Jace
Istare at the lake for a few minutes, taking in the fresh, crisp night air and all the things that Lennox shared.
I can tell he has just as much anxiety over this as I do. As much as our history has been, oddly strange and seemingly played out for us, we’re in this together now.
My parents will probably still riot. My fans will question my sanity and I feel like the reputation I’ve worked so hard for is toggling on a thin line.
But, if I’m going to be viewed as a serious actor and get the roles that aren’t meant for the world’s past child stars, I have to do this and do it right.
I can’t care what anyone else thinks or feels about it. Especially my parents.
There are a small number of sex scenes. Okay, like six. That’s a lot.
Whether or not those will all make it into the final production, who knows. But we still have to film them all.
Two of those scenes are with multiple people—only one I’m in and the other I watch.
James was always in love with Ryan, and only participated in the group activities because it gave him a chance to be with Ryan in the way he wanted to. He used the other partners as a crutch, because he was able to mask his feelings and it wasn’t just about the two of them.
That was until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Then when the truth finally came out, they were together in secret for years, worried if they came out to the public, their image and band would be ruined.
The parallels between our reality and the band's circumstances are uncanny. All immensely talented, with so much to prove but so concerned about what other people will think or feel. How it could ruin us in the blink of an eye.
I glance back at the cabin wondering if Lennox is thinking the same thing. As much as he doesn’t seem to worry about anything in life, I think it’s weighing on him just as much.
Huffing out a deep breath, I whisper to the lake, “No holding back.” No matter what internal battle or reservations I might have, I’m in this and it’s so much bigger than just me.
I trek back over to the house, then stumble over my feet as I cross through the threshold of the door.
I had no idea what to expect when I walked in, but Lennox singing Iron Horizon’s song Battlefield into a handheld electronic microphone—one that accentuates his cavernous but silky voice—was definitely not it.
Of course he can sing, too.
I close the door behind me, mesmerized by the velvet notes and melodic tone.
When the door clicks shut, he stops singing and turns around, our eyes meet but somehow they look different.
A deep emerald instead of the playful jade I’m used to seeing, and the furrow in his brow appears tattooed on, his expression mirroring that of Ryan Wilson with immaculate precision.
“Wow,” I huff out, shocked by his immediate transition.
“Hey, how was your day?” he asks, and I pinch a look back at him.
Shit, I’m supposed to be in character. Shaking my head, I reply, “uh, great. The studio is set up and ready for tomorrow.”
“Awesome. I think I’ve finished the lyrics for the new song,” he says excitedly, belting out a line from one of their songs, and I can’t help but smile again.
I grab the guitar from the stand in the corner of the room and strum on the cords freehand.
It catches Lennox off guard for a minute as he whips around in my direction.
I practice a few of the lines from the chorus that I learned with the musical coach I started working with last month, and I’m surprised at how natural it comes even after a few days off.
Lennox, or shall I say Ryan, hums with a low rhythmic tone that I can only hear from deep in his chest. He doubles my harmony in perfect intonation, then a few words mixed in between begin to fall from his lips.
Within seconds we’re strumming and singing in unison and it’s like an unrehearsed dance that we’ve somehow perfected.
I strum the last cord at the same time he cuts the vocals and the acoustic version of Battlefield we just played is a fucking masterpiece.
My smile is wide and the energy I feel is indescribable. But before I can say anything he cuts in and spits out a question that I was wholly unprepared for.
“Are we going to talk about the kiss?”
I stop dead in my tracks and meet his gaze.
I recall this part of the script, after Ryan kisses James for the first time. James pulls away from Ryan, worried about what it would do to their friendship. He practically ignored him for almost a month.
Something I’d like to do at this very moment. Of course, Ryan pushes the matter and I see what Lennox is doing.
We’re in character. We will continue to be in character for the next two days and there’s no getting around this.
It’s not unusual to rehearse scenes while method acting, but the purpose is really for each individual character to live and breathe the traits and characteristics of who they are playing, even in your daily routine.
Becoming them, allowing their traits and personality to completely engulf you.
He’s doing both, using this as an excuse to talk about what happened and diving into what Ryan would do in this situation.
I pin him with a glare, both from my personal irritation and what I assume James would feel as well.
As they say, sometimes you can only fight fire with fire. Plus, the script does call for James to stand his ground a bit, but I know Lennox won’t be expecting this.
“What about it?” I reply, even and calm.
“We’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen?” he replies.
I shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal.
“Oh come on, don’t do that. Don’t fucking shut down on me.” Even his American accent is spot on, sounding uniquely more like the rockstar he’s meant to portray.
“There’s nothing to say, Ryan. It was just another kiss for you, right? Just like any of the other women or men you kiss during all your orgies, right?”
He stalls for a moment, looking over his shoulder at me, then smirks.
“So, you are jealous.”
“What? No,” I respond, far too quickly.
“No?”
“You can kiss or fuck whoever you want,” I say absentmindedly, like I don’t care.
My pulse says I do though.
Especially with the anticipation of the next scene. He can’t be taking it there now, can he?
“I don’t think you really feel that way.” I can’t take my eyes off him as he practically floats across the room toward me. He’s confident and sure of himself, and I hate that I’m drawn to Ryan as much as I am to Lennox.
He stops just a few feet in front of me, leaning against the back of the couch while I’m rooted to the backside of the small island that separates the kitchen and living room.
The lights in the cabin are dim, the gas fireplace is burning in the background and as I peer out the window beside us the lake glimmers with the reflection of the moonlight.
“Do you want to know what I think about when I’m fucking them? What I have to think about to make myself come?”
I shake my head urgently, shifting my stance. “No. No, I really—”
“You.”
I stop breathing.
He reaches into the waistband of his joggers, giving himself a long languid stroke. I don’t know if it’s real, it looks real. I can’t seem to draw my eyes away from where his hand is slowly pumping, up and down, the fabric tight around his fist showing the carved edges of his knuckles.
It looks really real.
The strokes, the movement. The way his lips curl in under his teeth and his chest rises and falls in a calculated motion.
My mouth falls open; I want to say stop but I’m speechless.
I can’t speak, I can’t move. I'm confused, wanting and needing something I probably shouldn’t.
I’m completely frozen, which is good because I have no idea what to do with my hands.
My cock is achingly hard, the denim of my jeans fortunately hiding what’s beneath because I have no idea if this is real or if he’s just that good.
“I want you to watch what you do to me.” His voice is husky, deep.
It shakes with need and my cock hardens even more.
“Touch yourself with me.” His eyes flicker down to my zipper, then back up to meet my gaze as he tips his chin at my groin.
He’s biting the corner of his lip and I lose all willpower.
I pull at the denim, unhooking the button and reach in the front of my pants. His mouth falls open as his head tips back, his eyes trailing every movement of my hand.
“Fuuuuuck,” he spits out, and the guttural moan vibrates through me like a shockwave. Pre-cum drips from my tip, and the fabric of my boxers are damp with proof I don’t want him to see.
“Take your shirt off,” I spit out as if my demand allows me to hold some control over the situation. Surprisingly, he uses his free hand to reach over the back of his head and yanks off the loose shirt in one swoop, exposing every inked line of that flaming phoenix on his chest.
Something I can relate to at this moment since every inch of my skin is on fire.
“Your turn,” he says, a smile peeking out of the corner of his lips.
For some unknown reason I easily obey, my desire taking over any logic, but I can’t seem to care enough to stop.
His heavy, hooded lids move slowly as they graze over my chest and torso, taking their time watching my movements underneath my pants then trail back up to my face until our eyes connect again.
This goes on for a minute, maybe two. We spit out a few lines, uncertain if they’re actually correct.
Both of us are heated, worked up and our labored breath is the only thing I can hear in the space between us.
“You look so good.” He closes his eyes, “God, I want you so bad.”
When he reopens them, my eyes are blown wide, mouth agape, the praise kicking my climax into overdrive. I hold my breath, the air stuttering in my throat through my orgasm, as I attempt to hide the fact that I’m coming all over myself.
“Fuck, Ja—” He cuts himself off, and the sound of my almost name ripples through me like I’m being pulled out of the twilight zone.
His brows pinch together hard as his head falls forward. He grips the back of the couch with his free hand, then a hard breath and heavy grunt come from somewhere deep in his diaphragm as the muscles in his forearm flex tightly.
I don’t wait for him to look up; I step to the side, passing him quickly and head to the bathroom.
Closing the door, I pull my sticky hand out of my pants and glance at myself in the mirror. My chest is flushed with the tell-tale sign of exertion and my pants are drenched with a damp spot in the front that can’t be mistaken for anything other than a goddamn cum stain.
I really hope he didn’t fake his. I’ll be fucking mortified.
God, if he did, he’s a really good actor.
Pushing down my pants, I peel off my underwear and hide them in the bottom of the small garbage can—because I can’t very well take them out there with me—then wash my hands before slipping my pants back on commando.
I hate the feeling, it’s horrible. There’s nothing between me and the rough denim of my jeans and it feels like sandpaper on my sensitive cock. I hope he doesn’t notice.
Huffing out a breath, I exit the bathroom quickly, not wanting to take too long as I round the corner into the bedroom.
He’s still shirtless, as am I, but he’s tucked himself in the bed we’ve platonically shared the last few nights. The sheets are draped over his waist and hips as he sits up against the headboard with his manuscript in hand.
“All good?” he asks, glancing up at me quickly, his eyes trailing up my body, giving me another shot of that addictive adrenaline.
“Yep, all good,” I reply, as I take in his relaxed demeanor. “Bathroom is open.”
“Cool. Thanks,” he says without glancing back up.
Great. He doesn’t need to clean up. So it was just me that came in my pants while rehearsing a scene with my co-star. Awesome.
Keeping my back to him, I roll my eyes as I slip off my pants and exchange them quickly for a pair of boxers, then turn around and pull back the sheets climbing into the bed with my ego completely shot.