Summer Stock Page 4

  “Are you sure he’s not going to eat me?” His heart fluttered in his chest, but Trey had called Ferdy a big baby.

  “He’s a gentle giant. He only eats underwear. Hold out your hand, let him sniff.”

  Ryan held out his hand, and the big beast lumbered to his feet and charged.

  “Oh shit, he’s huge.” Ryan somehow managed to stand his ground as the dog shoved past his hands to sniff first his balls, then his running shoes. “He must weigh four hundred pounds.”

  “Less than half that. Ferdinand, come,” Trey ordered, and the dog returned to his side. “See? Harmless.”

  “Why’d you name him Ferdinand?”

  Trey scratched the dog’s ears and grinned. “After the bull that would rather smell flowers than fight. It’s a kids’ book. Very subversive for its time.”

  “I’ve never heard of it. It doesn’t sound like Dr. Seuss.”

  “No. Munro Leaf—he wrote it in the 1930s. People thought it was political commentary. It was banned and burned all over Europe. Fascism was on the rise and— I’m babbling, aren’t I?” Trey glanced out at the ocean, then smiled shyly at Ryan. “I do that around good-looking guys.”

  Ryan blinked in surprise. Subversive kids’ books banned in fascist countries? Trey’s blue-collar exterior appeared to be hiding a closet historian. But why should he be surprised? What did he really know about Trey? Not much of anything. He vaguely remembered Trey saying his sister owned the beach bar where they’d met and drinking a toast to—what? A pregnancy? He wished he’d paid better attention, because the man standing before him was fascinating—and had just called him good-looking.

  “No, it’s cool. People don’t tend to talk to me about stuff like this.” Ryan smiled back and stepped closer, stroking the dog’s ears. Ferdinand gave a low groan, dropped to the sand, and rolled until his belly was in the air. “I’ll have to check this book out. I never thought of children’s literature as potentially subversive. I like it.”

  “All literature is potentially subversive—sorry, my mom’s a librarian. The political power of books is kind of a thing in our family.”

  “So your mom’s a librarian. You’re a contractor and part-time set designer. Your sister owns a tourist bar, and you moved here with your ex.”

  “Yeah, that about sums it up. Now you know everything about me.” Something strained in Trey’s voice made Ryan’s smile falter.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be nosy. What did we talk about the night— Well. You know.” Ryan grimaced, embarrassed. “I blacked out a lot of the evening.”

  “Mostly the karaoke singers. Who was good, who was bad. Then you put your hand on my thigh and said you were wondering if I tasted as good as the margaritas, and we didn’t talk a whole lot after that.”

  Ryan threw his head back and laughed. “Really? I’m usually not that bold. In vino veritas.”

  “Or in tequila, testicles,” Trey drawled.

  Ryan laughed harder. “I hope nobody’s testicles were in the tequila. Damn, I wish I remembered more. I bet it was fun.”

  “Jesus, Ryan. I didn’t realize you were that drunk. God, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have—”

  Ryan flushed. “I didn’t realize either—but I promise, I totally would still have gone home with you if I’d been sober.”

  “That doesn’t exactly make me feel better. It’s not like you could consent.”

  Ryan’s heart thudded in his chest. They’d both been drunk. And he’d initiated it—hadn’t he? Nausea rolled over him. Trey’s face was hard to read, but the grimace twisting his lips looked just as bad as Ryan suddenly felt. If what had happened between them wasn’t consensual— But he had wanted it. Wanting was the one thing he remembered clearly. He didn’t know where the line was between being drunk enough to make the first move with a stranger and being too drunk to consent. He’d never had to think about this before, but he didn’t want Trey believing Ryan had crossed that line, or that Trey had taken advantage.

  “Believe me, I wanted it. Hell, Trey, you were drunk too. And I started it, so if anyone should be apologizing, it should be me. Please don’t feel like—” he lifted his hands, helpless “—like you did something wrong. Yes, I was drunk. But I was into it.”

  “But I did—”

  Ryan stepped closer, ignoring Ferdy snuffling at his leg, and wrapped an arm around Trey’s waist. “Don’t be upset with yourself, okay?” This was dangerously close to breaking his promise to Mason, but the thread of friendship between himself and Trey was so fragile—he didn’t want that to break either.

  Trey stiffened slightly, then his arms came around Ryan and his chin rested on Ryan’s head for just a brief moment. He sighed and stepped back out of the hug. “Okay. But I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you.”

  Ryan shook his head and buried his hands in his hair. “Don’t. Please. Everyone worries about me. I don’t need or want anyone else worrying about me. I was drunk, yes. But I promise, I wanted you.”

  At their feet, Ferdinand gave a low growl, and Ryan jumped back. “Are we okay?”

  Trey reached down to soothe Ferdinand, and then he studied Ryan’s face. “Are you asking about me or the dog?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

  “If you’re okay, we’re okay. As for Ferdy—” Ferdy growled again, and Trey glanced around, then scowled “—there’s a guy over in the dunes with a camera, and I don’t think he’s photographing the sunrise.”

  Ryan’s heart sank as he surreptitiously peered over his shoulder. “Fuck, Mason is going to kill me.”

  “Mason?” Trey frowned. “Why?”

  “It’s a long, long story. Shit. I gotta go. It was great to see you—maybe I’ll catch you out here again sometime.”

  “Sure, but do you need a ride somewhere?”

  “Nah. Never met a pap who could run a six-minute mile with a camera to his eyeball. Later, Trey!”

  Ryan heard a single low bark behind him as he took off toward the relative safety of West Brady’s palatial beach house. How long would it take for more paparazzi to arrive? And how soon before his business was all over the tabloids? His sexual orientation, his exile during Ali’s stint in rehab—none of it was anyone’s business but his own. And one thing was for sure: if he kept getting himself photographed half-naked around Trey Donovan, the press was going to figure out he wasn’t straight. And while he didn’t really care who knew he liked to fuck guys, he’d rather it didn’t come out while his name was still being linked romantically with Ali’s by relentless gossips.

  Some people might insist that Ali didn’t need him to protect her, but his beautiful, outrageous best friend was fragile, and he couldn’t be the straw to break her. He just couldn’t.

  Trey let Ferdinand into the house and dropped his leash on the table by the door, then pulled the door shut and locked it without following the dog inside. He’d promised Kim and Danny he’d help paint the nursery before he went over to the theater. There was about a one percent chance they actually needed his help, and a ninety-nine percent chance they were checking up on him, but either way, if he didn’t show up, his sister would be pissed. And the number one rule in Donovan family relationships was that pregnant ladies got what they wanted. You could call that sexist bullshit, but Trey had three sisters and five nieces and nephews, and had seen plenty of pregnancy from the sidelines. Pregnant women deserved respect. And maybe a healthy dose of fear.

  Kim threw the door open before he got up the steps, beaming at him. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” When he reached the top, he bent down to give her a hug. “How are you feeling?”

  “Bloated, gassy—but that might be the baby moving around—and needing a nap before opening the bar, but other than that? I’m good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “So, tell me about the hottie you went home with the other night.”

  “Oh my god. Is this why you wanted me to come over? So you could grill m
e about my sex life?”

  She shrugged. “Old married ladies have to get their entertainment somehow.”

  “You aren’t old, and he’s one of Mason’s summer stock guys.”

  “Oooh. An actor? Come on, I’ve got coffee brewing.” She led him into the kitchen and sat him down with a steaming cup of black coffee. “Are you going to see him again?”

  “I saw him this morning, actually. He goes running. Willingly.”

  “Without anybody chasing him? Dayum.” She looked impressed. “What does Doc Wharton say?”

  “About me or about my hookup?”

  “In general. I know you had an appointment this week.”

  “She wants me to clean out the garage. By the way, she sends her congratulations.”

  “Awww. She’s sweet. But Trey honey, you don’t worry about the garage until you’re good and ready. That stuff’s not harming anyone just sitting there. Let it be.”

  Like he needed permission? He’d been letting it be ever since the divorce was finalized.

  “Thanks. I think she’s right though, you know? That I’ll feel better with that stuff gone? But . . . Jesus, it’s too much.”

  “If it’s too much, it’s too much. You don’t recover on anyone’s timetable but your own.”

  “Thanks, Kimmy.”

  “And if hard labor is good for the soul, there’s a nursery upstairs that needs painting.”

  He wasn’t sure about his soul, but working until his muscles ached was an excellent avoidance tactic. He swallowed down the rest of his coffee. “Lead the way.”

  Summer stock rehearsal schedules could best be described as “grueling.” The early morning calls for Julius Caesar were followed by afternoon calls for Much Ado About Nothing, each rehearsal often lasting four or five hours. By the end of the first week, everyone in the company was exhausted. Ryan was no stranger to the hard work involved in putting together a show, but by Friday afternoon when he arrived for the Much Ado rehearsal, he wanted nothing more than to go back to West’s house, climb into the gigantic hot tub overlooking the beach, and let the aches and pains of performing on his feet for hours a day wash away.

  “There’s going to be a party on the beach tonight.”

  The voice startled Ryan out of his daydreams of salt-softened water and an early evening in. “Excuse me?”

  David Wright was a bronze-skinned, curly-haired man in his early twenties with dark-rimmed glasses and a hipster beard. Ryan was eighty percent sure he was gay, and about fifteen percent sure he was interested. Sure enough, when Ryan looked up, David shoved his hands into his pockets, adopting a slouched nonchalance and a secretive smile. “The cast and crew are going down to the beach tonight, building a bonfire, and getting fucked the fuck up. I’m just letting you know in case you wanted to join us.”

  “Oh.” Ryan was going to be working with this group for the next two months. This was the first party of what would probably be many among his castmates, so he was tempted to plead off—but David had mentioned the crew also.

  Would Trey Donovan be there? Ryan hadn’t talked to him since that day on the beach, but in the mornings when he arrived at the theater, new pieces had been added to the deceptively simple platforms and scaffolds that made up the ingenious sets Trey had designed. Every once in a while, the man himself would come into the theater and take measurements or deliver set pieces. He always had a quick nod for Ryan, but opportunities to chat hadn’t come up. “Cast and crew you said?”

  “Yeah. Donovan’s sister is sending over a keg, and some of the guys who play music are bringing guitars and shit. It’s going to be fun. Maybe you and I could grab a bite beforehand?”

  And there it was. The invitation—the come on. Ryan wasn’t in the habit of letting people down easy—wasn’t in the habit of turning people down at all. He stared at David for a moment, tried to imagine kissing him, and squirmed. Yeah, he could imagine it, and it half turned him on. But he didn’t want David, and he didn’t want to say yes just because he couldn’t figure out how to say no. Showing up to a party together was . . . way too public. Way too much of an announcement. If he was going to break his promise to Mason, he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it with David Wright. The guy was hot, but so, for that matter, was Trey Donovan. And once his mind turned to Trey, there was no comparison.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “So it’s true? You’re straight?” David smirked now. “We all wondered.”

  “I’m not . . . anything. I don’t date in the business. Not really.” Liar.

  “Hey, it’s all good. I figured it was worth taking a shot.” David shrugged. “I like finding a fuck buddy on my gigs. Keeps things uncomplicated. And you seem like an uncomplicated guy.”

  Ryan laughed in disbelief. “Jesus, David. You have no idea how wrong that is. I am nothing but complicated.”

  David grinned. “Ooh, you’re definitely better off being someone else’s problem, then. So, you going to the party or what?”

  Thinking longingly of the hot tub and the early night he craved, Ryan sighed. Cast parties were as much a part of summer stock as the grueling rehearsals and early calls. And he was going to have to get used to being around his castmates socially. “Yeah, I’m going.”

  “Nice.” David held his fist up for a bump, which Ryan gave with a smile he didn’t feel.

  “Thanks for letting me know about the party. No one else bothered.”

  “The others will loosen up around you soon. It’s kind of weird, you not living in the short-term housing with the rest of us; it sets you apart, you know?”

  Nodding, Ryan glanced around the theater at the other actors, who were gathered in groups and chatting. He hadn’t attempted to make friends this first week, but it was clear that the others were forming fast friendships already. “Yeah.”

  “Well, if you need a wingman, let me know.” David winked. “Gay men are chick magnets.”

  Ryan smiled in spite of himself. “So I hear.”

  “You aren’t totally straight, are you?”

  “Nope. What gave me away?”

  “You get all twitchy and blushy whenever Donovan is around, and you stare at his ass like you’ve never seen one before.”

  “I do not.”

  “Okay, Hollywood, just keep telling yourself that.”

  Trey pulled his truck up behind the bar, and Danny wheeled the keg out on a little dolly and helped Trey hoist it into the truck. “Kim and I might come down to the party later, depending on how she’s feeling.”

  Trey’s brother-in-law was a nerdy, bookish man, deeply passionate about his hobbies—and his family. While his wife loved the social aspect of their business, he preferred to stay behind the scenes. A raucous cast party was not his idea of a good time, but if Kim wanted to go, Danny would be there. With Kim pregnant, Danny doted on her more than ever. Trey couldn’t help but read between the lines of the might and the depending in that sentence and worry.

  “Has she been sick?” Trey asked.

  Danny shook his head. “She was in the first trimester. Now she’s only tired a lot, and I can’t get her out from behind that bar. She’s a workaholic—I don’t know what she’s going to do when she gets too big to tie her bar apron.”

  “She’ll go without.” Trey loved his sister and was grateful that she and Danny had moved to Banker’s Shoals to open their touristy pub and raise their family—it had brought them closer together at a time when he needed family most. But he didn’t like the idea of his pregnant sister hauling herself out to a party to keep an eye on him.

  “Well, here’s your tap.” Danny handed it over. “Enjoy. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

  “Thanks, man. Give Kimmy a hug from me—and make her go home and put her feet up. I’ll be fine.”

  Danny waved, and Trey climbed into his truck, butterflies in his stomach. He was glad for the distraction of setting up the keg when he first arrived at the party, because he didn’t have to make small talk ri
ght away, and he could try to put his finger on the nervous anticipation tingling through his veins.

  Trey wasn’t watching for Ryan, not exactly, but when he caught sight of the actor’s perfectly cleft chin and dazzling smile, something fluttered in his chest and his steps faltered. Ryan always looked good, but the sea air tousling his hair and the warm orange glow of firelight on his skin showed off his impish, playful side. Trey couldn’t tear his eyes away.

  Ryan glanced up, caught his eye, and raised a hand in greeting. Trey smiled and nodded back. Ryan had a small crowd around him, and Trey wasn’t feeling particularly social, even though they were at a party, so instead of approaching, he sat while Ryan charmed his castmates.

  And charm them he did.

  Trey could only hear snippets of the conversation, but the parts he heard were good-natured anecdotes from Ryan’s time in Hollywood. “One time, the casting agent asked if I could do a Scottish accent, and I really wanted the job, but . . .” And then the crowd roared with laughter as he launched into an appalling, exaggerated burr, and Trey found himself smiling along.

  Eventually, though, Ryan separated himself from his admirers and made his way over to where Trey sat in a lawn chair at the very edge of the firelight. He carried a beer in each hand.

  “Hi.” This time, the charm was all for Trey, and the force of his response swept over him like a hurricane crashing on the dunes.

  Trey swallowed and ducked his head. His face flushed with heat at the memory of Ryan in his bed—sweet and uninhibited and laughing. Tongue-tied, he gestured at the empty chair next to him.

  Ryan’s eyes widened in amusement as he sat down. “Wow. That’s one hell of a line.”

  Trey laughed, and it loosened his tongue. “Shut up.”

  “Hey, somebody’s gotta do the talking between us.”

  Between us. Trey’s heart sped up in his chest. Friendly banter was a game for two. Ryan’s hot-and-cold routine had been pretty hard to read, but finally, this was a cue Trey could follow.

  “Is one of those beers mine?”