Malibu (Elite 8 Studios #2)

1. Chapter 1

Mal

“I don’t know about this, Jerome.”

“Don’t know about what?” the man asks, raising one arched eyebrow my way.

I look down at myself. At the neoprene wetsuit hanging dangerously low on my hips. So low, in fact, I can see where my pubes would start if I had any. The material clings uncomfortably to my hips and legs, and I vaguely wonder if I’ll even be able to get hard in this thing, it’s so tight.

A spritz of cold water jerks me from my ponderings, and I reel back a step, blinking in surprise. The production assistant, not missing a beat, steps forward and peppers a fine mist over my naked torso.

Warn a guy , geez.

“I don’t see the problem,” Jerome continues on as the assistant walks around me, making my chest and back glisten.

“The sand?” I hedge. I realize I’m grasping at straws, but I don’t know what else to say.

Jerome’s eyebrow waits, judging me. With his leather jacket, crossed arms, and no-nonsense stare, my boss cuts an imposing figure. Although not a threatening one.

“Where’d you even get it all?” I ask, stretching my toes down into the soft, tawny granules underneath my feet as I stall. I wonder if real beach sand would be this clean.

Jerome waves me off. “We live in a desert.”

“I just…”

“Spit it out, Malibu,” my boss says.

Jerome runs a tight ship. He may be blunt at times, and he has a propensity for yelling on set, but he’s a good manager underneath it all.

As executive producer, he’s always treated his performers at Elite 8 Studios well, so I know if I tell him I don’t want to do this scene, he’ll listen.

The problem is I don’t have a valid excuse to give him.

I’ve done worse things, weirder things, than lean into the surfer-dude persona that’s become my brand.

Sure, I have long, blonde hair that runs in loose, wavy curls to my shoulders. My eyes are clear blue like the ocean. And my body is lean and toned. But I’m not actually from California, and I’ve never been surfing a day in my life.

No one here knows that, though.

It wasn’t my intention to lie, but on my first day at the studio, someone mentioned how I looked like a Cali boy, and I didn’t correct them.

That’s why Jerome gave me the moniker Malibu, and that’s why everyone here thinks I really am this laidback former surfer, when that’s so far from the truth it’s laughable.

I mean, I’ve never been to the coast or even stepped foot in a body of water.

And with my never-ending anxiety and panic attacks, I don’t know the meaning of the word “chill,” not when it feels like I’m a rat in a wheel, constantly trying to stay far enough ahead that I don’t spin out and land on my ass.

Spoiler alert: I already have.

In the grand scheme of things, maybe it’s harmless—letting my coworkers and friends think this Malibu facade has some basis in reality. We’re all performers, after all. But there’s a difference between acting on set and in real life. And my real life lies keep piling up.

Same as my debts.

I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, playing the role of an actual fake surfer. I’ve certainly had enough practice pretending to be Malibu .

Yet, as I stand here on set with my toes dipped in sand, skin warm from the artificial lights overhead, I’ve never felt like more of a fraud.

I’ve let the ruse go on too long, and now, it feels as if by enacting this scene, I’ll be hammering the proverbial nail in my coffin.

Sealing my fate. Trapping myself inside this impenetrable box of lies stamped “Malibu.” A box I built for myself.

Melodramatic, I know. But I’m starting to feel like I’ll never be able to crawl out of the mess I’ve buried myself in and just be…me.

I want that so badly I ache with it. I’m tired of lying to my friends, even by omission. I’m tired of the constant battle against my anxiety. And I’m tired of feeling like, no matter what I do, I can’t escape the demons from my past.

No matter how fast I run around the spinning wheel, I’m stuck in the same loop, over and over again. Another lie. Another bill. Another panic attack.

I want a moment of peace. Of clarity.

If only I knew how to find that.

A long, internal sigh is all the pity I allow myself. What would I even say to Jerome? Sorry, boss, I don’t want to play surfer fuck-boy today because I’m having an existential crisis at twenty-seven.

There’s no reason I can give that would allow me to back out of this scene without arousing suspicion.

And that’s not something I can afford—quite literally.

It’s bad enough that my friends found out about my financial troubles when I got evicted from my apartment a few months back.

If my boss gets wind of the secrets I’m hiding, I may very well end up out of a job, as well. I can’t let that happen.

So instead of whining, I buck the eff up and shrug off my previous comments. “It’s fine. Just seems like the surfer thing is a little on the nose.”

“It’s the number-one request from your fans,” Jerome replies dryly.

“To get sand in uncomfortable places?”

“To play yourself for once,” he says. “To be Malibu .”

The sentiment makes me cringe.

“Look, is there something I need to know?” Jerome asks, fixing me with an assessing gaze.

I shake my head quickly.

“Then let’s get started. You can fuck on the surfboard if you don’t want sand up your ass.”

“Considerate,” I mumble, turning away and walking toward my partner for the afternoon.

Trevor looks me over as I approach, and I give him a beaming smile.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

Damn it . Perceptive bastard.

You’d never know it by looking at his hulking frame and numerous tats, but Trevor is surprisingly sensitive. His moniker here is Bruiser, and while he does fuck like a freight train, Trevor doesn’t have a mean bone in his six-and-a-half-foot tall body.

“Yeah, just fine,” I say with a flick of my hand, dismissing his concern.

“Seems like this would be right up your alley,” he notes.

I cringe again.

“C’mon,” I say, patting Trevor’s bulky arm, ready to get this over with. “Let’s do this.”

Trevor nods, and we take our places in front of the large green screen in Studio 2.

Several props are set up around the room, including a beach umbrella and a surfboard wedged in the sand, and when they superimpose the water behind us, it’ll look realistic.

Although two men fucking in broad daylight in the middle of a beach is a little less believable, but hey, this is porn.

Sometimes the fantasy is better than reality.

“Ready?” Jerome yells out from behind the cameras.

I take a quick, sweeping glance of the room. Two cameramen flank Trevor and me. Jerome is standing at the ready, tablet in hand so that he can guide our scene as needed. Marco, the boom operator, towers above me just out of frame, his strong arms holding up the heavy weight of his equipment.

Each and every crew member is staring right at us, waiting to get to work.

And me? I nod my head, resigned to play the role I’ve perfected.

As I’m washing sand out of every-damn-where, debating all of my life choices, Alex’s lilting voice rings throughout the locker room.

“Did you have fun in your natural habitat, boo?”

I roll my eyes. “You know it. I love the sand.”

He titters. “I bet.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He stops outside of my shower stall, flicking the curtain to announce his presence. “You know I practically live here.”

I chuckle, shutting the water off. Steam continues to billow around me as I quickly pat myself dry and squeeze out my hair. Before stepping out of the shower, I wrap the towel around my waist, and when I fling the curtain back, Alex gives me a wide grin.

“Are you stalking me?” I ask, amused as Alex trails after me toward my locker. “Malibu” is stenciled across the front in gold lettering.

“Can’t a bestie stalk their other bestie?” he asks, tone suspiciously sweet.

I drop the towel and tug on my briefs before looking over at my friend-slash-coworker, who’s still smiling a little too widely. “I’m okay,” I tell him with a sigh.

He deflates a little. “I know that, boo.”

“Do you? Because you’re hovering.” I squeeze more water out of my hair before tipping my head down and shaking out the curls. When I fling upright, Alex snickers at me.

“I love when you do that head flip. It’s very Baywatch ,” he says.

I shake my head, recognizing his deflection for what it is. “As I’m sure Dixon has already told you during your weekly Malibu meeting—”

“We don’t have those.”

“—I’m fine . I’m back on my feet, and I’m not spiraling anymore.”

Alex’s face softens, and he squeezes my bare arm.

I almost can’t stand it, the sympathetic looks.

Alex, Dixon, and Niko are the only ones who know a fraction of what I’m dealing with, and even though he claims they don’t have meetings about me, I know they do get together to check in, like friendship parole officers.

I can’t say I blame them for treating me like glass. Especially Alex and Dixon, since they’ve known me for years. Dixon started working at Elite 8 Studios—one of the biggest producers of gay porn in the country—before me, and Alex joined shortly after. The two are as different as people can be.

Alex, who goes by the moniker Tink—like the fairy—is short and feisty, with floofy blonde hair and hazel eyes. He’s slender and boyish—he looks like a twink; let’s call it like it is—and he nearly always has a smile on his face.

Dixon, on the other hand, also known as Dix, is over six feet tall, has dark hair and skin, brown eyes, and sports a perpetual scowl. The man isn’t nearly as tough as he comes across, though. I know from experience.

Niko is the newest performer here — and the newest member of the Malibu Watch— and he and Dixon are dating.

Nicknamed Adonis, he’s Greek with curly brown hair, a rather stunning face, and a disposition completely opposite from that of his boyfriend’s.

The man could charm the pants off just about anyone with his charisma.