Hot Set (Art of Love #2)

8. Alex

Chapter eight

Alex

F ollowing Caitlyn’s disappearance, the set seemed thrown into chaos, as if Caitlyn’s leaving had somehow set off an unstoppable maelstrom. Everything went wrong. I mean everything. Cameras malfunctioned, lights were dropped, the most expensive costume in the entire production had gotten covered in fake blood, and two background artists had quit. I was sure Brandon was freaking out over it. Anyone would’ve been.

And maybe I should’ve been, too. After all, that background artist dropping out meant I’d been taken from make-up and shoved into painting backgrounds. Hopefully, we wouldn't need a costume designer anytime soon because my talents ended with painting, make-up, and memorizing Renaissance artwork. And after everything, I couldn’t think about much except Brandon. A little of Seth, too. We’d gone to get pizza, and it’d been fun; a few drinks in a bar, while a football game played in the background. My stomach churned every time I thought about it. It felt like some strange betrayal of Brandon, and I didn’t know why.

The only thing going for me was that Brandon was busy filming in Manhattan, so he wouldn’t be in for a few more hours. That made him easier to avoid.

A man with dark hair and blue eyes dropped a black, canvas portfolio beside me. With a scowl, he bent down and carefully picked away a few stands of white animal hair.

“Cat?” I asked.

“My boyfriend’s,” the man said. “He was so insistent we get this long-haired, furry demon. And I don’t know how it happens, but its hair gets everywhere. No matter how hard I try to keep my portfolio and things away from it, the furry demon still gets to them.”

“That’s cats for you,” I said.

The man sighed and began pulling out his paintbrushes. It was clear from the quality of them that painting was this man’s thing , rather than something he’d been sort of coerced into doing because he’d happened to have a handful of college painting classes.

“Alex,” I said, offering my hand.

The man shook my hand and smiled. “Mark,” he replied. “I’m a friend of Brandon’s.”

I wondered if friend of Brandon’s meant something more than “friend”.

“He called me begging for help, so I thought I’d indulge him,” Mark continued. “This movie sounds like it’s cursed, doesn’t it?”

I shook my head, as if I could literally shake away all my needless conflicting thoughts about Brandon. Why did it matter if Mark was or had been something more than a friend of Brandon’s?

Mark pulled out pots of paint. He clearly had a system going, one that involved setting out everything he might possibly need before he began. I was more of a grab-as-I-go kind of man.

“I wouldn’t say it’s cursed,” I replied. “Just…”

It was just that poor Brandon really didn’t have any experience in this kind of thing. He had passion, so much passion, but he’d…

Heat rose to my face, and I knew I must’ve been as red as a sunset. Hopefully, Mark either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t say anything. Sex with Brandon had been a mistake. My life had been so blissfully uncomplicated before. Now, even when Brandon wasn’t around, he still haunted my thoughts.

“Disheveled?” Mark offered. “That’s Brandon for you. During undergrad, he was always coming up with these crazy schemes and ideas. I think it was probably a legitimate pastime of his.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked.

Mark grabbed the reference photo we were using, a graveyard that we were supposed to paint with red tones and black shadows. “He did,” Mark said. “And he consistently bit off more than he could chew. For his freshman composition class, the final project was to redo something you’d previously written and make it into another genre. Most of Brandon’s classmates just took a paper they’d written and turned it into a PowerPoint or something, but not him. No, he decided he was going to write a novel about—what was it? Global warming, maybe.”

“How did that work out?” I asked.

Mark shrugged. “I think he wrote the first twenty pages and called it good enough. He passed, at least.”

“So, he’s not going to win the Nobel Prize in literature anytime soon, huh?”

Mark smirked. “Did you think he would?”

I nodded to the open half-gallon of red paint on the floor. “That’s what we’re doing the background with,” I said.

Mark glanced at the paint and nodded. “You know,” he said, “I think this would look better if we did the linework in Indian ink rather than pencil. It’d create a good contrast.”

I laughed. “Well, you’re more the expert than I am, but won’t it smear once it’s dry?”

Mark dug through the pockets of his canvas portfolio and pulled out the small pot of black ink. “No,” he said, “Indian ink is waterproof once it dries.”

After placing the ink between us, Mark dipped in a brush. He moved forward to the canvas on his knees and sat back on his heels, carefully tracing over the delicate pencil lines at the bottom of the massive piece of fabric that we were trying to make into a background.

“Now, my question is,” Mark queried, “why Brandon doesn’t just do this all with a greenscreen. He could.”

“I don’t know enough about movies to say,” I replied.

“Neither do I,” Mark said, “Not making them, anyway. But I can name every horror film ever made.”

“Brandon probably can, too,” I said.

“Probably. He’s always been a cinephile,” Mark said, “Even in undergrad. He used to invite the whole class to go to the movies with him.”

“Did everyone go?”

Mark shrugged. “A few people. Never the whole class. Brandon had this sort of infectious energy about him, and I think it creeped some people out. He’s become a bit more reserved over the years.”

I dipped my brush in the ink and swiped it over the canvas. Minutes passed while Mark and I silently traced over the pencil lines. The Indian ink did show up better on the canvas, and it would really bring out the brightness of the red a lot better. It really fitted Brandon’s aesthetic as well.

“So, you’ve known Brandon for a long time,” I said.

“On and off,” Mark said. “I knew him from my undergrad. I met him again when I was finishing my master’s, and we kind of hit it off.”

I wondered what exactly Mark meant by “ hit it off” . And I shouldn’t wonder. I shouldn’t even care. It wasn’t like I was interested in Brandon. We’d just—

We’d just had a one-night stand, and maybe it meant something to Brandon. But it should not. Brandon knew I was straight, so he’d surely realize that I wasn’t really attracted to him. He’d realize that I’d just made a hasty decision, and there was no need to think anything more about what we’d done.

Even though I kept thinking about it, playing everything over and over in my mind. I’d liked it, and I felt like I shouldn’t have.

“So, what are you doing now?” I asked.

It was safer to talk with Mark about Mark than talk about Brandon.

“I’m working on my doctorate,” Mark replied, “In painting. I do some stuff on the side, too. Sometimes, I do projects like Brandon’s, but mostly it’s commissions. Rich people like to look at giant portraits of themselves, or their bratty kids.”

“Must be nice,” I said, “Being rich.”

Mark nodded. “My boyfriend Logan has money like that,” he said. “It’s…astonishing the sorts of things he buys. But I won’t complain. Wealthy people keep me in work, Brandon included.”

“So how wealthy is Brandon?” I asked. “He’s funding this entire production, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Mark replied, “Or his father is. With Brandon, I think it’s somewhere in the millions.”

I whistled between my teeth. “Millions?” I asked.

I’d been imagining hundreds of thousands, maybe. But millions ?

“Mmhm,” Mark said, tilting his head at the lines he’d drawn. “Telecommunications, no way to make any less.”

“He seems very down to earth for someone with that much money,” I said.

“He always has been,” Mark replied, smiling fondly, “Ever since—”

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Mark’s attention. He turned and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh, great,” Mark muttered.

I turned around. A man dressed in black slacks and a white button-down shirt walked to us. His hair was thick and blond and his eyes a sharp, clever blue. It only took me a few seconds to realize who this man must be. He looked a lot like Brandon; they had similar facial features—soft but with high cheekbones and full lips.

Mark gave a little wave and planted a fake smile on his face. As the man approached, Mark climbed to his feet and brushed invisible lint off his jeans. I stood, too, acutely aware of the blots and smears of paint staining my hands and clothes. I wasn’t the neatest artist in the world, and it took a disturbing amount of effort just to keep from getting paint in my hair.

“Jonathan,” Mark said.

Brandon’s dad and Mark shook hands, which seemed overly formal to me. But what did I know? I rocked back on my heels, waiting to be noticed or introduced.

“Jonathan, this is Alex. He’s doing make-up and sets,” Mark said. “Alex, this is Jonathan, Brandon’s father.”

Jonathan’s blue eyes darted to me. It seemed as though his gaze lingered over me forever, although it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. From the way Jonathan frowned, I got the feeling he didn’t like what he’d found either.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, offering my ink-stained hand.

Jonathan smiled tightly. “You, too,” he said.

I swallowed thickly and awkwardly shoved my hand into the pocket of my jeans. I really should’ve known better than to offer my hand to a polished man like this.

“Have you seen Brandon around?” Jonathan asked.

“He’s out today,” Mark said.

“Out where?” Jonathan asked.

“Virginia,” Mark replied. “He went to pick up some camera equipment. I think he’s planning on being away for a few days.”

Brandon was definitely nowhere near Virginia.

Jonathan frowned. “He didn’t tell me he was going out of state.”

“I think it was a last-minute kind of thing,” Mark replied, smiling sympathetically. “He found a really good deal on used equipment and decided to go for it.”

“He doesn’t have enough cameras?” Jonathan asked, waving vaguely to the set.

“Not like these,” Mark said. “They’re special, and Brandon’s getting a great deal on them. Like, it’s a steal.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “He hasn’t been answering his phone,” Jonathan said.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why. I barely knew Brandon’s father, but he sounded overbearing, like a man who didn’t take no for an answer.

“It’s probably bad reception,” Mark said, shrugging. “I think he’s in a rural part of Virginia. I can’t remember exactly where he said, but…I think it was rural.”

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “That sounds just like him. We’re supposed to have lunch Saturday.”

Mark shrugged. “Sorry. He didn’t mention that to me. I don’t know if he’ll be back by then. He’s working really hard on this project, as I’m sure you know.”

Jonathan looked like he’d tasted something very unpleasant. “You’ll let me know if you hear from him.”

It should’ve been a question or a request, but Jonathan made it sound like a demand… or a threat. As polished as he was, Brandon’s father was clearly a control freak.

“I will,” Mark replied. “I’ll have him call you.”

“Good.” Jonathan glanced at me. “Nice to meet you.”

Jonathan turned on his heel and walked away with a clipped, quick pace. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

“He’s…” I trailed off. “Eccentric.”

Mark shook his head and returned to his linework. “He’s out of his mind,” Mark said. “When Brandon was an undergrad, his dad was always coming to university functions and barking out orders.”

I joined Mark at the canvas once more. “Really?” I asked.

Mark nodded. “He is the reason parents are no longer allowed at freshman orientation,” Mark said. “He showed up and tried to register all of Brandon’s classes for him and managed to piss off every single one of the advisors.”

So, Jonathan was definitely not a man to be crossed. I wondered what else Brandon’s father tried to get involved in. Did he care about Brandon’s sex life? I gulped and imagined this man knowing I’d been involved with his son. The plots of dozens of thrillers and horror movies swarmed through my head. Jonathan seemed like the sort of person who’d make his son’s lovers disappear .

“A couple of Brandon’s classes, too,” Mark continued. “Any time Brandon got a bad grade, Jonathan was right there in the professor’s face. Apparently, Jonathan just refused to believe that professors telling him about his son’s grades was a FERPA violation, no matter how many times he was told differently.”

“FERPA?” I asked.

“It’s…” Mark waved vaguely. “It has to do with student privacy. Professors aren’t allowed to discuss students’ grades with their parents unless there’s expressed written permission or something. Try telling Brandon’s father he can’t just order or money his way into something. Like talking to a brick wall.”

Great. Simply great.

“And Brandon’s dad is… funding this movie,” I said slowly.

Who knew for how long?

Mark raised one eyebrow. “That’s how it’s worked between them for a while,” Mark said. “Jonathan funds Brandon’s passion projects, and Brandon…tries to find himself. I suspect Jonathan’s patience is running out, and when it does, I suppose Brandon will have to figure out what to do.”

Poor Brandon. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be at the whims of an over-zealous, super-wealthy father. My mother, bless her heart, had always been fine with anything I wanted to do. Even if it involved makeup and art history in some nearly impossible hope of joining the FBI art forgery team.

I thought of Brandon in the early morning hours, when his father had texted and called, demanding to speak to his son immediately. I thought of the way Brandon’s hair had been tousled by the way he’d run his fingers through it and the way his blue eyes had been so imploring and needing. And I thought of falling onto his sofa and of having sex together, and my heartbeat quickened, beating so loudly that I heard the echo of it reverberating in my head. It was an irrational reaction for a one-night stand, a minor lapse in judgment.

I wasn’t gay , after all. I wasn’t really attracted to Brandon.

He was handsome, sure. And good at sex, sure. But that didn’t mean I wanted anything more from him.

I glanced at Mark, and somewhat belatedly, I was aware of his appeal. He had a face that could’ve been carved from marble. There was perfect symmetry in his cheeks and eyes, and his eyes were the most incredible shade of blue. Not the usual gray-blue or blue-green, but a true, sky blue. What had he and Brandon been?

I bit my lip and nearly asked, but I couldn’t gather the courage to do it. It wasn’t my business, anyway.

With my heart in my throat, I looked at the linework, half-complete. I wasn’t in love with Brandon. That was impossible. I just saw that he was an attractive man, because he was, and I’d had a lapse in judgment because he’d been stressed. And I’d been there. That was all.

I took a steadying breath and resumed tracing, trying to focus only on the pencil lines and Indian ink. “ Just avoid Brandon until I can stop thinking about this.” That was all I had to do. Simple enough. Probably in my best interests, anyway. The last thing I wanted was to draw the ire or suspicion of Brandon’s father.