Page 4 of Felix

“Hey, boo.”

“Hi, Alex,” I mutter, too preoccupied by my phone to raise my head and give my coworker a proper greeting. Specifically, preoccupied by the text on my phone.

C: Did you know when you wake up, you stretch your arms above your head and knead the air like a cat?

Me: I do not.

C: You do! Every time. It’s cute.

A smile quirks my lips, and I shake my head, typing out a response.

Me: Did you know it’s creepy to watch people sleep?

C: Pft. You love it, Specs. Don’t pretend otherwise.

They’ve got me there.

“Who ya texting?” Alex asks, startling me as he plops onto the bench beside me in our locker room at Elite 8 Studios. He swipes his floppy blonde hair off his forehead, giving me a grin. The guy goes by Tink on set, considering he looks like the Peter Pan fairy.

“Oh, uh…”

I scramble for a suitable response.

My secret pen pal of three months who watches me masturbate through the windows of our respective apartment buildings and who texts me randomly throughout the day to chat about everything and nothing in particular?

Yeah, no. Not telling my coworker that.

“My sister,” I lie, slipping my phone away.

Alex narrows his eyes. “Mm. Which sister?”

“Younger?” I answer unsurely.

“Uh-huh,” he says, crossing his leg over his knee and bouncing it. “And doesn’t Rebecca have a no phones policy at her school that would be in effect this time of day?”

I open and close my mouth. Christ, try to cover up a simple quasi-friendship-with-voyeuristic-benefits sorta situation and the guy turns into Sherlock freaking Holmes.

“There’s something you’re not telling me, Kent,” Alex says slowly.

I straighten my black-rimmed glasses, huffing a laugh at the nickname. Never mind Sherlock. Lois Lane is on my tail. “You caught me, Lois. Saw the signal light up, so I’ll be on my way to save the world and stuff.”

“That’s Batman, not Superman,” he points out, squinting at me. “Everything all right?”

“Of course,” I tell him, standing and grabbing my bookbag.

He hums, looking like he doesn’t believe me. “For what it’s worth, it was nice. The smile you had when I walked in.”

I don’t know what to say to that—how to explain the source of said smile—so I keep my mouth shut. Luckily, Alex goes on.

“Watch out in the halls, boo. Jerome has a few guys by the private rooms waiting on auditions.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Alex.”

He nods, and I slip out the door, releasing a breath. Bag over my shoulder, I head down the hall.

I’ve worked at Elite 8 Studios—a producer of gay porn—for a little over two years, so this building and the people in it are familiar to me. A comfort, even, despite the well-intentioned snooping from certain coworkers. I might keep some things close to my chest, but the guys here, Alex included, have my back. And I appreciate that.

As Alex noted, the hall leading to the private suites is dotted with a few unfamiliar men hoping to land a job via the studio’s most recent casting call. Nathaniel, the assistant producer and second-in-command to our boss Jerome, is standing near them, a clipboard in hand as he calls for a Mitchel.

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