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“You’re Nine-G, right Connor?” Junior asked, pulling out his magic kit of special super-whoopty hair color that was apparently better than what they sold in stores. The colors went by codes, but I recognized the ash blond that had been used on me since
Warlock Tea
. “And Noah was right—I can totally see your part. We would have fixed this tomorrow if you hadn’t called us in early.”

I sighed and stared out the kitchen window, trying not to chafe at the plastic drape wrapped around my shoulders. “Sorry, Junior.”

He winked. “No worries.”

“Have you ever thought of getting it done closer to your real color?” Noah asked, comparing the sample lock from the kit to my hair in its non-product-enhanced glory with a skeptical eye.

“They don’t have a box here for beige hair,” I told him pragmatically. “And yes, Junior—Nine-G is what they usually give me.”

“
Beige
?” Noah was so cute when he got all defensive for me.

“Yeah, the romance books call it ‘sandy blond.’ It’s beige. I don’t care. I have cheekbones, a chin, and my lips are still mine—I’m calling it a win.”

“And an awesome tan for someone living in this part of the country,” Noah chided with raised eyebrows.

“I got my tan from the same place you got yours, Mr. Dakers,” I said primly. “Good genes. Now get out of Junior’s way and let him work.”

“Yeah, it would be a real shame if you ended up with your hair colored
sandy
blond instead of
Nine-fucking-G
.”

I smirked and conceded—he was the king of snark, and bless him, he was doing this for me.

That night, after Junior had left and my hair was all rinsed, he kissed me.

Forever, he kissed me.

We necked on the couch like teenagers, while
Night at the Museum
played in the background, and I groaned against him, because my body was craving possession all over again.

He didn’t give me what I wanted—he gave me what I needed.

More kissing, more grinding, until he shoved down our boxers and we were skin to skin. I thought he would grab both our cocks in one hand—which sounds erotic as hell, but if one or both parties are well endowed can just get awkward—but he didn’t. Instead he cupped my bottom and pulled me up, until I was straddling him, then he reached his long arm around my ass and kneaded, kneaded, his fingers grazing my crease, tickling my taint, barely stroking my balls.

I collapsed against him, grinding our cocks together, and he continued to knead, and to tease, until I groaned in frustration.

“Grab us, baby,” he ordered. “I’ve got your back.”

I tried to laugh at the pun, but he slid a dry finger just inside my pucker, and I grunted instead. I sat up and grasped us, one in each hand, and it was the
weirdest
thing. Him and me, our pleasure tied together by my little rabbit brain trying to stroke us in time. But every squeeze of my hand made me groan and every time I passed a thumb over our cockheads, he’d rut up against me.

And the whole time, his finger was getting braver, sliding farther in and farther out, and the dry burn was enough, the stretch just enough, until what I’d thought would be a tease, a terrible, unfulfilled promise of orgasm, was suddenly
right there
.

I spilled over, gently at first, and then in torrents as climax crashed my surprised nerve endings. My cum spurted, hot and slick, over his cock and I played in it, sliding my fist harder along the slippery length. He stopped finger-fucking my ass and just
grabbed
it, arching his head back and coming until my hand squelched in the mess.

“Shit,” I muttered, pulling my T-shirt up and off and trying to wipe us both off before it trickled onto the couch.

“What?” Oh, he looked insufferably pleased with himself.

“Noah, the couch doesn’t have sheets. Man, how are we going to clean this up if we get anything on it?”

His hooded eyes popped open, and I got to spend the next fifteen minutes doing something I’d never had to do before: clean up evidence of sex so a family member didn’t see.

When we fell into bed, tired and happy, I thought that maybe I could live without that part of being a family member.

And I also thought that, if this was my last night as a man in the closet, I’d just given myself a really good reason to come out of it.

The trailer on the lot hadn’t changed much from the first day I’d visited, but this time there were fewer of us there. Anna and Simon were standing off camera, looking bored and like they needed to get to their day’s work, and Noah was in his usual place, resting his elbows on his knees, watching me like a hawk.

The photographer who had taken some shots of me outside was now our videographer, and he was standing behind a tripod, looking as bored as Anna and Simon. Well, it wasn’t as exciting as the photo shoot, I guess, where he’d been squatting and getting close-ups so the effect was of the trees above my head and me looking heroic and shit. Vinnie used to say it was a good way to look for cliffhangers, and we’d both gotten good at blowing our noses and trimming there to make sure nobody got our boogers on camera.

So that was done—I was on camera, shade Nine-G roots and all—and now I had to talk to Suzanne Sylvano, up-and-coming blog reviewer who was
really
not dressed for the Pacific Northwest.

“So,” she said, crossing one elegant leg over the other, exposing some serious thigh in her super-short business skirt, “we were supposed to meet in a few weeks, right?”

“Right,” I said, “the week before Comic-Con—but I realized I didn’t want to wait that long.”

She threw back her head and laughed—too loud and too long for no joke at all—and batted her extra-long lashes at me. A pretty woman—in her early thirties—with a mane of red hair and apparently shark jaws primed for man-meat.

“What was so urgent you just had to have it on the blog?” She finished each sentence with a charming smile—I could almost hear the little
ding
when her teeth glinted at the camera.

“It’s really not urgent,” I said. And then I launched into the party line. “I’m working on a really great set and have been for the last five weeks. The cast and crew have been so accepting, and I’ve really enjoyed being back in the rush of things. But meeting new people after so long, I sort of realized how much of myself I’ve kept from the world, and it makes it difficult to have an honest relationship with all these great new people, you know?”

Suzanne Sylvano nodded sympathetically, but I could tell by the way she licked her lips and touched her hair that this was still going to rock her world in the bad way.

“So, what is it that you think fans need to know?” she asked coyly.

“It’s not a big deal.” I corrected myself: “At least it shouldn’t be—but I’m a grown-up enough about the media to know it could be if it’s in the hands of the wrong people.” I looked at her trustingly, to indicate that
she
, Suzanne Sylvano, was the
right
person, and not just some random blog reporter Jilly snagged by the scruff of the neck so we could have the media upper hand.

And
that
seemed to pull her off the “maybe I can bag a movie star” train. Her body language turned completely professional—she stopped making eyes at the cameraman, stopped making eyes at me. She looked me in the face and nodded, as though she was the person who could do justice to the story.

“I’m in the beginning of a new relationship,” I said plainly. “With a man—and I’m so very tired of hiding who I date, and whom I see privately. The world is changing—mostly because a lot of actors have come out before me. It was time I became one of the people that made being gay a fact of life and not a headline or a sensation. It’s just who I am, that’s all.”

“Oh,” she said into the suddenly silent room.

I maintained a polite listening smile, waiting for her next question, and she sort of gaped at me. “I . . . I had no idea that’s what you wanted to say to the press,” she floundered. “What made you decide to come out now?”

I suppressed a sigh. Yeah. Maybe giving Jilly the teeniest bit of notice might have helped.

“It was the right place and the right time,” I said brightly.

Suzanne Sylvano took a deep breath, and her eyes sharpened. “Wouldn’t it have been a better place and time before Vinnie Walker died?”

My jaw tightened. Oh yeah. Here it came. “Vinnie knew I was gay,” I said. “And he knew my reasons for staying in the closet.”

“Which were?” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, and oh yeah, it had to be splashed in her face, but she finally smelled the blood.

“Personal,” I said smoothly.

She made a sound of impatience. “Are you trying to tell me that hiding your relationship with Vinnie Walker wasn’t a primary reason for keeping silent?”

Oh, she was beautifully inept at her job. “Are you trying to tell me that a live actor has just outed himself on your blog and you’ve got nothing better to do than try to get him to out his dead friend?”

Her mouth snapped shut, and her eyebrows shot up, and the man-hungry young woman disappeared and the barracuda was fully in place. Fifteen minutes—we’d given her fifteen minutes for the scoop of the month.

I had ten more minutes of fencing to do.

In the end, it was done—the piece was scheduled to hit the vlog on a 3 p.m. deadline, and the now-angry vlogger—and her amused photographer—backed their way out of the trailer.

I stood up from the two chairs we’d used for the interview and started putting them back in Anna’s workstation, where they belonged.

“Uh,” I said, smiling hesitantly, “thanks for letting us have the room and stuff. I know it was short notice, but it was really nice of you to let me—”

“Oh my God,” Anna said, looking at me from shiny eyes. “Connor, that was great!”

“Why, because it was a day late and a dollar short?” I said bitterly.

“No.” Simon’s voice lowered. “I . . . I know a little bit about how long you’ve been waiting to do that, Con. That was . . . really classy.”

“Except for my roots,” I said ruefully. “That was a rush job.”

I finished putting the chairs back and smiled briefly at them both and then looked to where Noah stood by the door.

“So, the soundstage in ten, right?”

“Makeup first,” Simon said, his eyebrows drawn together like he was worried. “Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“I’ll see you there.”

Five more steps to where Noah was, four, three—he opened the door and let me precede him, but I knew he’d follow me. We walked quietly through the lot, shoulder to shoulder—but not toward makeup, toward my trailer.

“Well done,” he said, after a few moments of listening to our footsteps.

“I—”

“I especially like how you handled the questions about Vinnie. All ten minutes of them.”

I grimaced. “Stupid twat.”

“Ouch!” Noah laughed, and I instantly hated myself.

“That was horrible. I totally apologize. I hate even
thinking
that word. But ‘Are you seriously telling me Vince Walker wasn’t gay?’—I mean . . .
dude
.”

“Yeah, but your answer, man: ‘Vinnie and I had no secrets from each other.’” He shook his head. “You really think the world’s going to buy that?”

“No,” I said glumly. “The fanfic sites are going to explode. But that’s okay—let them speculate. What really matters is that it’s not hanging over
me
anymore, right?”

We got to my trailer, and I opened the door with shaking, cold-sweaty hands. Noah followed me into the standard space—a couch and a few chairs made cozy with a throw rug Vinnie had given me for
Warlock Tea
and I’d carried with me to every shoot since.

I stood in the middle of the space, looking vaguely around, and then Noah grabbed my shoulder and pulled me into his arms.

Oh my Lord . . . that.
That
was what I needed.

I clung to him, shaking, all of the nerves, the sadness, the irritation at having to make something that was personal and mine public because otherwise I’d never be able to own it . . .

Vinnie, I’m out.

And I’m still in.