Come On Closer (20 page)

Shane chuckled. “You could say that.”

Fitz gave him a dirty look for some reason she couldn't
fathom. It made her wonder if he wrote something a little scandalous, like erotica. She kind of hoped so, if only because it would be so wonderfully unexpected.

“I'm a writer,” he said, his expression lightening when he looked at her. “It's not something I really spread around, though. So if you could maybe keep that quiet, I'd appreciate it. Shane says you're trustworthy, and you're close to people I already trust, so . . . welcome to the secret club.” He playfully gave her the Vulcan salute. “Seriously, though, do you guys want pizza? I can heat it up.”

“Book first. Then maybe pizza. Unless it's been on your counter for a week. I know how you get,” Shane said.

Larkin followed the two men through rooms filled with a mixture of antique furniture, modern technology, and fantasy memorabilia. The man had a very realistic dragon head mounted above a huge fireplace in the parlor, she noted. It had glowing eyes. She'd never seen anything quite like the mash-up of old and new and just plain different Fitz had going on in here, but it sort of worked. It was interesting, at any rate.

They ended up in the library, a large high-ceilinged room where shelves were stuffed with books, everything from embossed leather hardbacks to worn paperbacks. A small desk sat facing a window through which she could see the lighthouse way out on Night's Point, and there were a few scattered chairs, all of them built for comfort. She breathed in, loving the way even the air smelled of books. She'd spend hours in this place if she lived here.

Shane and Fitz were arguing companionably about something or other while she looked around, and she
nearly missed one of the most interesting things about the room—the posters. On the few sections of wall dividing the bookcases hung big framed posters of book covers by the famed fantasy novelist Malcolm Roy. They'd already made one movie out of his series and it had done so well that . . .

Larkin's eyes widened. “Oh my God,” she said. “That's you?”

Fitz looked confused, and then the light went on. “Oh. Yeah. Like I said, I'm a writer.”

She stared. “But. But . . .
Smoke and Glass.
That's you.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, a little shyly. “Cool, right?”

Her excitement bubbled over. “I read that! I saw the movie. Oh my God.” She touched her hand to her mouth, amazed that this was actually happening. The guy with the pizza-stained sweatshirt was Malcolm Roy. And she was in his house. And he was Fitz. “It's possible I'm going to need to sit down.”

Shane sighed. “Don't tell him how awesome he is. He'll offer to show you his fantasy sword collection and then I'll end up sitting in the parlor watching movies where stuff explodes while you two geek out. Fitz, no swords.”

He looked mildly disappointed. “I never get to show anybody the swords. I have a gorgeous replica of Anduril.”

“You don't get to show anybody because you're a freaking hermit.”

“How does nobody know you live here, again?” Larkin asked. “I know I must have seen pictures of you when I was, ah, accidentally looking around online for info on the next release. For hours. One time.” She smiled. “I'm not actually creepy, I swear. I do love your books, though.”

He grinned. “I appreciate that. And as long as I don't find you hiding in my bathroom or something, you don't have to worry about the creep factor. We're good.”

Maybe it was because he was so familiar to her as a guy she occasionally talked to who hung around with people she knew, but she couldn't believe that she just hadn't made the connection. Of course, why would she think to? She had vague memories of an attractive guy in a baseball cap—and maybe a short beard?—in press photos, but she'd been more interested in the information than the pictures. The man in front of her was relaxed to the point of looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, and his head and face were bare. He was slight of build, not very tall, with short black hair and lightly tanned skin. His eyes were dark, a rich earthy brown with flecks the color of buttered caramel when the light caught them just right, warm and friendly and . . . actually a little bloodshot right about now. Handsome, but in an entirely different way than Shane was.

Fitz was subtle. Shane was anything but.

“Well, the great thing about being a writer is, no paparazzi. Most of my fan interaction is online, and none of my film stuff happens here. I'm vague about where I live in the state, and when I do cons, I just make sure I don't look exactly like, you know, me. You'd be amazed how far that goes. Around here I'm just a townie whose family gave him their huge old house. My parents are snowbirds, stay down in the Keys all winter and come back in the late spring. It's nice to not rattle around in here by myself for part of the year. Anyway, in the Cove I'm just Fitz. I'm pretty sure people think I'm a professional paperboy mooching off his family or something.”

“They think you make porn,” Shane informed him. “Porn magnate.”

Fitz wrinkled his nose. “Bull. Nobody thinks that except whoever you suggested it to, I bet.”

“I'm just helping keep up your ruse,” Shane said.

“Gee, thanks.” He rolled his eyes. “Here, take your book if you won't stay and eat my pizza. Oh! Hang on, I have something for you, too, Larkin. Just a loaner, because this is worth its weight in gold, but as long as you get it back to me before five years from now, otherwise known as ‘when Shane returns things,' it's fine.”

“Okay,” she said with a slightly confused laugh as he dashed off, his dazed shuffle vanishing in a burst of speed. She raised her eyebrows at Shane, who shrugged.

“Could be anything,” he said. “But it's probably something dorky.”

“How are you two friends, again?” she asked, laughing.

“He used to get picked on when we were in middle school. He was really short before the whole puberty thing kicked in. I was giving him some crap one day and he told me off.”

“You're friends because he told you off?” Larkin asked. “Is this how you make all of your friends?”

“We're friends because he cursed me out in ways I'd never even heard of. It was a work of art. No kidding, I didn't even want to kick his ass after that. I wanted him to write down all the insults so I could commit them to memory. I mean, I'm good, but Fitz is a
master
.”

“Did he actually write it all down?”

“No. But he did buy me a candy bar, and we were
good from then on.” Shane smiled. “He was kind of a weird kid, but he got better. Mostly.”

“Got it!” Fitz walked back in, carrying a disk in a clear case. “You'll thank me for this,” he told Larkin as he handed it over. The wicked twinkle in his eye was intriguing, and she looked down to examine the gift.

“What is that?” Shane asked, eyeing it. “What are you trying to corrupt her with?”

“Hey, I'm plenty good at corrupting myself,” she informed him. The way one of his eyebrows lifted, just a little, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, nearly melted her right then and there. He
would
take it that way. And she couldn't seem to make herself mind.

“I put that together for Shane's birthday a couple of years ago. Sullivan's Greatest Hits. Watch it and be awed.”

“Oh, not that,” Shane said, and made a grab for it. Larkin scooted away, hiding the disk behind her back and holding her other hand out in front of her.

“No, you don't,” she said. “I want to see this!”

“I have it on my computer,” Fitz said, looking extremely pleased with himself. “I can make her infinite copies, so you might as well let her watch it. Anyway, it's awesome.”

“Yeah, it's awesome, but that doesn't mean I want everyone seeing it.”

“I'm not everyone,” Larkin pointed out. “I won't show anybody else. But I
am
going to watch it. I feel like it's background information I should have. I mean, how can we date if I go through life unaware of your greatest hits? Or worse, unaware that you even had any hits? It would be a travesty!”

“She's right,” Fitz said. “You don't want to make her live a lie, do you?” He shot Larkin a conspiratorial grin, and she couldn't help but return it.

“You guys suck,” Shane grumbled. “Both of you. Fine, but I'm watching it with you. So you have context.”

She was amused by how embarrassed he looked. That wasn't like him, which in turn made her even more curious about what, exactly, they were going to be watching. “Sure,” she said. “Maybe at your place for once?” They hadn't spent much time at Shane's house, and never just hanging out there like they tended to do at her place. For a guy who had been a little nervous about where she lived, he'd certainly made himself at home.

He nodded. “Okay. My place.” Then he turned his attention back to Fitz, hand out. “My book, jerk. Now that you've had some fun.”

“I really have. Thanks for that; it was a good break. Now maybe I can work past this plot point that I can't quite . . . yeah, never mind, I can see your brain trying to shut down already.” He picked up a hardcover book from his desk and handed it over. Larkin eyed it.

“That's not one of yours,” she said.

“No way. I don't read about elves,” Shane said, wrinkling his nose. “Not unless they wear chain mail bikinis, which is definitely not Fitz's style.”

Fitz simply rolled his eyes while Larkin smacked Shane in the arm. “Don't be a pig. Chain mail bikinis aren't functional. I don't ask for my fantasy heroes to wear chain mail briefs.”

“You could. It's fair. I'd fight in metal undies for you, babe.” He laughed and put up his arms as she lightly pummeled him.

“Hard pass,” she said.

“And on that note,” Fitz said, shaking his head, “I'm going to let you two get on with, uh, whatever you're doing this evening so I can get on with mine. Book's due in two weeks. I'd like to shower at some point.”

“Yeah, do the rest of the world a favor and get on that,” Shane said. “Thanks for getting this signed for me, by the way.” He held up the slightly battered copy of
Dark Matter
by T. R. Webb. Larkin looked at it, curious.

“You like sci-fi?”

“I like
this
sci-fi. I've been reading this series for years,” Shane said, opening the front cover and grinning over what he saw. For an instant, with the way his smile lit him up, he looked like an eager young boy instead of a cynical adult. “Fitz was at a con with the author like a month ago. I sent him with one of my favorites to see if she'd sign.”

“Tia's cool; I knew she wouldn't mind,” Fitz said. Larkin knew she must have gotten an awed look on her face—she couldn't help it, since every few minutes she remembered she was standing in Malcolm freaking Roy's library—because when Fitz looked at her he blushed a little and shrugged. “My job is pretty great sometimes. Especially when it doesn't feel like a job. Which it does right this second.” He sighed heavily. “Okay, out, both of you. Come back and make sure I'm still alive in a few days, will you? In case I lose it and try to eat myself to death like Pizza the Hut.”

“You got it,” Shane said. The two men shared what Larkin thought of as an awkward bro hug, which involved one arm each and some overzealous patting, before Fitz walked them to the front door and sent them off, back out into the
night.

S
hane was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride over to his place. Larkin tried prodding him a little, but after a few one – to three-word answers she gave up and relaxed into the seat of his sedan, turning up the seat warmer so she could be cozy on what was yet another frigid night.

“I wish spring would hurry up and get here,” she said, gaze moving over the snowdrifts at the sides of the road. “It's supposed to make its debut, what, Monday? I don't think it got the memo.”

“I wonder,” Shane said, and Larkin eyed him. He seemed focused on the road, but his mind was definitely elsewhere.

“You wonder what?” she asked, and she had to say it twice before it registered. When it did, he seemed a little startled.

“What? Oh. I was thinking out loud. Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” she replied. A little line had appeared between his eyes, a sign he'd been serious for too long today. She preferred him smiling. Real smiles, not the ones he wore so often in public. She'd learned to tell the difference. “What were you wondering?”

“Nothing. It's stupid.”

The sharp words, though not directed at her, pricked her nonetheless. “It's not stupid. What is it?”

Shane breathed in deeply, seemed to think it over, and then said, “I just wonder what it's like being Fitz sometimes.”

“You could smear some pizza on your shirt and find out.”

His smile was faint, also unlike him. Shane could be a little mercurial, but he rarely seemed sad. That was what this was, though—sadness. “I mean, I wonder what it's like to do something you really love for a living. He complains, and I know it's a drag sometimes, but he genuinely loves writing.”

“Well,” Larkin said, “I can make a guess, since I do something I love, too.”

He turned his head to look at her. “Yeah, I guess you do. I'm surrounded by fulfilled people,” he said, and laughed. The sound was hollow. “So what's it like? Does making a job out of something you love ruin it?”

“No,” Larkin said, drawing out the word as she considered. “Not really. It
changes
when you're getting paid for it, when you commit to it that way. You have to find ways to remember why you fell in love with it, even if it's just little things. Baking is creative; writing is creative. You can't just be on autopilot. The batteries can get a little low sometimes. I can get tired. But when I'm not baking, I get antsy. I feel strange, like something is
missing. Even when things get rough, I can't imagine doing anything else. And then I feel lucky,” she finished, smiling as the simple truth hit her all over again. “Despite everything, I really am pretty lucky. I can't speak for Fitz, but he'd probably agree with at least some of that.”

“Hmm,” Shane said. He was silent again as he pulled into his driveway. He'd left a few lights on in the house, a pretty Dutch Colonial on Rowan Street, which looked to Larkin like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Lovely homes, well-tended yards, mature trees lining the street . . . It was the sort of place she'd once dreamed of living. She still did, sometimes. But she loved her little place. And however much Shane's house won in the looks department, her own was much more a home. That was probably why they'd only ever stopped here briefly when they were together, she thought. It wouldn't surprise her if he felt the same way she did.

The went in together, footsteps echoing a little in the foyer. Larkin slid her coat from her shoulders and took off her boots while Shane did the same. He had a rubber mat, at least, where she could dump the boots, but the rest of his decorating was decidedly minimal. It wasn't exactly bare, but most of the house made it look like he was only here temporarily. She wondered whether that was by design.

“You really want to watch that?” he asked, indicating the disk she had in her hand. She clutched it to her chest, in case he tried to swipe it again.

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Great. I'll make some popcorn. You want some wine?”

“Just water for me tonight,” she said. “I'll get it set up.” She dashed into the family room with unrestrained glee, and she was glad to hear Shane's chuckle as he headed for the kitchen. She didn't know why being at Fitz's had bothered him so much. The two of them seemed to hang out fairly often. So what was different about tonight?

Larkin was curled up on the couch with the remote when Shane returned, bowl of popcorn in hand. He handed her a pint glass filled with water. She examined it, noting the brewery logo on the side. What was it about guys living alone? She'd never met one that had normal glassware. Shane did have grown-up furniture that didn't look like it had come out of his college apartment, however, so that was something. Actually, what he did have was pretty tasteful. He'd probably have a decent eye for decorating if he ever decided to move all the way into his own house.

“Thanks,” she said. “Ready?” He made some unintelligible noise as he got situated beside her. Larkin looked at his bleak expression, tapped one finger against her glass, and decided this was no time to be keeping her distance. They ought to be past being awkward. Well, past all but her usual awkwardness, anyway. She scooted over and snuggled into his side, relaxing into his warmth. She'd missed touching him. She still missed touching him.

It's been weeks and he hasn't run off. Maybe I could think about lifting the embargo. . . .

Shane put one arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair absently while he settled the popcorn bowl in his lap. It was all she could do not to arch into his touch like an eager kitten. Unfortunately, if she did, that
would probably put off the movie for the night . . . and she really did want to see it.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Start it up. Don't feel like you need to watch the whole thing, though. It's pretty boring.”

“I doubt that.”

He shifted against her, and she could feel his discomfort as clearly as if it were her own. Larkin wished he wasn't quite so reluctant about this, but in a way that made her all the more determined to find out why. With a final glance up at him, she pushed play.

As promised, the title screen proclaimed this to be
Celebrating 28 Years of Shane Sullivan: the Man, the Myth, the Guy Who Always Gets Out of Paying for Dinner.

“It was my birthday,” he said. “I'm loved, obviously.”

“I can see that.”

The
Monty Python
theme song started playing, along with pictures and short videos of Shane and his friends through the years. Larkin was immediately riveted. She never really forgot that Shane had grown up in the Cove, but hearing about it was one thing. Seeing it was quite another. There was Shane and Jake, barely pubescent, flexing for the camera. Shane and Fitz dancing like idiots. Teenage Shane holding court at some party with a cheap beer in his hand while younger versions of people she recognized acted like . . . well, teenagers drinking underage around him. There were prom pics—“Your hair!” Larkin laughed at the dated skater cut that did not lie down the way it was supposed to—and sports pics and casual photos, all with the same basic group of people. That was,
mostly
the same group of people.

“You
did
date a lot, didn't you?” she asked, turning her head to look up at him.

“That depends on your definition of ‘dating,'” he replied, and rubbed at the back of his neck before shoving another handful of popcorn in his mouth. She wondered if that was so he didn't have to answer more questions on the dazzling array of girls, then women, he'd had on his arm at one point or another. He didn't seem to have a type, apart from “beautiful.” Sometimes they were in the background, sometimes right at this side, but there was always someone making cow eyes at him. And more than a few where he, in turn, was making cow eyes at Cici Ferris.

Yuck.

To his credit, he seemed to know. “Don't say it. I already know. Just
try
to remember how young I was, okay?”

“Mmm.” It might as well have been a million years ago, but Larkin still felt her hackles rising. She made a mental note to give Fitz a little hell the next time she saw him. This was cool and all, but she wasn't sure what he'd wanted her to see apart from bad fashion and embarrassing hair. There were probably tons of inside jokes here for people who'd known him for years, but she wasn't one of them. She'd been struggling her way out of Purvis, and then through college, and finally out of California altogether.

There was a twinge of jealousy at the fun he'd obviously had. Then she let it go as well as she could. She tried very hard to subscribe to the Matt McConaughey
Just keep livin'
philosophy of existence. Especially when she started feeling bitter about her upbringing.

After all, she'd gotten here, and that was what mattered most.

“You know,” she said after the fifth or so picture of Shane and company messing around at the park, “we can just . . .”

Her words died in her throat as text appeared on the screen:
Happy Birthday to a
Legendary Local Villain
. That was when the interesting clips began. And that was when she realized what Fitz had wanted her to see.

The rest of the video was a montage of Shane's performances, from high school and college to local theater. And they were an absolute treasure.

“Oh, wow” was all she could say as she watched him swagger onstage as Orin Scrivello, DDS, and launch into the song “You'll be a Dentist” with sneering gusto. But that was hardly all. He'd played the Wolf in
Into the Woods
, Mordred in
Camelot
, Gaston in
Beauty and the Beast
. Sometimes his turns were sinister, sometimes more comedic, and sometimes a bit of both. Larkin watched, mesmerized, as a nearly unrecognizable Shane chewed scenery as Fagin in
Oliver!
and sang in a beautiful baritone she couldn't have imagined coming from him. And she understood why Ryan was pushing him to take the job at the high school.

He had a gift.

“You're amazing,” she said. When he was silent, she turned her head. He was watching the screen with a wistfulness she'd never seen in him. Every bit of the confident veneer was gone. He looked a bit older than the guy on the video, and much less sure of himself, and infinitely sadder. He wasn't playing any role at
all . . . and because of that, Larkin felt as though she was seeing him for the very first time.

And still . . . She liked the man she saw. More than liked. Because right now, he wasn't larger-than-life. He was just . . . real.

“You miss it,” Larkin said softly.

“Of course I do. It's the only thing I really like doing. I love getting to climb inside someone else's head, become a completely different person for a few hours. It's not just that it's fun, which it is, but it's challenging . . . and it's freeing. Working with other people who have that passion for it just makes it better. And then to get to share it? There's nothing better than performing in front of an audience. It's like . . . magic. Which is the opposite of everything I do now. I never wanted to be a lawyer.” His voice was gentle, but there was something in it that hinted at old bitterness. And after hearing him explain how he felt, Larkin truly understood.

His life was what hers would have become if she'd walked away from her passion and done something conventional. Something expected. It was the first time she'd ever felt lucky that no one had cared enough to try to hold her back.

“Why did you do what they wanted?” she asked. “You knew it would make you unhappy.”

“I hoped it wouldn't,” he replied. On-screen, the play clips had given way to a clip of Shane's break-dancing skills, which were terrible, apparently. With a chagrined look, he picked up the remote and turned it off. Then, the screen dark, he angled his body to face her. “I knew I needed to make a living. I knew my parents wouldn't pay for school if I did what I wanted.
They barely tolerated it when I minored in theater, but at least it was something.”

“But you could have gotten away,” Larkin said. “You could have reinvented yourself.” She knew. She'd done it. But her situation had been markedly different, and it didn't surprise her when Shane offered a rueful little smile and shook his head.

“I thought about it. A
lot
. But where was I going to go, really? My friends are here. My life is here. My family, such as it is, is here. I'm a
Sullivan
, remember? The name gets heavier every year I wear it. If I'd really wanted to head out to New York or LA and try to make a name for myself, maybe I could have pushed harder. But I figured out a long time ago that I don't have that kind of fire in the belly. I love acting, but I didn't want to starve for years. I'm too damn spoiled to struggle along waiting tables and going to auditions, sharing some tiny apartment and never having any money. I know myself, Larkin. I'm not built to suffer for some vague possibility that I might get famous. I like being comfortable, I like knowing where I fit in, I like having friends I've been able to count on since I was just a punk kid.” He sighed. “So I did what I was supposed to do, came home, and figured I'd get over it.”

“But you didn't.”

Shane shrugged one of his shoulders. “As much as I'm going to, I guess.”

“You don't even do local theater, though,” Larkin said. “If acting makes you happy, that's a great outlet.”

“Too busy,” he said. “It's a pretty big commitment when you decide to do a show, no matter what the scale is, and we've actually got a very nice little theater here.
It wouldn't be fair to jump in and then half-ass it. They deserve better.”

She watched him, struggling to understand. The guy she'd just watched in the video had been all lit up inside, fully inhabiting each character and clearly loving it. The one she now sat beside seemed defeated in a way that caught her off guard.