won’t ask.
I’ll tell him I want him to see me in London when he goes to Amsterdam. Or ask if he wants company while he’s there. I’ll tell him I want an After Los Angeles.
38
Swimming With the Sharks
TJ
* * *
As I drain my morning joe at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, an image of washboard abs lands in my email. There’s no text in Hazel’s email, just the subject line: For my next cover—your rating, on a scale of one to ten?
As I tap out, “Looks-like-he’s-never-even-seen-a-carb-much-less-tasted-one,” Mason’s name flashes on the screen. I hit send quickly so I can answer my agent. “Hey, give me a sec,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I have all day,” he barks.
“Dude. Cool your jets,” I tease, grabbing my laptop quickly. I stuff it into my messenger bag and go outside. “Okay. What’s up?”
“You. You’re up. You’re at bat, and Kristen wants you to get your fine ass on over to CTM in, oh, say, two hours.”
Is he for real? He wants me to meet his LA counterpart for the first time, and he’s giving me this little warning? “Two hours? From now?”
“Yes. As in noon. Was that not clear?” he deadpans.
“Back it up, man. You want me to go to the Beverly Hills offices?”
“Yes, sweetheart. They want to give you a foot rub and a hot-stone massage. Shall I send a car to Doctor Insomnia’s for you? I can arrange to have the Olympic men’s swim team waiting for you if that’ll sweeten the deal.”
I swing my gaze back and forth along this Venice street. “How do you know where I am?”
“I had your tracking device implanted last time you were here. Also, you’re a creature of habit, so I took a good guess. Was I right, totally right, or of course I was fucking right?”
“Yeah, you’re right. No, the swim team won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer. Also, if you’re making your Christmas list, I like hand rubs, not foot rubs. And why the hell do your LA doppelgangers want to see me, stat?” He’s hitting me with surprises left and right.
“Because everyone loves Top-Notch Boyfriend. Anyway, do you look decent? Wait. Who am I talking to? You always look good. Bet you’re wearing one of your animal-print shirts and fashionable jeans that you’ve never washed in anything but Method detergent?”
I glance down at the armadillo print on my chest and the aforementioned denim. “That tracking device worked out really well for you. Anyway, why am I going to CTM at the last minute? Just to meet with Kristen and company?”
“Not just with the LA Masons. A producer is coming too, but you know my mantra.”
“Don’t believe anything till the check cashes,” I fill in.
“And even then, who knows? But there’s some stuff in the works, and we can sell your books better if we can also sell you. I figure I could have a little TJ showcase while you were in town for whatever secret tryst you’re having.”
Damn. Mason knows me too well. But hopefully, this secret tryst won’t be secret for long. Jude and I have hardly been clandestine since we’ve been out in public. I’d like to make some plans with him beyond this trip, plans to see Amsterdam with him. I’d like, too, to make this thing more than a thing. I want him to be my boyfriend.
For now, though, I focus on Mason as he rattles off details about the meeting. When the town car he ordered arrives five minutes later, my head is reeling.
Still, I know better than to get excited about Hollywood.
Just like Mason taught me.
Only, it’s not just a meeting. It’s more like a full-court press in the sunlit, floor-to-ceiling glass conference room overlooking Beverly Hills.
CTM’s catering brings in Costa Rican coffee, blueberries, and an assortment of kale-based snacks. Jude will get such a kick out of this when I tell him about the spread later.
Even though Mason prepped me, I’m still a little surprised to see Robert Walsh from the theater the other night. I was sure nothing would come of bumping into him. But after hellos, he takes a seat next to Kristen. Mason’s zoomed in on Kristen’s iPad.
The producer from Webflix leans forward in the orange chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “I literally can’t stand how much I love this story.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” I’m still gobsmacked and sound like it.
Robert shoots me an intense stare. “Let me make it clear. I love it as much as my dog.”
“And his dog has a private chef,” Mason chimes in.
“Rocco, the Fiercest Chihuahua, has a personal trainer too,” Kristen supplies with a smile. “Tell us what your vision is for the show, Robert.”