Groomzilla (13 page)

“Oh.” Daniel turned his head too quickly; they clonked foreheads, which drew a rich, low chuckle from Owen. “Ow.”

“You all right?”

When Owen brought his other hand to Daniel’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw, running his fingers through his beard so gently, Daniel forgot he was confused and anxious and unsure. One second it was there, and then—Daniel took a gulping breath and murmured, “Yeah.”

FIRST DAY
of filming.

First day on camera.

Daniel tried not to throw up as he brushed his teeth.

Ander had insisted he stay with them at their apartment so they could go to the studio together. Sven was being mildly cooperative, giving the
Groomzilla
crew five hours in the office to record Ander’s process and the planning of the wedding tuxes.

Daniel would operate as a sounding board, and Owen wanted to show the two of them in all their bantering glory, to establish their friendship but more importantly Ander’s personality.

In other words, Daniel’s job was to play straight man to Ander for five hours. A no-brainer except for the part about the cameras.

“Daniel!” Ander knocked loudly on the guest room bathroom door. “Breakfast is ready.”

Daniel spit the toothpaste into the tiny sink. “Pop Tarts?”

“Black coffee and half a grapefruit. You’re on a television diet!”

DANIEL’S “WARDROBE”
—picked out by Syndie and approved by Victor, according to the tag—for today’s shoot was a soft microtwill suit in matte black, a white button-down, and a skinny black tie. The Converses at the bottom of the bag made him grin, because that had Owen’s touch all over it.

Things were going well, at least well enough to overcome Daniel’s natural distrust of human interaction. Any thought that his burgeoning relationship with Owen was some sort of production ploy died when Victor seemed to develop constipation every time Owen touched Daniel. The night at the bistro, he had looked positively green at their interactions, while Ander and Rafe had beamed from across the table.

Weirdly enough, Rafe’s contribution—“You and Owen? That’s neat!”—made Daniel’s anxiety lessen to something manageable.

When he joined Ander at the tiny table in his breakfast nook, he had an undeniably jaunty spring to his step.

Ander looked up from his black coffee and half grapefruit, phone ever-present in hand—and his eyes went wide. “Well, look at you, sexy, sassy thing.”

Daniel did a little spin. “Am I ready for my close-up?”

“You’re ready to stand next to me and say ‘yes, Ander’ and ‘of course, Ander’ and ‘Jesus Christ, Ander, your designs make me hard.’” Ander gestured at the identical breakfast on the other side of the table.

Daniel took the coffee and then walked into the kitchen.

“Rafe told me he hid a box of Pop Tarts for me behind the pots.” Daniel opened a cabinet door and rifled around. “I told him to just leave it with the cleaning supplies because you would never find them there.”

“You’re hilarious. Getting fucked on the regular is making you tolerable. I’m going to send Owen a bouquet of thank-you condoms.”

Daniel rejoined Ander at the table, a silver package of goodness in one hand and his coffee in the other.

Ander huffed his disapproval. “Your insides must be an actual toxic waste dump.”

“And my outside is getting it regular from a hot ex-model. He has not complained once.” Daniel tore into his beloved Tarts. “Look, it’s unfrosted and blueberry inside. I’m practically eating fruit for breakfast.”

They took a car service to Ander’s office, where the film crew waited. Outside the building, Brittany the location scout introduced them to Mickey the cameraman and Noah, who did sound. A host of black cases stood stacked on a dolly nearby. Everyone shook hands as Ander began to vibrate with nerves.

“Hey, can we just go up?” Daniel asked, pulling Brittany to one side. “Ander’s a little nervous,” he added sotto voce.

Brittany checked her phone, then consulted her tablet—if Daniel were straight, he would have quickly fallen in love with her electronic organization fetish and the fact that she was wearing a boring gray cardigan he also owned—clicking her tongue against her teeth.

“We’re waiting for Owen,” she apologized. “He likes it when we all go up together so it doesn’t disrupt things more than necessary.”

“Oh, sure.” He tried not to smile too much. “I understand.”

Ander had begun pacing, which caught Daniel’s attention. He gave Brittany a thumbs-up, then hurried to match Ander’s worried stride.

“Okay, Owen should be here shortly, then we’ll all go up, which is great. Because he can run interference and you and I can just concentrate on your designs,” Daniel said cheerfully, dodging tourists and commuters to keep up with Ander. “Now, how many words am I allowed? Can I compliment your genius with gasps and moans as well?”

A smile cracked on Ander’s face. “Shut up.”

Ander’s phone buzzed, and Daniel narrowly missed falling over a passing stroller when Ander stopped. Daniel said a silent prayer it would be good—then thanked the Lord when Ander all but swooned when he read the message.

“I love you, and I know your designs will be brilliant,” Ander read. “I am so lucky to be getting married to a star like you.” He bounced on his toes, a sure sign he was pleased. “How fucking lucky am I?”

“So very lucky. Rafe is a great guy.”

“The best.” The melancholy sigh that followed didn’t fit the sentiment, but before Daniel could ask, Brittany called out.

“Hey, Owen!”

And Daniel got distracted.

SVEN MET
them in the lobby in all his six-four gold-topped glory. He was wearing a pair of moto jeans Daniel knew Ander had designed and a silk button-down in an ochre ombré that could only come from Sven himself. He flashed his overly white teeth in Owen’s direction before greeting Ander like he’d just returned from war.

“Of course we’re so excited for Ander,” Sven insisted as they rode up in the elevator. “He’s such a burgeoning talent—we’re fortunate to have him learning the business here.”

Ander gave Daniel a withering glance, eyes rolling so far back in his head that Daniel assumed he could see his brain.

“I’ve enjoyed his work,” Owen said, barely flinching as Sven stood in his personal space. “You
are
quite lucky to have him.” His gaze darted to Daniel briefly, then back to Sven. “Someday you’ll be telling people you knew him when.”

Sven’s face didn’t move—his plastic surgeon earned his living, that was for sure—but his unconvincing smile was delightful.

When Daniel looked up at Ander and spotted his beaming smile, he knew the day was going to be fabulous.

The studio had been cleaned and organized so the crew had room to work. Brittany played PA while Owen placed the camera in an unobtrusive corner where none of the windows would catch their reflections. Rubbernecking staff paused outside the glass wall, whispering and staring.

Ander settled at the table, the center of attention, looking absolutely radiant. His assistant Rebecca did the running, bringing him paper and his pens and all the fabric swatches they’d already picked out for the final board. She kept grabbing Daniel’s arm when she ran by, making little “eeee” sounds.

“Television! I’m going to be on television!” she reminded him before disappearing for yet another trip to Ander’s office.

“She’s sweet,” Owen said, sidling up to where Daniel had tucked himself—a tiny alcove where they kept the dress forms.

“Very. If I ever die, she’s in the will to take over my job as Ander’s keeper.” Daniel let their shoulders touch, reveling in the scent of Owen’s cologne and the warm smile that graced his mouth. “So I just sit there at the table and….”

“And be yourself. Talk to Ander, let him work out the design process. Be funny. Be, uh—a little off-color but no f-bombs.”

Daniel shook his head. “I will do my best, but Ander—Ander once said ‘fuck’ in the confessional booth at chapel.”

“Once?” Owen’s body shook with laughter.

“He wasn’t even describing his lewd activities of the week before. He wasn’t being flip. He just said, ‘Fuck, Father, I gotta admit, that was kind of fun!’”

“Stop telling tales, Daniel!”

“Do you have bat hearing or something?” Daniel leaned around the small outcropping of wall that blocked him from Ander’s sight.

“Yes.” Ander waved him over. “Tell Owen you can play with him later. Right now, you’re mine.”

“Go on, we have to get to work anyway,” Owen whispered. He kissed Daniel on the mouth—too fast, too fleeting—and ducked around the wall.

AT FIRST
the camera felt impossibly huge and looming. Daniel tried to focus on Ander’s patter, on the heap of silks and satins and gabardines laid out across the table. With his markers, Ander sketched beautiful things—vests and ascots and trim vests—on huge pieces of paper. But time and again, Daniel could feel the lens teasing the edge of his vision.

“So did you imagine we’d ever be doing this?” Ander asked, coloring in with a silvery pink pen the ascot he’d just drawn.

“Planning your wedding?”

Ander nodded.

“Hmmm—no.”

Surprised, Ander looked up. “Seriously? I’ve been talking about weddings for like ten years.”

“Well, sure—designing dresses and suits and scarfy things.” He poked at Ander’s picture. “But you? Settling down? I didn’t see it.”

Ander’s eyes went a little stormy, but Daniel just grinned.

“But then you met Rafe and got all stupid in love.”

“I wouldn’t say stupid….”

“You put your cell phone in the freezer the second night you met him, you were so distracted.”

Ander blushed, head back down. The ascot got arms and legs and a pair of fairy wings. “I….”

“And you kept calling me like every hour going, ‘Dannnniel, he’s so cuuuute. Dannnnniel, he’s everything I’ve ever wished for!’”

Ander threw the pen at Daniel’s head. “Shut up.”

But Ander was laughing, cheeks flushed, and Daniel wiggled his eyebrows, and then Owen said, “Cut.”

“That,” he called from the corner, “was delightful.”

“Asshole,” Ander muttered before throwing his arms around Daniel’s shoulders.

OWEN WAS
at his desk, going through their permits, when he heard Victor stomping down the hallway. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, drawing in a long breath.

“What the fuck did you shoot yesterday?” Victor snapped as he came around the corner. “What the fuck is that drivel?”

“I thought it was lovely,” Owen said, not looking up. “The conversation was charming, Ander drew some stunning designs, and we got the boards for the tuxes. Mickey and Brittany are over there today doing some follow-up.”

“I’ve got four fucking hours of Ander acting like a blushing schoolgirl and that boring little wedding planner chitchatting about linens. It’s unwatchable.” Victor’s entire body heaved with his anger. He dropped his hands on the desk, shoving at the blotter. “The show is called
Groomzilla
—that is what the fucking network bought.”

“The stuff at the cake-design place—” Owen began, but Victor was having none of it. He pushed off, with a kick to the base of Owen’s desk for good measure.

“I’m taking over the filming.”

“No, you’re not,” Owen said, sparing him a glance. “I am in charge of production.”

“You are relieved of your responsibility on this project,” Victor said, cold control dropping over his voice and face. “Start preproduction on the next couple.”

Owen thought of a million different reactions—tell Victor to fuck off, tell him their deal was over, their partnership was done—but all the angry words died on his tongue. He wasn’t going to leave Daniel—or Ander and his fiancé—to Victor’s machinations. “No, I’m not. We’re equal partners in this company,” he said, the word
equal
disgustingly heavy on his tongue. “And I am in charge of production. If you want to be more hands-on with this series, that’s fine. But we’re doing it together.”

Victor’s gaze narrowed into a sneer. “Since when do you talk back to me?”

“Since this is half my company.” Owen gathered his papers, his phone, and his satchel, ignoring Victor. “We’re filming tomorrow at Rafe and Ander’s apartment as they work on the invitation wording. Four o’clock. I’d appreciate you showing up on time.”

He pushed past Victor before he could say something he’d regret.

Naomi had a doctor’s appointment, so Owen decided to ditch the office entirely. He took the elevator to the ground floor and then walked onto the street, heading west without putting any thought into where he was going.

He just wanted to get away.

The first few years hadn’t been like this. Victor brought the business in; Owen did the grunt work. Their paths crossed now and again for a few meetings, but they left each other alone.

Victor, Owen assumed, hated the sight of him, and Owen was more than happy to avoid Victor’s glares.

He liked the dark editing bay. He enjoyed running the film crews, which reminded him of the happiest time in his life. So what if they made reality shows about the rich and idle and inane, or about spoiled teenagers? Owen didn’t care so long as Victor was happy and business was booming.

Then, three years ago, Victor had tried to get back a taste of what he once had. An actual directing job on a project worth millions, a miniseries for French television. For two months the office had been a pleasant place to work. Owen took over the production work and let Victor fly to meetings in Paris and spend money—Owen’s money—that Victor didn’t have.

The production company went with someone else and the bottom fell out of Victor’s world.

Again.

Victor bought the loft, and once more made Owen the target of his anger and scorn. If it hadn’t been for Naomi, Owen would have lost his mind a long time ago.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, heading into the entrance of Central Park. The bustle of the city, the weather, the distance—nothing mattered except getting away. Getting the burn in his legs, making his heart race.