James

I let too much slip.

Phoenix is quiet for most of the trip, asking a few questions here and there. I have burning questions of my own, but I hold them back, though I don't know why. He may try to hide it, but there's a scab over a painful sore when it comes to that Agatha woman. Lot of history there. Plus...I didn't realize he'd lost his parents.

I want to say something, try to share, I guess. I know how that feels; I've been on my own since I was fourteen, more or less. Not alone, but I was definitely the responsible one. By the time I work myself up to steering the conversation in that direction, he's asleep. His head lolls to one side in the big plush seat, now reclined, and he snores softly. It should be annoying, but it's endearing instead.

Shower, pancakes, sleep. Never pass them up. Don't know when you'll get another chance.

So I sleep. This is one of the few situations where I can feel completely at ease. His stalker probably doesn't have access to an interceptor jet or surface-to-air missiles. Hell, if it's some rando from his college years, she might not even be able to afford a plane ticket. A grown adult who develops an obsession like that, and with a sixteen-year-old, can't be all that stable.

Several times during the flight, I wake. I never get long lasting or deep sleep. It's half habit and half avoidance. If I get more than a nap before waking up again, things can get weird. Very weird.

When I wake I find myself staring at him. His jawline, his throat, his lips, his eyes darting beneath his eyelids, his mess tussle of dirty blonde hair. Even his legs, in tight jeans. It's too bad the rest of him is hiding beneath a baggy sweatshirt, the only thing he seems to wear.

Seen that a lot, too. The rich guy in the same t-shirt and jeans every day. Usually it reeks of affectation, but not with him. I'm sure he has some justification for it, like it's efficient, or something like that.

He wakes up when the plane banks, looking around in a panic.

"Relax, we're just turning. Pilot probably didn't want to wake you. He's got to get us on an approach vector for landing."

"I thought you were Army, not Air Force."

I smirk. "Army doesn't walk to Iraq."

"Fair enough."

"I know a little about planes. Thought about going into the Air Force for a while, but you need to be an officer to fly, and there aren't all that many pilots anyway. I took a shot on the army figuring they might put me in helicopters."

"Why didn't they?"

"Wasn't what I was best at. Besides, I'm too big. Recruiter neglected to mention that."

"Big?"

"Have to be able to fit in the chair," I shrug. "They don't make big and tall helicopters."

He snorts. "I suppose we're landing soon."

I check my watch, then do the math. “It's two in the morning."

"What do we do until we check in at the hotel? It's a little early."

He smirks. "Hotel? Please."

During the landing, he grips the arms of his seats so hard his fingers go white, no mean feat with padding that plush. He mouths something as the plane wobbles to the earth, even though he doesn't seem the praying type.

Instinct snaps me into action. When the wheels touch down, I grab his trembling hand and squeeze.

His eyes shoot open. At least I made him forget the wheels touching down. I yank my hand back as if I'd touched a hot stove, and we both stare at each other in total silence.

The plane is down and rolling on the ground. Phoenix relaxes, all the tension now gone and leaving him deflated, almost collapsed into his seat.

Oddly enough, this is my least favorite part. The plane bounces and jounces like a pleasure boat in a storm as it rolls over the ground, and it makes me want to heave. This is the only time I get motion sick, too. Hopefully, I'm keeping it bottled up.

Half an hour later, after we've disembarked, Phoenix carries his own bag, a battered Jansport backpack that's duct taped in half in a dozen places. It pairs well with my beat-up roller bag, a gift from my kid sister when I graduated boot camp, not that I could get much use out of it then. I pulled it out of storage and started carrying it much later, after. Another car picks us up.

"You've been in LA traffic before?"

"Yes," I mutter.

At two in the morning it's not that bad, but not that bad in LA is gridlock in the rest of the developed world. I've been to a dozen countries and Los Angeles has the worst traffic I've ever seen. Leaves me thinking the roads were laid out using a Ouija board, a dowsing rod, and a crayon. At least I don't have to drive.

Phoenix points. "There."

We're not staying in a hotel, that's for sure.

"This your place?"

"It is for the next two days."

I turn to him. "Next time, I want you to clear it with me."

He frowns, slightly. "Right. Well, what do you think?"

Outside of LA in the hills, the impressive midcentury house dominates a hillside, the most visible feature from this angle being the expansive pool in the back yard. The driver pulls up to a gate and lets us out. Phoenix has a code that opens it and walks through.

"Crazy you can rent something like this," I say. "How much does it run?"

"A lot, but I didn't want to be downtown," he says. "Probably should have been closer to studio city, but alas. I have to be at the soundstage for filming by nine, so we should leave at seven to be sure."

I catch him by the shoulder at the door. He gives me a look, but waits. I step inside, flick on the lights, and motion him in.

"Stand there a minute."

It's a big house, but not a complicated one. I clear it in a few minutes, looking over the security setup. There isn't one, but we're not here that long. All these big picture windows make me nervous.

"I really doubt anyone followed us here from New York," he says, a little exasperated. "I didn't get good sleep."

"Me either, but you're paying me a lot and I want you to get your money's worth."

"Fair enough," he sighs. "Is everything in order?"

"It'll do," I say.

Yawning, he trudges upstairs, and I follow. There are four bedrooms on the top floor. Phoenix heads for the master suite. He stops at the door.

"We have some time after my appearance tomorrow. Is there anything you'd like to do?"

I blink a few times.

"I...whatever you'd like."

"I was thinking about the beach."

"I didn't think to bring swimwear."

"Easily remedied," he says, "beach it is."

He saunters into his bedroom. Turning, I head the other way, but spare a glance over my shoulder. Without closing the door, Phoenix pulls off his sweatshirt, then grabs his collar behind his neck and whips his t-shirt over his head, baring himself from the waist up. As tight as his jeans are, the waist is loose, hanging slightly away from his hard stomach. He has the lean physique of an endurance athlete, all long smooth muscles, pale skin soft in the dark light.

As he starts to turn, I rush into my room—any room, really—and, hearing the door to his as it shuts, hope he didn't see me. My heart is pounding, and it's pumping all the blood from its rapid hammering down my belly to my cock and balls, already swelling with need. When I slip out of my pants, my dick springs free, taunting me. The image of Phoenix there like that is burned into my mind and I'm so horny it hurts, a quivering feeling that seeps over my skin like liquid gold, tickling between my cheeks as it stops just short of the base of my shaft, begging me to release it.

One hand on the wall, I don't even try to resist this time. I fuck my fist like a madman and picture my cock pushing down Phoenix's throat, his lips sealed tight around the shaft as he takes it all. Furious pumping and that thought brings me to the edge, and the thought of running my tongue over his body sends me right over it.

Panting, I step back, strip, and start up the shower.

The need for sleep keeps me focused and I don't let my mind wander back to him. Mostly.

Or not. I fall asleep hard and wake up even harder and need to take care of business again before I can get it in my shorts. After another shower I dry and dress and I'm in the kitchen at six thirty, greeted by the smell of a coffee pot. Phoenix is sipping it casually as he scrolls on his phone with his thumb.

Shirtless. He stands there, one leg up to scratch at the back of his calf with his toes, and his jeans are unbuttoned and pushed so far down I can just see the beginning of the pale curve of his ass, and if they were any lower up front the base of his dick and balls would be visible. He yanks them up.

"Oh, forgot something," he mumbles, doing up the button.

"Like your shirt?" I say, casually.

"It's a little warm in here, don't you think?"

I look at him, trying not to look, trying not to let that feeling take over—the sensation of my cock growing engorged as it gets ready for him. I can't tear my eyes away from his bare skin.

Warm in here? He's covered in gooseflesh and shivering a little.

I pour myself a cup of coffee.

I am not going to stare. I am not going to stare. I am not going to get hard.

"I'll be right back."

He saunters out of the kitchen, walking on the balls of his feet with all the sashay of a model, and my lizard brain wants me to yank those skinny jeans down and attack that ass every way I can. The blood rushes from my head to my other head so quickly and fully that I almost get dizzy.

I am not going to jerk off again. I end up pulling a can of sparkling water—yeah, I'm in California—from the fridge and hold it between my legs to calm the damned thing down. The cold does its job and I can refocus.

Phoenix comes back...in his hoodie.

"You're wearing that on TV?"

"What do you want me to wear?"

"If you wore that outfit you just had on, you'd get record ratings."

He blinks. "You mean no shirt?"

"We should go," I mutter quickly.

"Right," he says, "they're sending a car."

This time it is a limo and a professional driver greets us warmly, holding the door for him. Phoenix slips inside and scoots over to the far end of the seat, and I drop in next to him, rocking the car on its springs.

I glance over and...

No.

Wait.

Yes.

He's either trying to hide a monster erection or he wants to smuggle a cucumber in his pants. I didn't think he was that big. Skinny boys get all the luck.

Don't stare, don't stare, don't...

I peer through the window at the scenery while Phoenix reads over something on his phone, mumbling to himself.

"What's that you have there?"

"Interview questions," he says. "I had them send them to me before I agreed to this."

Stifling a yawn, I look anywhere but at him for the rest of the ride, until the car stops at a security gate and the guard comes out, checks the driver, and waves us through. A studio tour buzzes the opposite way, an electric cartload of tourists who all stare, trying to see in through the tinted windows.

I've never been on a studio lot. This is a new one. I was expecting a fake town or something, but it's all nearly identical monolithic buildings the color of dull sandstone, with nothing but numbers to set them apart. It isn't even identified as the right one except for marked parking spaces and a placard by the door.

Inside, as the show people walk Phoenix back behind the stage, I catch a glimpse of the empty audience seating and a crew setting up for the day.

He turns to me as he sits in a makeup chair. "You can sit up with the audience, if you want."

"I'd rather stay close," I say.

Then again, the audience would be a good vantage point. I had no chance to vet all these people, no say in how this was set up. My hackles rise as I begin to grow annoyed. Tired and buzzed up on bad coffee, I try to look everywhere at once and just make my head hurt.

Phoenix is oblivious, holding up his chin while a young woman dusts makeup onto him. He doesn't need it, but TV, I guess.

The next two hours are dull boredom while an episode of the show films outside. The green room is just...a room, with cheap looking couches and a ficas. It feels like a doctor's waiting room, and when they call for Phoenix to come out, he might as well be going back for a flu shot and a turn your head and cough.

Not to him, though. He's shaking like a leaf, trying desperately to hide it. I jump up and follow him out.

"I'm bad with people," he says. "I should have asked that there not be an audience."

"You'll be fine. Who told you you're bad with people?"

He swallows, hard. "It doesn't matter. I—"

The assistant they sent to fetch him looks annoyed.

"We're on a tight schedule, Mr. Breslin."

"I'm coming," he says cheerily.

I grab his arm and squeeze.

"It's ten minutes. You'll be fine. Just focus on the host, talk to her. You walked down a crowded street talking to me. Just pretend it's like that—the audience is a crowd on the street."

"Crowds on the street don't clap."

"Try, Phoenix. I know you know this is important."

Sharply, he nods. "Alright, alright."

"I won't watch," I say. "It's no biggie. I'll be back here."

Then he's gone, and applause fills the soundstage, bouncing off the acoustically padded walls. That must be why they're called sound stages. They keep inside noise in, and outside noise out.

An anxious ten minutes later, a trembling Phoenix walks back into the green room and drops into a seat, letting out a slow breath.

"I did it. I'm waiting for them to say it was okay."

"I'm sure you did fine."

"You did more than fine," a woman says, breezing into the room.

"Hi, I'm Becky, the producer, and you must be the boyfriend Phoenix talked about."

My gaze snaps from her to him, and he flinches.

He what?

"You agreed to this," he says, almost under his breath.

The producer looks at us both, from one to the other, and puts on that congenial expression people always wear when they want everyone else in the room to be really, really sure they don't think this is as awkward as it looks.

"We talked about it," he goes on.

"We did," I say. "I can't wait to see the interview. I promised not to watch. I make him nervous."

Becky the producer nods enthusiastically, probably more relieved that things aren't going to get weird than anything else.

"You're both welcome to stay, watch the rest of the taping," she says.

"That's fine," Phoenix says breathily, "I think we'll go before the audience does."

Becky nods, retreating, and a few minutes later we're back in the car. Phoenix melts into his seat like a sleepy cat on the verge of going limp and sliding onto the floor.

I stifle a laugh. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he says, sitting up. "That just took a lot out of me. We have the whole rest of the day now. You really don't have anything you can swim in?"

"I don't swim much."

He sighs. "I'll send for something."

"You can do that?"

"Of course I can. I may not be obnoxious about it, but I am rich."

"I've noticed," I deadpan.

"I'm sure," he sighs.

"Not like that."

He smirks. "Right."

While he makes a phone call, I stare out the window. I've been here before, so Los Angeles doesn't floor me or anything. Phoenix clears his throat after he hangs up.

"A pair of laundered swim trunks will be waiting for you when we get back, which at this rate, we might as well head right back to the airport."

He's not kidding. Traffic is crawling.

Yawning, he says, "Is it a little warm in here to you?"

"No," I say blithely.

"It is to me."

Without another word, he wriggles out of his sweatshirt. I'm half sure he's trying to show me more skin in the process. His pants are hitched down over his hips, baring a sharply defined V of muscles diving towards his crotch, the waistband straining against the firm curve of his ass. Even as I turn away, I find myself staring in the window. He even manages to flash his stomach at me.

My cock stirs like a prehistoric monster straining to rise from the depths. I unfocus my eyes and try to think of the least appealing thing I can. Back to high school memories. Mr. Ogbersfellter, my freshman gym teacher. Gym teachers are supposed to be in shape. Mister Og was in shape. He was round, like a furry planetoid who wore wifebeaters to class.

Thinking about the boner-killing gym teacher quickly turns into thinking about Phoenix in the locker room, dressed in only a towel.

The sound of a window rolling up startles me. It's the partition, dividing us from the driver up front. I turn to Phoenix as he lifts his finger from the button and settles back in his seat. He keeps plucking at his t-shirt and sits with his legs spread.

A shock runs through me as I spot the unmistakable outline of his erection stuffed down one leg. He looks out the window, gorgeous in profile, watching my reflection.

"Are you in a relationship with anybody?" he says.

"Why?"

"It occurs to me that I've announced you're my boyfriend on national television and I didn't think about that potential consequence of our little scam. Girlfriend?"

"No girlfriend," I say.

He pauses, lips pursed as if to hold in the pressure of an unasked question. I want to run my thumb over those lips, feel their peachy softness, and a hint of teeth as he sucks. Then that wet heat on my...

I swallow.

"I guess you're not either."

"No," he says.

"Ever?" I ask, my voice a little shakier than I would like. Much shakier; I'd rather it wasn’t shaky at all.

"Nothing serious. A few days, but they always got annoyed with me."

I glance his way. "Girls?"

"Why do you ask?" he says, a coy hint to his voice. He's turned to look at me now.

"Well, you seem perfectly comfortable dating a man, or appearing to date a man. Makes me wonder."

"Well, it's not like I could find many women to do your job," he says. "Wait, that was sexist of me. I didn't think to look. Do you think there are any?"

"I've met women that could kick my ass up one side and down the other," I say. "Never underestimate them. Always hated how some guys in the military treated them."

He nods. "I just didn't think of it, but yes...I mostly dated girls. I had some, ah, experiences with guys. I have to say, in all honesty, I've never thought about my sexuality enough to quantify myself. I don't like jumping to conclusions, and I don't have enough data to apply a label."

"You could always be bisexual," I suggest.

"I suppose." He shrugs. "I've never really had a serious partner, but I enjoy both sexes, I think, though sometimes, I think a man could give me what I want more than a woman could. Just don't assume."

The bait lays there, waiting to be taken. He almost says something before I ask.

"What is that, then? What you want?"

He mulls that, chewing on something invisible.

"I'm not very strong, but I like strength."

"You're in good shape."

"I'm fast, but I'm not winning any weight lifting competitions. It's too much work and I have a lot to do."

"You have time to go swimming with your bodyguard, though."

"Well, yes, I'm not a robot. How about you? What is it you want?"

I freeze, unsure of the answer, shocked by the question even though I walked face-first into it. His smirk is a tell, he knew this would happen. He's clever but I could still beat him at poker, I think.

"I've been a loner for a long time. It gets painful, taking care of myself."

"So you want someone to take care of you?"

"I want someone else to take care of, I think."

"How is that a relief from caring for yourself?"

I turn to him and shrug. "I don't know. I guess it doesn't make sense, but it is what it is."

"Hmm," he says, mumbling something to himself. "Looks like we're nearly there."

The limo finally pulls up to the gate and we dismount, heading back to the house. I catch him and go in first, again, freezing when I spot the parcel on the table in the entryway. Gingerly, I inspect it and find...a pair of black inner mesh swim trunks in my size, freshly laundered and smelling of fabric softener.

"Oh good," he says. "Go get ready, I'll be right back. I'll get us a car down to Santa Monica."

Getting ready largely consists of stripping and dressing again. Thankfully, my manhood has calmed down.

God, did I just think of my dick as my manhood? What is Phoenix doing to me?

Oh shit.

When I make it to the first floor, Phoenix is already standing there in sunglasses, a towel, and swim trunks so miniscule that I can't help but wonder where he packed away that whopper I saw in his jeans earlier. I can't help it, I look him up and down, from his toned muscular calves, all the way up his lithe thighs to his perfect ass, tight muscled stomach, compact swimmer's chest, and broad shoulders. If he actually had a tan he'd fit right in around here. He pushes a pair of sunglasses down his nose and looks at me over the lenses.

"You ready?"

My heart pounding, my head swimming, all I can do is nod. The blood is already rushing from my head, and then he walks ahead of me, his ass flexing under thin nylon...