Prince of the Playhouse (3 page)

In the living room, he flopped on the yellow couch. Yes, it was late, but he didn’t have to get up early tomorrow. He’d missed his movie. He needed a video reward.

With a quick click of the remote, he plunged into the middle of his saved video collection. Fortunately he lived alone, or any roommate would have had him locked up for obsession. He had every movie Gray Anson had made in his six-year career. It had taken Ru a few years to discover Gray, but then—crack city. He’d bought the movies like popcorn. Not enough to just download. He’d searched for DVDs. Unlike most actors, Gray didn’t have any small movies. His first performance had hit big, and every film since then qualified as blockbuster material. Ru’d seen most of them more than a dozen times—yes, thank you, he was nuts—so which one did he feel like jerking off to tonight? Oh yeah.
Misty Madness.

He clicked the Play button and fast-forwarded through the few credits. This was Gray’s one “serious” movie, where the titles ran at the beginning and the first scene didn’t include an explosion or a car chase. The heroine was pretty but more androgynous than a lot of the action-film girls. Gray was good too, showing more vulnerability than in his action roles. There was a sweetness that slipped through.

But right now Ru didn’t need plot. Just a good jerk-off scene. As the film approached the sequence he liked best, he reached into the end table drawer and pulled out the lube. Under his couch throw he hid a towel he could use to keep the suede on the sectional clean.
Yeah, there it is.
On the screen, Gray lay in bed, obviously naked under the sheets, a half view of his perfect, hard-as-iron buttock dominating the foreground of the shot.
I can definitely work it out to touch those buttcheeks while I measure him, I bet.
Sweet Jesus, that got his cock going.

He slicked his hands with lube, used his forefinger to open the robe, and grabbed his Anson-freak penis with both hands. He settled his head back and started stroking as the very short-haired girl crept through Gray’s bedroom window. She carried a knife in her teeth. Stealthily she slipped across the floor and switched the knife to an offensive position, ready to strike. As she reached the bed, Gray grabbed her hand, making her drop the knife, twisted her in an arc so she rolled over his body, and pinned her to the mattress. Before she could scream, he kissed her. Ru’s hands pumped harder.

For seconds she fought him, until—yes, predictably—her arms wrapped around him and she kissed him back.
Oh yes.
Ru switched to one-handed jerking while he wet his other forefinger and slid it into his asshole. Here came his favorite part.

The girl pulled out of the clinch and slid down, taking the covers with her.
Man, several inches of naked groin.
Then she reared up on her knees, and her head started bobbing over Gray’s hips, her short, floppy hair playing right into Ru’s fantasy. There he was, sucking the juice out of Gray Anson, giving him a blowjob the likes of which he’d never had. The camera moved close to Gray, capturing the ecstasy all over his face, then back to the girl’s bobbing head. Ru shoved his finger farther up his hole and started pumping it in time to his cock jerks, letting the fire build, gritting his teeth to keep from coming until that moment of—
oh shit!
From tons of practice, he grabbed the towel just as his cock exploded in shot after shot of cum. Blinding white heat flashed through his balls, then blazed into his head like a bolt. His hips bounced on the couch, trying to contain the waves of pleasure. When the shock waves slowed, he let the edge of the towel touch his oversensitive dick to capture the last of his ejaculate.

The movie kept playing, but he knew it by heart, so he didn’t watch. Slowly he sat up and closed his robe. The sticky mess in the towel matched the ones he had stacked in his hamper. He often washed most of them before his housekeeper got there for her one day a week. It was stupid, but he hated her thinking he couldn’t get a guy to do that for him. He could—probably. But no real man measured up to his fantasy world. Yes, he was twenty-four and needed to grow up. Well, maybe grow back up. He’d had to grow up when he was four. If he wanted to enjoy being a stupid adolescent now, he fucking well could. Bernardo had paid for Ru’s right to a childhood.

He stood, turned everything off including the lamps, walked into his bedroom, and dropped the towel into the hamper with the others. He crossed to the bathroom, peed, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and headed for bed. Only the bedside light stayed on as he pulled off his robe and draped it over the bench at the foot of the bed. As he reached for the lamp, he caught the movement in his floor mirror.
Don’t look.
He sighed.

Straightening, he gazed over his shoulder at his back—the back he never showed to anyone, making the practice of having sex with real humans a bit tricky. Across his shoulders stretched two black tattooed wings, and at the junction was scripted
Angel del Diablo
. One of the edges of the wings was blurred where he’d tried to have it removed and then given up in despair. The scarring looked worse than the tat. No lovely, smooth, gay-boy skin for him. Instead he got to spend his life wearing T-shirts under his clothes, never going in the water without a cover-up, never showering in the gym with other people, so that no one—not even his best friend—would know his back advertised the name of his gang.

THE WATER
splashed in the fountain on the patio at Shazam as Ru flipped the page of the sketchbook, sipped his iced tea, and created costumes for the play. Okay, so Queen Gertrude needed just the right amount of over the top. She definitely had her sexy side, or she never would have married that idiot. So high-necked gown, but slashed to the waist. He drew bold lines on his pad of paper.

“Hey, darling, when did you take up the Bard for lunchtime reading?”

Ru sat back and looked up at Shaz.
Got to tell him sometime.
“I’ve got, uh, kind of a surprise.”

“Tell me, tell me.” Shaz flipped his hair, clapped his hands together, and perched on the edge of the chair next to Ru.

“The board of the Playhouse asked me to do costumes for a special contemporary production of
Hamlet
. I can pretty much have my way with it. Be as outrageous as I want.”

“Wow.” A flicker of a crease popped between his eyebrows, then vanished. “Fabulous—and a lot of work. Will this cut into the design time on your collection?”

Shaz looked worried.
Yes.
He’d bet the farm—at least a barn or two—on Ru’s first big collection. Ru nodded. “I’m just going to have to work double hard. This is a rare opportunity. It’s got a, uh, famous cast, so the production should receive a lot of publicity.”

“That’s never a bad thing. Who’s in it?”

Ru looked down toward the giant collection of Shakespeare he’d borrowed from the library. “Gray Anson.”

“What?”

Ru frowned. “Gray Anson. Gray Anson is the star of the damned production, and no, I didn’t manifest this from my frigging dreams, and just don’t give me a hard time about it.”

“You’re kidding me.” Shaz rocked back in his chair.

“No, I’m not. The head of the Playhouse board asked me at the fund-raiser.”

Shaz gave him a look. “That was days ago. You were going to tell me when?”

Ru tried on his best lopsided grin. “When I got up the nerve to confess I get to touch Gray Anson.”

“All right, my favorite groupie.” He nodded, eyes narrowing. “You’re right. This will bring every critic in California and maybe New York to see the pretty boy fall on his face.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t fall on the costumes.”

“Okay, discounting the obvious, I understand why you want to do it. But seriously, darling, can you do both?”

Ru drew a breath. “Actually, I’ve decided I’m going to let one inform the other. I’ve been searching for the perfect theme for the collection. I think this may be it. It can give me some real fantasy looks.”

“What about the pants outfit and the wedding gown you’ve already done?”

“Not sure, but I’ll work them into the theme somehow. I’m thinking the queen will be really sexy, and Ophelia’s going to look a bit loony from the start. Hamlet—that’s the fun one. A total gangster look, but in very rich fabrics, like the prince who was a rebel.”

Shaz clapped his hands. “I love that, and I’ve never seen anything like it. The wedding gown could be some kind of dream of Ophelia’s. Her imagining marrying Hamlet.”

“Wow. Great idea.”

Shaz’s face lit up. “What if we have a press reception at Shazam? We can invite the cast, the VIPs, and the press. And we’ll dress models in designs from your collection. Give them a preview of what they’ll see at Fashion Week.”

Ru laughed. “I can’t even imagine something so great. Thank you for thinking of it.”

Shaz wrapped an arm around Ru’s neck. “You need to imagine more great stuff in your life. So when do you get to meet your paragon of all virtues?”

“No telling, apparently. He’ll be in and out around his shooting schedule, but I meet the rest of the cast this coming weekend.”

“You better get to work on designing the collection so we can have pieces made in time for the press reception.”

“Right.” Ru’s heart beat in his throat. He’d just piled all the cards into one big stack. Hopefully no one wanted the one on the bottom.

“RU, THIS
is our director, Arthur Clemson. Artie, meet Ru Maitland, your costume designer. I’ve given Ru the assurance that he can have carte blanche with his designs.” Helena Atchison grinned. “That is, within the context of pleasing our director.”

Artie Clemson was a middle-aged, wiry, no-nonsense guy Ru had heard great things about. The man had a ton of television to his credit, a number of successful plays, and one or two of Ru’s favorite movies. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Clemson.” Ru stuck out his hand.

Clemson took his hand but gave Ru an undisguised once-over. “I’ve heard good things, Maitland, but nobody told me you weren’t old enough to drive.”

“No, darling, just old enough to design.”

Clemson tossed off a laugh. “Okay, put the old man in his place. Glad to have you on board. I’m looking for outrageous on this, and Helena assures me you’re the man to deliver. Every time an actor comes on stage, I want a gasp. Hell, I want people to come back to watch the show just to see the costumes again.”

Ru wanted to fall on his back and giggle. “My vision exactly.”

“Brilliant.”

Helena took his arm. “Come and meet the cast.” She led him to the group of actors sitting around a wooden table drinking coffee and getting ready for a read-through. “Everyone, this is your costumer, Ru Maitland. Ru’s actually a fashion designer and will be giving this production its look, so cooperate fully, please.”

Ru smiled. “I’m anxious to hear your ideas about your characters. I want the clothes to either reveal or artfully hide the character’s true nature, so the more I know, the better.”

Helena pointed to the older of the two women at the table. “I know you’ve seen the great Beverly Howard, who will be our queen.”

In fact he’d never heard of Beverly Howard, but she looked every inch a sexy monarch. She’d be fun to dress. Ru smiled and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Beverly nodded regally and then laughed. Helena pointed to the young woman, pretty, dark, and somber. “This is Tilda Fern, who plays Ophelia.”

Ru gave her a smile, hoping for one in return, but apparently she was already working on the mad scene.

“And these two handsome gentlemen are our king, Phillip Fellstone—”

Ru gave him a hiss as they shook hands, and got a laugh.

“And this is Merle Justice. Horatio.”

Ru grinned. “I knew him well.” Merle flinched and Ru said, “I suspect I’m not the first person—today—who’s made that joke.”

Merle laughed and that made his fair hair and boyish face even handsomer. The guy got a lot of TV gigs with those looks. “Suspicions confirmed.” He shook Ru’s hand. Definite interest flickered in his blue eyes.

Ru cleared his throat. “So I’m going to start taking some measurements today. I’ll be back in the costume department. If you have a few minutes when you’re not needed for the read-through, could you please stop in and let me size you up, so to speak.”

By noon, he’d measured Beverly and Phillip and sat sketching ideas for their costumes. Phillip was a handsome guy, but older, with a bit of a pot, and long hair, thinning on top. Good. He’d make his clothes look like a man trying to appear younger—and failing.

A back door from the alley behind the theater opened. Ru looked up. A tall man with long gray hair, wearing dark glasses and a slouch hat, walked into the costume shop. He glanced around nervously and closed the door quickly. “Uh, hello.”

“Hi, can I help you?” Ru stared at the man. The cheekbones, the chin. Ru stood. “Is there someone you wanted to speak with?” His heart beat so fast it must have looked like a hummingbird got caught in his throat.

“Uh, maybe you?”

“Sure. How can I help?”
Take a breath.
This guy had to be Gray Anson. No matter the disguise, Ru knew that face like his own—better.

“You’re making costumes?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re supposed to measure me. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’d be delighted.” Ru pulled the tape measure he’d been using all morning from his jeans pocket. Nothing quite made sense. Did Anson think Ru wouldn’t know him? Should he pretend he didn’t recognize him? “Will you take off your jacket, please?”
And your wig, and glasses, and pants and—
He forced himself not to nervous giggle. The guy pulled off his light jacket, revealing a slouchy flannel shirt.
Seriously?
“Sorry, you’ll have to remove that too if I’m going to get true measurements.”

“Oh, okay.” Weird. Nothing about this guy’s deferential manner suggested the Gray Anson Ru knew. Then—he pulled off the shirt.
Holy Mother of Jesus.

His wide shoulders strained the fabric of the thin cotton T-shirt almost as much as the bulge of his biceps. On the screen his body looked huge and hard-muscled. In person it came off as slimmer, maybe the word was leaner, but just as powerful—and even more beautiful. The skin on his arms glowed, the smattering of light brown hair barely showing against his tan.