Page 58 of In Frame
Jason said something else, turned, and jogged up the steps. Toward the doors. Toward Sam.
He was even larger in person. No cinema tricks at all. Just big happy Italian-American muscle and a t-shirt with some sort of logo involving dice and tabletop gaming and a wizard. Jason was kind of a geek, Sam recalled somewhere in the stunned recesses of his head. A few nerd loves mentioned in interviews. Fantasy novels, roleplaying games, stuff like that.
Jason hadunfairbiceps. Sam, head-over-heels in love with Leo, couldn’t help a moment of astonished staring. He figured Leo would understand.
Jason bounded through the doors, which moved rapidly out of the way, and looked around. Spotted Sam and Sam’s helpful pillar. Waved, then ran over. Sam resisted the urge to check the marble lobby floor for signs of impact.
“Hey, you’re Sam, right?” Jason held out a hand. “Leo’s Sam. Nice to meet you. I’m Jason.” His eyes were long-lashed and dark, up close: rich thoughtful brown, friendly but with a suggestion of evaluation, of protectiveness. He did not mention a Las Vegas night and a bachelor party and their first encounter. Sam swallowed down nerves and did not mention those things either.
He also didnotbriefly worry about his own hand, disappearing into that powerful one. His mouth, while trying not to sayholy shit you’re Jason Mirelli and Jason Mirelli’s muscles, in fact said, “Kinda guessed you were? I mean, um, the car, and the, um, never mind.”
Jason laughed—mountains rumbled, but in a nice way—and let Sam’s hand go. “It’s one of my dad’s, not mine. He just finished doing some work on the engine, and he wantedsomeone to drive it around for a while, and, hey, I’m not gonna say no. Come on, we’ve got a couple errands before we head over to the house.”
Jason clearly had a schedule in mind. Sam nodded, being agreeable, and then some other pieces of his brain caught up and started shrieking in pure glee. “We’re takingthatcar?”
“We are.” Jason grinned at him. “And I drive fast. Dad taught me, though, don’t worry.”
Sam flipped through his mental celebrity index for a second, pulled up Jason’s background—Luca Mirelli, while not movie-star famous, was basicallythename in stunt driving, or had been, once upon a time; post-accident, trained the bestothernames; the whole Mirelli family came with that stunt-person legacy, in varying forms—and raised eyebrows right back. “Who says I was worried?”
“Oh, good,” Jason said, “this should befun,” and waved at the valet loyally guarding the Ferrari. “Quick errands, I promise.”
They went out the door. They got in the car. Sam tried to believe that, yes, this was him getting into a classic Ferrari with Jason Mirelli. Fucking incredible. Unreal. Maybe he should try pinching himself. Jason might notice that.
Jason did drive fast, but expertly; the Ferrari handled Los Angeles streets and corners and traffic with pleasure, and Jason had complete control, steady if mischievous as far as speed and turns. Sam hung on and felt his heartbeat pick up, exhilarated.
He said, “Can I get a picture of you and this car, or would your dad mind?”
“He’d love that.” The car in question danced around a corner, a ballerina given direction by large practiced hands. Sam wasn’t sure where they were going, but then again he’d mostly spent his time in LA lurking around red carpets, hotels, nightclubs, and anyplace else a photo of someone’s wardrobemalfunction might be obtainable.
Jason added, “I do want to get Colby a car. Not this one, but something fun. With some history. He doesn’t have one. Car, not history, I mean.”
“You two live in LA, and he doesn’t have a car?”
“Well…we literally just bought this house, and he’d been mostly living in London, and…” A red light paused panther speed momentarily. The Ferrari purred with good-natured impatience.
“And he wasn’t going out much,” Jason said, very quietly, and then, swiftly, “And if he did he had a driver. He kinda always has, he grew up with that, with his parents being, y’know, who they are. He does have a driver’s license, in both countries, even, and he used to have a car, he just didn’t bother to replace it when it died.”
“Oh.” A whole other world, that one. Growing up with personal chauffeurs. Not bothering to replace cars, instead of not being able to afford to.
“Ilikedriving us places, don’t get me wrong, I’ll still do that, but I want him to have his own, too, just in case he needs to go somewhere and I’m not home.”
“And you like cars.”
“I do.” Jason did. Clearly. As well as acceleration. Practically flight. Sam smothered a laugh of sheer childhood exuberance. Jason was having a good time.
And Sam thought, watching him: Colby could still have a driver. He grew up with that, you said. You’ve got the money. But you don’t want him dependent on someone else, someone he might not know well or feel close to. You want him to feel safe as well as free.
Jason did also like cars, of course. And liked sharing that passion.
They’d ended up in a vividly artistic neighborhood, fullof bookshops and art galleries and mysterious shops promising antiques and rare perfumes and curiosities. Some sort of street fair was happening, turning pavement and roads into vibrant color, creation, life under California sun. Jason drove around the back of a shop, spun the car into a spot with flair, and turned the engine off. “You can wait or come in, shouldn’t take long.”
“I’ll come with you.” Sam one hundred percent wanted to. Aside from impressing Jason with willingness, he was fascinated. Movie stars doing errands? In quirky artisanal local shops? Utterly besotted?
That last one he’d known. Everyone who’d ever seen Jason looking at Colby Kent knew. Different in person, though. More solid and unshakeable.
They went in through a back door, conveniently open. Art bloomed around them: a forest of ocean waves, glowing hibiscus, delicate ink, dancing painted humanity in every shade imaginable. Woods shaped and curved and wrapped themselves into frames: dark, light, oaken, walnut, white-painted, blonde. The air tasted of craftsmanship, dry shavings, light and heat.
Jason waved; the young woman up front waved back, said, “Right on time, as usual!” and then shouted, “Roz!” The purple streaks in her hair bounced, framing dark skin and dark sparkling eyes and dramatic bronze-and-plum eyeliner; Sam wanted to capture her in various light, motion and bracelets whirling for a camera lens.
