AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Will would have thought that sitting still behind a car blaring “Despacito” would kill any sense of momentum his outrage had acquired, but instead his anger simmered in the passenger seat, poisoning the air.
“Go,” said Jordan eventually. “We’ll be here ages. You go and have it out, and I’ll catch up with you when I find somewhere to park.”
Will thanked him, got out of the car, and walked with a fiery urgency, cutting through increasingly quiet side streets until he reached the vast warehouse that had been turned into a soundstage. He had been here only once before, accompanying Patrick to work one morning behind the blacked-out windows of a car. This time, he marched straight toward the gate.
“Can I help you, buddy?” A security guard the approximate size of a telephone box stepped into his view, obstructing his path.
“Jesus,” said Will. “Where did you come from? You’re enormous.”
The guard, an American presumably flown in along with the rest of the production, did not look amused.
“Can I help you, buddy?” he repeated, tone so empty that Will wasn’t entirely sure he understood the meaning of the word “buddy.”
“Yes, please,” he said. “I…”
Fuck. He had not thought this far ahead. He’d simply envisioned storming onto the set, flinging open the door to Patrick’s trailer, and letting him have it. Except of course he wouldn’t be allowed on set. Will wondered how many random fans had made their way down here over the last several weeks, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite actor. He couldn’t exactly say, I’m here to see my boyfriend, we’re about to have a massive row, and I think you’d take my side if you heard all the gory details.
“I have an appointment,” he said, finally.
The guard looked him up and down, probably wondering who he could possibly have business with, and then asked: “What kind of appointment?”
“The really important kind?” said Will, defeat already creeping into his voice. This was humiliating. He was losing before he even got a chance to have the fight.
“Will? Is that you?” a familiar voice called across the lot. Will saw the Captain Kismet suit, and the snakes in his stomach began to squirm once again before the figure removed the flight goggles, and he saw that it was Corey.
“It’s OK,” Corey said to the guard. “You can let him in. He’s with me.”
“You’re a stuntman?” the guard asked, appraising Will once again.
“What, like it’s hard?” Will said, indignantly, swanning through the gate.
Corey waved him inside and pointed him toward Patrick’s trailer.
“Gotta run, mate,” he said. “Big day for the ol’ crash test dummy here. Good to see you!”
“Thanks,” said Will. “Good luck with your…erm…crashing!”
He entered the trailer, planning to sit and wait and plan how to carefully explain his feelings to Patrick. But sitting was beyond him, and so he paced, taking in the script pages and bottled water and tastefully packaged black tubs of creatine and whey and collagen and god only knew what else, trying to calm down, until he heard the door open behind him.
“What are you doing here?” Patrick asked. He wasn’t wearing his costume, but rather a black bodysuit covered in neon green dots, which Will guessed would later act as a canvas for all manner of CGI wizardry. Right now, however, Patrick looked mildly ridiculous.
Will suppressed a laugh. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
“You can’t be here.” Patrick’s voice was steady and cold. “You know you can’t be here.”
“I needed to talk to you.” Will put his hands on his hips in what he hoped was a power stance, and not a pose that made him look like a little teapot.
“We’ll talk later.” Patrick turned to go.
“I think the ever-loving fuck not,” said Will. “We are going to talk now because I am your boyfriend and I am upset.”
“Will.” Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a sharp breath. “I am at work. This is my job. You can’t just show up here. Every minute we get held up costs a lot of money.”
Will was being spoken to like a petulant child, and he wondered now if that’s how he was behaving.
“I’m sorry,” he began. “I should have thought…” The words died on his lips. “No. I’m not sorry, actually. I want to talk now.”
Patrick sighed. “Fine,” he said. “What about?”
