With a grunt of frustration, he stalks over to the window and stares out at the ocean. His posture suggests he's bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I decide I should give him a second to calm himself. After running his hands over his freshly cut hair, he takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. When he turns back to me, he seems calmer but no less upset.
"I want to tell you this scandal will blow over and nothing like this will ever happen again, but I can't. It will happen again. And again, and again, for decades to come. I've accepted it, but as long as we're together, you're going to be a target, and I can't fucking bear that." He drops his head. "This is exactly why I didn't contact you for all those years. Because I knew that if I gave into my feelings and brought you into my life, you'd end up paying the price for my fame. But I did it anyway, because I'm a selfish prick who wanted you at any cost."
"Liam, don't be ridiculous. I came of my own free will. You didn't force me. I knew what it would be like dating someone famous."
"That doesn’t make it right. However you look at this, it's my fault. This career was my choice, not yours. You would have still loved me if I'd stayed a construction worker, for God's sake. You don't care about the money or the fame. As nice as it is to be able to shower you with extravagant gifts, I'd give it all up to protect you."
"Give up what? Fame? That’s impossible. Even if you quit Hollywood tomorrow, you're still going to be recognized everywhere you go. You're the biggest movie star in the world, and people won't just forget that because you want them to."
"Liss, the whole world has seen you naked, for fuck's sake! Don't you see how screwed up this is?"
"Of course! But there's nothing we can do. You're not a construction worker anymore. You're a star. And I love you enough to accept the consequences of what that entails."
"You say that now, but what about five years from now when you're paranoid to set foot outside the house in case you're followed? Or when you're mobbed by paps when you're trying to buy groceries? Or God forbid, when one of my crazy-ass fans physically attacks you because they're jealous of you being the woman I love? Will it be worth it, then?"
"So ... what are you saying? That you shouldn’t have told me about you and Angel? That you think I'd be happier living the rest of my life believing you didn't love me?"
"No, I just—" He takes a step forward. "This is just the beginning. Now that it's out we're together, every news agency and tabloid will dig up any information they can on you. Where you live. Who your friends are. They might not have a lot of information yet, but they'll get it, and when they do, all manner of unholy shit is going to rain down on you and everyone you care about. And by the time you realize what the hell it is you've gotten yourself into by being with me, it will be too damn late to do anything about it. If you want to avoid that, you have to act now."
A chill runs up my spine. I don't like where this conversation is heading. "What are you talking about. Do what?"
He stares at me, conflicted and tense, as if he can't bring himself to say it.
"Liam?" I take a step toward him. "What do you expect me to do?"
The muscles in his jaw clench. "Walk away. Go live a normal life with a regular guy. It's not too late."
I have no idea what's going through his head right now, but surely he can't be serious. "You think it's not too late for me to walk away from you?" I let out a short laugh, and I'm surprised I only sound half as incredulous as I feel. "You have to be fucking kidding me. Of course it's too late! It was too late the night we met in Times Square, when you showed me your roof garden and told me about your brother and parents, and made me question everything I believed about true love." I walk toward him. "It was too late the first time you kissed me, tasting like cookies and cream while you ruined me for all other men." When I reach him, I put both hands on his chest. "And most of all, it was way too goddamn late the first time we made love, when my whole world tilted so far off its axis, I woke up to find it revolving around you."
I can tell by his expression he's trying to come up with arguments to convince me why I should go despite all that, but he won't find a single one that will stick.
"Liam, don't you understand? You can tell me to go and live my life all you want, but it's an impossible concept. My life is with you. Just like yours is with me. And no number of embarrassing pictures is going to change that."
He drops his head onto my shoulder and wraps his arms around me. "What happened to you today ... seeing you hurt and humiliated like that? It freaking killed me. I never wanted you to be dragged into this shit-show." He pulls back and looks into my eyes. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. Am I upset my naked body has now been seen by half the world? Yes. Do I give two shits about what people are saying about my body? No. Am I going to let this, or anything else short of death come between us? Absolutely fucking not."
I cup his face, and he looks deep into my eyes as I try to make him understand. "Don't you get it? Let the paps and the reporters and the rabid, maniacal fans throw whatever they like at me. It won't matter. I'd walk through fire to be with you, and I'd be grateful for the burns. Because you're it for me, forever, and if that means I have to endure a thousand naked pictures, or even a poorly shot sex tape titled ... oh, I don't know ... Giant Geyser of Stickiness, for example ... then that's what I'll do."
It takes a moment for my words to sink in, but when they do, he bursts out laughing and pulls me into his arms. "God, you're incredible. What the hell did I do to deserve you?"
"Well, for a start, you're really good looking. Then there's your body. And don't even get me started on your pretty cock."
He hugs me tighter. "Watch it, or I'll grab the video camera and make that porno a reality. We can get Giant Geyser of Stickiness filmed and edited before Alba and Luis get back in the morning. I dare you to get your porn face on."
"Oh, it's on," I say, rising on my toes so I can nuzzle his neck. "And when we're done we can upload it to the cloud, so hackers can find it."
He breathes heavily as I lay kisses from his clavicle down to his chest. "Brilliant. After all, any publicity is good publicity."
"Well, that's not exactly true," I say, teasing him with my tongue. "Sure, your enormous man member broke the internet, but the fallout could have been so much worse."
He pulls back so he can see my face. "How?"
"Well, you could have had a really small cock."
He gives me one of those smiles that takes my breath away. The kind I know he doesn't give to anyone else in the world. "God, I love you." He pulls me close and kisses me, slow and deep, and when he pulls back, I look into his eyes and see any lingering doubt has disappeared.
"We'll get through this," he says, determination hardening his features.
"Exactly. By next week, people will have forgotten all about it."
"I hope so. Still, I'm going to make the most of our time here. The longer I can pretend most people I meet haven't seen my dick, the better."
I stroke his chest. "I know how you feel. Not about the dick part, of course, but you know ... boobs. And sandy vag."
He smiles then kisses me again, a little harder than before. When he draws back, he grazes his hand up my ribcage to cup my breasts through my shirt. "I'm conflicted about people seeing you naked. On the one hand, I want to murder every single man who's seen those photos and reduced you to a sexual object. And on the other, I want to boast to the world I get to make love to that perfect body every day, so everyone else can go suck it."
"Huh," I say as I move away from him, so I can take off my shirt. "You mean you don't already brag about banging me? That's hurtful. I tell random chicks in lingerie shops all the time about banging you."
He watches as I finish unbuttoning my blouse and slip it off my shoulders. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?" He moves toward me slowly. "Have I told you that you're the greatest woman on the planet, and I'd be a shell of a man without you?"
&nbs
p; "Well, no, but—"
He holds up his hand as he advances on me. "No need to answer. These are rhetorical questions." Another step. "Have I told you that you're the wittiest, sweetest, sexiest woman who's ever existed? That you drive me insane simply by drawing breath? That I can't look at you without wanting to kiss you, and touch you, and make sweet, filthy love to you?"
He takes my hands and walks me backward toward the bench near the windows. "Because all of that is true. You're remarkable, Elissa Holt, and even though I don't deserve you, I fucking love you with all my heart."
When my back is against the window, he takes my face in his hands and lowers his head until our lips are almost touching. "And I'm sorry I ever suggested you should leave me. That was fucking stupid. I tried living without you once, and it was the worst six years of my life. If I ever suggest something like that again, feel free to hit me. Hard." He grazes his lips against mine, and the sudden rush of hormones makes me lightheaded. "You're my everything, Liss. You're my entire world. Nothing means anything without you."
When he kisses me, it's with a desperation I haven't felt before. It's part apology and part gratitude, and a whole lot of knowing we could be locked in a Turkish prison together and still count ourselves lucky.
As the kiss continues, our clothes become a casualty of our battle to be joined as quickly as possible, and when Liam sits on the bench next to the windows, I let out a long moan of relief as I sink down onto him.
He looks like a God sitting there, shrouded in sunlight in front of the sparkling ocean, gazing up at me as if I were a miracle come to life. When he's as deep as he can go, his mouth drops open, and I'll never tire of how his face morphs from relief, to wonder, to primal satisfaction every time he's inside of me.
"Just for the record," I say, as I stroke his beautiful face. "You're my everything, too. You always have been, and you always will be. No matter what."
When his eyes prickle with wetness, and he clenches his jaw, I know he finally believes it.
We end up making love for hours, and for the entire time, we forget about the future, and the tabloids, and the thousand issues that will be sent to try us in the coming years, because when we're together, nothing else matters except each other.
In a few months, the naked pictures will be old news, and the vultures in the media will stalk us to try and land a fresher scandal, but come what may, our relationship will only grow stronger. We've come to learn that we’re each a precious gift to the other, and when you're blessed with a love as powerful and passionate as ours, no matter what life throws at us, every day feels like Christmas.
Part Three: Happy Horny New Year
ONE
Super Josh
December 31st, Present Day
The Kane Residence
New York City, New York
No one's perfect, and anyone who thinks they are is either a narcissist or a psychopath. But we all strive for perfection, which is why every New Year's Eve, the human race takes a long, hard look at itself and promises to be less of an asshole in the year to come.
We've all done it. Promised ourselves that this time "I'm going to eat healthy", or "I'll get off my ass and exercise more", or if you're me, "I'll go to the movies this year instead of sitting in my room watching movie spoof porn." (For the record, my favorite is Edward Penishands. It's a masterpiece.)
And it's this pathological need for annual self-evaluation that currently has me standing in front my mirror in my boxer briefs, wondering why the hell I'm freaking out about going to a New Year's Eve costume party.
To put things in context, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a superhero. Badly. I mean, sure, I also wanted to be Diego from Dora the Explorer, because who wouldn't want to hang with a cool talking backpack? But still . . .
My hero envy was Serious Business.
I was so obsessed with it, I begged Mom to take me to the X-ray lab at the hospital where she worked, so I could be exposed to Hulking levels of radiation. When that didn't pan out, I mixed up superhero serums from the fridge and pantry, certain that the worse they tasted, the more likely they were to work. In reality, the only power I developed was the ability to vomit violently until my poor abused stomach purged every ounce of the disgusting concoctions made from orange juice and barbecue sauce.
Despite my failure to achieve hero-dom, my room remained plastered with posters of Superman, Spiderman, The Avengers, X-Men, and the Justice League. I even had She-Hulk and Wonder Woman, and not just because those ladies were super hot. I also respected them as kickass heroes who didn't take crap from anyone. Even back then, I appreciated powerful women.
My parents weren't at all surprised when I begged them for superhero outfits for every costume party and Halloween, and by the time I hit double digits, I had a stack of them. But even though wearing those costumes made me feel special and powerful, other kids thought the scrawny Jewish kid with glasses didn't fit the hero description, and I got teased every single time, even by my friends.
One Halloween when I was ten, I dressed as the Green Lantern. Unfortunately, Darren Pike, an asshole sixteen-year-old who lived in my building, had the same idea. He went berserk when he saw that we matched and punched me in the face so hard, he broke my glasses and my nose.
As he stood over me, ranting that I was a 'limp-dick imposter', it wasn't lost on me that even though he was a total douchebag who didn't think twice about assaulting a kid half his size, his buff physique made him look like a hero, and no matter how much I loved these characters, I never would.
That's when I realized why people always gave me such a hard time. Wearing those costumes while being a less-than-perfect physical specimen insulted the whole genre. Weaklings weren't heroes. At best, they were sidekicks. But let me ask you this: how far would Batman have gotten without Alfred? And would James Bond be anywhere near as kickass if it weren't for the geeks who made his gadgets? The short answer is 'no fucking way.' But do those backstage guys get any credit? No. Only the ripped dudes got to wear the fancy outfits and ride off with the beautiful women.
After I understood that, I stopped wearing the hero costumes altogether. I got interested in Star Wars and Star Trek, and discovered that in sci-fi you don't have to meet a particular physical standard in order to play make-believe. I was allowed to be an awkward, four-eyed Luke Skywalker, because Star Wars was for geeks and therefore not cool enough for most people to bother mocking.
So, I embraced my geekdom. Not that I had much choice in the matter. I was shortsighted, smart, hard-working, and the smallest kid in my class until I blossomed at the ripe old age of fifteen.
When I met Elissa for the first time, I was shorter than she was, and in the illustrious words of my warm and supportive father, I looked like ‘a toothpick wrapped in spaghetti’. Elissa, on the other hand, had blossomed early and was not only gorgeous but had a good-looking boyfriend (who turned out to be a cheating dick), and a track star older brother (who was just a regular, garden-variety dick). So when we were paired together in drama club, my first thought was that she'd turn out to be a mean girl who'd destroy me in record time.
To my surprise, she was really nice. And funny. And got me. She was the first girl to look at me like I hadn't just pissed in her cornflakes. Against all odds, we became friends, and then to everyone's surprise, including my own, best friends.
Six months after we met, I finally got that mega-dose of pubescent testosterone I'd been dreaming of since the first grade, and I shot up to being six feet tall within a year. Not only that, but my spaghetti limbs filled out to such an extent, it took me a long time to get used to seeing a well-built man in the mirror every day.
For a while I pretended I was Peter Parker, and the sudden changes were due to a radioactive spider bite, but like Spiderman I was still a geek on the inside.
So, now I have a dilemma.
On Elissa's advice, I've been working out to try and relieve the feelings of inadequacy I've gained from living in Hollywood. I mean, com
e on. The dude who unclogs the drains at my L.A. pad is a supermodel with a six-pack. Not to mention my girlfriend's latest co-star is a freakishly handsome fitness model who makes me feel like Elmer Fudd. How the hell am I supposed to keep the love of a woman as spectacular as Angel Bell with that kind of competition?
For the past four weeks while Angel has been overseas, I've busted my ass in the gym every day doing sit ups, push ups, bicep curls, and bench presses ... I've done it all. I've even cut back on junk food and started drinking water instead of beer. If I were to brag to my dad about my new routine, I know exactly what he'd say: "So, what? You want a medal? Or a chest to pin in on?"
Well, Pops. I have a chest now, so yeah. Give me a damn medal.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize my body. I've never had muscles like this in my life, and to be honest, they're taking some getting used to. None of my shirts fit anymore, and even though I can get away with my T-shirts being snug, my button-ups won't even ... well ... button up.
I do a few flexes and pose. Yep. Definitely weird.
My phone starts up with Elissa's ring tone, and I drop my pose to grab it, embarrassed I was behaving like a meathead, even in the privacy of my own room.
"Hey, you."
"Hey,” she says. “Where are you?" I can hear chatter and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. "You realize this is a New Year's Eve party, right? That means you're supposed to get here before the new year."
"Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. I'm still figuring out what to wear."
"What's to figure out? It's a costume party. You'll dress up as Captain Kirk, as usual."
I'm not embarrassed to admit that I paid three hundred dollars on EBay for an authentic Kirk uniform a few years ago, and it's become my go-to costume for any occasion. Even wore it to my cousin's Bar Mitzvah for shits and giggles. Aunt Bethany still isn't talking to me over that.
I'd like to say that I chose to hire an alternate costume for tonight because the other one's so tight now I look like a Star Trek strip-o-gram, but that's not it. It's because I've worked hard to look different, and goddammit, maybe just once in my life I want to feel what it's like to be the hero and not the geek. Angel deserves a leading man, not the comic relief. If I can pull this off, maybe I can stop being so goddamn insecure about the Adonises with which I seem to be surrounded.