1 Chapter 1

“I’ve asked Tracy to move in,” said Reece from behind his Los Angeles Times, “and he’s accepted. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Reece occupied his usual spot at the breakfast table in the kitchen’s cozy nook. He wore the blue terry robe that accentuated his ruddy coloring and masculine appeal. He often made pronouncements from behind his newspaper, but this one blindsided me. When I offered no comment, he kept on.

“He’s thrilled at joining us. He’s had such a rough time.”

I poured a cup of coffee and sipped it while standing at the sink. I kept my back to Reece and heard the rustle of paper as he set aside the Times. “You don’t object, do you?” he asked. “Noah? We’ve been having such fun and he needs our help.”

I couldn’t speak. His announcement had cut into me so deeply I expected blood. I looked at my hands, hunting for the slice, but nothing had outwardly changed. It was all inside, a blistering, searing pain.

“Noah?”

It angered me that everything appeared normal, the room quiet except for Reece saying my name. The coffee maker hadn’t exploded; the counter hadn’t cracked. Why hadn’t it? There should be an earthquake; the house should tip over. Crashing, grinding. Screams. How could I speak? My throat had closed off with his announcement. Breathing was difficult. If I did manage words, what would come out of the devastation? What was left of me?

But wait, wait, I could be wrong. Yes, I could be wrong. I could be reading too much into a simple statement. After all, we’d been playing around with Tracy for a good month, romping through house and garden in, what seemed at times, a never-ending sexual threesome. And I’d enjoyed Tracy. He was a delectable twenty-two-year-old, eager, pliant, fun. Maybe he wasn’t an intruder. Maybe it could work on a permanent basis.

“Noah?” Reece said again.

I cleared my throat and sipped my coffee in an effort to right myself because I was jumping to conclusions. All could be fine, we could work it out, but if that was the case, then why was I feeling trampled? “Everything is fine, Sweetie,” I finally managed. “Wonderful, in fact.”

There, I’d done it, agreed to allow another man to live with us, a man fourteen years my junior. Hardly a man at all, what with his boyish look. He was the classic Hollywood blond: dark roots beneath platinum curls, slim body, little pink cock perpetually hard. The arrangement could work, couldn’t it? Over the years we’d often invited other men to join our sex games, but they’d never been allowed to stay over. This had been Reece’s rule and it had given me confidence in us, but now here he was, reversing course. Tracy Lynch had won him over in the worst possible way. I took my coffee to the table and sat while Reece went back to his Times

Eight years before, he’d acquired me in somewhat the same manner, though I’d offered a screenplay in addition to myself. I’d been scraping by in a fleabag Hollywood hotel, subsisting on one meal a day while writing. Moving into his Mullholland Drive house had saved me. And I hadn’t displaced anybody.

I thought of cooking breakfast, something I usually enjoyed, but food seemed impossible now. Would I ever eat again? My stomach churned as I worked to assure myself I could manage with Tracy around, but the instinct that made me a good writer knew damn well it was over. Eight years and it ends almost casually.

“Helloooo,” sang the familiar voice. Had Reece given Tracy a key? Apparently he had because Tracy sailed into the room with a pink box he announced was filled with the best croissants ever. He kissed Reece on the cheek and gave me a similar peck, then poured himself coffee. When he got a plate for the pastry, I saw how settled he already was, confident in his every move. And it struck me then how he’d stolen that confidence from me. I was already the outsider.

He wore an unbuttoned white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and beneath it nothing but a royal blue Speedo. As he settled into a chair between Reece and me, I knew cocks were getting stiff. I looked at Reece, whose complexion was coloring. He beamed at Tracy as he bit into a croissant and I thought he might well have been biting into the interloper. He cooed over the pastry, the day, life itself, all of which confirmed my initial reaction. My time with Reece was ending as Tracy’s began.

I’d never considered an end to Reece Landreth and me. In eight years of loving him, writing for him, and feeling myself privileged to be part of the famed actor’s life, I’d enjoyed an enviable situation, everything provided, everything I wanted readily given. I’d been lulled into a bliss I never considered could end, accustomed to life with the man of my dreams. And Reece? He’d always seemed happy with me. Still handsome at fifty-four, jaw strong, gray hair thick and not daring to recede, blue eyes bright, body softening yet remaining formidable, he was my everything. And now my nothing.