Page 11 of In Frame
He made himself beam at a journalist or two. He recognized several of them: familiar faces on the entertainment beat. He smiled and answered a few questions: yes, he was excited for this film; yes, he loved the story and the era and the costumes; yes, he’d really learned to fire the ship’s historic guns, though he’d not been the one doing most of the loading and firing on camera.
He hugged a few fans as they leaned over barricades. Hesigned some posters, posed for selfies, complimented someone’s shirt—it had a unicorn riding a unicycle on the front—and ran a step or two to catch up with Tim, who’d stopped, looking mildly overwhelmed. “Don’t worry, babe, they’re all here for me.”
“As if,” Tim retorted over an uneven exhale, “they’re here for Colby and Jason, really,” which covered up the attack of red-carpet shyness, so Leo only draped an arm over his shoulders and refused to think about the fact that even Tim considered Leo Whyte essentially secondary.
Colby and Jason were the story. All the stories: on-set romance, drama, injuries, true love. Everyone understood as much. And he wasn’t envious, or he didn’t think he was. He tried not to be an envious person, mostly.
One of the reporters called over, “Leo, who’d you bring as a date?” She even glanced around as if afraid she’d missed someone.
Leo put on an even larger smile. Squeezed Tim’s shoulders. “You mean this adorable one isn’t enough? Look at those pinchable cheeks, those big brown eyes…”
“Shh,” Tim said, “my girlfriend’s not supposed to know about us,” and batted the eyes in question at Leo: playing flirtation up for the cameras, and a good sport about it.
The question stung, though, and the sting lingered. Burning. Acid over skin, eating away protective layers.
He hadn’t invited anyone to this premiere. He normally did: a casual girlfriend or one or two of the friends he’d made on previous productions or even his parents, which fans and the media always loved. He liked sharing the experience with people; he liked getting to see them watch his films, the reactions, the emotions. He ended up watching his guests, rather than the film in question, more often than not.
Hehadthought about calling up a date, at least a platonic one. Adriana Cruz had just finished filming that new secret-agent thriller, and she was generally fun company, more of a friend now that the brief romantic fling was over; Matt Grant would be around, taking his British-actor rite-of-passage turn at Hamlet here in London, and Matt was always up for after-parties and enthusiasm on a red carpet. And of course his mother and father would’ve run right over from respective theatre-managing and college-of-dentistry department-chair meetings if asked.
He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t even know why.
No, that was a lie. He knew.
The person he wanted to talk to had large warm hands, and good taste in whiskey, and a terrifying profession. The person he wanted to share this story with—thisstory, about love between men, love amid war, love that became a banner raised high in celebration—had looked at him under Las Vegas lights and had thought that Leo Whyte was someone worthwhile.
He spotted Colby and Jason—impossible to miss, what with Colby’s hair and Jason’s shoulders—ahead on the red carpet. Waved. Ran over, trailing other cast members in his wake. Whipped out his phone and captured a snapshot or two of the moment, of Colby’s subtly rainbow-lined suit and Jason’s bisexual flag pocket square, because the social media army would expect it and he did want to share.
He liked sharing. He always had.
Colby and Jason said hello to everyone, Leo and Tim and Kate Fisher and Jim Whitwell; Jim, being fatherly, started asking Tim about his girlfriend and her band’s mega-hit success. Tim got happier, chattering away about Beth and love songs; Colby looked at Leo and said thoughtfully, “I’m not certain I properly said thank you for intervening with the paparazzi at Andy’s stag night—er, bachelor party, for the Americans among us, sorry—you know what I mean, though. Thank you.”
Leo, moderately unnerved by this mindreading, said,“What? Oh, right, yes, of course,” and hoped those inquisitive blue eyes would find another distraction. Maybe Jason could be convinced that Colby needed cuddling. The air felt a bit chilly. London in February and all.
He spared a moment to envision Jason Mirelli sweeping Colby Kent up in both arms, bridal style, on the red carpet. Colby would certainly appreciate the muscles; the cameras would have a field day with the gesture. But Jason would have to be convinced that Colby required actual carrying, which would cause extra knightly worry, and then Colby also got a bit skittish around crowds and too much physical contact and touching remained a problem, though of course touching fromJasondid not seem to be a problem, so probably that would be all right. Jason’s big arms could likely carry both ColbyandLeo, and Leo would gleefully be swept off his feet, except that didn’t actually seem the sort of thing that was likely to happen, because if anyone was going to do any romantic gestures for Leo Whyte it’d be, well, Leo himself, based on previous experience, and also Sam wasn’t even here, which would’ve been some sort of romantic gesture, only itwasn’t, obviously, because Sam wasn’t—
Colby had carried on talking. Guiltily, Leo tuned back in. “—and then of course Jason and I had the threesome on stage with the drag queen, and—”
“You did not,” Leo interrupted promptly. “And if you did I want pictures. Proof. Photographic evidence.” Like the sort Sam would’ve acquired.
Whywere all his thoughts about Sam? The man wasn’t even present.
He checked the line of press-shaped bodies again just to be sure.
“Okay,” Jason said, “what’s going on? Someone you know, someone you’re expecting, someone you don’t want tosee, what?”
“No one,” Leo said. “He’s not—I’m not—I mean, nothing. I mean I’m fine and what was that about Colby being into threesomes with drag queens, again?”
“No, thank you.” Colby waved a graceful hand. “Only Jason, for me. Though, in terms of clothing…that one outfit with the rainbow ribbons was rather intriguing…”
“You know you can tell us,” Jason attempted. Leo appreciated the gesture, though he knew that was simply Jason’s innate bodyguard-for-the-world nature: nothing to do with Leo himself, a friend made via proximity, in the way of film sets and press tours and camaraderie. Jason went on, “We can help, if something’s going on. It’s not that obnoxious photographer guy, is it? Is he stalking you?”
“His name’s Sam, not Obnoxious Photographer Guy—” Which he’d now said aloud. Damn.
“Isit,” Jim Whitwell said, reappearing in an avuncular swirl of interest and a gleam of complimentary cocktail glass. “And whoisSam, Leo?”
Deflect, distract, dazzle. Make jokes. Be random. Be himself. Leo Whyte. “Why aren’t we talking about Colby saying he’d wear a drag queen’s rainbow ribbons? That’s an important development and I want to know more. I will absolutely go shopping for ribbons if necessary. Any preferred fabric or texture? Oh, hi, yes, ask us anything—”
A reporter had come up. She waved a microphone at them with intent. “What can you tell us about the sex scenes in this film? How excited should we be?”
