Summer Stock Page 6

  The name stirred something in Ryan’s memory. West didn’t talk about his teenage years often, but he’d been famous, and there had been tabloid headlines when his costar had overdosed.

  “Jason Fortune, right? You guys were—”

  “Fucking dancing. I was dancing with my best friend in a club. And then he was gone. I can’t watch her do that to herself, Bryan.”

  “Ryan. Here, on Banker’s Shoals, I’m Ryan. And she won’t. You have to believe in her.”

  West grabbed the bottle out of the ice bucket next to the hot tub and refilled their glasses, even though Ryan had barely sipped his. “She’s in rehab. We’ll see what happens next.”

  “You should text her. They let her check messages and stuff.”

  “I doubt she wants to hear from me after the way we left things.”

  “There is no one she’d rather hear from.”

  “Says you.” West smiled. “Always the optimist. How is summer stock?”

  Grateful for the subject change, Ryan shrugged. “Summer stock is weird. And . . . nostalgic too. I don’t feel like I belong here most of the time, but then sometimes I’m saying one of Antony’s lines and everything is so familiar it feels like I never left.”

  “Do you ever wish you hadn’t?” West studied him intently from across the hot tub.

  “No. I’m a perennial fuckup, but I’m acting for a living and I love it.”

  West nodded. “Good. Maybe now that you know how good you’ve got it, you’ll stop fucking it up so much.”

  “Maybe.” Ryan’s thoughts flickered back to saying good night to Trey. “Maybe I already have.”

  “Do you have rehearsal tomorrow?”

  Ryan shook his head. “No rehearsals on Saturdays. Thank god. Mason is a tyrant all week, but he doesn’t own my weekends. I’m sleeping in.”

  “I’m here to scout some locations for a new project. Want to go for a drive?”

  “Don’t you have somebody to do that for you?”

  West laughed. “Drive or scout locations?”

  “Both.”

  “Yes. But sometimes I like doing things for myself like a grown-up. And seeing a location for the first time, it can help get the creative juices flowing, you know?”

  Ryan had no idea. He wasn’t creative the way West was—he created a character, lived in it, wore it like a second skin for the stage or the screen, but directing? Writing? That kind of creation mystified him. “I’d love to go with you.”

  They lingered in the hot tub, catching up until the wine was gone and the hour was late, but eventually their conversation dwindled, and when Ryan’s chin nodded against his chest and he tasted saltwater, he knew it was time to say good night.

  “I should go get a head start on that sleeping in.” Ryan yawned theatrically, and it turned into a real yawn and they both laughed. He helped West cover the tub, and then followed his friend inside. As they started up the stairs, West turned to him suddenly, speaking fast.

  “You don’t have to sleep in the guest room, you know. You could sleep with me. We don’t have to be alone.”

  Ryan’s heart pounded in his chest as he stared at West. They both missed Ali, but West’s loneliness was etched in every line of his face. And it was painful to see. Even though he was beautiful, kind, and brilliant, Ryan didn’t want him.

  “I’m sorry, West. We’ve had fun in the past, but it doesn’t feel right anymore.”

  “Ali wouldn’t mind—she’d probably like to know we were . . .” West bit his lip, then leered. “Taking care of each other.”

  Ryan ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I think she would mind, actually. But that’s not really the point. Please don’t make this weird, dude.”

  West smiled mournfully and nodded. “I’m sorry, Bry. I didn’t mean— Well. I did. But let’s just forget I said it, okay? We still on for the road trip tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Not until after noon though. I’m sleeping in!”

  Trey woke up with a start in the early hours of the morning when Ferdinand put his chin on the bed and whined.

  “Hey, Peanut,” he murmured, moving over to make room and throwing a hand across his eyes. “Come on up.”

  The dog heaved his bulk onto the bed and settled next to him with a satisfied grunt. A few minutes later, he was snoring, feet twitching.

  Trey, on the other hand, was wide-awake, the memory of Ryan’s kisses running hot on his skin like physical touch. Wide-awake, sober, and absurdly grateful that Ryan had put a stop to their make-out session. He wanted Ryan, wanted him more than he could remember wanting anyone in years, but he knew better than to try to bury his anxiety in another person’s body. A few moments, a rush of pleasure—but the panic would inevitably return, this time with a side heaping of guilt.

  Still. Fooling around with Ryan had been fun. And this time, Ryan had left his number.

  He found his phone on the table next to the bed and opened his contacts. There was Ryan’s face, grinning back at him in low light. Gorgeous. Even the phone camera had managed to capture that mischievous, carefree expression that Ryan always seemed to wear, the one that made Trey feel like they were sharing the best joke ever.

  Thanks for taking care of me last night.

  He typed out the text, thought about deleting it, then hit Send before he could change his mind. When the phone buzzed a few minutes later, he was drifting back into a pleasant doze.

  Anytime. What are you doing up so early?

  Ferdy.

  That dog is a sadistic monster.

  Chicken. He’s a big baby who wanted some snuggles. What are you doing up so early?

  He waited for what seemed like an eternity for a response. When it finally came, it brought a smile to his lips.

  Nothing could get me out of bed this early but a text from you. Actually, I’m still in bed. Wish you were here.

  A flush heated Trey’s face, and he dropped the phone on the bed. He wanted to self-deprecate. He wanted to demur, make a joke. The idea of having Ryan’s attention like that—he hadn’t recognized since that first morning when Ryan had snuck away how much he had wanted it. Not the drunk, laughing, spirited Ryan he’d taken to bed, but Ryan sober and still wanting him was something he barely let himself hope for. Ryan’s rejection that morning had stung deeper than he realized. How long had it been since he’d felt really, truly wanted? And yeah, maybe Ryan was playing him—he was an excellent actor—but right now? With those flirtatious words on his phone screen, Trey didn’t give a fuck—it felt good to be wanted.

  He picked the phone back up.

  What would you do with me if I was?

  Ryan stared at his phone. Was this really happening? Was he going to do this? His publicist had told him time and again to never put anything in writing that he wouldn’t want on the front page of a tabloid, but did text messages count?

  I’d like it better if you did me.

  It was frank, and it could be publicly humiliating if text messages did count. But Ryan instinctively trusted Trey, not just with his body, but with his reputation, or whatever was left of it.

  I’d kiss you for hours.

  The text brought a smile to his face. He loved the way Trey kissed—like it was his favorite thing ever. Like he had all the time in the world to get it just right, and he intended to take it. Just kiss? Really?

  No. But that’s where it would start. You laugh when you kiss. It’s cute. And when I kiss that spot behind your ear, it makes you wriggle and you make the hottest sound. I think about that sound a lot.

  Ryan’s breath hitched, caught in his throat, and then bubbled out in a laugh as he wondered whether that was exactly what Trey had meant. He was hard as a rock now, his dick tenting the soft sheets. Even though he had been planning to sleep in, this was a million times better.

  You have an advantage over me, with your superior memory. Remind me?

  He palmed his cock through his briefs, letting the fantasy wash over him. Trey’s lips on his throat, Trey’s h
ands on his body.

  The next text included a picture. The muscles of Trey’s chest and abs were covered with a light dusting of strawberry-blond hair and freckles. His lips were curved in a wicked smile, the tip of his tongue just visible between his teeth. At the edge of his boxers, a tiny tattoo caught Ryan’s eye. He wanted to put his mouth on it. Kiss it, bite it. He groaned and squeezed his dick harder. His phone buzzed again.

  Did that jog your memory?

  Fuck this. Kicking the sheet away, he hit the FaceTime button and waited for the call to connect. What if Trey didn’t answer? What if he was fine with texting but not video? Who knew sexting could be fraught with anxieties that drunken hookups weren’t?

  When Trey’s face filled the screen a moment later, an absurd wave of relief and renewed desire hit Ryan.

  “Hi,” he whispered.

  “Hi, yourself.” Trey’s voice was a little breathless. “I mean, good morning.”

  “Good morning.” Ryan laughed. “Is this okay? God, you’re pretty.”

  Trey made a face. “Pretty? Me?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan nodded. “I can’t wait to get my hands on that chest. Touch it for me?”

  “Like this?” Trey tilted the phone so Ryan could watch as he caressed his own pecs, tugged at a nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Ryan imagined those work-roughened hands on his own chest and let out a low moan. His screen filled with Trey’s face again. “Your turn.”

  It took a minute, but Ryan found a way to prop his phone up on the table next to the bed so that most of his body showed. He ran one hand over his chest and cupped his cock with the other. He flicked at a nipple, shuddering as it tightened.

  “Nice,” Trey murmured, voice strained. “Take your briefs off, I want to see your cock.”

  Ryan scrambled out of his briefs and tossed them on the floor, then grabbed his dick and gave it a long, slow stroke.

  “Do you ever play with your ass when you jerk off?”

  Oh god. He bit his lip and nodded. “I love it. Love ass play. Fuck, Trey, I’m so turned on.”

  Trey let out a rumbling, humming sigh. “Mmm. Me too.” On the screen, Trey’s dick filled the frame, and it looked wet—was that lube? Spit? Pre-come? Ryan didn’t know, didn’t care. It was hot as fuck, and he squirmed.

  “Is that for me?” he teased, his mouth watering as Trey’s hand slid over the head, squeezing a little drop from the end.

  “Yeah. Just for you, Ry. I want you to suck it, get it nice and wet.”

  Ryan shoved two of his fingers in his mouth and sucked, wishing they were Trey’s cock. He loved giving head—loved getting it too, who didn’t? But right now, he wanted to give Trey a show, sliding slick fingers in and out of his mouth.

  “That’s good. That’s really good. Now roll over.”

  Ryan turned onto his stomach and thrust his dick against the sheets, still sucking on his fingers. He loved the sensation of his mouth being filled almost as much as he loved the vulnerability of turning his back to the camera.

  “I’d love to see you up on your knees. Will you show me your ass?”

  Ryan pulled his knees up under him, but left his chest pressed to the mattress. He couldn’t see Trey anymore, not with his reddened face pushed into the pillow, but just hearing his voice was enough. Especially when he was giving orders. Ryan loved bottoming, but even more, he loved being topped. Having a guy tell him what to do, making him wait for it—it made him crazy. He wasn’t into kinky shit or anything, he just liked guys who were bossy in bed.

  “Show me where you want my dick.”

  Ryan groaned and reached back with his spit-slick fingers to probe at his own ass, sliding one fingertip in and letting out a gasp.

  “Push it all the way in. Can you take two?”

  Nodding frantically, Ryan shoved both fingers in, loving the stretch, and loving Trey’s perceptive, toppy nature.

  “Grab your dick with your other hand and jerk it while you fuck yourself.”

  If he did that, he was going to come. The orgasm welled up in him before he even touched his cock, but a few strokes with his fingers in his ass were all it was going to take.

  “I’m going to come,” he warned.

  Trey’s throaty laugh filled the room. “Yeah, me too. God, you’re sexy. Roll onto your side so I can see your face.”

  It was awkward, with his fingers still in his ass, but Ryan managed to do as he was told and then grabbed his dick as he thrust his fingers deeper. He opened his eyes and looked up to see Trey’s face filling the screen, teeth digging into those beautiful lips, and that tipped him over the edge, sending the orgasm rushing through him.

  “Oh fuck.” His body shook with the force of it, and he pulled his fingers out of his ass and bit down on the heel of his hand to keep from shouting as he spurted all over his chest and belly.

  He heard a guttural groan, and his iPhone showed Trey’s mouth open, eyes closed tightly in ecstasy, a ruddy flush across his cheekbones.

  As the tension seeped out of his body, Ryan grabbed a T-shirt off the floor and mopped at his chest, then gave up and stared at the screen, where Trey was staring back at him, breathing like he’d just run for miles.

  “That was—”

  “Fucking incredible,” Trey finished for him. “You’re amazing. I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

  Ryan’s eyes drifted closed, and he bit his lip as his dick gave another jerk. “God, yeah. Even after coming like that, I want you.”

  At a muffled noise from the phone, Ryan looked up. Trey was gone.

  “Are you still there?” he called. “Was it something I said?”

  “Yeah, still here.” Trey’s face reappeared. “I’m sorry. I kicked the dog out of the room when the texting turned dirty, and he was whining at the door.”

  “I’m so glad you texted this morning. That was fun—I’ve never done that before.”

  “Sexting or the FaceTime?”

  “Either,” he confessed. “You make me reckless.”

  “How is it a guy who has a reputation as a Hollywood playboy has never had text sex?”

  Ryan flinched at the reminder of his slutty reputation. Did Trey believe everything that was said about Ryan? And why did Ryan care if he did? He wasn’t ashamed of enjoying sex. He took a deep breath and pulled on his best nonchalant smile to cover the sting. “Moviemaking doesn’t leave a lot of time for relationships, and believe it or not, I don’t just hand out my phone number to every hot person I meet. And even if I did, so what?”

  So much for nonchalance.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean . . .” Trey’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it like that. Ryan, please—”

  “My friend West is in town, and we’re driving down the coast today, maybe taking the ferry to the mainland, so I’m gonna go now. Thanks for popping my sexting cherry.”

  Ryan disconnected the call and tossed the phone on the bed.

  Yeah, he totally sucked at nonchalance.

  Ryan made his way down to the kitchen and found West pouring himself a big cup of coffee.

  “Good morning.”

  West looked up and gave him a sheepish grin. “Hi. Can I just say I’m sorry for making a pass at you last night so we can spare ourselves the awkward and move on?”

  Ryan stared down at his shoes. This was good, right? “Yeah, bro. Already forgotten.”

  “Thanks. So, what happened to sleeping in?” West poured a second cup—black—and handed it over to Ryan, then grabbed Ryan’s box of Grape Nuts out of the cupboard and made a face. “I can’t believe you eat these.”

  “Yeah, well, I have to maintain my girlish figure. There’s bread in the pantry and eggs in the fridge if you want to make French toast or something.”

  “Or we could grab breakfast on the road? Surely you can get something healthy somewhere along the coast? I mean . . . since you didn’t sleep in after all . . .” West wheedled.

  Ryan took a sip of his coffee and rubbed
his eyes. “Okay. Lemme go put some deodorant on and find my sandals.”

  An hour later, they were cruising down Highway 12 in West’s Ferrari, wind whipping their hair and West’s favorite nineties music blasting from the speakers.

  “Are those horses?” West pointed at the shoreline.

  “Yeah. There are maybe fifty or seventy-five of them here on Banker’s Shoals. More on Corolla.”

  “Wow. Okay, good to know. How far are we from Wilmington?”

  Ryan side-eyed his friend. “Like five hours. You want to go to Wilmington today?”

  “No. But there’s a decent-sized film industry there. Lots of union people. Big sound stages.”

  “You’ve talked about making a movie out here before, when you bought the house. You got a script yet?” Ryan bit back the question he really wanted to ask. Is there a role for me?

  “It’s not a movie. I’m shooting a pilot out here. Ali . . . Ali and I wrote the script together.”

  Ali? His Ali wrote a pilot script? Suddenly all the times he’d seen her hunched over her laptop chugging coffee instead of sleeping off a hangover made a lot more sense.

  “Holy shit. She never said anything. Is it— It’s a done deal? The pilot is happening?” Ryan was giddy and breathless at the thought of what this meant for Ali. A writing credit. A chance to show she was more than the pretty face with devilish comic timing.

  “The pilot has gotten the greenlight—I’m going to be funding a lot of it myself. If the season gets picked up . . .” He shrugged. “I had this idea of living out here for a few years. Getting away from the noise and the stink and the parties. That was back when Ali and I were still together though. Then there was the accident, and now she’s in rehab, and who knows what’s going to happen next.”

  Ryan swallowed and stared at the blue coastline whizzing past. “Do you still want that?”

  West shrugged again. “I suppose it depends on a lot of things. One step at a time, you know? But I can see it—opening credits with the wild horses even. Can’t you picture it?”

  “Sure.” But Ryan couldn’t. This was the home he’d rushed to escape from. Who would want to watch a TV show about it? Looking out at the ocean and feeling the wind in his hair, he remembered curling up under the boardwalk with Caro and Mason like so many puppies and sharing their dreams of acting—how was he supposed to know back then that he was the only one who actually wanted to leave? But there had been moments when he’d wanted to stay frozen right there with the only people in the world who loved him.