AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I appreciate it, truly,” said Patrick. “Who’s your favorite mutant, though?” He rarely got to talk about this stuff; even his coworkers on the movie had superhero fatigue. “Mine’s Emma Frost.”
“She slays.” April nodded in respect. “But I’m a Storm girl. Always have been.”
“A-hem.” The blond sprang off the counter and extended his hand. “Jordan Thomas,” he said. “Your forehead is a masterpiece. Botox? No judgments.”
“Jordan!” Will exclaimed.
“I said no judgments,” Jordan said.
“No Botox,” Patrick laughed. “Just lucky, I guess.” The compliment had been genuine, and based on appearances, it seemed Jordan knew what he was talking about. Patrick had worked in Hollywood long enough to recognize good cosmetic work when he saw it. Kudos to the aesthetician who had tended to Jordan’s lips and brow: His facial fillers were probably the most subtle thing about him.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Patrick shook the offered hand.
“We met the other night,” Jordan said. “Kind of. You were at my bar? The Village. I served you and your friends.”
“Oh! Right!” Patrick withdrew his palm before it could begin to sweat, and immediately hated that his first instinct was to be embarrassed, to grow flustered when all he’d really done was allow his meticulously constructed persona to slip for a few moments. And Grace had stepped in before things got too bad. Grace with the green eyes.
“Jordan actually wanted to apologize for something,” said Will.
Patrick raised an eyebrow. Jordan did, too. Or rather, he tried.
“I do?” Jordan asked.
“Yes.” Will prodded him. “Jordan here, in what I wish I could say was a rare lapse in judgment, took a photo of you.” He closed his hand into a fist, brought it to his nose, and mimed taking a big breath.
“Oh,” Patrick said again, his diminishing cheer now crumpling like tissue paper. “I see.”
Jordan pursed his sculpted Cupid’s bow.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said. “Hope you didn’t get any flak for it. I mean, it would be corporate cowardice at its most craven if your career were to suffer. Anyway, it’s gone now. Will said I should delete it. At first I was like, why? That would be like saying you were doing something wrong, right? You weren’t hurting anyone, and it’s not like having a good time in a gay bar is a crime. Not since the 1960s. But then I thought, it’s a bit vulgar, you know? To post pictures of someone without their permission. Not hot-girl shit at all. So…sorry. Again.”
Jordan was clearly unaccustomed to delivering apologies, but as artless and rambling as it was, Patrick was touched. The smooth running of the entire entertainment industry depended on bland statements, pretty words arranged neatly so as to conceal their emptiness.
He couldn’t blame Jordan for his own secrets, or the fact that his contract with Wonder Studios held archaic ideas of what constituted “family-friendly.” In the first Kismet movie, he had punched a bad guy so hard he went through the side of a mountain. Family-friendly bone-crunching violence, apparently. His was a world full of such idiotic rules and contradictions, and he did not begrudge outsiders their insouciance.
“It’s forgotten,” he said. Then, eager to move the conversation along, he asked: “So how long have you guys been together?”
Will and Jordan frowned for a second—or at least Will frowned, and Jordan’s energy grew perplexed—and then they both burst out laughing.
“We’re besties,” said Will, and Jordan added, “I like to think that I can do a lot better than him, thank you very much.”
Patrick instantly liked Jordan a little more. The rush of affection tasted like relief, and no, he was not going to interrogate that emotional response right now.
“My mistake. I’m just going to…” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings.
“Yes! Browse!” April said. “Let us know if you have any questions.”
He turned away and began to examine the spines on the shelves, picking up the occasional book to read the cover, but all the while he could feel three stares burning into the back of his head, so much so that he couldn’t concentrate on anything he read and started just pretending to peruse the dust jackets. He experienced a similar feeling exploring art galleries, unsure how long to stand in front of one piece before moving on to the next.
When what felt like an appropriate amount of time had passed, he grabbed three volumes at random: a collection of poetry by Wordsworth; The Blind Assassin, by Margaret Atwood; and a dog-eared beginner’s guide to feng shui from the ’90s, which he hoped might give him the inspiration to contact his decorator in LA. When he returned with them to the counter, Will glanced at each title as he rang them up, and Patrick tried to analyze them through those green eyes. His choices were probably basic, pedestrian. He watched Will carefully for the slightest hint of a smirk or eye roll, but all Will did was say:
“Bag?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Patrick said.
Will shrugged. “All right.” And then: “I think you’ll really like that one.”
“Pardon?”
