Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

"What good are wings

without the courage to fly."

-Atticus

FADE IN.

Lennox

"Hey Lenn, are you ready?"

My head whips up, my pencil pausing over my sketchpad.

"Holy fuck ." I blink at Jamie, who's suddenly sitting across from me. Two seconds ago, the only thing I knew was my pencil sketching the line of a man's obliques, and now my brother's here? "How long have you been here?"

His lips arc in a familiar crooked half-smile. "Thirty minutes."

"For real?" I'm scrunched into the back corner of a booth at Randy's Diner, my checkered Vans propped on the seat, pink and blue vinyl under my ass. My sketchpad is balanced on my knees, the backside of the paper rubbing against my skin through the rips in my jeans.

Jamie's stuff is spread on the table between us. Storyboards and scripts and lists, all carefully annotated with his neat handwriting. Boxes are stacked next to the table, the cart we use to haul shit next to them. None of it was here when I sat down.

I've been in another world. A Minotaur could have patted me on the ass, and I wouldn't have noticed.

Damn hyperfocus.

I tug back my hood and squint, adjusting to the flood of light. "Are you sure you're real?"

He laughs, his brown eyes teasing me from under the lime green beanie he always wears, a snag in the yarn over his left brow. He loves that thing. We named it Willis. "Maybe I'm not."

"I'm pretty sure that yarn ball of yours is real." I nod toward his beanie. "So I'm betting the rest of you is, too."

He laughs again, tugging the beanie down farther over his head, his black Ghoulardi t-shirt—this horror host from Shock Theater back in the 1960s—stretching over his biceps. He's always wearing some retro horror tee that I only get the reference to half the time.

He tosses his pencil on his script. "Don't knock Willis."

"I would never. You know I love Willis."

"Other than calling him a yarn ball."

"A term of endearment."

"Sure." The barbell in his eyebrow catches the neon diner lights. He dog-ears the corner of the script he was annotating and flips it closed. "As soon as Indy gets here, we should head out. The rest of the crew is meeting us over there."

"I'm ready." Shit, I am. It's the first night of filming, and I fucking love it. All eight of us together, working on this piece of art—there's nothing else like it. And I get to do the makeup, which I also love.

My stomach grumbles, and I tuck my pencil into the spiral across the top of my sketchpad then set it on the table. "Hey, Jam?—"

"Fucking hell , Lenn." My brother leans over the table, his attention fixing on my sketchpad.

Oh, yeah. That.

"Is that…" He squints. "A tentacle dick?"

"Uh, yeah." I smooth my fingers along the side of the sketchpad. The black paint on my thumbnail is chipping, and there's a few smudged reminders written on the back of my hand in fading Sharpie, mostly notes for tonight. It's the only way I remember anything . "That would be a tentacle dick."

Or, more accurately, a dick with tentacles? Is there a difference? Because my subject has a human-like cock with his hand fisted around it, his head thrown back and mouth parted in an expression that's a cross between pain and pleasure. But there are about nine tentacles popping out of his dick, swirling around his hand, threading between his fingers.

He's got wings made of tentacles too. They cradle him, hugging his waist and curling around his thighs.

"Jesus Christ." Jamie tilts his head to get a better view, his forehead wrinkling. "Is that for a client?"

"Nah." I trace my fingers over the lines. The proportions are slightly off. Not dramatically, but enough that it bothers me, and I'll redo it later. The composition… shit, that could be better too. "It's just me."

I've been picking up gigs on Fiverr for about three years now, drawing NSFW artwork. I mostly do bara, although I'll push over the lines into more realistic styles too.

"Lenn, man…" Jamie blinks at me. "I can't believe some of the stuff you come up with."

"You think up horror films, my friend."

My brother's a mad genius at it too. His art is the psychological kind of creepy, where it's never clear what kind of story it is until the end. And maybe it's not clear even after the credits roll, either.

"I try, at least." His eyes trace around the sketch one more time before he leans back suddenly, swiping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry."

"About what?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "I just never thought I'd be turned on by a drawing my brother did of a guy nearly getting fucked with wing and dick tentacles while sitting at Randy's Diner, but… here we are."

I settle against the back of the booth. My brother doesn't usually check out guys, so I'm kinda extra proud. "Then my work here is done."

"I suppose so." His attention flips toward the door, and I know he's looking for Indy because he's ready to head out. As interested in my work as he is, he's mostly focused on one thing tonight. And I don't blame him. He's got a lot riding on this film. Opportunities he's set up for himself. The potential to get his name out there.

I have something riding on it too, and I feel sick that I haven't told Jamie about it. But it's a long shot, so I've held back because it just feels like I'd be putting even more pressure on him.

He's got enough to worry about.

His thumb taps his script again, and my own worry sharpens.

"Have you eaten anything?" I ask, nodding toward the hot plate counter in front of the kitchen.

"Uh, no." Jamie glances toward the door, his jaw ticking.

I study him.

He shifts in his seat, shuffling a stack of storyboards together. "You don't need to look at me like that."

"I didn't realize I was looking at you like anything."

"Well, you are."

"I just asked a question."

"And I answered it. I haven't been hungry."

"Alright." I nod, a tightness in my chest. A basket of fries appears at the pass, and the cook dings the order bell. At the table next to us, someone is eating a stack of pancakes with whip cream spread across the top and brown syrup dripping down the side.

I try to see it like Jamie would.

When was the last time he ate?

I cycle back over the day.

He was still asleep when I went to work. And then afterwards, I ran some errands before heading to Muay Thai. Indy was home when I got back, talking a million miles per hour about this new guy she's seeing. Some water polo player or something. Jamie was there too, in the kitchen, listening. I'd grabbed an apple and chewed on it while she talked. Did Jamie eat?

"Lenn," he says quietly. "I'm fine. I'm just nervous about tonight." He sits up, swiping together papers and stacking them loosely. "You don't need to worry."

I'm still going to.

I'm always going to .

Jamie's been in recovery for food avoidance for three years. But in moments like this, I still get images of what it was like before—when, at five-foot-eleven, he was below a hundred pounds. Of the feeding tubes they put in him, the sallowness of his face and the bruising under his eyes. The slow, unsteady movement of his fingers and the uneven gait of his walk.

You wouldn't know he went through that looking at him now. He's on the leaner side, and I'd guess he'll always be, but his face has a fullness that I never expected to see on him again. His eyes have a brightness, his fingers a deftness as they stack his lists. But recovery can be a constantly moving target.

Being in Randy's is a huge step. When he started recovery, one of his goals was to sit easily in a place like this. So we came here, and then we kept coming, because this place has seriously good vibes. Our whole group meets here after filming, usually still in our makeup, hopped up on adrenaline and creativity.

"I'll eat some almonds later," he says quietly. "I don't think I can right now."

His nerves are everywhere. There's a lot of pressure for this first night of filming. We need it to go well. For everything to fall in line, for everything to work. We only have the location for three weeks—that's not much time.

"We've got you, Jamie. You know that, right? Everything will go well." I hope it does. I don't see why it wouldn't. "We're all going to work to make this happen. All seven of us, like we're running straight into the abandoned, dilapidated hotel with meat hooks hanging in the windows."

That gets him to smile. "I'm not sure that comparison is working. You basically just said we're the fuckheads who run straight into danger."

"That's one interpretation."

"There's another?"

I hitch a brow. "We're spicy and ready for the fight?"

He laughs. "I like that." His eyes sweep to the door. "Indy's here. We should…"

He stills, storyboards halfway organized. I follow his line of sight.

Indy's by the host stand, black hair piled messily on her head, gold graphic eyeliner in a geometric pattern. She waves at us, both hands held over her head, and then glances back over her shoulder as someone steps in behind her.

And… fuck me.

That must be the water polo guy.

"So that must be him," Jamie says, echoing my thoughts. "The new guy she's seeing." His voice is tight, lowering an octave.

"I… don't know." I'm sitting there, Vans on the floor, ass still half-asleep, most of my thoughts centered on Jamie and the film and dudes with tentacles, and then it feels like everything jumps the tracks, and I don't even know why.

I just get this feeling , grasping a stranglehold on my throat. I can't explain it, and I don't have enough time to figure out where it's coming from before it happens—but it's there. Accompanied by a cold wash that runs over the back of my shoulders, chilling under my hoodie.

Indy steps farther in. She's smiling widely, as she usually is, all abundant energy that comes at you full force.

Water polo guy follows her.

"Yeah," I say, finally catching my words. "I guess that's him."

He's tall.

That's the first thing which fully registers. He's got to be six foot three, maybe six foot four. His height is like a sudden presence that feels massive , taking up the entryway, sucking air out of the space around him.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of some tight joggers, ones that would look ridiculous on me, but somehow look completely natural on his long legs. His cool brown eyes move around Randy's, taking everything in, even though his expression remains flat.

He feels cold . Like a slip of icy breeze waffling through the diner, from those eyes to the backwards deep maroon Boston University ballcap he's wearing, to the small black gauges in his ears, and the black ink tattoos covering his right arm. Complex designs that swirl up, almost liquid in the way the art moves over him.

I don't know what I expected a water polo player to look like, but I'm sure this isn't it. That's on me for assuming shit about people, but I'm still having trouble juxtaposing whatever image was in my head with this man standing next to Indy.

He makes me uneasy . Just all out fucking uneasy.

Maybe more than that. Agitated? There's something about him that reminds me of someone. I struggle to put it all together, about eighteen thousand different thoughts wrecking through my head simultaneously.

I don't like him.

Unfair snap judgment?

Absolutely.

How I feel?

Yes .

He tips his head in the direction Indy's waving, and his gaze lands on our table. He seems to take us in. Hands still in his pockets, jaw closed, but otherwise he has no reaction.

None.

No lift or fall of his lips. No change in his expression. No shift of his shoulders.

Who the fuck is this guy?

I don't get it. Indy is one of the most open, welcoming people I've ever met. To a fault sometimes. But this guy looks like he couldn't give a shit about anyone with that cold, disinterested look. And then he backs that up with an easy stroll as he crosses toward our booth, followingIndy. He walks like he's one hundred percent sure of his place in the world. Like he knows exactly what it's like to have a body like that, a face like that. Because let's face it—he's fucking gorgeous.

I lean back against the booth, weirdly conscious of how I'm sitting, of the pins and needles along the soles of my feet, the press of my packer constricted by my jeans, the fold of my t-shirt against my armpits, the traces of sweat and deodorant there from the heavy weight of my hoodie. My hands. One rests on the table next to my sketchpad, the other on my thigh. I'm really fucking aware of it all as I slide out of the booth and reach over to gather my shit—my gigantic trans-flag colored bag and slew of pencils that I always set out, although I typically only use the one.

"Hey!" Indy does jazz hands when she gets to the table.

I love Indy. Anyone who does jazz hands is my kind of person. I love her for all that energy, with her graphic eyeliner to her heaps of black hair, to her way of being genuinely enthusiastic about almost everything. She winks at me and then leans in to kiss Jamie on the cheek after he stands. "Hey, Jamie. Are you ready to start killing us off, one by one?"

"Yep." He grins at her.

Indy's date stops behind her, his hands still in his pockets. He tilts his head, taking in Jamie with that disinterested sweep.

I fucking bristle.

"This is Reed," Indy's saying.

Jamie reaches out a hand, and Reed shakes it, not seeming to be in a hurry, just a steady, self-assured movement before turning toward me. His cool gaze moves over me, my face, my chest, my stomach, my crotch, my knees and feet. All of me.

My fingers press against my thigh, the uncanny weight of his stare feeling so fucking heavy. A million questions go through my head. About what he sees. About the snap judgments he's making. About passing. After five years on T, I don't think about passing all that much anymore.

Or maybe because "passing" really isn't something that feels necessary around Randy's or my brother or anywhere else in my life. But I suddenly think about it now.

"Hey, I'm Lennox," I say, monitoring the tenor of my voice. I hold out a hand and he takes it, his fingers cool, his handshake light, trapping my hand but not trying to direct it.

"Reed."

His voice is soft, too. Low and quiet. That weight of familiarity smacks me again. Not how he looks, because those intricate tattoos and the shape of his face don't feel familiar, but how he is , like a memory echoing. Maybe it's from his height, maybe it's the cold wash crawling over the back of my shoulders. A rush of something that I haven't felt in a long time.

Deep, deep unease. A memory of a taunting voice. A feeling. A hallway—back by the swimming pool in high school, surrounded by bright lights running down the middle of the ceiling, the whole place stinking of chlorine. Before Jamie and I moved here. Fuck, I haven't thought of that in a long ass time.

And I don't want to.

I drop Reed's hand. "So, are you tagging along with us tonight?"

His brows rise slightly. "If that's okay."

Damn. Can I say no?

There's a number tattooed on the back of his wrist—five—and an outline of birds above that. The rest disappear into a mapwork of designs that elaborately twist together. It would take me time to sort all the different tattoos out, blending and linking together across his entire arm.

"Of course you're welcome to come," Jamie is saying, because he invites everybody. "Although we'll put you to work."

"I don't mind work." Reed's eyes swing over to the boxes, then over the table, the pile of scripts, my half-drunk tea. My sketchpad.

My winged man is there, head thrown back, that curl of tentacles around his thighs, pulling them apart.

I usually don't mind anyone seeing my work. Whatever assumptions people make are on them. But now, I'm standing woodenly, every nerve ending exposed as Reed stares. There's no question what he's looking at.

That chill across the back of my shoulders multiplies, the knot on my bracelet digging uncomfortably into my wrist as I press my fingers into my thigh.

I clear my throat. "See anything you like?" I ask him.

Reed's eyes flick back to me. "Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"You're talented."

I stiffen. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me for pointing out the obvious." He steps back, then glances over at Indy, who's talking to Jamie, before grabbing the brim of his hat, flipping it around, and resettling it on his head, the brim low. It's a smooth movement, like he's done it a million times.

Like those jock guys back in high school, legs spread as they lean back in their chairs, arms crossing over their chests. Laughter that always seems to have a subtext. Those easy movements, fluid and athletic.

Fuck. Why am I remembering this? It's long ago, now. Dead and forgotten and gone.

A beat passes. I realize that Jamie and Indy aren't talking anymore. Reed is silent. I'm standing here, shoulders stiff and thoughts racing, feeling a million miles away from myself.

Jamie lets out a long breath. "Alright," Jamie reaches for the stack of scripts on the table, nerves in his voice. "It's time to go. Let's make a movie."