Chapter 13 Maverick
MAVERICK
It’s been two weeks since the incident at the fountain, and I haven’t seen or heard from Boone. It’s not like we had plans to chat or meet up or whatever, but he has my number.
You could text him too, Mav.
I could, it’s just…
For exactly three point seven seconds, Boone kissed me back. He did more than that. He gripped my waist, pulled me in tight against his body, and took over the kiss. Like he knew exactly what I wanted.
What he wanted.
There, in his clutch, I knew exactly how he would hold me if he were ever to make love to me. How anyone he’d been intimate with was really goddamn lucky.
Everything about it was magical…right up until he remembered that he is a man of principle, and I was far too wasted.
I should appreciate that he stopped when he did.
I mean, I do appreciate it—and definitely would have felt weird about it the next morning if we had gone further. Hell, the only reason I wasn’t absolutely trashed the next morning was because Maya made me take IV fluids before letting me go to sleep.
And yet…
Sigh.
My fantasies just got upgraded, yay, but having a taste of something is almost worse than not getting it at all.
Embarrassingly, I overnighted a pouch of some really high-quality pipe tobacco to myself. As soon as it arrived, I immediately stuck my face into the bag and inhaled. It’s not exactly what Boone was smoking, but it was close enough for me to jack off to.
Multiple times.
I also may or may not have created a small tobacco pillow to sniff while I go to sleep.
Anyway.
My super-normal and not-at-all-obsessive thoughts are interrupted by a buzz on my wrist. I check my phone and smile as I hit Accept.
“Ru, buddy! I haven’t talked to you since you won the Jury Prize! We have to celebrate!”
“Yes, let’s pop bubbles for my consolation prize,” he says in that dry, self-deprecating way of his.
“Oh, come on. You got recognized by the people who actually know what they’re doing. You’re not some scrappy nobody. You’re a brilliant filmmaker, and Cannes said so. Out loud, with other people in the room.”
There’s a pause…long enough that I wonder if I pushed too hard.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, the smile returning to his voice. “And I hope you remember that when I ask a favor.”
“You never have to ask,” I say. “I’m in.”
Another beat of silence.
Hikaru is one of our Seguin cousins. He was adopted at eight, and sometimes, he still waits to be told he belongs.
I hate that he still thinks he has to earn us.
“Seriously, man. What can I do for you? Help fund your next project? Hide a body? You know I’m down for whatever.”
That finally shakes a laugh out of him.
“I may talk to you about a producing credit down the line, but for now, what I need is a selfie.”
“A selfie?” I ask, tossing my hair over my shoulder, even though I’m the only one in the condo right now. “Why do you need a selfie?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard everybody talk about how you stole the scene you were in.”
“No…” Honestly, I hadn’t. I’d done the scene months ago and hadn’t really thought about it since. “I’m just glad I didn’t fuck up your entire movie.”
“Whatever. Everyone was shocked that I managed to get the Maverick to do a cameo, which you totally could have phoned in. Instead, you showed up on set and killed it.”
My cheeks go hot. “Ah, thanks, man.”
I’m complimented frequently, but it’s usually about stuff I don’t have that much control over. Sure, I take care of my body and I’m a pretty good-looking guy, but my dads are fucking beautiful, and they both have better abs than I do.
Acting, though, is different. I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but it really is a craft, and you can’t fucking hide a lack of talent because the camera catches everything.
Ru hesitates, then says, “It’s just…the studio wants me to use you in my next film.”
Holy shit.
“Really?”
“They keep saying that you and I are a hit team. They’ve been tossing around collaborations like Kurosawa and Mifune.”
I snort. “More like Wood and Lugosi.”
Ru and I share a love of old school movies. A lot of the movies these days are too loud, too involved, too complicated. People really love the current 3-D renaissance, but…nah. Give me black-and-white, maybe some early grainy color, and a simple plot line.
“Seriously, Mav. They think there’s something there, and…they might be right.”
“You know I’m not a serious actor, Ru.”
More importantly, I don’t want my reputation to overshadow his talent. It’s why I didn’t join him in Cannes.
“What I know is that you’re not a serious anything. On purpose.” He pauses in that elegant way of his. “Even though you could be a serious whatever you want to be.”
It’s my turn to go quiet. Ru is the sweetest soul, and as a director, he managed the set with quiet confidence.
According to my scene partner, he also had a schedule that made sense and operated with a level of humanity not often seen in Hollywood.
Unfortunately for me, Ru also has an incisive way about him, sometimes cutting to the heart of the matter with a little too much accuracy.
He knows my unserious persona is starting to fit like a jean jacket that’s been shrunk in the dryer.
“…crazy idea for a film short about a guy,” he says.
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah. It’s about this deeply unserious guy, the punchline of the family.
The family gets into trouble, and the only one who can help is the punchline.
He has ’til sunset to save them. The biggest scenes are being shot at the golden hour, and I bet real money that the camera would love you in that light. ”
Oh. I get it.
“Gee, I wonder where you got that idea from?” I rub my arms. “Besides, you don’t want to go pissing off the real actors by hiring me.”
“You took acting lessons, Mav.” He lets out a big sigh. “From an industry legend. For years.”
I shush him, even though there’s no one else around. “Nobody knows that.”
Ru’s also the only one who knows about my martial arts training and the therapy I get for sensory regulation and language processing. Obviously, my dads made sure I had the best specialists as a kid, but people don’t realize that shit needs constant work.
I can practically hear him roll his eyes. “I don’t know why you don’t let people in, Mav. You’re pretty awesome.”
“Whatever.”
“Anyway. I just got off the phone with the head of the studio. Go outside—it’s the perfect time right now—take a selfie, send it to me, and…I dunno. Let’s just see what happens,” he says, insistent in a way that he rarely is.
I get asked for a lot of shit from a lot of different people and have gotten really good at saying no when it’s not good for me. This, on the other hand, is the easiest yes.
“Of course, cuz. I’ll take a selfie for you.”
His sigh of relief makes me smile.
“Can you make it street level? Maybe go down to Rainey and do it in studio mode so the people are fuzzed out behind you?”
“Did you just try to direct a selfie from the social media king?”
Ru laughs. “Sorry, take whatever pictures you think would show you in the best light.”
We end the call quickly, and I race to my room, changing into a pair of well-fitting jeans, a white T-shirt, a candy necklace, and an open cream linen button-up, something with a loose weave that the fading sunlight can shine through.
I turn back at the last minute and add a thin wing of gold eyeliner, which completes the look.
I make my way down to street level via the back alley so I’m not mobbed the second I walk out of my building. The sun is in exactly the right position, though the taller buildings are throwing shadows. I jog down a couple of blocks to where the buildings aren’t as tall and make my way onto Rainey.
I can definitely make this work.
The sidewalks are too clogged for the effect Ru wants, but there’s not much traffic since they’ll be closing the roads shortly. Looking both ways, I step into the middle of the street and check myself out in the screen.
Yep, that’s exactly what he needs. People in the background, but not too close, atmospheric lighting that can play romantic, dramatic, or even futuristic.
I take a few selfies with the golden light shining in my face, loving how the camera captures the textures of the linen shirt and the golden-orange streaks where my hair gets a little lighter at the ends.
Thinking about the serious nature of the film, I turn around so I’m backlit by the quickly descending sun and take a few selfies from that angle. A truck rounds the corner going way too fast, then honks at me even as I jump out of the way.
Asswipe.
I ignore him, used to shutting down my natural reactions in public. The guy recognizes me, though, calling out my name along with a few choice slurs.
I thought we’d moved beyond homophobia as a society, but I guess there will always be strays.
Stepping back into the middle of the street, I send him the middle finger.
Angling my phone, I snap a picture of my raised finger in the foreground with the truck in the background, knowing Ru will think it’s hilarious.
The asshole driver apparently doesn’t appreciate my humor and screeches to a halt, hopping out of his truck, all swole shoulders and shitty attitude.
Mistake.
I may be a pretty boy, but this idiot is about to discover that I am not one to be fucked with. I pocket my phone and take an aggressive stance. He speeds up.
Based on his uneven jog, I’m guessing he doesn’t do one lick of cardio or flexibility training, and I’m gonna have him on the ground in under thirty seconds.
“Return to your car, sir,” a familiar voice demands.
I spin around and…“Booney! I haven’t seen you in forever!”
He’s wearing some secondhand button-down with ugly brown slacks, and I have to assume there’s an equally ugly brown blazer in a rumpled heap in his back seat.
That he’s still hot is confusing. Maybe it’s his olive-toned skin and dark features in this perfect lighting. Maybe it’s the shoulder holster.
I pull out my phone and snap a photo to memorialize the moment.
The driver finally makes his way over to us—breathing heavily, natch—and stops in his tracks after clocking the shoulder holster and the gold badge on Boone’s waist. Boone sends him this look, and truck dude throws up his hands, glaring at me as he walks—backward—to his truck.
He repeats the slurs as he peels off, and I roll my eyes.
Hard.
Then take a few more selfies, just because.
Boone walks over and grabs me by the arm, marching me over to the sidewalk.
Yesss.
“What are you doing?” he asks, furious as he drags me to a narrow side street. “Why would you be taking a selfie in the middle of the street?”
“There’s hardly any traffic!” I argue, grinning like a lunatic.
“That guy almost ran you over!”
“I saw the truck in plenty of time. He did not almost run me over, you drama queen.”
Boone spins me around, pushing me up against the brick building before yanking one of my arms behind me.
“Dude,” I say, pretending that I don’t love every second of this. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I check, and no one’s looking our way. Lucky for Boone because he would not like to be on the receiving end of my fans’ ire.
He grabs my other arm, the heat of his body warming my skin. “You were loitering in the middle of the street. I oughta cuff you for that.”
“I was getting hate-crimed,” I argue, pushing my ass against his crotch.
Oh, hello.
The good and moral detective should definitely pull away.
He grips both of my wrists behind my back and leans in.
“I can’t do anything about that guy,” he says, spilling his rough words directly into my ear, “but I can at least keep you out of danger.”
I leave my hands absolutely still, not sure if he realizes how close they are to his crotch.
Cool steel encircles my wrists, and I smile. He’s so careful with the way he slips them on.
Keeping a tight grip, he leads me farther away from the main street, down the rapidly darkening side street.
“Does this mean you care?” I ask, reveling in his command as we turn onto the back alley that leads to my building.
“No,” he replies sharply. “It means I hate paperwork.”
You’ve already used that excuse, Detective.
I turn to him, retort at the ready, but lose my thought at his proximity. Does he even realize how close together we’re standing?
Instead of needling him, though, I tease, “What were you doing on my street anyway? You stalking me?”
“No,” he says a little too quickly. “I was following up on a lead.”
Don’t let your delusions run away with you, Mav.
“So, what’s this case about?” I ask, disappointed that he doesn’t smell like pipe tobacco. “Is there a murderer on Rainey?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to tell anyone, Booney. Cross my heart. Not even Holmes.”
His jaw tenses as his eyes track mine. Then fall to my cuffed wrists.
He curses under his breath and quickly releases me from the cuffs.
“I’m not sure if a murderer lives on Rainey,” he finally says, examining my wrists as he talks. “But we’ve had three vigilante murders with ties to classical paintings in the last two weeks.”
“Oh! John the Baptist!” I say, using the media’s nickname.
Boone’s thumb ghosts over the paper-thin skin of my inner wrist as he grumbles under his breath. “I wish the Statesman would stop calling him that, and the department is still trying to find out who leaked the murders to the press.”
The heat of his thumb on that sensitive real estate is making my knees weak. Unfortunately, I get the feeling he’ll spook like a guinea pig at anything as clockable as an eye twitch, so I shut down my reaction, hardcore.
“Bet you never thought you’d use your art history minor, did you?” I ask, then immediately curse myself.
Basically just admitted that you’ve low-key online-stalked him for years, dumbass.
“Not really.” He swallows thickly, dropping his hands away from mine. “They’ve got me following up on a few clues.”
Mourning the loss of his touch, I lose the thread of the conversation for, like, a microsecond.
Oh right. Art and murder and vigilantes.
“If it’s a vigilante murderer, I guess that means the victims were bad guys?”
“Yes,” he confirms with a grimace and a faraway look. “Very, very bad guys.”
“Yikes.”
“You have no idea.”