Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“…um!” Cillian just about disappeared into the upturned collar of his battered, oversized charcoal military jacket. “Right. Yes. Okay. How long are we filming for, again?”
“Five to six months,” Brendan supplied. “Possibly eight or more if we run into difficulties.”
“Well.” Cillian sighed, offering a rueful smile, but didn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes. “Guess I’m celibate until we ‘break up,’ eh? Or there’ll be a scandal. Cillian the dirty cheater.”
Brendan eyed him flatly. “Is getting your dick wet really that important?”
“No!” Cillian gasped—then winced, ducking his head again. “…well…a little…for…you know, reasons…”
Drake posted his hands on his hips, staring between them. “I have no idea what you two are talking about.”
Brendan flicked a hand toward the door without looking away from Cillian’s face, deep crimson even under the layers of makeup. “Nothing you need to be privy to, Drake.”
Drake hissed like an offended cat. “…are you kicking me out?”
“No, but I am asking you to leave so Cillian and I can discuss this alone.”
“Your ‘asking’ is never asking, Brendan,” Drake clipped out, then groaned. “Fine. I’ll be outside. We’ll figure out additional damage control once you’re done.” Turning, he snatched up his phone and stalked toward the door, his snarling mutters trailing after him like smoke. “I hate him so much, I really do, I’m going to kill him one of these days, I hate him, I hate him…”
Brendan waited until the door shut before speaking again. Shifting on the sofa to face Cillian, he propped his arm on the back of the cushion and leaned into it.
“Talk to me.”
Cillian flashed him a mutinous, sulky glare, creamy-pale brown eyes simmering. “Can you say anything without it sounding like a direct order?”
“…” Brendan just stared at him flatly, then sighed. “Please talk to me?”
“A more polite direct order. Thank you,” Cillian lilted sardonically, accent turning the words faintly acidic. He pressed one hand to his face, exhaling. “I…fuck. This is mortifying. I’m not used to talking about this out loud. I used to, you know, in chat rooms and stuff, but once I got my first gig I had to delete all my accounts. Just in case.”
“So you’ve been keeping this secret on your own. What if one of your Grindr hookups had decided to get a little gossipy?”
“NDAs. I do have at least that much common sense.” With a weak smile, Cillian slumped down with his slender hips jutting forward, lean thighs spread, the rips in his jeans exposing light dustings of dark brown hair against tight sinew. “Look, I…I’m from a really isolated place. Really isolated. Small. Everyone knows me, my family.” He touched at his lower lip, fingertips brushing the swollen split in red flesh. “I’ve never been able to really explore, figure out the things I like. Nothing but fantasies. I’m not going to be in Hollywood for long, but while I’m here…” He shrugged listlessly. “I’d at least hoped to just…get to experiment. Have a little freedom to know myself in ways I couldn’t before. It’s…it’s kind of a personal, intimate thing, you know? I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance again.”
“I see.” Brendan simply let that sink in. Considering the things he’d done when he’d been in the closet, anything to express himself, to be free to be gay, even if only after dark… “Why won’t you be in Hollywood for long?”
“My parents are expecting me to…” A careful pause. The kind that came with a lie—or at least with a careful obfuscation, deliberately chosen words. “…to take over the family business. They told me I’m far too old already to be chasing daydreams, and gave me a few years to get it out of my system before it’s time to settle in. So…I get to fuck around with being a movie star for a bit, and then it’s back to small town life.”
Not an uncommon story. Familial expectations and duty, parental pressure well into adulthood, a longing to be free.
So why was Cillian picking over what he said like he had something to hide?
Neutrally, Brendan pointed out, “You’re an adult. Your parents don’t get to dictate what you do for a living.”
“In this situation? They kind of do. It’s complicated.”
Brendan frowned. “Where are you from? You aren’t British.”
“Wh-what?” Cillian’s eyes widened guiltily; his throat worked in a hard swallow. “Of…of course I am.”
“No—your accent’s not quite right,” Brendan said, tilting his head, listening. “My family’s from Hong Kong. I know every flavor of British accent out there—regional, dialects. Yours almost has a Welsh hint to it, but something’s off.”
“Oh, um…you know, tiny communities, we don’t see other people for years sometimes.” Cillian shrugged, tense and forced. “Out in the countryside, we’ve got accents you’ve never even dreamed of.”
That wasn’t really holding water.
Not with Cillian’s nervous, shamefaced body language.
For an actor, the kid couldn’t lie for shit.