Fall Apart (33 page)

“Stupid idea one million and counting,” he grumbled.

At the studio that evening, Alarik was switching lenses between cameras and waiting for Zane to finish with wardrobe and make up. Today was his first time to photograph his friend with his completely shaved head and the fake tattoos. He wanted the picture to have a heavy undertone, a cold, dark feeling, even if the pictures were just going to be random shots on set.

At the sound of his name, Alarik turned and found Max approaching. His stomach jumped guiltily.

“I just called makeup. Zane’s almost ready.”

Alarik looked Max over and nodded. His hair was messy from the headphones he was constantly taking off and putting back on during filming, but of course, it looked artful. Was it ever any other way?

“More candid shots on the schedule today.”

“Good. Try to keep me out of them.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, you’re fired.”

Alarik smiled. “Well, well. You have a sense of humor!”

“I got it for Christmas,” Max was matter of fact. “I even laugh from time to time now.”

A surprisingly comfortable silence fell and Alarik continued tinkering with his camera. Max settled in beside him, arms crossed as he considered the interior set they were scheduled to film on for the night. It was a talking/arguing/fighting scene between Zane’s undercover agent character and the leader of the group he was infiltrating.

“We’ll need to change the angle for the first half of the scene,” Max murmured to himself. “Wider.”

Alarik glanced at him, at the set, and back to his camera. He found himself standing a little closer to Max, leaning in when the man spoke, like he couldn’t hear very well. Max was wearing jeans, boots, and a black sweater. Casual, but…so distracting.

What’s wrong with me? Why am I noticing these things? It’s like I haven’t been laid in a year. Am I that vindictive and insecure? Jesus.

There was no telling how strong a motivator rejection could be.

“I like seeing you here and working with you everyday,” Max admitted in the same thoughtful tone. “How are you feeling?”

I’m going mad, he thought. I’m discouraged. I’m concerned. I’m angry. He could lie and say he wasn’t, but why bother? “I’m shit, actually. It’s nice to have something to get my mind off of all of it.”

“So, Damon’s not contacted you?” An elegant brow lifted as Max asked and Alarik felt his own twitch in response.

“Not since my dismissal. I did speak to his mother, however. I like to enjoy at least one mortifying experience each day we’re apart.”

Max acted like he wanted to say something snide, but refrained. “We’ve become
friends
of a sort, Alarik, but I don’t want you to think because I ask about your lover that I’m not looking out for my own interests. I’m sorry for Damon and what he’s going through, but I am biding my time. Do you understand?”

Alarik stared, unspeaking.

“I was too hasty, leaving you the way I did at Zane’s. I was angry you were there with another man. I felt like you ran and hid yourself from me, when I was closer than ever to admitting what I needed—” Max stood up quickly and though he didn’t come any closer, his height and potency made the large soundstage seem much smaller. “Alarik. I’m telling you that you’re in the tall grass now, and I may be the serpent who bites.” His teeth were white against his lips as they
snicked
together on the last word.

Well.

I’m fucked, Alarik thought.

“Consider me warned.”

Max’s lips lifted on one side and his eyes flicked over Alarik’s shoulder. “Let’s see it,” he called out.

See what?

Zane’s familiar laugh came from somewhere behind him and Alarik turned with a clumsy jerk of his body, relieved and disappointed at the same time. His friend was wearing military style boots with his trousers tucked inside, but a fluffy white robe covered his upper body. The completely shaved head was difficult to get used to even if it looked good.

A few feet away from the two of them, Zane stopped and took off his robe, putting his character’s tattoos on display.

“Mark is going to
hate
this.”

For a few seconds, Alarik couldn’t even see the tattoos because of all of the very well cut muscle distracting him. He fought a sudden urge to punch Zane center mast.
Unfair abdominal advantage—personal foul!

“Oh, put the robe back on! I can’t believe I have to work under these conditions—subjected to this kind of view for hours at a time.”

Zane smiled, but his expression grew merrier when Max shook his head. “Sure, he has the body, but I read online that he can’t act. If only Pershall had warned me sooner. Too bad this undercover agent you’re playing wasn’t gay, Zane, since a gay man should only have gay roles. I think I read that on the Screen Actors Guild website.”

Alarik jerked his thumb at Max and said to Zane, “He’s taking his new sense of humor for a test drive today.”

“Mmm. Sounds good—how’s it feel?” Zane asked.

“Broken. Nobody laughs at my jokes.”

“Give it time,” Alarik patted him quickly on the shoulder. “We’re all too afraid of you.”

Max gave Alarik’s hand a measured look where it rested on his shoulder. “Some should be more afraid than others.”

Alarik let his hand fall away a little too slowly. When he realized Zane was watching them, his eyes bright and curious, he turned back to the table and his camera equipment as though his Nikon had smacked him in warning.

Tugging his robe back over his shoulders, Zane huddled a tad closer and lowered his voice. “What are you two doing the week before Christmas? Max—I know Mark already asked you this, but we recently had a change of plans for our anniversary and we wanted to include you guys.”

As Zane filled them in on a ski trip to Tahoe, Alarik couldn’t help but wonder about the wording “include you guys.” Like, include them both as separate entities, or include them together as a
couple
? Was he seeing something that Alarik didn’t mean for him to see? Did Zane think he was cheating on Damon while the other man recovered? If he threw Max on the floor right here and now, would it even
be
cheating? Damon pretty much said they were over…

Until Alarik met his Mr. Wright, he figured he’d spend the holidays as he always did: cozied up with his aunt and uncle, eating and drinking too much, pulling crackers and trying to fit his head into a paper crown.

The week before the accident, he thought his plans had possibly changed to doing something together with Damon and his family in America.

With Zane offering an alternative with an enthusiastic pitch about “winter activities,” Alarik had to wonder where he and Damon would stand come Christmas. The Thanksgiving holiday was two weeks away and all he’d felt from Ventura was a cold front. By Boxing Day, would there be a relationship at all? Did it even matter to Damon what Alarik wanted?

***

Simone and Damon chose an out of the way pub for their “date” and since the moment they slid into the booth, the bartender had kept a steady flow of stale popcorn and booze coming their way. There was an entire menu of bar fare they could sample, but neither of them wanted to risk losing their buzz.

“Tate over there is going to make sure we have a cab when it’s time to leave,” Simone said, pointing loosely at the bartender.

“I think his name is Tyler.”

“To Tate Tyler!” Simone lifted her shot glass. “The first official supporter of Those Who Suck Anonymous.”

Damon nodded his approval of her eloquence. “Tate Tyler.” Snapping his fingers as an idea came to mind, he managed to win his companion’s glazed attention. “Don’t we need to create some rules or bylaws…shit like that? This
is
an official club.”

“Mmm,” Simone agreed, slapping a hand on the pub table. “I’ve got one. No mopey, sad stories that make us cry. Zero.” She made a zero with her fingers and looked at him through it. “All stories have to be funny, entertaining, or embarrassing.”

“Yes. And
no crying in general.
Such a good rule.”

“Your turn.” Simone continued nursing her shot.

“We get to vote on new members. First right of refusal and whatnot.” Damon glanced at the four other people in the pub and shook his head. The two of them probably shouldn’t ever tell anyone else about this group anyway. “We’re fucking elite, right? For sure,” he answered his own question.

“Government by the people!” She lifted her glass again. “Next rule: Comfortable pants only!”

Damon squinted. “What?”

“It’s brilliant. Trust me.”

“I think threeish rules are good enough,” Damon decided. “Tate Tyler’s slowing down on the popcorn.”

Simone grabbed the empty plastic basket and waved it in the air. “More popcorn, barkeep! And four more shots for your favorite table.”

This was funny to Damon and a gentle chuckle began in his stomach, poked at his busted ribs, and finally made its way from his throat. He liked her. What a good girl. And, he’d only felt broken hearted a few times since the night began instead of constantly broken hearted like he was at home.

“I had a bad dream last night,” she interrupted his muffled amusement, her voice methodical as she tried to remember the details. “I dreamt that I was at work, behind my desk, doing whatever. In walks Todd.”

The smile fell from Damon’s face as he watched Simone’s expression change. Tate Tyler dropped off two more baskets of popcorn and the shots, and drifted away again.

“I stood up at my desk like,
What the fuck are you doing here, Todd
, and he wrinkles his nose at me. At me! So, I get mad and walk around the desk to push him really hard. That’s when he starts talking.

Damon couldn’t look away from her face, frowning as she recalled the details with more clarity. “What’d he say?” With Todd, they could get profound, sarcastic, or depressing commentary—that is,
if
they believed the dead visited the living in dreams.

Simone lifted her eyes, widening them a bit as her voice deepened. “He said,
‘Simone…beep beep beep beep beep beep.’
My fucking alarm went off!” She looked so pissed off that Damon smiled again. “What a rip off, right?”

“Maybe not,” Damon pointed out. “What were you wearing?”

Her eyebrows shot up and then her face broke into a buzzed grin. “See! The rules work,” she declared. “No sad stories! No crying.”

“To democracy and comfortable pants!” Damon returned.

“I think I might cry in a little while, though,” she admitted, shoulders slumping.

“Make sure the meeting’s adjourned first.”

In the cab on the way back to his parents’ place, Simone scooted in close to him and curled against his left side. “Who falls off a cliff, Damon?” she murmured against his neck as he distantly enjoyed the fragrance of her hair.

Damon was pretty damn drunk, helped along by his pain medication from earlier that afternoon and too little popcorn. But, he was in a happy sort of place where sounds were dampened and he didn’t feel much beside the vibrations of the car as it drove along.

“Me and my best friend fell off a cliff,” he answered her, and then made a whistling noise like the kind you hear in a cartoon when a character falls.

“I could’ve married him someday, you know that?” she whispered. “And what’d he do? He fell off a cliff.”

“Bastard…” Damon let his head rest against hers as the cab jostled them together. “It wasn’t his fault, though. It was my fault. So, I’m the bigger bastard.”

Simone squeezed his arm against her body and kissed his shoulder. “Maybe I hate both of you, then.”

Damon nodded. “Yeah. You’re an honest girl. Good girl,” he slurred.

“Not honest when it counted,” her voice rose and fell in the way of drunken women the world over. “Coulda been with him a long-long time if I just said, ‘Heyyouhotstuff, IthinkIloveyou.’ I tell ya, Damon,” she paused to pat his arm, touching it like she wasn’t sure what the combination of flesh and bone was anymore. “If you love somebody, that’s the ticket. Right there. You just gotta say it before you lose it…”

The cab turned a corner into dreamland because Damon lost track of where they were and his eyes drifted closed. When they opened again, he realized they were stopped by the curb in front of his folks’ house. He ducked his head, squinting, and saw that he wasn’t dreaming it; his parents really were waiting for him on the porch. This hadn’t even happened to him in high school.

“Time’s it?” he mumbled to the cabby.

“Quarter to two.”

“Shit.”

He adjusted the now-snoring Simone until she was leaning against the door and fumbled around with his wallet. He left what he hoped was enough to cover the trip to her place and a tip. His eyes were acting weird, so he may have handed over a hundred bucks. As he opened the door to climb out, his mom rushed to his side to help him from the car. He leaned his weight on her and kissed her on the top of her head.

“Good mom,” he whispered.

“You’re not supposed to be drinking on this medication,” she scolded him and meant it. “I hope you burnt off some steam, because this isn’t happening again any time soon.”

Meh, idle threat
, he decided, his mind drifting along with the chilly breeze. “I learn a lot when I drink,” he told her and wiggled his fingers “hello” at his dad as they got closer to the porch.

“Is that so?”

“Hmm. Tate Tyler’s a good bartender, if that’s his real name. That’s one thing I know. Second thing is that I killed Toddy—well, I didn’t
kill
him, but ‘s my fault he’s dead—”

“No, Damon—”

“Don’t interrupt!” Damon shouted and Leo stepped forward, grabbing him and holding his face still between his hands.

“Stop it, Damon,” Leo ordered. “That’s not true.”

He jerked his head from his father’s grip, hollering, “And the third thing I know is—” then vomited spectacularly into the bushes. It was a thorough upchuck, very painful.

Vomiting with broken ribs—not recommended.

“Unnnnggggh,” he groaned. “Grossss.
Ow…
”

Time skipped forward again in that strange sci-fi kind of way, and he blinked to find he was in bed. Molly was sitting on the edge of the mattress, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Don’t be mad, ma… A fucking mess. Can’t be mad.”