1 Chapter 1
If you have a television, you probably have a crush on Felix Medrano. If you have an especially sharp eye for ass-related detail, you’ve probably had a crush on him since he started doing those Facebook ads for Perfect Fit Chinos. But ever since he landed the lead as hunky, heartsick dairy farmer Filbert Green on the smash network hit Say Cheese, his toothsome mug has enlivened the cover of every supermarket magazine in America—from Rolling Stone to Reader’s Digest. If you don’t have at least aninnocent crush on his dimpled grin, someone else does your grocery shopping.
And what’s not to like? His windswept, walnut locks? His aw-shucks chubby cheeks? The cleft in his chin? He can act, he can sing, he can land a joke. With shoulders like a chifferobe, eyes the color of almonds, and a voice that drips smooth, smoky dark chocolate over every word, every woman wants him, and every man…Well, they all want him, too, whether they can admit it or not. All this and he’s not even thirty yet—as far as any of the magazines know.
The icing on this beefcake—he throws one hell of a party. Generous by nature, and raking in the royalties, he spares no expense. Especially when he’s showing off, which, okay, he might be doing justthe littlest bit tonight. And why not? He loves Shep so hard he can’t always see straight, and a gay wedding is still a big deal in Hollywood, especially when both grooms photograph well. If Shep says yes, their engagement will hit TMZ before bedtime. If he’s in the papers in the morning, Felix fully intends to make a splash.
Tucked into the greenery just above Sunset, the Re/LAX Hotel and Spa is home to the most sought-after party patio in town, and Felix has sprinkled only a tasteful few famous faces amongst his parents and The Boyz from their Clarion Café days—well, from his Clarion Café days, he supposes. Shep’s still behind the bar at the Clarion six nights a week, Lord only knows why. Led by a nunnish and nearly spherical bass player, the jazzy trio lobs subdued standards into the evening. Untouched yet, the heavysilverware twinkles in the flattering light of the cast-iron candle fixtures. Quieted by the approaching dark, bougainvillea blooms artfully overhead, remarked upon only by Felix’s mother, and those few guests who can tear their eyes away from their phones long enough to do anything but signal the waiter for another cocktail.
Not that Felix is in a position to criticize. He’s been glued to his own phone for the last forty-five minutes, willing Shep’s avatar to appear bearing glad tidings. Hell, any kind of tidings. Shep was supposed to be home from New Orleans almost twelve hours ago, and Felix doesn’t know if his new celebrity friends will stick around after the free feed for a Face Time proposal to a virtual boyfriend. The whole thing—the party, popping the question—is a surprise, of course, but Felix just knows Shep will find a way to make it to the most important night of their life together.
But where the hell is he?
* * * *
“Follow that car!”
Shep piled into the back seat of the lavender taxi behind his best friend, Billy Bonami. He damn near slid right back onto the gravel when the driver fishtailed in the IHOP parking lot, but Billy grabbed onto his arm, and he managed to wrestle the door closed as they swung, tires squealing, into the trafficon Airline Drive.
“How exciting!” The driver flashed a toothy grin into the rearview mirror. “I’ve always wanted someone to jump in and say ‘follow that car!’ I feel like I’m in a movie. Are you making a movie?”
“A play, actually,” Billy improvised, keeping a straight face. “That’s why there are no cameras.”
“How exciting,” the driver said again.
What Shep was most excited about was getting on the plane back to L.A., but all of his shit was in the trunk of Billy’s car, which some bottle-blond twink in a tank top had just jacked from in front of the IHOP while Shep was paying for Billy’s breakfast. In heavy traffic, the IHOP was forty-five seconds away from the Louis Armstrong airport. Even accounting for their late start—never mind Shep’s howling hangover, Billy was still half-drunk—stopping to load up on pancakes hadn’t cost them much inthe way of valuable time. But they’d built in very little car chase cushion, and Shep was more interested in his watch than in what was happening on the road in front of them.
As, apparently, was the driver. At least the car he rear-ended was Billy’s. The buddies scrambled fromthe backseat into traffic in time to see Tank Top and his bloody lip bail out of Billy’s car. He whirledto accost them, oblivious to the horns and middle fingers popping off like popcorn.
