Prologue Bachelor Party

Las Vegas glittered. Neon fizzed. Beacons beamed. Thumping music and casino fountains and cacophonous good-time noise burst across the night. A party in the tourist heart of the desert. A dance between the glitz and the gutters.

Leo Whyte watched a hurtling cab fly down the street, and the bob of someone’s marvelous purple-feathered headdress as they strutted the sidewalk, and the sudden quick laughter of a couple spontaneously kissing under a streetlight. He ended up smiling. People. He’d always liked them.

He looked back at his people, outside the trendy upscale experimental cocktail bar. They were waiting for the limo, which had had to dodge some traffic; Colby and Jillian had built extra time into the schedule, though, so that was fine. They’d expected some difficulty maneuvering a small cluster of mildly tipsy celebrities around, although so far that hadn’t been too bad.

A few pictures had been snapped, a few photographers stalking them outside restaurants and hotels. A few autographs when someone recognized adorable box-office favorite Colby Kent or the mountain-range shoulders belonging to Jason Mirelli. But mostly Las Vegas shrugged and took them in, just another piece of sparkle in the perpetual show.

Andy Connors, whose actual stag night—no, bachelor party; they were in America, Leo mentally corrected—it was, was excitedly talking to Jillian and Colby about the experimental cocktail menu they’d all literally just consumed, while also texting his fiancé Adrian just to say hi. Jill was laughing, magenta-tipped hair up in its usual ponytail, hand reaching out to steady Andy’s arm. Andy’s freckles glowed: with drinks, with the night, with excitement about getting married.

On Andy’s other side, Jason Mirelli occupied most of the universe just by existing. Built to bench-press small buildings, Jason’s action-hero arms had gone around his other half, who was still too thin and currently pink-cheeked and animatedly explaining something about medieval mead and herbal infusions to the group.

Colby Kent, even when tipsily leaning on his shield-wall partner, remained the heart of everybody’s orbit: the person who’d plan a festive weekend with a loving general’s insight into Andy’s interests, the movie star who knew the names of not just the personal assistants on set but also their little sisters, the kind of prince they’d all follow not because he could wave a sword around the best but because he’d jump in front of a blow for any of them.

They all knew he would, and an unspoken understanding had run from person to person that very first day they’d all been on set together. Colby, with those bruises lacing his past, would never get hurt again. Not if they could help it.

That film had been Steadfast . It’d been glorious, overflowing with Regency-era gay romance and ballroom waltzes and decadent sex scenes in libraries and cannon-thunder from Napoleonic Wars sea-battles. That film had given them each other to know, all of them. Colby and Jason most of all, obviously so, being in love.

Leo put his hands into his tailored trouser-pockets, and smiled a bit more. His people. His friends. More or less, that was, of course.

He hadn’t expected to be invited, tonight.

He thought of Colby and Jason and Andy and Jill as friends, but he hadn’t thought they reciprocated. Leo Whyte, notorious on-set prankster, made of jokes, was fun to have around, a lighthearted decently-talented breath of air on a production. Cheerful and blond and colorful and frivolous. Likely to cover a trailer door with duct tape or sneakily swap real rum in for colored water during a take. Weightless and unserious.

Everyone’s friend. No-one’s closest friend.

He knew his role. He’d accepted that. He could make Colby giggle even if Jason was running late, and he could proclaim outrageous truths without batting an eye, and he could be counted on to liven up a party with astonishing suggestions, like the time he’d turned a boring press event in New York into an on-the-spot kitten adoption spectacle with a couple of well-chosen phone calls.

Leo Whyte could conjure up kittens or penis-shaped confetti or charity-supporting worldwide scavenger hunts at the drop of a hat. He was not the person anyone would call for emotional confidences, secret-sharing, soul-searching depths.

He did know that. He didn’t even mind, not really. He knew what he was good at. What he was good for .

Vegas lights kissed his face, and slid onward, shifting and changing in the night.

For Colby and Jason, he’d wanted to help. He’d wanted Colby to be happy.

He’d tried buying Colby all of Jason’s action-hero filmography, early on during the filming, and then unsubtly leaving them alone together and encouraging Jason to walk Colby back to a hotel room. He’d gleefully let them announce their newfound coupledom on his social media live feeds, since Colby in some ways actually lived in the nineteenth century and refused to join any of said social media possibilities.

He’d been so genuinely thrilled for them. He truly was.

“Leo,” Colby said, looking over. “You’re being rather quiet.”

“Me? I’m wondering whether anyone’s ever tried to swim in that fountain, and whether someone would care if I did. You could put on a whole water ballet under those lights. I could learn a water ballet routine. Would you join me?”

“I suspect the casino owners would frown on that.” Colby tipped his head consideringly; blue eyes sparkled. “Though perhaps they’d allow us to try if I asked.” This was, Leo judged, likely true. Colby Kent had a lot of influence, personal and parental, for various reasons related to both acting stardom and the family he didn’t speak to much. “And I do like swimming…though not at the moment, I think; I’m not sober enough to practice retired-lifeguard rescue techniques on anyone.”

Jason—also not entirely sober, and in giant protective mother-hen mode, given how infrequently Colby dared crowds and strangers—bent to cup Colby’s face, to get those wide eyes glancing up and focusing on Jason himself. “Knew you should’ve eaten more before that last gin and pistachio and crystallized honey mead thing…”

“Oh, but that was excellent! I’m so glad we tried it. I know Andy’s favorite was the one with the mint foam and elderflower drops—”

Andy gave a mildly lopsided thumbs-up. “Sent Adrian a picture. He says hi to you all!”

“Tell him and his half of the party hello on our behalf,” Colby said. “Leo, which was your favorite? Mine might’ve been that early cocktail with the cheddar cube and the dark chocolate liqueur.”

“That’s because you’re a very strange person,” Leo pointed out. He knew exactly what Colby was doing, namely making him feel included. It was and wasn’t working. “That one was the definition of bizarre. I liked the one served in the ice cups. With the egg white and vodka and little gold bits. Where’re we going next?”

He did adore Colby. He adored them all. Not in question.

He only…

…wasn’t quite certain where he fit. If he fit. Fitting into the group implied a place, a matching space, belonging.

Jill and Colby had known each other almost as long as she’d known Andy; Jillian Poe and Andy Connors had been director and assistant director on the coming-of-age romantic comedy that’d been Colby’s first major film role. Jason, of course, came attached to Colby these days, but even if not, they would’ve all liked him: that easygoing friendliness and passion for good storytelling had won over everybody on set instantly. The glorious physique and obvious devotion to Colby’s happiness didn’t hurt, either.

A few more people hadn’t made it tonight but would join them tomorrow. Andy’s older brother, who taught economics at a laid-back Southern California university. A couple of film-school friends. All people who knew Andy well and were thrilled about his upcoming nuptials. Everybody liked Adrian, too; Andy’s parents instantly adored anyone who loved their sons, with the fiercely enthusiastic embrace of a pair of former hippie activists, and would joyously square up to fight anyone who argued about pronouns or Adrian’s introduction as Andy’s boyfriend. Affection unquestioned, Andy’d said. He loved his family; that’d been evident with every syllable. His family, and his friends. The people in his life, close-knit and loyal.

Leo himself was good at jokes and diversions. Shallowness. A puddle, not a vast ocean full of deep thoughts. He wasn’t certain he’d ever had any.

“It involves drag queens, let’s say. But food first.” Colby leaned against Jason a bit more, answering the question about their next stop. “Mmm. You feel so nice. Big and comforting. Cinnamon buns. Massive ones. And delicious…”

“Okay,” Jason said, “you’re not as sober as you think you are, come here, I’ve got you, want me to find you coffee?” and cradled Colby in the shelter of epic muscles. “I can get you coffee. Jill, don’t we have a limo?”

“It’s coming,” Jill said. “Colby, here, have a pretzel.”

“You brought pretzels?” Colby took it and regarded it with interest. “Ooh, sourdough. Where were you keeping those?”

“That’s what this giant bag is for. I’ve been feeding Andy.”

“Cheers,” Andy said, grinning. More drunk than Colby, though not much, Leo estimated. Fair enough: it was his party.

Really none of them were much beyond a little warm and fuzzy; the goal’d been taste-tests and fun. They’d already wandered around rare-erotica book exhibits, a fantasia of an ice-cream parlor, and a quirky antiques shop specializing in pocket-watches; tomorrow there’d be a classic Hollywood-themed escape room. Colby and Jillian, as co-best-persons, knew Andy well. Colby, with that upper-class background and that leading-man income, had a lot of money to spend on friends.

Friends, Leo thought again. He didn’t quite sigh.

He took out his mobile phone and took a picture of the night, instead: blurry shimmers of light, splashes of riotous color. He’d post it later.

He said to Colby, who might need distractions to focus on that didn’t involve nuzzling Jason’s chest, “I tried mead once. Filming The Green Knight . The director wanted to be very authentic. Lots of ale, mead, medieval food, or what would look medieval on camera. He tried to get us to learn medieval drinking songs, and then we ended up cutting that bit anyway. Do you know any? And how can I bribe you to sing one?”

“Oh!” Colby brightened right up. “I actually do know some, in fact. Er…would you want to know any lyrics?”

“Totally,” Jill said. “We’re doing that musical, remember, we’ve all said we are! Also I do love it when we can get you to sing. We love your voice.”

“Medieval drinking songs yes!” Andy pointed at Colby. “Teach us songs! You’re the best nerd. Well, aside from my nerd. But he’s not here and you are!”

Colby looked up at Jason. A bit of his tumbling hair fell into one eye.

Jason stroked it back. “Love you. Go ahead and show off.”

Colby did, a bit shyly. He really did have a gorgeous voice, elegant and mysteriously European-accented from living in all those countries and flawlessly on key; he hummed a tune, paused, explained lyrics, taught them very earnestly a few lines about bringing in the ale, more ale, no beef or bacon or mutton—”Good,” Leo muttered, which earned him a dirty look from Jason—or eggs or anything else.

Jill was laughing; she and Andy and Jason jumped in to sing along, and Leo did too, letting Colby teach them all centuries-old drinking songs under dazzling Vegas twinkle: leaning on each other, celebrating together, swept up in shared elation.

Andy even draped an arm around Leo, which might’ve been for support but felt nice. An off-key line about rejecting venison in favor of, yes, more ale, landed in Leo’s ear. He winced but didn’t pull away.

A camera-click sliced the night. They all spun that way.

Colby tripped over nothing and nearly fell; Jason caught him and literally scooped him up and petted him protectively. No strangers allowed. No intrusive bodies anywhere near .

The camera went off again. A flurry.

Andy yelled, “Hey, come on!” Jillian put a hand on his arm.

Leo took a step in front of Colby and Jason and said, “Let’s not, seriously, not cool, we’re just out trying to celebrate.”

The man ventured a few steps closer. The camera loomed. “Yeah, and you’re in public, and I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job is making my friends uncomfortable.”

“Come on, that’s Colby Kent! Nobody ever sees Colby out partying! That’s a story!”

Jason shifted weight. Wrapped arms more fiercely around Colby. Let out a rumbling noise like the threat of a tiger.

“True,” Leo deflected hastily, “but for your own health, I’d suggest you not say that again. Would you like pictures of me instead?”

Colby, being defended, patted Jason’s arm in appreciation, rested his head on Jason’s shoulder, and murmured, “Thank you, Leo…”

“No offense,” said the man, “but you’re not the biggest news here.” Out from behind the camera, he had wavy short dark hair, a hint of dark stubble, skin somewhere between light brown and deep tan, and absolutely sinful long-lashed brown-gold eyes.

Leo blinked. No, that’d been a real thought. One his brain’d just had. About those eyes.

“The limo’s here,” Jill said. “We’re going. Come on, guys.”

The camera went up again, presumably in hopes of catching Jason Mirelli tenderly helping an intoxicated Colby Kent into a limousine.

Leo sighed, said to his friends, “Go on, I’ll catch up,” and put himself right in front of the camera. He even began some bizarre arm-waving. Dancing around. Jumping up and down and generally being a photo-blocking nuisance.

Other diversionary tactics might’ve also worked. He hadn’t thought of any. He was mildly tipsy too.

Oh, well; he had no qualms at all about looking ridiculous. He’d never had those.

“You know,” the man said bemusedly, “I’ll take pictures of you . Better Leo Whyte than nothing.”

“Better me than you stalking my friends for whatever bottom-feeding tabloid rag you’ll sell them to,” Leo said, and used random flailing to angle himself between the lens and the actors and directors diving into transportation behind him.

The camera clicked a few times. Stopped. Luscious gold- flecked eyes regarded Leo with surprising intent. “You’re not what I expected.”

Leo put a hand on a hip. Struck a pose. “That’s because there’s only one of me. Unique, you might say.”

“I might.”

Jillian stuck her head back out of the limo. “Leo?”

“You should go,” Leo said, not looking round. “He might try to follow you.”

“But—”

“Or,” the photographer said, “you could let me buy you a drink.”

“Why on earth would I do that? Why would you offer ?”

“Because.” With a grin; with, Leo realized suddenly and with some shock, a sweep of that gaze blatantly up and down, a study that echoed along Leo’s spine. “Because you are unique. Because you don’t want me calling some contacts to see which tapas bar Colby Kent might like before the show. Because you want to help.”

“I—”

“Leo,” Jill called, “if you want Jason’ll come hit him for you!”

“I will,” Jason’s voice rumbled from limo-depths, “if you’ll take care of Colby for me.”

“I’m fine! I’m in favor of protecting Leo! And I’m always in favor of Jason’s muscles!”

“You should at least drink some water—here, take this bottle, and your hands are cold, I want you wearing my jacket…”

“If I say yes to the drink,” Leo said, “you won’t follow them.” He wasn’t thinking about the last because . He didn’t know how. How’d a random obnoxious photographer seen exactly the piece of his heart that meant to try the hardest and also hurt the most?

“I promise.” The camera lowered. Neon cowboy boots flared and kicked in the dark above his head: a warning or a temptation, and Leo wasn’t sure which message it was.

He said, “Jill, go on, you’ll be late. I’ll catch up, I promise.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Darling,” Leo called back, “I’m sure about everything I say yes to!” and made her laugh.

The limo pulled away. Shadows and lights shifted in its wake.

On the street, Leo and a pretty-eyed photographer looked at each other. The man also had firm shoulders—not Jason-sized, but who was?—and a trim waist, in nice shape, Leo noticed.

He didn’t know why he was noticing. So many reasons not to. All of them good.

The camera got slung away. A hand stretched out Leo’s direction, an offering. “Hi. I’m Sam. Sam Hernandez-Blake, if you need to tell anyone who you’re with.”

Leo accepted the handshake because, well, why not. Another story, another ridiculous escapade. He could tell fellow actors later that he’d agreed to a drink with a paparazzo, and watch them all be horrified. “Leo Whyte. Which you already know. Where’re we going?”

Sam’s hand was warm, and firm, and strong, and it held Leo’s for just a fraction of a second too long: a flirtation, an invitation, unmistakable male interest.

Leo’s hand did not mind the interest. It liked being held. He discovered all at once that he’d been wanting that rather intensely: someone touching him.

Sam grinned, letting go. Those treasure-chest eyes danced. “A pub.”

“That’s not helpful, thank you.”

“A pub I know about.”

Leo narrowed eyes at him. They were nearly the same height, though Leo was fractionally taller. Not much, though. “I should hope so. And how do you know about it? Do you all get together and trade stories about stalking celebrities at the grocery store?”

“Nope. We save that for secret clandestine meet-ups behind the Starbucks. Can’t tell you which Starbucks, obviously, that’s against celebrity stalking regulations. Come on, it’s only like two blocks.”

Leo sighed, hoped the sigh registered as protest, and fell into step beside him. Vegas dazzle flung light and color in riotous splashes over Sam’s battered leather jacket and jeans; Leo, in casual-but-nice trousers and shirt and jacket, wondered briefly about being overdressed, not matching Sam’s comfortable unfussy style. And then he wondered why he cared.

They fell into step, feet finding a shared rhythm on night pavement. Leo’s legs were longer, but Sam had presence, with those nice broad shoulders and muscular thighs. The camera equipment took up space as well; it was portable, but unmissable. A reminder. A purpose.

Leo appreciated the reminder. It helped him not think about the sensation of Sam’s hand lingering on his. He was used to people finding him attractive—part of the acting profession, being desirable on the silver screen, and he wasn’t Jason but he had decent lean muscles and thick dark blond hair and big hazel eyes, which he did quite like—and he had certainly been flirted with by a variety of persons on previous occasions, so the interest shouldn’t’ve meant anything.

It shouldn’t’ve felt new. Like a first time. Like a breath of air, a surfacing from beneath ice. Like heat in his own veins.

Sam took him down the street, around a corner, and down another street; Leo blinked in surprise. “I didn’t expect—”

“Nah, people don’t. But Vegas isn’t all shiny lights and casinos. I like this place, when I’m home.”

Leo gazed around the pub, drinking in soothing if somewhat shabby oak, lapidary bottles behind the high bar, low tables and cozy booths, cheerful eddies and pools of voices. The pub opened up wooden arms in the manner of a place that’d seen a lot of stories, journalists, people who liked good whiskey and conversation. A few heads turned as they came in, but went back to their own business, undisturbed by the appearance of a marginally famous English actor in their midst. Leo hadn’t known what to expect; he hadn’t formed any expectations at all, though if he’d had to guess he would’ve imagined Sam might’ve taken him someplace nearby and noisy and quintessentially Vegas, a perpetual party.

He did like this, though. Different, a surprise, and he enjoyed being surprised; but also calm and steady rather than clamorous and crowded. Intimate.

The sort of place, he thought, that you’d take someone on a date. If you wanted to talk to them, away from the world and the bustle of cameras and the actor’s life. If you looked at them and thought that perhaps they needed to feel seen.

Sam said, “I know it’s not as fancy as what you’re probably used to—”

“No, it’s lovely! It’s an oasis. What do you think is in that strangely curvaceous purple bottle? On the second shelf? I so very much want it to taste like berry pie.”

“I’ve never seen anyone drink it, so I’m gonna decide you’re right and it’s totally pie.” Sam’s smile reappeared; it’d grown briefly anxious when thinking about Leo Whyte and fancy destinations. “They have a pretty decent whiskey list. And the bartender’s a friend.”

Leo eyed the bartender in question, who had Celtic tattoos along one arm and a lot of muscle, and who waved at Sam with enthusiasm. “The sort of friend who tells people that you’ve brought Leo Whyte in for a drink, and they should all flock over here with cameras, or the sort who doesn’t?”

“The second one.” Sam steered them toward a booth; Leo went along because that seemed the natural thing to do. “Brian’s a good guy. And no one’ll bother you in here, I promise.”

“No one other than you, you mean.”

“Hey, I already got you to go out with me.”

“Is that what we’re doing? It’s not the strangest way I’ve been asked out—which involved a trained carrier pigeon, by the way—but I wouldn’t say taking pictures of my friends counts as the best way, either.”

“It’s my job. Trained carrier pigeon?”

“It brought me a note on set. Tragically, the scheduling never worked out. Your job is terrible.”

“I know,” Sam said, and the resignation in the words caught Leo’s attention like the swoop of a butterfly-net: a capture, a trap, an ache of emotion. “But I’m not bad at it, and it pays the bills.”

“Surely you could do something else. Serving coffee. Competitive soap carving. Fashionable footwear modeling.”

“You think I’ve got cute feet?”

“I haven’t been able to form an opinion about your feet,” Leo said. “You’re wearing shoes.” Sam was, stylish but worn blue-and-white Converse. “You know what I mean.” The conversation was surreal, and the night was surreal, and for some reason he was now wondering about Sam’s ankles, about the line of that calf, how the shape of him would feel and whether those legs would be smooth or lightly fuzzy, under a curious hand.

Whiskey arrived, courtesy of Brian the bartender, who gave Sam an unsubtle thumbs-up before departing. Leo wasn’t sure what this was intended to mean, and said so. “Or was I not supposed to notice that?”

“He tells me every time I come in here that I need to get laid, so I think he’s being encouraging.” Sam slid a glass over. “Try this.”

“How do you know I even like whiskey?”

“I don’t, but I’m hoping?”

“Well,” Leo agreed, “you’re not wrong,” and took a sip. Honey and toffee and oak pooled across his tongue, and drenched the world in layers of sherry, vanilla, lingering spices. He took a breath, astonished.

“Thought you’d like that one,” Sam said, with satisfaction. “Sweet, and also complex.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Totally.” That American accent—possibly even from here, Nevada or Vegas itself, Leo thought, though he was by no means an expert—delivered the word with extra certainty. The compliment was a compliment, and Sam wanted him, and Sam was sure about this.

Like the whiskey, the surety filled up the night and lingered. Lamplight brushed Leo’s hand, a condensation-ring on the table, Sam’s smile. The pause was natural, and soft.

“You know,” Sam said after a moment, “I am actually hitting on you. You know that, right? I like guys, and I think you’re gorgeous and interesting and genuinely nice, and I know I’m not anywhere close to being in your league, but I’m kind of hoping being all honest and obvious about asking wins me some points?”

Leo sat there in the wood-framed booth and stared at him. Could not, for once, think of anything at all to say.

“I mean,” Sam said, “I don’t expect anything, you’re you and I’m me, I know, I just—I like you and you already agreed to come here with me and I thought, well, if you did say yes—if you wanted, just tonight, one night, if I bought you a drink and we just…we could see how the night goes, maybe? If you want.”

“Ah,” Leo managed. “Er…but…look, for one thing, it’s Andy’s party and I should really get back and meet up with them…oh, sorry, that’d be Andrew—”

“Connors. I know. And Jillian Poe, and your friends.” Sam got into a staring contest with his glass. “I get it. You’re busy, and I do…what I do…and I shouldn’t’ve asked. Pretend I didn’t.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s only…I’m not actually gay?”

Sam choked on whiskey.

“I don’t mean I’m exactly straight!” Leo panicked at him. “I mean…I don’t know what I mean. I do look at attractive men. Like you. You’re quite attractive. It’s just…I hadn’t really ever seriously thought about…but that doesn’t mean it’s not, er, an option…” The clarification wasn’t helping. Not for either of them.

Sam dropped his face into both hands. Muffled by fingers, got out, “Oh my God…I am so sorry…oh God, you’re straight and I should never try to flirt with guys ever…”

“I said I wasn’t straight, exactly,” Leo pointed out, ruffled by the assumption. “Or I don’t know. I haven’t asked myself about it much. And I’m flattered, not upset.”

“Oh God,” Sam mourned again, buried behind embarrassment. “And you’re Leo Whyte . I tried to hit on you.”

“Does that matter? I’m not, oh, Colby Kent. I’m just me.”

Sam dropped the hands. Looked up and over. “I didn’t ask Colby out for a drink—”

“Which is good, because Jason would have something to say about that, no doubt involving those biceps—”

“I asked you . And you are pretty damn famous.”

“I’m not as famous as Colby is,” Leo said. True, and he didn’t mind it. He’d had a solid career so far, spanning period dramas and wartime epics and three seasons of a recurring role as a mischievous occasional adversary on a classic British science-fiction television show; he was doing fine. “It’s all right; you don’t have to flatter me.”

“But—” Sam stopped, took a drink. Leo watched his throat move, watched the shift and swallow. Sam met his eyes after, steady across the table and the space between them. “You’re good. On camera, in a group, an ensemble cast—you do the job. That came out wrong. I mean you don’t steal spotlights or jump up and down getting the camera to look at you, because you’re not supposed to. You play the role, not the star persona. I do know who you are, you know.”

“Oh,” Leo said weakly; and then, flippant because anything else would leave his heart in tatters on the table right next to Sam’s hand and a glass of marvelous whiskey, “I don’t know, do you know me? You called me straight, just now.”

“You said you hadn’t ever even thought about—”

“I’m not opposed! It’s just I’ve never actually had sex—with a man! I mean sex with a man! I’ve definitely had sex! All the sex! It’s only—do I actually qualify as gay or—or bisexual, or something, if I’ve never done anything about it?”

Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Never? Not anything ?”

“I know,” Leo explained pathetically. Hopefully adorably pathetically. Possibly so. “I know, yes, it’s the film industry, and then tonight I was there with Jillian Poe and Colby Kent and basically literally zero straight people, and I flirt with everything, and believe me I’ve heard all the rumors about me and my sexuality, and I’m not not interested. I’m probably interested. It’s only, er, in practice it’s always been women. So far.”

“But you said yes to having a drink with me.”

Leo squirmed a bit. Those aureate flecks, in those smoky brown eyes. So beautiful, so intense, examining his face as if Leo’s reply, at this moment, might be the most important sentence in the world. “I. Ah. You’re so—I wanted to—” Good God. He was Leo Whyte, quick-tongued and glib: he could do better than this. “I’m distracting you.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “You definitely are that.”

“How ‘m I doing?”

“Nine out of ten, and don’t change the subject. You wanted to be here.”

“Nine?”

“You didn’t finish that thought about me.” Sam tilted that head, ran a tongue along his lower lip; Leo stared helplessly at the motion, the gesture, the thoughtful deliberation. “So I’d be your first.”

“I’m not a virgin!”

Sam cocked an eyebrow.

Leo glared. “I know what I enjoy. Which is not degenerate American stalkers with cameras, thank you.”

“Degenerate?”

“Yes, it means—”

“I know what it means.” Sam grinned at him. “I like talking to you. And you like talking to me, if you’d admit it.”

Leo picked up his whiskey. Faced down the gorgeous tempting challenge across the table. Tossed back half the glass. “Not happening.”

“What’re you afraid of?”

“Did you forget what you do for a living?”

Sam’s eyes did something complicated, then: between a wince and a regret, as if he had indeed forgotten. “Right. Sorry.”

“No offense, but I don’t trust you.”

“I wouldn’t either, if I were you.”

“Why am I here? ” Leo eyed amber alcohol, swirled it around, searched for answers by closing one eye and peeking at the other side of the table through liquid and glass. “Why.”

“Because I asked,” Sam said, “and you said yes. I wouldn’t trust me, no, but I’d trust you.”

“I have not had nearly enough of the whiskey that you’re paying for, the whiskey paid for by you, the whiskey I am not at all paying for, for that to make sense.”

Sam laughed.

Leo’s mobile buzzed. Jason. A text. Checking in. Being a good broad-shouldered shield. Taking on the responsibility of corralling lost group members.

Leo had never been known for being responsible. He did not answer.

“The thing is,” Sam said, “I’ve seen a lot of celebrities. And I saw you, tonight.”

“Yes, you did, and you’ve got photographs—”

“No, listen.” Sam put elbows on the table, leaned forward, held out hands. “You’re a good person, Leo Whyte.”

“All right,” Leo said, “we’re done, thanks,” and set his glass down and moved to get up. His chest hurt, sharp and shocked; he resisted the impulse to put a hand to his throat, to find the knot stuck there. “I think I’ve distracted you enough.”

“What—hang on, wait, dammit.” Sam grabbed his hand. Leo sat back down because that seemed easiest and not at all because the hand felt nice when he’d gone a bit cold.

Sam went on, “I’m not making fun of you or anything, seriously—does no one ever tell you that?”

“Does no one ever tell me what?”

“You know what I saw tonight? I saw someone trying to help his friends. When it was going to cost you something. And you did it without thinking twice.”

“It doesn’t cost me anything,” Leo said. “I’m good at publicity. It’s just another photograph. And nobody takes me seriously.” Surprised, he heard the edge to the words—he’d meant them lightly—and stopped talking. The knot in his throat grew more.

“Well, they should.” Sam hadn’t let go of his hand. “I know I’m just some degenerate American stalker with a camera. But I saw you being kind. I saw you. And that matters. Wanting to help people.”

“I don’t—” Leo shook his head. Found other things, not Sam’s face, to hide in. The worn dark leather of their booth. The sturdy wood of their table. The way low bar-light caught the curve of a glass and spun it into a reflection, a line of gold, something new. “You know my reputation. Why would you think I’ve got any altruistic motives?”

“Don’t you?” Sam regarded him evenly. Tapped fingers over Leo’s captive hand. Somehow this drumming—light and repetitive and possessive—settled Leo’s heartbeat. Made it match that rhythm, finding a cadence to follow. “I think you do.”

“You don’t know me,” Leo said. It was a protest, a counterargument, a fear. Because he was afraid.

He was afraid that Sam had seen him, or at least the him he’d want to be, if he could. He was afraid he wasn’t that person and never had been. He was afraid that every word hanging in the air was some sort of lie, something Sam glimpsed that was better and brighter and more true than Leo Whyte could hope to become.

He was also a bit worried by the state of his trousers, or more accurately the astonished and undeniable arousal inside his trousers.

Sam’s hand remained covering his, tanned and large and tangible. Sam’s eyes stayed on him, taking him in, taking him, yes, seriously. Wanting him, and not shy about it.

Leo wanted to ask for a hug or possibly cry into his whiskey or beg Sam to put that hand someplace else, much lower and currently stiff as a ship’s mast. He spent a second attempting to process this collision of reactions.

His mobile buzzed again. Still Jason. You OK?

This time he grabbed it. A solid shape among shifting sands. No need to worry. Look after our favorite rainbow unicorn for me. Be right over.

“Your friends,” Sam said, watching.

“My…yes. I should. Er. Go. Catch up.”

“They care.”

“They’re concerned they’ve lost a group member. Jason frets. He’s a shepherd at heart. Bit overprotective really, but Colby loves it.”

“And you care about them.” Sam’s gaze, Sam’s hand, were both heartbreakingly gentle. “And they want you to join them. And I want you here with me. I want you, Leo.”

“Don’t—” Leo started, and stopped, and squeezed both eyes shut for a second. Too much, too enormous, too glorious and painful. He couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t let the universe hear it. “You don’t have to—I mean, of course you want me, I’m entirely want-able, I’m a wonder of the world. I can ride a unicycle and I’ve got distressingly good aim with a bow and arrow, or so said our archery coach on Green Knight . So if you ever need either of those skills, let me know.”

Sam sighed. Deeply.

“I’m also good at buying sex toys? If someone’s too embarrassed about something, I’ll happily get it for them.”

This got a laugh. “Figures. I’ve seen—” Sam cut himself off there, but Leo knew where the sentence had been going. He filled in, “The photographs? Me walking out of that shop with, which one was it, the alien tentacle dildo? Or the one shaped like a rocket ship? I knew there’d be pictures.”

“I didn’t take them.” Sam had gone pink under the tan. “I wasn’t there.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Neither of those was for me, by the way, but I can’t tell you which person they were on behalf of.” He’d even done some dramatic swooping gestures with the rocket, for the paparazzi. “I haven’t bought anything like that in a while, mind you. I wonder if the media thinks I’ve grown less kinky? Or perhaps I’m simply very satisfied with my purchases?”

“Leo Whyte,” Sam said, and shook his head, and laughed a little. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but you’re not whatever it would’ve been.”

“I do try to confound expectations. I should go, before Jason’s muscles implode from the strain of not collecting a wayward sheep…” He hadn’t moved.

“You should.” Sam, being decisive for both of them, slid out of the booth: got up, left money, held out a hand. “Come here.”

Leo took the hand, getting up as well. He did not mind Sam taking charge, thinking about Leo’s obligations, helping ensure he returned to them. He liked the hand-holding, also.

It felt good. It felt like being seen.

They went out the door—Brian the bartender beamed and threw an encouraging American thumbs-up—and took a step onto the sidewalk, at which point Sam tugged him around a corner and into a side alleyway: deserted, clean by Vegas standards, patterned in tipsy tilted light and shadow. The camera swung, slung over a shoulder.

Leo inquired, “Am I being nefariously kidnapped? Was that your plan? And where are you taking me?” Sam hadn’t let go of his hand, and in fact had drawn him closer, fingers skimming Leo’s wrist, dipping beneath the edge of a sleeve, and oh Leo’s arm had never felt so much like sparklers fizzing away—

Sam laughed, which was good; Leo’d meant the line as a joke. “No kidnapping. I’ll call you a cab. Or a limo. Or whatever you want. But first—”

“But first what?” They had ended up standing close together, up against each other; Leo had gone along willingly, and now his heart was thumping madly and Sam’s body was firm and hot and right there pressed to his, Sam’s hand lifting, stroking back his hair, cradling his face…in a side alley by a pub, in the whirlwind carnival of Las Vegas, in the midst of this whole dizzy celebratory weekend…

Leo had never wanted to be touched so badly by anyone. He’d never been so aware of his own body, the rigid radiant line of his cock, the pulse of his blood. Not with anyone. Not like this.

“First this.” Sam moved, drew closer, eyes intent and hazelnut-gold as promises. His lips were a breath away; his words were warm. “I would’ve asked you back to my place…or yours…wherever. I’d’ve jumped into bed with you and done, hell, everything—everything that’d make you feel good, so good, so amazing. The way you deserve. But you deserve better than that, too. Your friends, your party, your life. Not some guy with a camera who’s gonna send pictures of you to his editor. Not one random night in the closest cheap hotel.”

“What if,” Leo inquired unsteadily, “I wouldn’t mind a cheap hotel?” He imagined he could taste the whiskey again, fiery and scorching and delicious as pleasure.

“No.” Sam touched a finger to Leo’s lips. “You should have silk sheets. Strawberries. Champagne. Or whatever you want. Don’t think I don’t want you, because I do—I want you so damn much, and that is me being serious—and I can’t believe I’m telling you to go. Even though I am. You have places to be, and people to be with. But…”

“But?”

“But I want to kiss you.” Sam’s other hand had found Leo’s waist, and tugged their bodies even closer; Sam was also hard beneath denim, Leo discovered: hard and thick and clearly aroused by him. By this: by them together. “You said you’d never done anything with a guy, and that’s some sort of crime against humanity, you being interested and never getting even kissed, and I want you to know how really fuckin’ bad I want to kiss you, right now.”

“So…so why aren’t you?”

“Because I’m asking first.” Sam’s hand had made its way to the back of Leo’s neck, and stayed there. Leo’s neck shivered and tingled and learned how to yearn for exactly that. “I know this is new and I’m not gonna just jump on you with my mouth in an alleyway. So I’m asking, Leo Whyte, can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Leo breathed. “Yes, please.”

Sam kissed him. And the world became spectacular.

Sam tasted like good whiskey—Leo himself must’ve also—and kissed without demands but with experience and control: guiding, initiating, leading. His mouth was honeyed and hot and came with a small scrape of evening stubble, and his tongue teased Leo’s mouth, beckoning, slipping in, flirting.

Kissing Sam was not like kissing anyone else ever, Leo concluded hazily: it wasn’t even about Sam not being a woman, or the way they were so nearly the same height, or the way their arousal fit and pushed together, mutual. Kissing Sam felt like kissing sunshine, if sunshine knew what it was doing and knew how to nibble and lick and gently but commandingly tangle a hand into Leo’s hair.

He tried to kiss back, to reciprocate, to show his absolute eagerness. Sam smiled—Leo could feel it—and murmured into the kiss, “So damn perfect…”

“I’m…mmm…not… oh .” Sam was kissing his neck now, which had developed a direct line to Leo’s knees and the weakness thereof. “Oh, that, yes…”

“Delicious.” Sam drew back, leaned in as if unable to help himself, and landed one more kiss on Leo’s mouth: quick at first, but slow to pull away. “Fuck, you’re amazing. Saying yes, wanting more, wanting it all…oh, hell. One more.”

One more kiss meant quite a lot of tongue, and Sam’s hands running along Leo’s back, pulling him in and holding him there as if keeping him safe. Leo wanted to be kept by Sam. Wanted to feel Sam’s hands on his bare skin. His jacket and shirt were in the way. Too many clothes.

He’d been kissed before. He knew about desire.

He’d never been kissed like this before. And he couldn’t recall the last time desire had felt like this: a paradox of sweetness and flame, sizzling need and sheer exuberant rightness. The thrill and the shock: kissing Sam, who had a camera, who’d followed them and taken pictures of them and then bought him a drink and told him he was worthwhile. Firecrackers, but tinged with melancholy: Sam was moving back, letting him go.

Leo, breathless, could only stand without moving. He knew his lips were parted, no doubt kiss-pink and shiny; he couldn’t stop looking at Sam.

Who hooked thumbs into jeans pockets, shifted weight, offered a smile: wry and fond and sad. “You should go. I won’t keep you.”

“But,” Leo said. The world had changed. He had changed. Or maybe he hadn’t: maybe all of him had always been wanting exactly this.

Sam just gave him a small head-tilt, still smiling, though the smile hoisted banners to hide a bruise. His hair was a bit mussed, short fluffy dark waves rumpled; his eyes held fascinating shades of brown, topaz and tiger’s-eye and sun-kissed earth.

Leo wanted to touch him. Wanted to touch him everyplace: hands, waist, those muscular thighs, those expressive lips.

He should perhaps feel more confused, more astonished at himself, more dazed by this shift in self-perception and the reality of kissing a man; he would feel it all, probably, later. Just now Sam was his clarity. The sharpest brightest part of a color-soaked kaleidoscopic world.

He knew that much. He did not know what it would mean, all the implications, but he knew he’d liked it.

He said, “Will I see you again?”

Sam’s expression changed. “You mean will I keep following you around?”

“No. Or yes, if that’s how I get to see you.” He took a breath, pleaded, “I’ll make another spectacle out of myself. Jump into a fountain. Buy American fast food. Anything.”

“You would, too.”

“I would. Will you at least come to the premiere? Steadfast . Our movie. Colby and Jill have decided on a February date. Though—I don’t know how your job works, if you can even come to London—if I send you a ticket or a press pass or something—”

“My job,” Sam said, half amused, half regretful, “is whatever gets the celebrity money shot. I go where that is.”

“There’ll be a lot of us on the red carpet, if that helps? You can take pictures. If you need to. For your job.”

“You want me there.” Sam raised eyebrows. Polite and incredulous. Another emotion underneath. “Most people—”

“I’m not most people.”

“No.” Sam’s fingers twitched: almost a reaching out, perhaps, though in the end he only adjusted a camera-strap. “You’re you. I’ll…see what I can do.”

“It’s a newsworthy occasion. All those stories about Colby and Jason…their first red carpet as a couple…oh, and Sir Laurence Taylor will be there! If you want a legend for some photographs.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Sam said, “I want to. I don’t know if I can, but…I want to.”

Leo’s mobile phone, in his pocket, buzzed again. A sparkly drag revue awaited. Celebrations and exuberance and bottles of champagne. Discussions of wedding plans and that upcoming musical Jill and Andy were now convinced they should all film.

Leo was not an especially good singer. He wasn’t outright dreadful, or he didn’t think so, but he wouldn’t advertise it as a particular talent, either. He’d happily join Colby’s fictional band on stage, though, perhaps doing the acting version of learning to play bass or the drums. He wanted to be involved; he wanted to be part of the story.

Not the superstar, he thought. Someone who got the job done. The sidekick, the second in command, the comic relief.

But Sam had seen him. Had looked at him and asked to kiss him. Had told him that he, Leo Whyte, was worth that: the asking, the respect, and the wanting.

Sam was summoning a cab, because Leo hadn’t managed to think about anything practical yet; it was right down the street, apparently, and came promptly. Sam stayed with him, even opened the door for him, touched his hand: a brief brush of fingertips.

“Sam,” Leo said, hopelessly.

“Go on,” Sam said, “have fun, Leo Whyte,” and stepped back: back into the swirl of Las Vegas flair, a sidewalk, a thrumming ocean of bodies and stories and vibrant life. The cab driver cleared his throat and asked about the destination, confirming. Leo answered without really looking around.

He kept gazing out the window instead. Sam was out there. Sam was out there in the night, camera at the ready, doing his job.

Of course it was only one night. Not even a night. An hour. A glimpse. And Sam took celebrity pictures for a living, and Leo Whyte was a celebrity, at least a minor one; they might’ve kissed, they might’ve shared a drink, Sam might’ve excavated the deepest most lonely piece of Leo’s soul, but that couldn’t mean anything, surely?

They couldn’t have a future. Leo couldn’t expect that. In all likelihood he’d never see Sam Hernandez-Blake again.

He’d have the memory. This night. A moment that was his: his and Sam’s. Not for social media or gossip or loudly sharing. A kiss.

He’d thought initially that he might tell this story. He would’ve told it to actor and industry acquaintances for laughs: a new adventure, an illicit crossing of invisible borders between professions, a provocation.

He wouldn’t. Didn’t want to, somehow.

He touched a finger to his own lips, a memory. He kept it there, unspoken.

He settled back into the seat, and let the cab take him over to his friends, only slightly late for the show; he smiled reassuringly when Colby leaned over to ask whether he was all right, and he even apologized when Jason grumbled about unanswered texts. He meant the apology. He had not wanted Jason to worry, not really.

Not that the worry was directed at Leo himself. Might’ve been anyone. Anybody Jason’s big arms and big heart decided to collect. Leo Whyte just happened to be in the vicinity of all that overflowing care. Nothing personal. He knew.

And that was fine; that was all right; that was exactly right. Jason was a good person—they all were, the whole group of them—and couldn’t be expected to care beyond general genial friendliness, or to pay any attention at all to Leo’s silliness. That’d be asking too much. By far. And anyway Jason needed to focus on Colby, who shone with that support, emerging from pain into coruscating triumph and writing success and the knowledge of love.

Music swooped through the venue like sequins and glitter; their private box had a marvelous view, and the show was a good one, funny and over-the-top and full of color and feathers and style and unabashedly campy joy. Leo appreciated cabaret and props and theatricality; he sat back and watched, both the performances and his people. Andy and Jill had acquired pink sparkly drinks, which matched Andy’s newfound pink sparkly top hat; Colby was chattering about the rainbow ribbons being displayed in someone’s costume and simultaneously being cuddled up against Jason, who every so often murmured something to him or stroked his hair or kissed him.

Leo’s heart approved. Colby had needed that: someone who’d give him the attention, the affection, the protection, that he’d been so obviously starved for. And Jason had needed someone to care for, to direct all that love and compassion toward. They were right together. The way Andy and Adrian were, as well: good people finding each other, finding where they fit, in the whole huge world.

He thought about rightness. He thought, while ribbons fluttered on stage and a laughing voice sang about having too many men and too many choices, about warmth and the taste of whiskey.

He thought about Sam and Sam’s mouth on his. The thought unfolded like a love-letter: private, profound, kept secret in his chest.

He wondered whether Sam would in fact appear in London in February. He knew the chances were slender; he knew this whole night was a fantasy, a dream, a moment out of time and reality. He’d take that much gladly, without regret.

Nevertheless—

He wanted those dancing tawny eyes to turn up. He wanted to share Steadfast with them; he thought Sam might understand, might be swept away by the story, the love of two men through Regency-era ballrooms and battleships. He wanted to know whether Sam liked romance or history or spy stories, and whether he liked popcorn at movies, and how he’d react to some of Leo’s own favorite scenes, from shipwrecks to quiet understated sympathy for his fictional captain’s difficult love.

He wanted to try kissing a man, kissing Sam , again.

He wanted more.

He might not ever have it.

But the wanting felt right as well: something he’d learned tonight, coming into focus as true as hope, as curiosity, as gold.