No Sacrifice Read online

  They spent a lot of time apart, one or the other of them filming or rehearsing or something of the sort. He’d been home in Kane’ohe, a small town on the windward side of O’ahu, for the better part of three months while his mother was sick. Before that, he’d been in Honolulu, working on a stage production. Somewhere in there, Emily was in New York for two months, then back to Los Angeles, then up in Vancouver, Canada. They’d barely been in the same place for more than a day or two at a time in… nearly a year.

  As Patrick soaped up his hair, being careful of the extensions he’d had put in to spare him some time in makeup every day, he reminded himself that was how Hollywood couples were. It was a given they’d spend time apart. He knew that. So it was no wonder things had been so strained between them.

  Maybe that explained why he reacted to the kiss today. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. He paused midscrub and stared so long at the opposite wall while he was in thought, he got soap in his eyes and had to rinse. He’d been home with Emily four months ago for two days, but despite that, they hadn’t made love. Before then… it had been nearly six months, and even though they’d had four days together, they hadn’t done anything.

  He frowned as he rinsed his hair. Yeah, no wonder he reacted. That still didn’t explain him reacting to Rhys, though. But the kiss, being up against Rhys’s body, the hands on him—well, he had to admit it had all felt good.

  Being denied as he had been didn’t suddenly make him gay. He pictured Emily’s naked body and felt himself start to react. Yeah, he liked women. No doubt. So that didn’t make a damned bit of sense to him.

  He shut the water off, dried off, and climbed into bed, determined to forget about it and just get some sleep. He seriously considered masturbating, but he was even too tired to do that. With a deep sigh, he punched his pillow a few times, though it didn’t help his frustration, and settled in. With any luck he wouldn’t have any more kissing scenes with Rhys the next day and could just get back to something resembling normal. He had a feeling, however, it wouldn’t last.

  Chapter 2

  Patrick laughed and watched Rhys put a hand over his heart as he feigned injury. With a sip of beer, Patrick’s smile widened when even the patented Cyrus-fangirl grin got no favorable response from the woman Rhys was trying to pick up. A moment later, Rhys bowed rather gallantly over her hand, dropped a kiss on her knuckles, and then returned to Patrick at their spot at the end of the bar.

  “Dude, you’ve got to stop trying to use those stupid pickup lines. They never work.” He paused to sip his beer when Rhys glared at him. “Which one was that, anyway?” Patrick asked, trying not to laugh too hard.

  Rhys sniffed. “I’ll have you know it was one of my best: ‘If you’re going to regret it in the morning, we can sleep in till late afternoon.’”

  Patrick snorted. “Dude, that’s really lame.” He shook his head and laughed. “I’m surprised you didn’t get a drink in your face for that one.” He snickered again.

  Rhys scowled. “What do you know?”

  “I’m married,” Patrick reminded him, raising his eyebrows. “I have a woman.”

  “Yeah, which means you don’t remember how to pick them up,” Rhys said, chuckling. He sighed. “See, the problem here, as I see it, is that there are way too many actors in LA. We need to go somewhere that they’d recognize us but that there aren’t a lot of other actors. So, we’d… you know, stand out. In a good way.”

  Patrick snickered. “They already did recognize us. Some chick asked me if we were here together.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Rhys stared, then closed his dark eyes. “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, that’s about what I thought. I told her that our characters were a couple. We weren’t.”

  “Well, no wonder no one wants to go out with me. They think I’m gay.”

  “And the gay men would think you’re taken.” Patrick snickered again in an attempt to bury the full laugh that wanted out.

  “Shit. I can’t be seen with you,” Rhys said, punching Patrick’s arm.

  The laughter escaped anyway. “Hardly. We’re not exactly making out here. And this is not a gay bar.”

  “True.” Rhys sighed. “Well, fuck.” He scratched the back of his head, eyes darting around the room. “Ah, well. Who’s got time to date during filming, anyway?” he asked, shaking his head. He took a long pull off his beer and glanced over. “How does this not bother you?”

  Patrick snorted. “Married, remember? I’m already off the market.”

  Rhys rolled his eyes. “Right.”

  “I’m just here as your wingman, dude. Guess it kinda backfired, though, huh?”

  “Yeah, you can say that again. Oh well.”

  Patrick frowned and took another drink. “Sorry, man.”

  Rhys shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, we don’t have a lot of time to date right now, anyway. Maybe during the break. There’s still good music, and we don’t have to be on set tomorrow.”

  Patrick laughed again and slapped Rhys on the back. “That’s one way to look at it.”

  “Hey, just because you’re forced to be alone doesn’t mean I should be.”

  Patrick snorted. “Just find a better way to pick them up. Apparently that lame smile isn’t going to do it.”

  “Come on, there are fangirls everywhere that like this smile,” Rhys countered, pulling it out again and flashing it at Patrick.

  “Yeah, but they’re not here,” Patrick pointed out with a smirk.

  Rhys sighed and finished his drink, then waved to the bartender for another. “Too bad for that too.”

  “Then again, they’d probably just want to watch us kiss.”

  “I am not kissing you unless it’s in front of a camera,” Rhys growled, making Patrick laugh harder.

  “Hey, you’re not exactly the best kisser I’ve ever had either,” Patrick managed between laughs.

  “Fuck you, man, just… fuck you.”

  This only succeeded in causing more laughter. “Nope, not doing that with you either. At least… not off set.”

  Rhys rolled his eyes. “Asshole,” he said without heat.

  “Yup,” Patrick agreed, drinking more of his beer. “I am.”

  Chance Dillon hefted the coil of cable over his shoulder and carefully wove his way through the mess of people back toward the equipment truck, doing his best to ignore the talent standing in a knot nearby, talking. The location that day was in the desert, just outside the city in a spot of dunes, wide sky, and open spaces. The nearly unbearable, unseasonable heat sucked up most of Chance’s attention, so it was relatively easy to ignore others and concentrate on his own misery. Despite the thin Star Trek T-shirt and cargo shorts he wore, Chance was dying. His shoulder-length blond hair was plastered to his face and neck, his shirt stuck to his back, and he could feel his pale skin burning despite the SPF 100 sunscreen he’d slathered on only half an hour before.

  He labeled the cable that was now bad, then picked up a new coil, hoping this length would work. It was horrible enough that he was crawling around on hot sand to pull it, but to do so and then find out it didn’t work was way worse. He’d just tested most of it that morning too. It would be his dumb luck to pick the one length that didn’t work.

  He shook his head at himself and made his way back to the boom operator, Randy, who was waiting for the new cable. He handed one end off and started running the cable back to the sound tent where Selia sat. The sound mixer waved at him to hurry up, and he fought the urge to growl. It wasn’t like he was dragging his feet. But he liked Selia, even if she could be demanding, so he gave her a wink and a grin that she rolled her eyes at, and moved a little faster.

  Someday, he hoped to be somewhere else when it came to sound on a movie or even sound in general—like writing scores or songs instead of pulling cable. He’d attended more song-writing workshops than he could count, spent more on demo equipment than he could afford, and sent out more copies of his songs than he could r
emember. But he still hadn’t managed to get that kind of break, and bills needed to be paid, so he had the illustrious title of Utility Sound Technician instead. He got to play gopher, cable puller, and anything-guy to the other sound people to take home a couple hundred bucks a day in pay.

  It wasn’t too bad, and he knew it. He didn’t even really mind it so much, except on days like this when it was so miserable where they were working. He was grateful, at least, that there was plenty of bottled water and the like provided for them, but even so, he could have done without the heat. He should have gotten used to it, growing up in the deep south of Georgia as he did, but somehow he never had.

  Randy waved his signal when the mic was on, and Selia replied when she got the sound. It was with relief that he waved back in acknowledgment that the cable proved good. Chance left them to tinkering with the settings while he retrieved a bottle of water for each of them. They had hours yet on the set.

  As he approached the crafty, he saw one of the talent at the end of the table with earbuds in, apparently ignoring the rest. Chance paused, unable to keep from turning to look, and found himself staring. He’d seen the man on set often, of course, but rarely alone. Patrick Tearney was usually seen with Rhys Hadley or one of the other members of the cast.

  Patrick didn’t look very happy. A deep frown marred his handsome face as he stared at his phone. Chance wondered what caused it but knew he had no right to intrude. He should, in fact, look away, give Patrick privacy, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do so. Patrick’s looks just seemed to demand attention.

  His long black hair was pulled back and done to look like he’d been in a fight—or been having sex. Chance didn’t know exactly what was happening on set that day. He didn’t rate a copy of the sides from the scripty—that went to Selia and Randy—but he suspected if there were as many people around as there were, it wasn’t sex. Jack didn’t like to have a lot of people present for sex scenes. So it was a fight.

  Chance let his eyes drift down over the naturally tan skin to pause at Patrick’s well-defined chest. Makeup done to look like a nasty gash sat over one pectoral muscle. More makeup hid the tribal tattoo that normally covered Patrick’s left arm and shoulder. Patrick was also made up to look like he was sweating and dirty, obviously from the fight.

  The costuming was very sparse and torn. Tatters of a deep blue tunic-like shirt hung off his shoulders. The matching snug pants showed what Chance imagined was a package enhanced to show better on film, and the pant legs disappeared into battered leather boots. Chance felt his own shorts tighten at the vision.

  The man had no right to be that damned good-looking.

  Chance forced himself to look away finally, opening and downing an entire bottle of water to both distract himself and try to cool off a bit. Patrick Tearney was talent. And married. And, to all appearances despite the role he played, straight. Chance had no right thinking the things he did.

  But he couldn’t seem to help it. This was, of course, not the first time he’d hidden his fascination with the actor. Patrick didn’t even know he existed, and that was probably for the best. Chance was sure he’d never be able to hide any attraction he felt toward Patrick if he were ever to speak to the man directly—which, of course, you didn’t do with the talent on set unless they spoke first.

  He finished his water and threw the empty bottle into the recycling. Grabbing up the bottles for the others, he picked up one more for himself and escaped into the crowd, grateful it appeared Patrick hadn’t noticed him. He would have loved to get to know the man, but Chance was a realist. Even if he wasn’t married and straight, someone like Patrick Tearney didn’t notice a sound gopher who pulled cable and fetched water.

  Patrick dropped his backpack inside the door of the tiny studio apartment he rented when he was in LA. He tossed his keys on the little table he kept by the entrance and kicked the door shut. It’d been another exhausting day out in the burning desert once more for filming.

  But despite how miserable the heat and filming had been, the day had improved dramatically when he’d managed to talk to Avery before his son went to bed, so that was something. His conversation, such as it was, with Emily had been less than encouraging. She’d been her usual brief self, refusing to say much of anything and nothing at all about love. He really missed the ease they used to have with each other. He tried to remember when that had ended but couldn’t seem to point to a particular time.

  Avery, on the other hand, had been full of chatter about preschool, Legos, and something to do with a Transformer. It’d done good things for Patrick’s heart to hear his son go on and on. Avery had even managed an “I love you, Da” before he hung up.

  He was also grateful they’d been filming a fight scene that day, even with the heat. The makeup was heavier on days like that, which itched like a bitch, but that was better than the weirdness and confusion that came with the kissing and intimate scenes he had to do with Rhys. Despite the heat and other discomfort, he’d take those over another kissing scene any day.

  It wasn’t that he minded kissing Rhys. And that was precisely the problem. He didn’t mind it at all, and in fact, had once or twice found himself looking forward to another scene with Rhys. He didn’t really understand why he was feeling like that, but he’d been too busy and tired to figure it out. He just accepted he was anticipating it—though paradoxically still grateful when it didn’t happen—and hopeful he wouldn’t embarrass himself again. He pushed the rest of the worries aside to figure out later.

  They had had one kissing scene since the one he’d reacted to. Thankfully, he hadn’t gotten hard the same way, but he chalked that up to the fact that it hadn’t been nearly as personal or intimate as the other one had been. There’d been more going on around them at the time, more people in the scene besides them, and even more crew around. On top of that, Jack had been insistent on directing every single move. With the “tilt… a little more… a little more…” since the sound could be overlaid later, they hadn’t had the same opportunity to get quite so intimate and, thus, uncomfortable.

  Patrick stripped as he went through his spartan apartment. He’d never gotten around to doing much with it since he did little more than sleep and shower there. His computer was a laptop for portability. He did have a television so he could catch football games, which meant, of course, the requisite supercomfy couch. A bookshelf held the books he’d brought from Hawai’i and the others he’d collected since, as well as his music and movie collections. But even the kitchen was mostly bare, save some paper plates, a couple of bowls, and a few things to drink out of. And a coffeemaker. He couldn’t survive without coffee.

  He sighed in relief as he got naked bit by bit. He stopped to drop his clothes into the basket in the tiny space between the bed and bathroom, then took the two steps to the shower/tub combo, which had been what decided the apartment for him. That and the rent, which was reasonable… and controlled for Los Angeles near Hollywood. His contract for that season wasn’t exactly the most well-paying gig in Hollywood. It wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t live in a hotel on it.

  While he waited for the water to heat in the ancient pipes, he tried to think through why he was reacting, thinking, wanting this with Rhys the way he was. The night after the first disastrous reaction, he’d realized he hadn’t had sex in months. He still hadn’t managed to dig up the energy to masturbate since, to possibly prove or reject the theory that lack of sex caused it. Maybe that was the thing. Maybe he needed to just take care of himself and that would bring his brain back to where it needed to be. And away from Rhys.

  He stepped under the hot water and let it wash over him for a moment to get out the kinks in his muscles as he tried to work through the question in his head. He didn’t know if it would help his problem with Rhys, but it was worth a shot, and hell, it was never a bad idea to masturbate—assuming he had the energy.

  That decision made, he focused on carefully washing his hair—he couldn’t wait until it grew out and he
wouldn’t need the extensions anymore—so he wouldn’t run out of hot water. Then he scrubbed off quickly and shut off the water. He ignored the mirror on his way out, not wishing to see what his reflection would mock him with, dried off quickly, and settled into bed.

  He briefly thought about getting his computer so he could watch a bit of porn, but when he brought the image of his naked wife into his head, his cock twitched, and he decided not to waste the time. He wouldn’t need it. He grabbed the small bottle of lotion he kept on the bedside table and poured a bit out, then wrapped his hand around his length and started slowly stroking himself.

  Fuck, that feels good. It’d been way too long since he’d done anything, if that was all it took to get him going. With his free hand, he cupped his balls. Before he could do much with the fantasy in his head, his hand was already moving faster, the pleasure building quickly. He let a quiet grunt out into the empty room, too focused on the incredible feeling growing in his balls to notice or care that he was making noise, though he knew his walls were paper thin. He heard his neighbors almost every night.

  He let himself get lost in his fantasy, working to remember the last time he’d been with his wife. The memories were fuzzy, but he had a good enough imagination to fill in where they lacked. He let it take over as he moved his hand faster, teasing his taint a little more with his other hand.

  His balls started to tighten as he worked, and he rocked his hips, thrusting into his hand. Behind his closed lids, he saw himself running those hands over soft skin and thrusting into tight heat. Another groan escaped, this one much louder, when the pleasure spiked. His hand flew over his length, cock rock hard now, the tip bright red and precum dripping.

  He could feel himself getting close, so he slowed down a little, wanting to make it count. Buried under the need for orgasm and through the haze of lust was the reminder that he may not be up for doing this again anytime soon. So he slowed his hand, then let go. Instead, he ran both hands over his thighs before teasing his balls.