In Focus

Chapter 2: Press, Continued-2

“But we need a break, after this. But the publicity’s important right now, for Steadfast. But also I don’t want to do it without Colby there.”

Leo felt his eyebrows go up, though he didn’t say the words. Jason might be keeping Colby safe, protected, comforted; but Jason needed reassurance too, someone telling him that he could do anything, that he deserved everything, all the accolades and invitations landing on those action-star shoulders as they ventured into serious awards-bait drama. “If there’re codpieces, can I come along?”

Jason snorted. “Sure. Anyway, yeah, it’ll probably end up with both of us doing the show, even if I do the opening monologue and intro and all that. They seem excited about that idea. But we’re gonna have some requirements as far as what Colby’s comfortable with. And if that’s an issue, we won’t do it.”

Colby nodded. And leaned a shoulder into Jason, a gesture, more affirmation.

The suite’s door opened. They all turned.

The whippet-lean redheaded assistant, keen and quivering, said, “There you are! In here!” and shouted down the hall, “It’s all right, I found him!”

“Oops,” Leo said. “I should return to my own personal princess tower. I’m taking the rest of your lemon shortbread.”

“Please do.” Colby got up with him; they all did, as makeup artists and personal assistants and set-up persons reappeared. The suite acquired a whirlwind of activity, no longer tranquil. “Will we see you for dinner, with Jill and Andy and Adrian? Oh—wait, no, you’ve got that talk show taping later…can you and Sam come by in the morning, for breakfast? Then we can all head over here for round two, together.”

“It’ll have to be early,” Jason said. “We’re scheduled to start at eight, which means getting here by seven. But, yeah, you’re both welcome.”

“Any time the two of you are cooking is an excellent time,” Leo informed him. The invitation settled someplace deep in his chest, and warmed his bones. Colby and Jason meant it; they hadn’t had to extend the offer, and it wasn’t mere politeness.

He glanced around. Colby, and Jason. And Sam, at his side.

He thought, as he’d thought once before, about friends, and having them. About belonging, not because he’d earned it by making people laugh or winning on-set prank wars, but simply because they liked his company.

That was still a new thought. He wasn’t entirely sure he trusted it.

But he liked it.

He leaned in, caught Sam’s face in both hands—an exaggerated romance-novel pose, melodramatic—and swooped in for a kiss. With passion.

Sam, evidently not embarrassed, kissed him back. Deeply. With tongue.

Colby made a happy starry-eyed noise. Jason said, “Look at them, they’re so precious, putting on a show for everyone.”

A few of the assistants and set-up persons, balancing tables and what looked like a dartboard with truth-or-dare questions stuck on, applauded.

Leo resurfaced to say to Jason, “You’re just envious about the fact that we can fit in a human-sized bed, Banana Nut Mountain.”

Colby started laughing. Jason said, “Thanks for the compliment about banana size,” grinning broadly, and, under his breath, to Colby, “Go ahead and laugh, cream puff, I’ll spank you in our totally awesome bed later…”

Colby’s eyes and mouth went all round and pretty and mock-surprised. “Promise?”

“Go on,” Sam said to Leo. “Finish yours, text me whenever you get a minute, I want you to, I’m here. And I love your banana. I’ll try to come to your show later. I think these two need some alone time anyway.”

“I adore you,” Leo told him—true, so true, so much emotion dancing on the tip of his tongue, in his heart. “I’ll see you soon.”

* * * *

Leo, Sam thought, was happy. He hoped so; Leo had looked so much better, heading back to his own room. Versus Leo earlier, when Sam had found him in the hall—

His heart flinched at the memory. Leo alone, a wounded splash of color, blue and gold and pink slumped back against beige flatness, eyes shut. Leo having just done something momentous, something amazing and personal and profound, and having done it on his own, because no one had been by his side.

Leo opening both eyes and putting on a smile, performance as glittering as sunshine on oceans; and then exhaling and stepping forward into Sam’s arms and falling into being held.

Leo had just sent him a photo: two action figures that did not look very much like Jason, but were clearly meant to be. They were more collectibles than toys, given that someone’d paid attention to accessories and suit details and shoulder size, and, in the case of the one wearing a Santa Claus hat, the terrible premise of Saint Nick Steel. The other one was probably John Kill, given the suit and gun; Leo had arranged them in a face-off on the arm of his chair, so they’d be visible throughout interviews. I think the magical hat gives Nick an edge, don’t you?

Magic hat > tech wizard gadgets and training? Sam sent back. John’s more ruthless.

Leo had also sent that photo to Colby, who looked up from yet more coffee to say, “But why wouldn’t they work together to defeat the evildoers? Also, Jason’s eyelashes are much prettier than either of those versions.”

Sam snorted. “Tell Leo, not me. He bought them.”

Colby did, and then mused, “We should really just have a group text, shouldn’t we? Er…or whatever people use these days? I’m dreadful about technology and media. I don’t have any social media. My publicist keeps saying I should. I can’t imagine people would find photos of my sourdough starter or a new pair of shoes terribly interesting, though.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Leo says so, as well. He also said something about how much people would enjoy photos of my shoes, especially if I’ve still got Jillian’s pink high heels someplace, but that can’t possibly be true.”

“Oh, Colby,” Sam said, and saluted him with the last lemon shortbread that Leo hadn’t kidnapped. “Please never look at the internet.” He wanted to pat one thin shoulder, under Colby’s jacket. “For your own sake.”

Colby raised an eyebrow at him. “I do know about erotic fantasies. I read romance novels. With werewolves, even. And Jason…let’s say appreciates…certain footwear of mine.”

Sam choked on shortbread. Colby Kent. Hollywood’s nicest fluffiest cuddly-cardigan person. Supposedly. “Um…”

“I was more surprised that Leo thought people would be interested in me specifically.” Colby didn’t exactly shrug; it was in his eyes. “But perhaps I could use it to talk about books I like. To support some authors. Or to share recipes.”

“All those authors would be thrilled. A recommendation from Colby Kent? You’d make their day. Their year.”

Colby blushed. The shoe-kink discussion, Sam noticed, hadn’t prompted that. But honest straightforward compliments did.

A different assistant, this one perky and blonde, bounced over from the cameras-and-chairs-and-curtains set-up. “Mr. Kent—”

“Oh, yes, Angela, of course.” Colby set the coffee cup down on the kitchenette’s bar, and put on the now-familiar smile: practiced, warm, inviting. “Shall we?”

And the first interview without Jason went fine. This journalist was older, a film expert, someone who liked history; he had thoughtful questions about the Napoleonic Wars and Colby’s approach to writing the script and the incorporation of the real Steadfast and her captain versus George Forrest’s fictional novel version, including Colby’s changing of the ending to make the story definitively happy. Colby relaxed after the first couple of questions, and talked about the process of adaptation, and about aesthetic inspiration, and research, and meeting with George for approval.

Sam took a few photos of that: Colby genuinely pleased by attention to detail, in an interview. Leaning forward, talking with gestures: a scribble of one hand, a demonstration of invisible calligraphy. Laughing at himself.

He reviewed those shots, considering composition, lighting, depth, emotion. His secondhand Nikon wasn’t exactly top of the line, but it was decent, and it worked well and faithfully; he’d tried to stay inconspicuous while shooting, a skill he’d mastered across weeks and months and years of celebrity capture, lurking around movie sets and awards shows and hotels and casinos and even grocery stores.

He deliberately didn’t think about the past, right then.

He retreated to the window, out of frame of any taping of interview replies. He focused on the photo he was currently studying: Colby and the interviewer leaning closer, intent on conversation. Colby’s elbow on the chair, arm a line of slim indigo. The curl of Colby’s smile: shyly enjoying a literary discussion.

He’d taken that photo. Translated that art into another type of art, a still frame, but one that held motion. And he liked it. He liked all of them.

They were good shots. Technically, artistically. He knew they were. Not what someone else could’ve done, maybe—not something one of those big household names might’ve achieved, names with better equipment and studios and galleries and high-end magazine covers—but if he’d seen these in one of his old art classes or as an example set on someone’s website, he’d’ve been interested in that artist.

He pretended for a moment that they weren’t his, that he hadn’t taken them—and he could see places where he’d do some touch-up, some cleaning or blurring of the background, some brightening; they weren’t perfect—and he leaned against the wall and looked again.

He still liked them. He really did.

That felt important somehow.

He wanted to tell Leo. He wanted to run over and grab Leo’s hand and lean up to kiss Leo—up, because Leo was taller than he was, tall and blond and wonderful—and say: I think I’ve just realized something that maybe I never believed before, I think I might actually be good at what I do, I know it’s partly Colby Kent being the kind of subject who’s a photographer’s dream, but also I think I like being me, with a camera, here and now?

That sounded ridiculous even in his own head. Of course he was decent at photography; he wouldn’t have a job with Jameson and the magazine empire if he wasn’t good enough. And Colby had hired him for this week as a favor to Leo.

But maybe Leo wouldn’t think it was ridiculous. Maybe Leo would listen, and nod, and kiss him for saying so.

Leo, under the layers of movie-set pranks and action-figure teasing, knew what people wanted. And what they needed from him. Whether that meant distractions for Colby’s anxiety, or falling asleep in Sam’s arms, which wanted him there, or being exactly the lighthearted supporting-character entertainment everyone expected.

Sam found himself abruptly wanting to kiss Leo for multiple reasons. Joy, shared. Anger, not at Leo, but at everyone who’d never realized that Leo Whyte bought old-fashioned rose-patterned china teacups just because he liked them, and could never sleep on airplanes, and visited his parents weekly when possible, to join in his father’s cooking and family tabletop board game adventures.

He wanted to kiss Leo, and he wanted to say, I love you, Leo, because it was true, it was true and it was real and he knew it was, the way he knew that the world was spinning and the sunlight was hot at his back and the camera was hard and solid in his hands.

He wasn’t sure Leo would believe him. He hoped so—they’d almost said the words, they’d said all the words around those big ones—but the nagging teeth of doubt crept up to gnaw on his heart.