Chapter 3
Monty
Monty woke up to a sharp pain behind his eyes.
He was in a bed smaller than his own, but with a softer quilt on top and a fresh detergent scent that he recognized before he was even fully conscious: Hilliard.
He blinked open his eyes to find himself in Hilliard’s spare bedroom.
He’d slept in it so many times before that it was practically a second home.
He groaned at the pain in his head and pulled the covers over his face to block out the small thread of light shining under the window curtain.
Pieces of the previous day flitted through his mind.
The memory of being pulled from the musical brought about a fresh wave of grief and anger.
He remembered Campbell in the hallway, Hilliard in his kitchen, and Jesse Morgan at the Pink Peacock.
All of those memories swirled around, drumming up a blend of irritation, embarrassment, shame, and gratitude.
He wondered if Hilliard was annoyed with him after having to go and fetch him the night before.
He heard the door click open and then felt the weight of Hilliard sitting on the bed next to him.
“I know you’re awake, doll,” the other man said softly. “Up you get.”
Monty groaned again and peeked out from under the blanket to see Hilliard holding up an aspirin and a glass of water. Reluctantly, he sat up, took the aspirin, and swallowed a healthy gulp of water.
“And now for your favorite,” Hilliard said as he held up another glass. “A prairie oyster for breakfast.”
Monty swiftly turned on his charm, braving the spike of pain that rose up at the effort. “But Hilliard,” he wheedled, “is that really necessary?”
“Montgomery.”
He heaved a sigh and took the glass. He pinched his nose and drank, tasting the egg, Worcestershire sauce, tabasco sauce, and salt and pepper, despite his efforts not to.
He could feel Hilliard’s fingers tipping up the bottom of the glass, encouraging him to finish the entire thing.
When he emptied it, he grimaced and handed it back.
“You know what also helps? Hair of the dog.”
Hilliard took the glass and handed over the water. “I’m not sure more alcohol is the wisest choice right now.”
“You never get a hangover if you don’t stop drinking.”
“Just like you don’t feel dizzy until you get off the merry-go-round,” Hilliard said. “It may be fun while it lasts, but the ride will stop eventually.”
Monty looked up in surprise at the gravity in Hilliard’s tone. “You sore at me?”
Hilliard smiled. “Of course not. Just worried.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Hilliard stood and drew the curtains, causing Monty to squint in the sudden light. “Like you did last night? I’m not sure you’ll be welcome at the Pink Peacock again any time soon.”
Monty felt his face heat as he realized Hilliard was right. “I’ll send the manager a check or flowers or something. It’ll be fine.” He finished the water and sat up straighter. “I should probably go home.”
“I’m going to the studio to take care of some things. I can drop you off on my way.”
In the light, Monty could see Hilliard’s outfit: a peach-colored cotton shirt. He squinted. There were Swiss Dots all over it, and he was sporting another neckerchief, this one a paisley pattern that brought out the color of the shirt.
“It’s too early for Swiss Dots,” Monty grumbled. “How you manage to get so spiffed up at this time of the morning I’ll never know.”
“It’s half past eleven. And it’s never too early in the day for good taste.” He patted Monty’s leg. “Speaking of which, get dressed so I can take you home.”
The drive was quiet, with Henrietta perched on Monty’s lap and looking out the window at the passing traffic. He petted her back absently as he gazed ahead. He was not really looking forward to spending the entire day at home alone. When the car pulled up to the driveway, he hesitated in his seat.
“Do me a favor?” Hilliard asked.
Monty turned to him. “Anything. What?”
His friend smiled and put a hand on Monty’s thigh. “Get some rest, drink some water, eat a good square meal, and read our script.”
“That sounds like four favors.”
“Well, you did say ‘anything.’”
Monty laughed. “I can promise the first three. Not sure I’m ready for the fourth one yet.”
Hilliard nodded and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.
Monty moved Henrietta to the seat and got out. He turned, resting his forearm on the top corner of the windshield frame once the door was shut. “Thank you again for last night…and everything.”
Hilliard’s smile was soft. “You’re more than welcome.”
He trudged inside and leaned against the tall front door, letting his head fall back against it with a thump. His head still ached, but the aspirin had helped to bring the pain down from a sharp jab to a dull throb. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.
As he walked through the house, his footsteps echoed slightly in the large, empty space.
He hesitated when he reached the coffee table.
His empty glasses from the previous night were still there.
So was the script for Together on Parade, right where Monty had left it when he’d gotten back from the studio.
His stomach turned at the sight of it. Without another thought, he poured himself a glass of gin and downed it in two swallows.
Then, to appease Hilliard, he drank a glass of water and went to bed.