Fake (West Hollywood 1)

“It’s not like there haven’t always been plenty of women around, you know?” he asked, his fingers tightening on the wheel. “I’ve never had to work too hard for sex.”

“No, I’d imagine not.”

“I wanted her and I could finally have her and I didn’t stop and think beyond that. It was stupid and selfish and I shouldn’t have done it.”

I said nothing.

“Well?” he asked, darting me a glance.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to say something? Pass judgment?”

“What would be the point?” I asked. “You already know you made a mistake. Next time, if a situation like this ever comes up again, you’ll handle things differently. Wait longer or not go there or something.”

Another glance from him.

“So forgive yourself, move on, and do better.”

He grunted. Men were so emotionally awkward. Honestly.

He flipped on the indicator as we turned into the home stretch. One brave paparazzo stood waiting by the fence as the front gate started to open, along with a woman standing back in the shadows. A fan, I guess. And we definitely also had one photographer who’d followed us from the party on the motorcycle behind. What a crazy job, being a professional stalker. As we slowed down, waiting for the gate to fully open, a camera was shoved up against the window. We both stared straight ahead. Weird how fast you could get used to something. It wasn’t like it mattered what we did, though. The shots would run with the usual bullshit headlines. The car moved forward and we headed toward the house, leaving the paparazzi behind. Thank God.

We pulled into the garage beside the house and the engine went quiet. The whole world went quiet, actually. One lone light shone by the front doors. Everything was shadows and darkness.

“You feel like doing something?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Watch a movie or something?” He hesitated, his jaw working. “You don’t have to. I mean . . . it’s not part of your job description to keep me company when we’re not at functions.”

“Do I get to choose the movie?”

There was a teasing light in his eyes “Are you any good at choosing movies?”

“Guess you’re about to find out.”

“Not funny,” he grouched.

“I didn’t put this on. It was just there when I turned on the TV.”

We’d settled into the home theater with a couple bottles of beer and good intentions. So of course, Patrick’s naked body appeared on screen the minute I managed to turn it on. And it was not a small screen, either.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “They sent a new director’s cut over for me to check out a while back. I watched a bit in fast forward before giving up on it.”

“You don’t normally watch your own movies?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I had a huge pimple on my left butt cheek. You can just make it out.”

I tilted my head. “I see.”

“Those lights were hot as hell. I kept sweating off the makeup and they kept having to touch it up.”

“They have butt makeup?” I asked.

“Body makeup,” he corrected with a small smile. They were definitely happening more often. It was a beautiful thing to see.

The room had graphite-colored walls and six matching comfy chairs. Some black-and-white photography hung on the walls and a red popcorn machine took pride of place over by a bar fridge full of booze. I loved this house. Honestly. The place was just so cool. It had everything you could need without tipping over into sprawling mansion territory. It still felt like a home. Even if Patrick didn’t spend much time here usually.

“What’s it like filming a sex scene?” I asked, helping myself to the bowl of popcorn on the little table between us.

On screen, he and a beauty rolled around on an endless bed. Music swelled and lighting dimmed and it was all quite horny, honestly.

“Horrible.” He held his hand out for the remote and I passed it over, since I couldn’t figure out how to work the stupid thing anyway. A moment later, an array of movie titles appeared on screen. “They have a closed set and limit the number of people there, but it’s still pretty fucking mortifying. Being naked apart from a cock sock in front of a bunch of people.”

“I saw tongue,” I said. “That’s actual French kissing. I thought you stage kissed like you did to me the other night at the restaurant.”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“What the actors have agreed to. What the director wants. What the story needs,” he said. “Pick a film.”

I turned back to the screen. “How about When Harry Met Sally?”

He ignored me and said, “Hey, there’s Taxi Driver. Have you ever watched that?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Ooh, Lord of the Rings?”

“Apocalypse Now is great. A real classic.”

“Casablanca?” I counter offered. “It’s a classic too.”

“Sure.”

Phew. Look at us compromising. He could save his angry man films for another time. We both watched in silence for a while, just chilling after the stressful event earlier.