14 #2
Her anger and disdain weren’t new, of course. He’d known exactly how she felt about Ron and R.J. and the future of their show for a long time now.
Late one night two seasons ago, fresh from filming a particularly challenging scene and enduring yet another shitty standoff
with Ron, she’d flopped down on the couch in his suite. Blithely, as if discussing nothing of great consequence, she’d told
him she wanted to quit. Would have quit, if the bonds tethering her to their small island crew, to him, and to her character
weren’t so strong.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t care about everyone so much.” She’d tipped her head back against the cushion and stared up at the
ceiling, the firelight setting her hair aglow. “But even that might not be enough to keep me here, Peter, if it weren’t for
one other consideration.”
Part of him wanted to shake her. After all that time, didn’t she realize the immense privilege of working on a show like theirs?
Didn’t she understand how very many actors struggled their entire careers and never, ever managed to land a role like Cassia?
Didn’t she know that nearly every barista at every Hollywood café she’d ever visited was a would-be actor scrimping and starving
and hustling for even a bit part in a doomed pilot?
He’d almost said so. Because she still didn’t get it. Because she wanted to leave.
Because she wanted to leave him .
Then he’d looked at her. Really looked .
He’d spied the tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She was about to turn thirty, and it showed. Subtly. Unmistakably.
Gloriously. She was gorgeous to begin with, but she’d somehow grown even more beautiful over time. He suspected that would
be true until the day she passed from this earth.
But the flickering light didn’t only reveal those new, adorable crinkles. It also threw the dark circles under her eyes into relief and silhouetted her slumped shoulders. She seemed—tired. Worn thin, in a way he’d never witnessed before.
Her easy, breezy cheer wasn’t an act. He knew that. It wasn’t all of her, though. And her confidence and talent might keep
her afloat in rough waters, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t swimming as fast as she could. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t get
exhausted and need a buoy sometimes.
He had to help her stay afloat. Anything, anything , to keep her on the show. With him.
So he bit his tongue. He kept his voice soft and mild, making sure it harbored not even a hint of the tangled emotions—fear,
anger, hurt, frustration—that had rabbited his pulse when she’d announced her desire to quit. “What’s the other consideration
keeping you here?”
Her laugh was ragged around the edges, but it sounded genuine.
“Spite,” she said. “Obviously.”
When he blinked at her in befuddlement, she laughed again.
“Oh, Peter.” Her hand covered his on the couch cushion and squeezed. “We both know this show is, as you Americans say, going
off the rails. There aren’t any more books to adapt, which means two of the most boring, self-satisfied, small-minded men
I’ve ever met are now entirely in control of the story.”
He’d figured that was why recent filming had proven especially fraught and chaotic. E. Wade’s books couldn’t provide plot
or character guidance anymore, and the showrunners were floundering.
When Maria lifted her hand from atop his, he fought the urge to snatch it back.
“ Gods of the Gates is going to crash and burn. So are Ron and R.J.” Her smile was weary and bright and vicious. “And when they immolate their careers with their incompetent, misogynistic edgelord shit, I want a front-row seat.”
Ah. Spite. Now he got it.
Her nose wrinkled, and she stared into the fire for a moment. “Wait. Do I mean edgelord or grimdark? I always get those two
confused.”
“Both terms probably apply,” he’d said dryly, and she’d laughed once more and started to talk about the next day’s scene,
and the moment was over.
Outside occasional comments on the cast chat, she’d never raised the topic again. But he knew she meant what she’d said. Every
word.
So... yeah. He should probably answer any and all questions about the final season, the same way he’d done in their previous
interviews. God knew her opinion of the show and its scripts hadn’t improved in the last two years.
Once more unto the breach, he supposed.
“The final season includes some of the most expensive and spectacular action sequences ever filmed for television, and I can’t
say enough about the talent and hard work of the Gods of the Gates crew as we shot those scenes.” There. That was honest enough. “And I think Cassian fans will be very... satisfied with
some of the developments in their relationship.”
There. A little harmless insinuation, a rakish wink, and... done. Tonya had run out of time, and none too soon. Follow-up
questions about the final season were the worst .
The PR rep ushered the reporter out, only to immediately usher in the interviewer scheduled for the next time slot. The guy
wore glasses, a graphic tee, and squeaky sneakers. A blogger, maybe? Or a representative from an online-only media outlet?
“Hi.” The twentysomething dude shook both their hands, then settled into his chair. “I’m Carl Li, and I run the Gays of the Gates blog. It’s lovely to meet you both.”
“Likewise,” Maria said with a warm smile. “I’ve seen your blog, and I appreciate the thoughtfulness of your posts, even those
critical of the show. Representation matters, and when that representation is harmful, it needs to get called out.”
The tips of Carl’s ears turned ruddy. “Thank you so much, Ms. Ivarsson.”
“Please call me Maria,” she told him, and he beamed back at her.
Peter was pretty sure Carl would now kill for Maria if necessary, or at least provide a solid alibi while she did the deed
herself.
“Um...” The blogger glanced down at his notebook. “I have quite a few questions. Hopefully we can get through most of them.”
Peter gulped down some ice water and waited for it.
“As you may have seen, the two of you came in first and second in our recent reader poll.” When Maria gave him a blank look,
he hurried to explain. “It was a fun break from our more serious coverage. The poll asked: If you had to choose, which one actor would you most want guarding your special gate? ”
“My gate really is quite special,” Maria murmured. “Everyone says so.”
Peter choked on his water, and she thumped his back while he coughed and tried not to consider the implications of her statement.
He couldn’t argue her point, though. Her particular gate was the best he’d ever guarded. By far.
Having apparently missed Maria’s interjection, Carl was still talking when Peter managed to catch his breath and degutter
his mind once more.
“—reluctant consensus in the comments was that whether you were straight or not didn’t really matter.” The blogger peered at them over the top of his glasses, cheeks dimpled in a knowing grin. “Because you’re secretly a couple and off the market anyway.”
Here it came at last, inevitable as death, taxes, and the fridging of female characters in action films.
“Are you two dating one another? If not, have you ever dated in the past?”
At that fraught moment, as Peter attempted to muster the energy necessary to answer the question pleasantly and with sufficient
verve, Maria—damn her— wigglewigglewiggled .
Her thigh rubbed against his, and her dress hitched upward again, to the point where he could easily see that little constellation
of freckles he’d licked long ago, mere moments before he’d licked her very special, very slippery gate.
He remembered those freckles fondly. Too fondly. So fondly, his dick tried its very hardest to merge with the zipper of his
jeans.
And that was when he knew for certain: He wouldn’t survive this.
The coroner would declare Death by Press Junket. At the funeral, his father would note that Peter’s tragic death would never
have occurred if he’d attended business school, as was expected of him, instead of becoming a theater major. By his graveside,
his castmates would toss roses upon his casket, sniff back tears, and tell each other, “He’s in a better place now.”
And by God, they wouldn’t be wrong.