Page 9 of In Frame
Leo, breathless, could only stand without moving. He knew his lips were parted, no doubt kiss-pink and shiny; he couldn’t stop looking at Sam.
Who hooked thumbs into jeans pockets, shifted weight, offered a smile: wry and fond and sad. “You should go. I won’t keep you.”
“But,” Leo said. The world had changed. He had changed. Or maybe he hadn’t: maybe all of him had always been wanting exactly this.
Sam just gave him a small head-tilt, still smiling, though the smile hoisted banners to hide a bruise. His hair was a bit mussed, short fluffy dark waves rumpled; his eyes held fascinating shades of brown, topaz and tiger’s-eye and sun-kissed earth.
Leo wanted to touch him. Wanted to touch him everyplace: hands, waist, those muscular thighs, those expressive lips.
He should perhaps feel more confused, more astonished at himself, more dazed by this shift in self-perception and the reality of kissing a man; he would feel it all, probably, later. Just now Sam was his clarity. The sharpest brightest part of a color-soaked kaleidoscopic world.
He knew that much. He did not know what it would mean, all the implications, but he knew he’d liked it.
He said, “Will I see you again?”
Sam’s expression changed. “You mean will I keep following you around?”
“No. Or yes, if that’s how I get to see you.” He took a breath, pleaded, “I’ll make another spectacle out of myself. Jump into a fountain. Buy American fast food. Anything.”
“You would, too.”
“I would. Will you at least come to the premiere?Steadfast. Our movie. Colby and Jill have decided on a February date. Though—I don’t know how your job works, if you can even come to London—if I send you a ticket or a press pass or something—”
“My job,” Sam said, half amused, half regretful, “is whatever gets the celebrity money shot. I go where that is.”
“There’ll be a lot of us on the red carpet, if that helps? You can take pictures. If you need to. For your job.”
“You want me there.” Sam raised eyebrows. Polite and incredulous. Another emotion underneath. “Most people—”
“I’m not most people.”
“No.” Sam’s fingers twitched: almost a reaching out, perhaps, though in the end he only adjusted a camera-strap. “You’re you. I’ll…see what I can do.”
“It’s a newsworthy occasion. All those stories about Colby and Jason…their first red carpet as a couple…oh, and Sir Laurence Taylor will be there! If you want a legend for some photographs.”
“You don’t need to convince me,” Sam said, “I want to. I don’t know if I can, but…I want to.”
Leo’s mobile phone, in his pocket, buzzed again. A sparkly drag revue awaited. Celebrations and exuberance and bottles of champagne. Discussions of wedding plans and thatupcoming musical Jill and Andy were now convinced they should all film.
Leo was not an especially good singer. He wasn’t outright dreadful, or he didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t advertise it as a particular talent, either. He’d happily join Colby’s fictional band on stage, though, perhaps doing the acting version of learning to play bass or the drums. He wanted to be involved; he wanted to be part of the story.
Not the superstar, he thought. Someone who got the job done. The sidekick, the second in command, the comic relief.
But Sam had seen him. Had looked at him and asked to kiss him. Had told him that he, Leo Whyte, was worth that: the asking, the respect, and the wanting.
Sam was summoning a cab, because Leo hadn’t managed to think about anything practical yet; it was right down the street, apparently, and came promptly. Sam stayed with him, even opened the door for him, touched his hand: a brief brush of fingertips.
“Sam,” Leo said, hopelessly.
“Go on,” Sam said, “have fun, Leo Whyte,” and stepped back: back into the swirl of Las Vegas flair, a sidewalk, a thrumming ocean of bodies and stories and vibrant life. The cab driver cleared his throat and asked about the destination, confirming. Leo answered without really looking around.
He kept gazing out the window instead. Sam was out there. Sam was out there in the night, camera at the ready, doing his job.
Of course it was only one night. Not even a night. An hour. A glimpse. And Sam took celebrity pictures for a living, and Leo Whyte was a celebrity, at least a minor one; they might’ve kissed, they might’ve shared a drink, Sam might’ve excavated the deepest most lonely piece of Leo’s soul, but that couldn’t mean anything, surely?
They couldn’t have a future. Leo couldn’t expect that. In all likelihood he’d never see Sam Hernandez-Blake again.
He’d have the memory. This night. A moment that was his: his and Sam’s. Not for social media or gossip or loudly sharing. A kiss.
