TINSELTOWN BLUES #2: HOT LIKE ME!
by Acer Adamson
This copyrighted book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing or future means without written permission from the authors. Contact information is available at http://macleodvalentine.com.
This book is an original work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are solely the product of the authors' imaginations and/or are used fictitiously, although reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to actual situations or events is entirely coincidental. This book is intended for an adult audience. All characters depicted are 18 years of age or older.
Cover Design by: Acer Adamson
Tinseltown Blues #2: Hot Like Me! © 2010 Acer Adamson
ISBN-13: 978-1-4524-9043-4
Published by M&V Tailz at Smashwords.com
All rights reserved.
TINSELTOWN BLUES
#2
"HOT LIKE ME!"
by Acer Adamson
Chapter One:
Meeting? What Meeting?
Things had gone pretty well since the night Trey returned home on Harley's birthday six months earlier.
Until tonight.
Harley sat in their bedroom, curled up in his ugly, harvest-gold recliner reading a horrible script sent by his agent for consideration. Already in a foul mood from forcing himself to slog through the pile of drivel, matters were made worse when Trey arrived home and dropped a bomb.
"Let me get this straight, if you'll pardon the play on words," Harley said once Trey finished. "You have a meeting with potential investors. A meeting you've had planned for over a month but didn't bother to tell me—your business partner—about until now. And, because you presumably can't control yourself around me, and you feel you must have something pretty on your arm to impress the hotshots, you have a date to accompany you to the meeting? A girl?"
Trey slapped a hand over his face and shook his head. "Why do you always have to over-dramatize everything?"
Harley tossed the crappy script to the floor, pages fluttering before landing on the cornflower-blue carpet. He folded his arms across his chest, grinned and waited for the expected tirade.
Trey looked too damn cute when he got bent out of shape. Harley bit the inside of his cheek and lifted an eyebrow for emphasis.
"Jesus." Trey rolled his eyes. "First off, it's not a date—it's a business meeting. Second, she works as an intern in our production office, so it's not like I've picked up some random stranger. And you would know that, by the way, if you bothered to visit the office other than for the annual Christmas party. So, I'm not going out on a date. It's business. Business."
"Right."
"Oh, for God's sake, Harley, it's not a date!"
"Where is this"—Harley cleared his throat—"meeting being held?"
A definitive oh shit expression took up residence on Trey's face. "The primary investor and his partner insisted on the location. You know how people can be on their first trip to Hollywood."
This much fun ought to be illegal, Harley thought. "Where's the meeting, Trey?"
Trey began pulling the polo shirt he wore over his head, answering the question while his face remained covered up by yellow fabric. He said, "The Looking Glass," through the material, mumbled and barely audible.
Harley broke into a grin, cupping a hand to one ear as Trey's head emerged from the shirt. "I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch that."
The shirt tossed onto the bed, Trey kicked off his deck shoes and yanked down beige Dockers, leaving only a pair of white briefs hugging his hot, tanned body. He put his hands on his hips. "The. Looking. Glass."
"A-ha!" Harley said with a laugh. "So now the truth comes out. Not only do you have a date—with a girl—you're taking her to the sexiest nightspot in town. You go, stud!"
Trey grabbed his clothes off the floor. "It's not a fucking date."
"Right." Harley gathered the pages of the too-awful-for-words pages of Utah Bloodsucker Trilogy off the carpet then sat back in his comfy chair.
"Oh, for Christ's sake." Trey stomped across the bedroom floor and into the master bath, slamming the door behind him.
Harley smiled, shook his head, and resumed reading.
Chapter Two:
Tequila—It's
Not Just For Breakfast Anymore!
While Trey showered, Harley wandered downstairs to the kitchen. He went straight for the liquor stash and grabbed a new bottle of tequila.
He'd behaved himself and hadn't drunk more than an occasional glass of wine since Trey moved back in. He needed something now, though. Harley had made light of the 'date' issue, teasing Trey, but deep down he really did feel kind of pissed off and hurt in a strange sort of way. He tore the black foil wrapper off the neck of the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Not bothering to fetch a shot glass, he put the bottle to his mouth and took a long pull, sputtering and gagging as the tequila burned his throat. He recovered quickly—old habits died hard—and took another greedy swallow.
Five rapid-fire shots later, Harley giggled, his belly warmed and his head pleasantly buzzed. Abandoning the bottle in favor of the cordless phone, he managed to carefully dial one of the few numbers he'd bother to memorize before storing in his cellular's directory.
Two rings, then a clipped, "H'lo?" came from Harley's best friend, British actor Jake Blythe.
"It's just me." Harley's voice already sounded higher pitched than normal to his own ears, and he noticed his words starting to slur. He hiccupped once into the receiver then laughed.
"How you are doing, love?" Jake's voice sounded cheerful and pleasant, typical for the man.
Harley laughed again. "I'm a little tipsy."
"I see. Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm good! I do need a favor though, honey."
"Honey?" Jake chuckled. "Only a little tipsy? What can I do for you?"
"Trey has a date tonight." Harley reached for the bottle of tequila on the counter and struggled the cap off again one-handed. He took a quick sip. "His date has tits."
"Oh, really?" Jake laughed. "And this has exactly what to do with me?"
"I need a ride to The Looking Glass. I can't drive." Harley hiccupped again. "I don't think I can even find the garage at this point."
"You could just ring up a taxi, you know."
Harley sniffed. "A cab driver won't rub my back and hold my hair out of the way when I'm puking this shit up later."
Jake snorted. "Good point. You do realize you're going to embarrass yourself, right?"
"Oh, yeah." Harley snickered. "I'm sort of counting on it."
"I'll be there in half an hour." Jake sighed. "Change your clothes. I know what you wear around the house. Dreadfully drab, probably gray, with holes everywhere. If you're going to do the scorned lover routine in public, you'll need to look better than that, darling."
Through blurry vision Harley looked down to examine his current attire, blinking a few times to focus. He wore a drab gray jogging outfit with holes in the knees and elbows. He giggle-snorted into the phone. "You're psychic."
"Indeed. I also foresee Trey flipping out when he discovers I'm involved with your insidious plot."
"Fuck Trey."
"No thanks, Princess—that's your job. He's not my type."
"And your type is?" Harley grinned and took another swig of tequila.
"Young. Blond. Painfully beautiful. A powder keg in bed. Preferably not a blood relative."
Harley smiled. "Sounds vaguely familiar."
"No one you know," Jake said. "Go get dressed, love. I'll be there in thirty."