34. That’s a slippery slope #2
“I’m not a fucking homophobe, Hunter,” Lorne replied swiftly.
His tone was even and not at all defensive.
“And me stating the facts of the industry doesn’t make me a bigot.
The industry is the villain here. Ignoring that won’t make it go away.
You’re not going to see a gay man as James Bond or Superman or anything else because the industry won’t allow it.
So you being bi is fine if it stays personal.
Because the studio will blackball you so fast if you come out now after they’ve hung a whole new manly superhero franchise around your neck. ”
Hunter’s jaw was clenched so hard it ached.
“And before you say bi men or gay men can be manly, I fucking know. I do. I don’t make the rules.
I don’t even enforce them. I just tell you about them.
” Lorne sighed. “So I’ll get you a ticket, but when you’re there, know that if you’re photographed with him, it will keep spurring the bromance bullshit, and that’s a slippery slope for the people that pay you. ”
“Yeah, if I were going to hang out with Colby, I would ask him for the ticket, Lorne,” Hunter replied. “I know how this works.”
“I can get you two tickets. You could invite someone from set. A makeup artist or like, what about the girl who plays the sister of the evil overlord?” Lorne asked. “I forget her name, but she’s repped by my colleague, and she’s hot and single.”
“No.”
“You said bi, right?”
“Yeah. Still no.”
“Okay. I’ll get on securing the one ticket,” Lorne replied dutifully. “Enjoy your day off.”
At 8:30 that evening, Hunter parked his rental car in an underground lot just off a pristine, half-moon beach with pale sand and gently lapping waves that glinted in hues of pink and gold as the sun set in the distance.
The sky was also the color of cotton candy, and for the first time since this movie started filming, he relaxed.
He was in a plain black T-shirt and black joggers with plain white New Balance running shoes.
There was a black Vintage Montreal Expos baseball cap pulled low and tight on his head, and he had on sunglasses he would have to take off when the sun disappeared, but he was hoping that if he avoided eye contact, no one would recognize him.
He watched the sunset, resting his elbows on a white railing on the boardwalk above the beach, and heaved in long, deep breaths of warm, salty air.
He daydreamed ridiculous daydreams like him and Colby on a beach somewhere, alone together, warm and tanned and making out.
Unworried and unrushed. Holding hands while walking on a shoreline.
Bobbing in the ocean, touching and teasing each other under the water as they dodged waves.
God, he longed for that, and it was such a futile waste of energy.
He swallowed down the stupid visions and pulled up Google Maps for walking directions to the venue. The show started in forty-five minutes.
No one bothered him as he walked to the concert, although one teen girl did a double take.
The town, he’d figured out from some googling before he left Bilbao, was a tourist mecca in the summer with perfect beaches and a lively bar and food scene.
It also hosted great music at its big concert hall on the water.
Everything from jazz festivals to pop concerts to Tidal.
Hunter grabbed a beer at a terrace across the street, then waited until the opening act had started and the lines of concertgoers had dwindled to enter.
His seat was in a mid-level suite to the left of the stage.
It was a VIP ticket, and the other people sitting around him recognized him immediately but were Spanish elite—millionaires and pop stars and actors—and not interested in selfies or fawning over him.
He got a beer from the private bar in their suite, but as soon as Tidal took the stage, it was forgotten and grew warm in his hand.
Hunter was too busy drinking in every move Colby made, his ears basking in Colby’s beautiful voice and gripping lyrics.
He looked every bit the rock star Hunter always knew he would become.
It was nice. Painful for some reason, but also fucking satisfying.
At one point, Trevor started playing the wrong song, and Colby handled it with humor and had the crowd laughing.
Midway through the set, Kenner and Trevor headed off stage, and Colby pulled out an acoustic guitar and a stool and saddled up to a microphone.
He played and sang “Not Meant to Be Me,” his Oscar-nominated song, and the audience was enthralled, and so was Hunter.
Hannah wasn’t there to duet, but her backing vocals were played through the speakers, and Colby easily sang both parts.
He really hoped Colby took his advice for the Oscar performance because Hunter knew even before seeing this that the most incredible version of Colby Keaton was the raw, authentic one.
After the show, Hunter threw on his sunglasses even though it was almost midnight, and he stood in line like every other fan and bought a concert tee.
As he walked back to the car, he switched T-shirts.
No one blinked when his torso was exposed since it was a beach area and people were night swimming.
As he drove back to Bilbao, he absently ran his fingers over the logo and sang along to his Tidal playlist on his phone, streaming through the car speakers.
This was worth it. The endless aching for Colby eased just a little bit.
Because he belonged on that stage. He deserved all the success, and Hunter wouldn’t be the one to take an ounce of it away.