Between the Lines

by kirathaune

AU. Veteran actor Sam Jensen is furious when he loses a plum TV series part to a younger, up-and-coming actor, but he soon finds that change can be for the good. 393, implied 58 and K/U

"What the fuck is this?" Sam Jensen stomped into his agent's narrow office and threw two paper packets onto his desk.

The man picked them up and examined them. "This one looks like a script to me," he replied. "Actors use them, don't they? Last time I checked, you were an actor. And this one looks like a contract. Actors generally like having a contract, it means they can eat something besides ramen." He tossed them back on the desk and leaned back in his chair while he lit a cigarette.

"Asshole." Sam flung himself into one of the chairs in front of the desk. "I'm serious, Ken—what the hell is this? When they shot the pilot for this show I was the lead. I was the executive chef, and now"—he grabbed the contract and flipped through several pages—"I'm the bartender."

"You're employed." Ken Nichols blew a cloud of across the desk at him, and the late-afternoon sunlight glinted off his glasses. "Changing up a show after a pilot's done happens all the time, and you're lucky to still have a part—especially with your winning personality."

"Fuck you."

"See what I mean? Sammy-boy, you do not want to be labeled 'difficult' in this town. You've got a lot of talent, and you're a really good-looking guy, but your options are not as wide as they used to be."

Fine blond eyebrows drew together in a frown. "What do you mean, 'my options?' I just turned twenty-nine, for fuck's sake."

"Yes," his agent replied, "which means you're too old for the college-student roles." He swung his feet up on the desk and held up two fingers. "You've got that 'willowy-blond' thing going, which makes you too pretty for 'action-hero' roles." Another finger. "You're too serious for comedy roles." And another. "Romantic leads … well, let's just say you're too—"

"Gay?" Sam took Ken's pack of cigarettes and pulled one out.

Ken shrugged and handed over his lighter. "You went there, I didn't. I was going to say 'un-romantic.'" "Ha ha." Sam lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "So what are you saying, that I'm unmarketable?"

"Not at all. What I'm saying is that you've been given a decent role as a regular in a new series, and you can't be picky. Work is work."

Sam snorted. "Commission is commission, is what you're saying. What are you getting these days, ten percent?"

"Fifteen, since I manage you as well." Ken gave him a toothy smile. "You are a very good actor; I would have taken you on even if I didn't have the pleasure of knowing your father."

"Being fucked by my father, you mean."

"Sometimes I fuck him, Sammy-boy."

"Ugh, I didn't need to hear that." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the unwanted visual. "Okay, so I'm the bartender. Did you manage to find out why they changed the show?"

Ken nodded. "I did. Apparently, the marketing people handed out a questionnaire to the test audiences during the pilot screenings. There was a section about the characters and the cast; asking things like 'Do you like this actor in this role?' or 'Do you think they'd be better in a different role?' and other bullshit like that." He took in a lungful of smoke, and then blew a smoke ring in the air above him. "The casting director told me that a big percentage of the audiences indicated that they would rather see Garrett Sonders as the restaurant's chef. The writers decided to make you the bartender who helps him out."

Sam sat up in his chair and scowled. "Garrett Sonders? The kid who played my kitchen assistant? The audiences wanted him for the lead?"

"Yup. They thought he was more 'sympathetic,' and that it would be more interesting to see him struggle with the sudden promotion to executive chef. The writers and the director reworked some things, and then they made some casting changes. Not everyone made the cut, so you lucked out, kiddo." Ken ground out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "You done having your hissy-fit?"

Sam took one last drag off his cigarette and stubbed it out as well. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Good. Sign the contract in the usual places and I'll get everything taken care of. Now take your script, get your ass home and learn your lines. Go make me money."

Sam signed the contract and put his script in his backpack while Ken punched numbers into his phone. The agent covered the phone's mouthpiece and whispered, "Tell your dad I'll be by to pick him up for the movie at seven." He dropped his hand from the handset. "Robert! It's Ken Nichols, how the hell are you! Listen, I've got some auditions lined up for you—" he waved at Sam and then spun his chair around.

Sam slung his backpack on his shoulder and left the agent's office, grunting when a blast of early July heat enveloped him as soon as he opened the building's door. As he walked toward the parking lot he realized that Ken was right; he was going to be a member of the main ensemble cast in a new series—and if it went well he would have steady work for at least a year or two, and possibly five to seven years.

The downtown LA traffic was beginning its late-afternoon snarl, and Sam was glad he'd thought to take the Vespa—the scooter allowed him to easily zip past the line of cars that choked a large section of Alameda Street. When he came to a red light Sam checked his watch; it was just past five, and he wondered if his father was still at work at SCI-Arc. He made a right onto 4th Street, and then maneuvered a quick do-si-do a few blocks up to swing by the prestigious architecture school. As he approached the main drive Sam slowed down and craned his neck to see if his father's car was parked in its usual spot in the faculty lot. No car, so that meant that Connor had finished his afternoon lecture and was home, expecting Sam to bring dinner back with him. Chinese, Sam decided, and he got back on Alameda to head toward their favorite Chinatown take-out joint.

A half hour later he pulled into the driveway of their West Hollywood home. Sam parked the Vespa in the garage next to his father's car, retrieved their dinner from the scooter's storage compartment, and went into the house through the side entrance.

"Hey, Dad," Sam said while he set the takeout bag on the dining room table.

At the other end of the long, narrow room Connor Jensen looked up from his drafting table and sniffed appreciatively. "Mmmm, Chinese," he said. "I was hoping you'd think to bring that. Did you get me General Tso's, by any chance?"

"I did. With brown rice and a shrimp eggroll." Sam slid two containers toward the spot where his father usually sat. "You know, Dad, you have a cell phone. You could call me with it and tell me what you want for dinner." He set his own container down, and then he fished the chopsticks and napkins out of the bag.

Connor set his pencil down, and then he rose from his chair. His long, ash-blond braid swayed behind him as he yawned and stretched. "Ah, but I prefer the exciting suspense of the unknown on our Friday takeout nights. And you never disappoint." He walked past Sam to go into the kitchen, and he returned a few moments later with plates and two bottles of beer. "Look, there's two Tsingtaos left - it was meant to be Chinese night tonight."

Sam rolled his eyes and sat down. For a few minutes there was silence while the two men opened containers and loaded up their plates, and then they began to eat.

"So, how did it go with Kenneth this afternoon?" Connor asked in between bites of eggroll.

Sam swallowed his mouthful of chicken. "It's what I was afraid it was—I've been re-cast. Ken found out from the casting director that the test audiences want this new kid in the chef role, that apparently he is 'more sympathetic.'" He made air-quotes with his chopsticks, and then scooped up some snow peas. "He had played my kitchen assistant in the pilot. By the way, Ken said he's picking you up at seven for the movie."

"Hn." Connor took a sip of beer. "I don't think anyone could ever accuse you of being sympathetic." He laughed when Sam scowled at him. "It's true! Now, if I remember what you told me, the chef character is suddenly thrust into the executive chef position despite his inexperience, correct?"

Sam nodded.

Connor moved on to his chicken. "I can see where it would be more interesting to watch someone struggle with the unknown. If the chef is an ingenue of sorts, it opens up all sorts of story directions. Personally, I think you were cast in that pilot because of that Gordon Ramsay biopic you did years ago for the Food Channel. They probably thought, 'He did a movie about a chef, we need a chef, let's get him,' and nobody thought about whether you were a good fit for the part."

Sam pushed his rice around with his chopsticks. "Ken said something like that."

"Kenneth is a very good agent, and he knows a lot about how things work in this town. I know you two don't always get along, but he really does look out for you."

"I know."

"So who'd you get cast as?"

"Kory Rivers, the restaurant's bartender. From what I read in the script, it looks like I'm going to be the kid's mentor." Sam took a long swig of beer.

"Well, that sounds promising," Connor said. "It might not be the lead, but you're going to be a regular, right? And you'll be in a lot of scenes if you're going to be the mentor."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Not as much money—and second billing—but definitely steady work." He pointed a chopstick at his father. "Speaking of work, how's your Koenig restoration coming along?"

"Oh, just marvelously. You should have seen the hideous blue shag carpeting the previous owner had in the poor place. And Sam, they framed over all the glass walls and stuccoed them! A Koenig house!"

Sam chuckled. "Dad, they probably had no clue it was an architecturally significant house when they bought it."

"That's no excuse," Connor huffed. "No house should be afflicted with shag and stucco."

Sam shook his head and went back to finishing his dinner. Growing up in Los Angeles, he had lived with Connor in than more half a dozen houses, all of them built by some of the most famous names in modern American architecture. Restoring the houses was his father's hobby and obsession, and Sam had spent his teenage years repairing roofs, removing paneling and carpeting and helping his father return the houses to their former glory. Sometimes Connor would 'rescue' a house when it came on the market, and his current project was one of those 'rescue' houses. "Don't forget this place had shag too," he reminded Connor. "Burnt orange. And one of the living room walls was covered with mirror tile."

"Oh, god yes, I remember. I'm sure Frank Lloyd Wright turned in his grave the whole time it was there." Connor checked his watch. "You said Kenneth would be here at seven, right? I'd better finish up and get ready. So when do you start on your new adventure?"

"There's a table reading at the studio Monday morning," Sam replied. "We start taping in two weeks."

"Good, then you have the weekend free to help me with the roof leaks over at the Koenig house." Connor stood and gathered the remains of their meal. "What is it about Modernist architects that they can't seem to design a leak-free roof?"

Sam picked up the leftover containers to save for their lunch the next day. "Your houses don't leak."

"And I'm very proud of that fact, let me tell you." Connor clapped him on the shoulder as he passed Sam on the way to the kitchen. "So, tomorrow—meet me at the Koenig house at nine."

"In the morning?" Sam had been hoping for a halfway decent sleep-in.

Connor made a face. "No, Sam, nine at night. I've always wanted to make roof repairs in the dark."

"Okay, okay. Nine in the morning. But you're buying the coffee."

"It's a deal." Connor gave him a gentle shove toward the stairs. "Go, work on your lines. I'll see you in the morning. With coffee."

Sam stopped at their well-stocked liquor cabinet for a generous glass of whisky before he retrieved his script and headed for his bedroom. After a quick shower, he stretched out on his bed clad in a pair of boxers and nursed his drink while he went over the script; flagging the pages with entrances, marking spots that had stage direction and highlighting his lines. Then he began to read through it slowly, allowing the visual image of each page settle into his memory so that he would be able to recall it with ease at a later point.

Two hours later he was done, and he rolled over onto his back and stared at the oak beams of the ceiling above him. It was a good script, he thought, and now that he had properly read through the whole thing he realized that the directors and the producer had made the right decision about the casting change. It still sucked to lose the lead, but this new script revealed the makings of a much better show—and Sam decided he would rather be a regular for a couple of years than a star for just one season.

He picked up his drink and headed out onto his room's balcony to have a smoke—Connor had always been adamant about them not smoking in any of the houses they lived in, so it was an unthinking habit by now. Sam lit his cigarette and leaned on the patterned concrete balcony wall, looking out over the city lights of Hollywood while he smoked and sipped at his whisky. His thoughts returned to the show again, and he found himself wondering how Garrett Sonders had felt when he had found out about his new role. Sam didn't know anything about him, really; the days they'd spent taping the pilot had been hectic ones, but he did know that Garrett had mostly done only commercials and a few small one-off roles before doing the Serve Me Up pilot. It had to be jarring to jump from having a smallish recurring role to being the show's star.

Sam snuffed out his cigarette in the tall, sand-filled vase he kept on the balcony and went back inside; since he wasn't going to be able to sleep in, he might as well get his extra sleep by turning in early. As he lay in his bed, in the dark, he thought again about the upcoming changes. Life was going to be imitating art, he realized; Garrett was being thrust into a new, demanding position, just as his character was. It was going to be interesting to watch, and Sam hoped the viewers would feel the same way.

~.~.~

Sam hated table readings.

He understood the need for them, but he hated the whole dog-and-pony show aspect of the day—especially the way all the actors were lined up at one long table, on display for not only the writers and the director, but also for a small army of producers and studio execs. The non-actors populated the half-dozen round tables that dotted the large conference room.

And of course they sat him next to Garrett Sonders. After stammering a greeting and shaking Sam's hand, the young man studiously avoided meeting Sam's gaze and sat stiffly in his chair.

"Good morning, everyone!" Jerry Shindler entered the room, followed by a handful of assistants. He settled in at the large table reserved for the director and grunted his thanks as an intern handed him a coffee. "I know we played some musical chairs here, gang, but I think we have a really good show and a terrific cast. We've got a lot of work to do, so let's get cracking!"

While Sam half-listened to Garrett and the others read their lines, he reached for his coffee and winced as his back and shoulder muscles complained. His father had worked him hard over the weekend; they had finished the roof repairs on Saturday, and then Connor decided they should take advantage of the good weather on Sunday and work on their own house. They spent the day repairing a section of the front concrete wall that had been damaged during the last earthquake, and despite several long soaks in the hot tub that night, Sam had woken up the next morning stiff and sore.

Seeing a roomful of studio wonks at the reading hadn't improved his mood, either. But he remembered Ken's comments about being 'difficult,' so Sam made nice with everyone, poured himself a large, well-sugared black coffee and said his lines when it was his turn.

He wasn't in the current scene, so he sipped at his steaming brew and scanned the room. It looked like Hayden Chance was still playing the maitre d'—Sam was glad of that, Hayden was one of his few friends and they had looked forward to working together on the new show. His lip curled in distaste, though, when he saw Jordan Shaw sitting next to his friend, reading the head waiter's part. Of course, he made the cut, Sam thought. Cockroaches survive anything. Jordan was loud, crude and hit on anything that moved—Sam flexed his fingers, remembering the time he'd decked Jordan when the lanky redhead had grabbed his ass and suggested a threesome. Unfortunately, Jordan had a friends-with-benefits thing going on with Hayden, so it was impossible to completely avoid him.

Jordan had originally had been the bartender in the pilot, so Sam looked around for the actor who had been the head waiter. No sign of Hans Zeller, though—and Sam was relieved when he turned to the cast listing and confirmed the man's absence. Hans was worse than Jordan; he had developed a thing for Sam and never seemed to understand the phrase 'Fuck off and leave me alone.' At least Jordan was a harmless flirt, and Sam decided that it was worth having Jordan around if it meant that Hans was gone.

From time to time he looked over at Garrett Sonders. At first glance, the spiky-haired brunet appeared to be calm, but Sam found it interesting that while Garrett spoke his lines with assurance, arms seemingly casually folded on the tabletop, the view below the blue tablecloth was entirely different. One heel was pumping up and down at an alarming rate, and the other leg had a noticeable tremble, as did the hand that repeatedly reached for a bottle of spring water.

When Garrett finished reading the lines to his first major scene, the fidgeting subsided to minor tremors.

The next scene was focused on a pair of actors at the other end of the table, so Sam nudged Garrett with an elbow. "Relax," he murmured. "The reading's not about us, it's about the script, and the direction ideas—it's not another audition. Besides, if you keep fidgeting like that I'm going to have to staple you to your chair."

Some of the tension left the young man's shoulders, and Sam saw a hint of a grin. "There's so many people … I've never done a readin' like this before," Garrett confessed.

Sam snorted softly. "Yeah, that's a little obvious. The first couple of these are always a pain in the ass, because everyone and his mother wants to be here. Give it a few weeks and it'll just be us, the director and the writers."

"Oh, good," Garrett said. "This is awful—I feel like I'm in a fish bowl."

You and me both, kid, Sam thought.

A moment later, a loud growl emanated from the vicinity of Garrett's stomach. "Aw, crap," Garrett muttered, and Sam watched in amusement while Garrett clutched at his stomach.

"There's a whole table of food over in that far corner," Sam said quietly. "You should get something to eat."

Garrett glanced over at him, his eyes wide, and Sam was struck by their unusual honey-brown color. "But my agent said it's not professional to eat durin' a reading." Another gurgle followed seconds later.

A smile threatened to lift the corner of Sam's mouth, and he battled it down. "What you shouldn't do is eat while you're at the reading table, like our red-headed wonder over there," he said, flicking a finger toward Jordan Shaw, who had a small banquet spread in front of him. "But if there's a break, or a long stretch where you don't have any lines, it's perfectly okay to go over there and have whatever you want. It's here for us, and it's free."

Garrett blinked at him. "Really?"

He shows every emotion on that face of his, Sam thought, and then he noticed a smattering of freckles across Garrett's nose. "Yes, just don't make a pig of yourself like dumb-ass over there."

Garrett smiled, and the wattage of that smile nearly blinded Sam for a moment. "Thanks, Sam."

Another actor said one of Sam's cues, so Sam waved at Garrett to shush him while he recited his next batch of lines. The next scene was a busy one, so they all concentrated on their scripts for the next half hour. Jerry called a break after they finished the scene, and Sam watched out of the corner of his eye while Garrett made a beeline for the craft-services table.

"Hi, Sam, it's good to see that you survived the musical chairs."

Sam turned to see Hayden Chance standing next to him. "Hayden," he said, offering a hand. "Glad to see you made it too."

They shook hands, and Hayden slid into Garrett's empty chair. "I was sorry to hear you lost the lead, Sam," Hayden said. "But I must say, I think the writers made some really good changes. The show actually seems better."

"I agree," Sam said. "Who knew that audience testing actually works?"

Hayden chuckled. "You are a much better fit for the bartender role. Jordan would have been fine, but he will shine as the head waiter—especially now that the writers gave him a lecherous bent."

"That's not too far a stretch for him, is it," Sam commented snidely.

"Hey, I heard that, asshole." Jordan Shaw clapped Sam on the back and then he sat on the edge of the table next to Hayden. "Glad to see your skinny ass made the cut, even though they gave you my part. But that's okay, I like the head waiter part better—and did you notice that Hans isn't here?"

Sam shrugged. "Hans is a nutbar. He was too smarmy, so I'm not all that surprised that they didn't bring him back."

"I'll bet you're relieved, Sammy—he liked you." Jordan smirked, and then he jerked a thumb in Garrett's direction. "So how about him, huh? Do you think the kid will be able to handle it?"

"At twenty-four, he's hardly a kid, Jordan. I think he'll be fine," Hayden said. "We three should help him as well—it's in our best interest to do so. I think the fact that he is going through the same experience as his character will lend a sincerity that can't be faked."

Sam nodded, recalling that he had thought much the same thing over the weekend.

"Hey, people," Jerry called over the murmur of conversation, "Break is over in five minutes, so finish up and and then we'll go through the last two scenes and I'll give everyone notes."

"Thank you, five," Garrett said from the food table.

Sam and Hayden looked at each other, and Hayden raised a coffee-brown eyebrow. "Looks like our new friend has done some theater," he said. "I remember saying that, when the stage manager would give us the time until curtain. I wonder what plays he's been in."

At that point Garrett returned and joined them. "Hi guys," he said. "M'glad it ended up bein' the four of us as the main cast."

Hayden rose from Garrett's chair and shook his hand. "We are too," he replied with a smile. "Congratulations on your role."

"Thanks," Garrett said, and then he turned to Sam. "But Sam … m'real sorry that I ended up takin' your part." He scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the carpeted floor.

Sam saw genuine distress and regret in Garrett's eyes, and suddenly the young man's earlier nervousness and behavior made sense. "It happens, and it wasn't your fault," he said. "I don't blame you." He was rewarded with another mega-watt smile, and Sam felt a curious flutter in his stomach in response.

Everyone settled back in their chairs and they continued the reading; as time went by Sam couldn't help but notice the dramatic difference in Garrett's demeanor. Garrett read with enthusiasm, and Sam saw that his posture was relaxed and confident both above and below the table. It affected the other actors as well, and the ensemble scenes took on an energy that made the afternoon pass by in a blur.

When they finished, Jerry stood and addressed everyone in the room. "Friends, I think you can agree with me that our changes are for the better. We have a terrific cast that has shown us talent, energy and chemistry, and I think we have the makings of a winning show here."

Sam looked around the room; the cast, crew and even the studio people were applauding. Maybe this was going to work.

~.~.~

Excerpt from TV Roundup: The Best New Fall Comedies So Far) by George Owen, for TV Guide:

"… and lastly, a definite must-watch is Serve Me Up.

The Premise:Seth Tysen works as a kitchen assistant at The Lotus Blossom, a trendy five-star restaurant that is poised to make San Francisco's top ten list. That is, until the owner's chef-husband leaves her for another woman—and takes half the staff with him to start a new restaurant. Seth suddenly becomes the Blossom's executive chef, and the remaining staff are also promoted when Karen Bosse decides to make the restaurant a success on her own.

Newcomer Garrett Sonders shines as Seth, and you can't help but cheer Seth on as he tries to learn to be a better chef even while you laugh at his mishaps in the kitchen. Sonders is earnest and believable in the role, and displays a great sense of physical comedy.

Garrett might be the nominal star, but Serve Me Up's cast is a true ensemble, and the show would be poorer without its supporting actors. Hayden Chance is wonderfully cast as Tenney Marshall, the OCD maitre d' at the Blossom who seats patrons according to feng shui and rules the restaurant like a benevolent dictator. Jordan Shaw delivers plenty of laughs as lecherous waiter Kendall Tighe, as does veteran actress Candace Avalo—she's a hoot as Karen, the jet-setting owner who had never set foot in The Lotus Blossom before her husband left.

Sam Jensen's Kory Rivers may well end up a breakout character. Kory is the Blossom's bartender, and he is cranky, bad-tempered and anti-social—just thinking about those traits in a bartender makes me laugh—but this gifted actor is also showing us glimpses of a warm heart beneath Kory's gruff exterior as he helps the struggling young chef.

The Bottom Line: While at first glance Serve Me Up seems at its core a plucky-boy-makes-good, scorned-wife-wins setup, it is much more than that. Sharp writing, snappy dialogue and fun, interesting characters plus some terrific acting talent) put this show ahead of the other comedies that debuted this fall. Make sure it's on your watch list!"

~.~.~

The summer and fall came and went as the actors and crew kept to a fast-paced production schedule; table readings on Mondays, blocking out scenes and meeting with the costume and prop crew on Tuesdays, and rehearsals on Wednesdays. Thursdays and Fridays were the taping days, and many times those days stretched well into the evening. Then the actors would get the following week's script, and they would start the whole cycle over again after the weekend.

Tuesdays were generally light days, work-wise, and today was no exception. Portraying a restaurant employee meant uniforms for the most part, so Sam and the others seldom had to see the two women who ran Costumes and Props. Today's scene blocking had taken a little longer than usual, but when they were done and Sam checked the clock on his dressing room wall he saw that it was just before six o'clock.

He started running dinner options through his mind; Connor had an evening class on Tuesdays that semester, which left Sam to fend for himself. He closed his dressing room door, checked that he had the next episode's script in his backpack before locking it, and then he slung the pack over his shoulder and made his way through the maze of the studio's hallways. He was walking by the cavernous rooms that housed their sets when he was stopped by a delicious aroma emanating from the kitchen set. He peeked through the door.

It was Garrett, his head bent down in concentration as he sliced long, thin strips of vegetables on the large butcher-block table that sat between the stainless steel prep tables. Behind him, chicken sizzled in a grill pan on one of the stoves.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked.

Garrett's head jerked up, and he dropped the chunk of squash he had been slicing. "Oh! Hi, Sam. I'm practicin' some techniques so that I can look like m'startin' to get better when we do the kitchen scenes." He gestured back at the skillet. "There's enough for two—wanna join me?"

Sam hesitated, and then said, "Uh, no, thanks." He turned to go.

"C'mon—help me out here; I need to practice, an' I don't want any to go to waste."

Judging from the way he'd seen Garrett eat in the cafeteria, Sam doubted that anything would be left over. But then his stomach growled, and he decided that whatever Garrett was making had to be better than the In-and-Out burger he had decided to pick up on the way home. He grabbed a stool from the sound engineer's station and brought it over to one of the prep tables.

"Thanks, Sam!" Garrett finished slicing the vegetables, and Sam watched him as he finished preparing their meal. A few minutes later Garrett slid two laden plates on the table, and then he grabbed another stool while Sam fished some cutlery out of a drawer. Garrett sat down across from him and began to eat.

Sam examined his steaming plate; a grilled chicken breast lay atop a medley of sliced vegetables and baby asparagus, and garlic mashed potatoes had been artfully piped off to the side. Its appearance rivaled any dish he would order in one of the many local restaurants in town. He took a bite. "This is really good," he admitted. "How'd you get permission to do this? I know this is a fully-functional kitchen, but I wouldn't have thought the production staff would want the actors actually cooking in it."

"I asked Jerry about it," Garrett replied between forkfuls of food. "I told him I needed to practice in this kitchen—my character is supposed to be gettin' better with things, so I can't be lookin' for stuff or figurin' how something works while we're tapin'."

"Makes sense," Sam agreed. He found himself wishing they kept real wine on the set; a glass of chardonnay would have been perfect with their impromptu meal.

Garrett waved a hand at the kitchen equipment that surrounded them. "What really helped was the day after I'd asked Jerry, one of the studio people came by the set and said somethin' to him about how the kitchen looked too new. Jerry decided my idea would help both of us out—an' I even get some extra money to buy the groceries!" He took another bite of his chicken. "Sure beats ramen," he said with a grin.

"I imagine it does," Sam said, and he wondered how many of Garrett's meals were just ramen noodles. Connor's success as an architect had given them a comfortable lifestyle, and from time to time Sam had to remind himself that most of his fellow actors did not enjoy the same financial freedom that he did.

"I can't believe we're almost halfway done the season," Garrett said. "M'glad they're lettin' us do the whole season—one of my friends was in a show last year, an' they canceled it durin' the winter hiatus."

"The show's gotten good reviews, and good numbers in the ratings." Sam speared another bite of chicken. "Jerry's pretty confident that we'll get a second season," he said, and then he waggled his fork at Garrett. "If we do, make sure your agent re-negotiates your salary."

Garrett blinked at him. "Oh, thanks—I hadn't thought of that. I'll make sure to tell her." He smiled. "You're helpin' me just like Kory helps Seth!"

Sam made a rude noise and kept on eating.

A companionable silence fell as they finished their meal, and when they were done Sam helped Garrett clean up.
"So we go on our hiatus after we tape the next show?" Garrett asked while he started washing the dishes.

"Yes, and we'll return in early January to start working on the next half of the season." Sam reached for a dishtowel and began to dry the plates that Garrett placed on the drainer.

"What are you gonna do durin' break, Sam?"

"Probably get roped in to helping my father finish his latest house project." Connor's Koenig restoration was almost finished, which meant his father was probably already eyeing another house to purchase and work on. Sam had regaled the others with stories from his and Connor's renovating exploits when they would go out for drinks after rehearsal.

"I think it's cool that you and your dad lived in all those famous houses an' fixed 'em up," Garrett said. "I looked some of 'em up on the Internet after you told us about it, an' I saw a picture of the house you're livin' in now—it's so awesome looking! It looks like somethin' out of a science fiction movie, an' it's almost a hundred years old!"

"It's my favorite so far," Sam told him. "Frank Lloyd Wright is on my list of favorite architects."

"Your dad is your favorite, right? I read that he's won all kinds of awards an' stuff."

Sam laughed and shook his head. "Actually, no. My father's style is like that sixties cartoon, The Jetsons—all metal and concrete and glass. Lots of glass. Way too much glass for me, I like my privacy."

Garrett laughed too, and then he returned his attention to the dishes.

This is surreal,Sam thought. Sharing a meal with Garrett and then washing up had turned the evening into an oddly intimate one, even though they were in the show's cavernous main studio. It felt almost like … a date. And not even a first date, but the later kind when you stopped going to restaurants and just stayed home to have a good meal and then a good fuck afterward.

He glanced at Garrett, and thought that he was most likely an eager, athletic lover.

The kind who could fuck you most of the night.

Sam's hand stilled, and he gripped the plated he'd been drying. Date? With Garrett? He blinked at the direction his thoughts had taken, especially since he had never dated long enough to experience one of the evenings he had just been pondering. The idea made his stomach flip in a not unpleasant way, and Sam tried to squash the sensation. "So what are you doing during hiatus?" he asked in an attempt to distract himself.

"A play," Garrett replied. "There's a Shakespeare festival in Laguna Hills the last two weekends in December, an' the theater company that I acted with before I got this job is gonna participate. We're doin' The Merchant of Venice, an' I'm gonna be Bassanio!"

Sam searched through his memory to recall the play; he hadn't read it since high school, when everyone had to read it in sophomore English. He nodded when he remembered enough to recognize the role. "The romantic lead," he said. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. I'm real excited about it, this is the first time I've gotten a part like that! But it is a lot of lines to memorize." He glanced at Sam and grinned. "I sure wish I had that eidy-thingy memory like you have—you learn your lines so fast! I almost never see you look at your script."

"Eidetic," Sam said.

"Yeah, that. I asked Hayden about it once, he said it's like you can see pictures of the pages in your head, an' you can read from those pictures any time you want."

"It's mostly like that," Sam said. "It's not perfect, but like you said it comes in handy with learning lines. You'll be fine—you normally have to learn a different script every week, so this should be cake."

"I hope so." Garrett put the last pan on the drainer and began to wipe down the sink. "Will you come an' see it? The play, I mean. I'd really like it if you an' the other guys could come see me."

"Sure, why not."

Garrett smiled, and when Sam's stomach flipped again he decided that those wide, bright smiles were dangerous. They were becoming addicting, and the addiction was starting to make Sam say and do things that would make a smile appear on Garrett's handsome, expressive face. Worst of all, they were making thoughts begin to creep into Sam's mind; thoughts of dates and dinners and what it would be like to fuck Garrett, and be fucked by him.

Most of the night.

Sam felt himself start to get hard.

"I have to go," he said abruptly, and he tossed the dishtowel onto the table. "Thanks for the meal, I'll see you next week."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks for sharin' it with me."

Sam felt Garrett's puzzled gaze on his back as he grabbed his backpack and left. It was raining when he opened the door to the parking lot, and Sam cursed when he saw the steady downpour. Getting home on the Vespa took twice as long as it normally did, and by the time Sam pulled into the driveway he was completely soaked. Connor wasn't home yet, so Sam stripped in the mudroom and then walked naked through the first floor and up the stairs until he reached the bathroom that adjoined his bedroom.

The hot, pulsing shower spray warmed his chilled body and helped calm his roiling thoughts. After a few minutes he pressed his forehead against the smooth, cool tile and let the water course over his body while he reached down and took himself in hand. As he stroked his hardening flesh, he imagined that it was no longer his hand but Garrett's mouth on his cock, eagerly sucking him off. Within minutes he was shuddering from the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced, and Garrett's name was on his lips when he came, his release spattering on the tile wall.

His body was still trembling while he quickly washed and then dried himself off, and Sam made a quick detour for two quick shots of whisky before he returned to his bedroom. Once there, he let his towel fall to the floor and he slid between the cool sheets. Sam buried his face in his pillow and silently prayed for a dreamless sleep.

~.~.~

Sam's prediction proved correct; Connor decided to make a last-ditch effort to finish the Koenig restoration by the new year, and he recruited not only Sam but his cast-mates as well.

They were a week into Serve Me Up's winter hiatus, and the project of the day was ripping out a poorly-made deck that covered the original, pristine patio. The early December weather was unseasonably warm, so the men shed their shirts and went to work while Connor plied them with water and encouragement. At lunchtime he called a break and had pizza delivered, and Sam, Hayden and Jordan spread out a few blankets under a cluster of trees in the back yard and then sat down to eat.

Sam noticed Garrett was still carrying old decking boards to the curb. "Garrett! Time to stop for lunch," he called.
'In a minute! I just wanna get the rest of this stuff out of the way."

"The kid's making us look bad," said Jordan, and he reached into the cooler and passed around bottles of beer. "He's like a one-man construction crew out there. I gotta say, Sam, I'm glad your old man has a thing for fixing up these houses; it's good work during break, he pays well and he feeds us!" He piled a paper plate with pizza slices and leaned back on the blanket while he took a long swig of his beer.

Sam filled his own plate as well. "Yeah, he likes hiring actors and students—especially architecture students, and his philosophy's always been that if you pay well, people will work hard so they will be asked back. With you guys it's also satisfying his ulterior motive in getting me to quote, 'spend more time with my friends.'"

"Awww, we're Sammy's friends! I feel all warm and fuzzy now."

"Fuck you." Sam drank some beer. "He's my friend," he said, gesturing with the bottle at Hayden. "You're an unfortunate side-effect."

"I love you too, man." Jordan pointed his bottle over at Garrett, who was finishing up over by the patio. "What about him? Is he your friend?"

Sam gave him a vague shrug, using a mouthful of pizza as an excuse to evade the question. He usually tried to avoid thinking about Garrett too much; these days thinking about Garrett usually sent his mind—and subsequently his libido—into dangerous territory. It was bad enough that right now Garrett was shirtless; that image alone was probably going to feature prominently in his mind the next time he masturbated.

The whole situation pissed him off. Not only was he developing a serious case of the hots for someone he worked with, but he was finding that he liked Garrett as well. Sam wasn't used to liking people he was attracted to. Hell, he wasn't used to liking people,period.

"Garrett is certainly a hard worker," Hayden said, interrupting Sam's musings.

"He's pretty built, for a shrimp," noted Jordan. "Strong, too—I guess that's how he got all those sporting goods commercials."

They watched as Garrett drank from his water bottle, and when he finished drinking he poured the remaining contents over his head. Rivulets of water trickled over smooth, bronzed skin and taut muscles, and the three men groaned simultaneously.

"Fuck, I'd order that sandwich," Jordan murmured.

"Jordan, please remember who's sitting next to you," said Hayden, although he too was watching while Garrett laughed and shook his head, spraying droplets of water all around him.

"I'm not sayin' I'd eat the sandwich, babe, I'd just order it. And then I'd give it to Sammy here, 'cause I think he's been wanting to eat this particular sandwich for awhile now."

Sam sputtered, nearly choking on his beer.

Jordan clapped him on the back. "It's okay, Sam, your secret is safe with us. We're your friends."

"What secret?" Garrett plopped down onto the blanket next to Sam and loaded a paper plate with pizza slices. "You okay, Sam? Your face is all red." He reached into the cooler for a beer.

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. Drops of water were still clinging to Garrett's skin, and it was taking every bit of self-control that Sam possessed to not lean over and lick them off. To distract himself, he gave an inordinate amount of attention to the slice of pizza on his plate.

Garrett dug in to his pizza, and soon the others were eating again as well.

"How are rehearsals coming along for your play, Garrett?" Hayden asked. "It opens soon, doesn't it?"

"Two weeks," Garrett replied. "It's goin' good. I've had all my lines memorized for a couple of weeks, but it's still a little hard when there's huge parts where I'm the only one talkin'! And," he added, "I hafta speak properly."

"Break your speeches down into smaller parts," Hayden advised, "you'll find it easier that way. And good diction never hurt anyone."

"Yeah, I know." Garrett cracked open his beer. "So, I was readin' TV Guide the other day, an' I saw that Serve Me Up is number ten in the ratings! Isn't that awesome? We're in the top ten! That must mean the show is doin' really good."

Jordan waved a hand in dismissal. "Please. The ultimate test of whether or not a show is a success is if it gets listed on TV Tropes."

Garrett hastily swallowed a bite of pizza. "Dude, I could spend half my life on that website. Are we on it?"

"Yep. Pretty good for only being on for half a season." Jordan rested back on an elbow. "Hayden is a 'Stepford Smiler' and 'Comically Serious.' Me"—he thumped himself proudly on the chest—"I'm a 'Handsome Lech.'"

"Yes, you are a handsome lech," said Hayden, and he leaned over and kissed Jordan. "What about Sam? I think I can guess."

"'Jerk With a Heart of Gold,' natch." Jordan replied, and he ducked as Sam threw an empty pizza box at him. "And 'Big Brother Mentor.'"

"What about me? Am I listed?" Garrett was practically quivering with anticipation.

"You are."

"And?"

"You are," Jordan paused for effect, "a 'Woobie.'"

Garrett's face fell. "But I don't wanna be a 'Woobie.' Man, that sucks." He glared at the other men as they all started to laugh. "It's not funny!"

"Oh, yes it is," Jordan said. "I think it's hysterical. Woobie."

"Stop sayin' that."

"Woobie-woo."

"Knock it off!"

"Woobie-doobie-dooo."

"That's is, asshole—you're dead meat!" Garrett launched himself across the blanket to tackle Jordan, and Sam and Hayden hastily gathered up the cooler and the pizza boxes while the other two wrestled on the lawn.

"My goodness, those two certainly have a lot of energy," Connor commented as he joined Sam and Hayden. "Sorry I couldn't join you for lunch, I had a phone call from a panicking student. I hate the last two weeks of a semester." He gestured at the pizza boxes. "Did you save me any black olive?"

"In here." Sam handed him the bottom box. "And there's a few Yuenglings left in the cooler."

"Excellent." Connor waved at Jordan and Garrett. "Boys! Let's use that energy to finish up early. You can all come back to our house for a dip in the pool, and then I'll throw some burgers on the grill." He smiled at Sam.

Sam didn't like that smile one bit. It had a Machiavellian bent to it, one that said, Look, we're having your friends over for dinner, isn't that nice? Sam indicated his displeasure with a raised eyebrow, and then he bit back a groan when Jordan and Garrett cheered and helped each other to their feet. Connor's smile became even wider, and Sam sighed.
His father was evil.

~.~.~

Their impromptu dinner guests had been gone for about an hour, and after Sam cleaned the grill and helped his father get all their tools put away he changed into a pair of swim trunks, poured himself a whisky and headed out to the hot tub on the back terrace. He sank into the hot water, sighing contentedly as the heat began to soothe his sore muscles. He leaned his head back against the tiled edge of the tub and closed his eyes.

"Sam?" his father called from the house. "You have a visitor."

Sam cracked open one eye. "Dad, I just got in the hot tub. Get their number and tell them I'll call them later." He shut his eyes again.

He heard the soft clack of Connor's sandals on the concrete, and when he opened his eyes again Connor was standing above him.

"It's Garrett, and he asked if he could see you right away. He seems upset."

What had happened? Sam hauled himself out of the water.

"He's out on the front terrace." Connor handed him a towel and then returned to the house.

Sam quickly dried off, and then he snagged his terrycloth robe, loosely tied the sash around his waist and headed inside. He crossed the dining room, opened one of the tall glass-and-metal doors and stepped out onto the terrace. "Garrett? Did you forget something?"

Garrett was standing by the tall tree that dominated the large, square courtyard, and his fingers worked over the knobby bark as he turned to face Sam. "Hi, Sam … listen, m'sorry for comin' by so late, but somethin's happened an' I've got a favor to ask."

"Are you all right?"

"Oh! Yeah, m'okay. There's a problem with the play that I'm in."

"The play?" Sam asked. What did Garrett's play have to do with him?

"I told you guys that the festival starts in two weeks, right? I got an email from the director when I got home tonight—the guy playing Antonio had a heart attack today an' is in the hospital. He's gonna be all right, but he won't be able to do the play. We don't have an understudy, an' if we can't find someone to do the part we're gonna hafta cancel the shows."

"And you're telling me about this why?"

Garrett scuffed his shoe on the flagstones beneath his feet, and then he drew in a deep breath before he continued, "I wanted to ask if you could be Antonio. You learn lines super-fast—you've got that memory thing that helps you—an' it's less than two hundred lines, you'd learn that in no time!"

Sam frowned. "If I had wanted to be in a play during hiatus I would have auditioned for one. I haven't done Shakespeare since college." He rooted in the pocket of his robe and found his pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it. "Can't one of the other actors in your production take it on? Shuffle parts around?" He blew a cloud of smoke off to the side.

Garrett shook his head. "Nobody wants to. In his email, Ralph—the director—asked us to see if any of our friends or colleagues would be willin' to do it."

"And so here you are, asking me." Sam barked out a short laugh. "Do you realize what you want me to do? You are asking me to learn two hundred lines of iambic pentameter—and blocking—for a play that goes up in less than two weeks. And it's part of a festival, for fuck's sake." He took a deep drag off his cigarette.

Garrett's shoulders slumped. "It's only two shows," he said. "One matinee an' one evenin' performance, a week apart. You're about the same size as Jack, so there won't be a problem with the costumes. Please, Sam, I don't want them to have to cancel. Bassanio's the best part I've even gotten in a play, an' I've never had a romantic lead before. Since our TV show is doin' real good they advertised that I'm in it—an' they've sold a lot of tickets."

Tell him no. It was madness to even think about it. There was less than a month left before the whole cycle of scripts, readings and taping would resume, and Sam had plans for those four weeks. Granted, most of those plans involved lounging by the pool with a book—and they would probably get hijacked by his father's drive to finish the Koenig house—but doing a play was not on Sam's 'things to do during hiatus' list. A Shakespeare play, no less, and to be under the gun to learn the damn thing in less than two weeks.

"Please, Sam."

Those damned eyes were wide and pleading, and the unhappy expression on Garrett's face made Sam's gut twist.

Tell him no.

Garrett put a hand on Sam's terrycloth-clad arm. "Please."

Sam felt the warmth from Garrett's fingers seep through the soft, plush fabric. A now all-too-familiar flutter started in his stomach, the one that always plagued him whenever Garrett was physically close to him.

Tell him no.

But the words that came out of Sam's mouth were, "All right, I'll do it. Otherwise you'll mope and be completely useless."

The smile that followed could have powered a small town, and even as he basked in its glow Sam inwardly cursed his weak, goddamn stupid inability to see Garrett unhappy.

"Thank you so much, Sam! You're so awesome!"

Garrett seemed dangerously close to hugging him, and there was no way Sam could let that happen. "What I am is an idiot," Sam groused, and he pulled his arm away from Garrett's grasp and stepped away. He took a long, calming drag off his cigarette, and then said, "Email me the damn script as soon as you get home, and get me the rehearsal schedule."

Garrett was nodding vigorously, bouncing on his toes in excited glee. "Yeah, absolutely! Oh, Sam, this is just so awesome!"

"Yeah, yeah. Go the hell home and email me that script."

"Okay! Thanks again, Sam!" Garrett practically skipped as he left the terrace and went out through the side entrance.
Sam watched while Garrett pedaled away on his bicycle, and then he brought the cigarette to his lips again and inhaled deeply.

"Well, well … someone left happy."

Sam snorted and blew out a lungful of smoke. "Don't be coy, Dad. I know you overheard."

"Well, I was right there in the kitchen." Connor handed him the glass of whisky Sam had left by the hot tub. "You look like you need this, son."

Sam gratefully took the glass. "What I need is to have my head examined." He took a large gulp of the amber liquid, welcoming the way the spirit burned its way down to his belly, and then he took one last drag off the cigarette and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray. "I should have said no," Sam said as he walked back toward the glass doors. "I wanted to say no." He opened one of the doors and turned back to face his father. "Why the fuck didn't I say no?"

Connor smiled. "Because you love him."

"No, I don't." Sam gripped the curved metal handle, and the windows rattled when he shut the door with more force than was necessary. He poured more whisky in the glass and went back to the hot tub, back to the soothing heat of the churning water and the calming burn of nicotine and Scotch.

He tilted his head back and stared at the starry night sky above him. "I don't," he whispered.

~.~.~

It was ten minutes to curtain, and Sam stood in the wings of the wooden amphitheater. Behind him, a forest of pine trees rose straight and tall, and beyond the stage walls the audience sat on benches of split logs. Excited murmurs mixed with insect song, and Sam could feel the grain of the wooden wall beneath his fingers, and smell the piney, woodsy scent of his surroundings. His face itched; he'd managed to grow a moderate goatee during the past two weeks, and the unfamiliar feel of facial hair was distracting.

"Tell me again why I'm doing this." Sam tugged at his hose and peeked through a knothole at the audience. It looked like a full house, over six hundred people, and Sam couldn't remember the last time he had performed in front of a live audience, especially one this large. Nerves he'd forgotten he had began to flutter in his belly, and he wondered where his father and Ken were sitting.

"Stop messing with your hose, it's fine," said the costumer, and she reached over and rearranged Sam's flat cap to lay at a more rakish angle. "You're doing this because your friend asked you to help, and Garrett is lucky to have such a good friend. We are lucky."

The two young men who were also in the opening scene nodded. "We really appreciate it, Sam," one of them said. "My dad flew in from back East to see me tonight, so I'm really glad we didn't have to cancel the production."

The stage manager poked his head through the black curtains that blocked off the backstage area. "Five minutes to curtain." He disappeared into the darkness.

"Thank you, five," the woman replied, and then she grabbed Sam's left arm and shoved up the sleeve of his velvet doublet. "Aha! I figured you'd forget your watch—I'll put this in your dressing room." She deftly removed the watch, and then she held out a hand to the shorter of the other two men. "Mark, your glasses."

"Oh! Sorry," Mark said, and he quickly removed his spectacles and gave them to the costumer.

"Break a leg, boys," she said, and hurried off backstage.

The stage manager's head reappeared through the curtain. "Places," he said. "Sam, whenever you're ready, go on out."

"Thank you, places," Sam murmured with the other actors, and after he took a long, deep breath, he stepped out from behind the wings.

"'In sooth, I know not why I am so sad…'"

~.~.~

So many people. The last time Sam had done any kind of theater, it had been in a small black-box venue at his college that had seated maybe two hundred people. The crowd made it difficult to stay focused on the other two men in the scene, so Sam did his best to resist looking at the audience. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he did spot Connor and Ken, and the wide, beaming smile on his father's face and the pride that radiated from him loosened some of the knots in Sam's stomach.

"'… Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo.'"

Sam's gaze followed the actor's gesturing hand, and his breath caught when he saw Garrett emerge from the wings, accompanied by two other actors. Garrett looked every inch a bold, confident young Venetian as Bassanio; he'd grown his hair out a bit during hiatus, and the shaggy chestnut locks swept the neckline of his green corduroy doublet. He was gorgeous.

There was a lengthy exchange of lines, and then the other actors exited and he was left alone on the stage with Garrett.

"'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio … '" Garrett strode over to him and began telling him about a beautiful, rich young woman named Portia, and how marrying her would resolve all of his debt troubles. They walked along the front edge of the stage while Garrett spoke Bassanio's lines, his expression earnest as he asked for a loan of money to help him woo the young heiress.

He's doing really well,Sam thought, as he watched Garrett move around him, gesturing along with his words. Sam had seen him in rehearsal, of course, but actually performing before an audience lent an extra energy and charisma to his performance. He was utterly charming, and Sam could see why Antonio would do and give everything for Bassanio. He settled onto a bench and Garrett sank to one knee.

"'O my Antonio, had I but the means / To hold a rival place with one of them,'" Garrett pleaded, "'I have a mind presages me such thrift / That I should questionless be fortunate!'"

Who could say no to that face? Without thinking Sam reached out and smoothed an unruly lock of chestnut hair as he recited his reply. The audience was rapt, and completely silent as he finished, "'… therefore go forth; / Try what my credit can in Venice do: / That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost, / To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia."

Even when it was acted, Garrett's smile still made butterflies flutter in Sam's stomach. And when Garrett grabbed his hand and kissed the palm, the butterflies became a churning rabble that tightened his chest. He didn't do this in rehearsal, Sam thought fleetingly. What is he?—

At that moment, Garrett leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

The touch was electric, and sent heated shocks sparking through his body. Sam's heart pounded in his chest, his pulse thundered in his ears while he stared at Garrett. One corner of his brain screamed that he was onstage, and Sam opened his mouth and let his lines come out, albeit shakily. "… G-go, presently inquire," he managed, "'and so will I, / Where money is, and I no question make / To have it of my trust or for my sake.'"

Garrett kissed his hand again and ran offstage. Still in a daze, Sam stood up from the bench, and the audience applauded and cheered while he made his way to the side exit.

The next two hours held a surreal quality; entrances and exits, lost fortunes and biting exchanges with the actor playing Shylock, the moneylender. During the court scene near the end, Sam was stripped to the waist and bound to a chair placed in center stage as the moneylender sharpened his knife, and tears ran down Garrett's face as he pleaded in vain to pay the defaulted debt three times over. Then a disguised Portia used her wit to save Antonio, and the audience cheered when Sam was untied and Garrett held him in a tight embrace.

Finally, they reached the last scene, where all the disguises were confessed, and love was pledged between the two pair of newlyweds. Sam stood off to the side, under a single spotlight, as he watched the young lovers exit from the stage, and then the spotlight slowly faded to black.

The audience erupted into thunderous applause. People rose from their seats, shouting 'Bravo!' while the cast assembled on the stage. The actors took their bows and exited the stage, returning to bow again when the applause and cheering increased. Finally, after three curtain calls, the house lights came up and the actors began to disperse. It took Sam a good while to get back to his dressing room, as numerous people stopped him to congratulate him on his performance and thank him again for stepping in to take the role.

The first thing Sam did once he reached his assigned room was to take off the godforsaken hose, followed by the flat cap. Five minutes later, he was back in his jeans, and he left his shirt unbuttoned while he sat at the dressing table and wiped the stage makeup off his face. On the table there was a pile of cards, an Elizabethan-dressed bear holding a balloon bouquet and, off to the side, a single white rose. He knew the rose was from Connor; during all of his high school and college productions it had always been his father's token of choice. Sam traced a fingertip along a soft white petal and allowed himself a small smile at his father's sentimental display.

The door squealed softly as it opened behind him. "Hey," Garrett said, and he came into the small room and shut the door behind him.

Sam tensed; he wasn't quite prepared to be alone with Garrett just yet. Even though he'd scrubbed his face, he could still feel the imprint of Garrett's lips on his. He was just acting,Sam reminded himself. "Hey yourself," he said. His cell phone chirped, indicating a text message, and Sam gratefully used it as an excuse to walk over to the table in the corner of the room and retrieve the phone from his backpack.

"We're all gonna go out to the local bar for some drinks," Garrett said. "Come with us."

Sam glanced at his phone; the text was from his father. Wonderful job! Go out and celebrate with your cast-mates, K and I are going to have some drinks and I'll see you at home." Thanks, but no," he said. "I'm meeting my father and his boyfriend in a little while."

"Oh." Garrett's face fell, and Sam fought the ridiculous urge to change his mind. "Your dad came over to see me after, he was really nice. Is his boyfriend the dark-haired guy with the glasses? He was nice too."

"My father is a nice guy. Ken can be nice when he feels like it." Sam turned back to the table and began putting his things in the backpack.

"I still wish you'd come with us." Garrett walked over to stand next to him. "Sam," he said, touching Sam's arm, "You were amazing tonight."

"Thanks," Sam said, and he edged away from him.

"I mean it! The way you were with me durin' our scenes was incredible; you made it so easy for me to really get all that great emotion into my character. Now I can see why Bassanio would do anythin' to save Antonio's life, even if it messed up things with Portia." Garrett touched his arm again, "It's like, the way you were lookin' at me, I would do anythin' for you."

Sam made a strangled noise as he moved away again. And there I was thinking the same thing. He felt claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in; his pulse was racing and his heart was beginning to pound again. I have to get away from him, he thought wildly.

But Garrett continued to chatter on, moving right back into Sam's personal space. "You looked so awesome in your costume," he said, "an' Mary made your goatee look like you'd had it for months instead of two weeks." Garrett reached up and stroked the soft golden hairs. "It tickled when I kissed you," he said, and his finger drifted over Sam's bottom lip.

Sam's control snapped.

Before he could stop himself Sam had Garrett pushed up against the wall, and his hands gripped strands of soft, spiky hair while he ravaged Garrett's mouth with rough, hungry kisses. Garrett made a noise in the back of his throat, and when his lips parted Sam invaded further. He pushed his tongue into Garrett's mouth, thrusting and sliding wetly along the raspy heat of Garrett's tongue.

Garrett's hands had a death grip on his shirt sleeves, and Sam continued his onslaught, leaning closer against the body that had tormented him for weeks, and he groaned when the hard-on that he'd had for most of the night rubbed against Garrett's hip.

The pleasure that coursed through Sam at that moment shocked him back to his senses. What the hell am I doing?He broke off the kiss and stared at Garrett, panting. "Get out," he said hoarsely, and he tried to pull away.

Garrett clutched at his arms. "B-but Sam, I—"

"I said get out!" Sam shoved him toward the door and strode back over to the table, and he kept his back to Garrett while he grabbed the backpack and began cramming things into it. He cursed when he saw that his hands were shaking.

"Sam, please—"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Sam called.

It was Ralph, the director, and the portly man walked over and shook Sam's hand. "Marvelous job tonight, Sam! I was telling Garrett just a few minutes ago that we're lucky he has such talented friends. You two helped pack the house tonight, and since we will get half the box office, our little company will make a nice profit. I bet next weekend's matinee will sell out."

"Glad to help," Sam replied, and when he glanced over at Garrett he tried to ignore the clench in his gut when he saw Garrett's stricken face.

Ralph waved to a small group of people who were hovering by the doorway. "Sam, I've got a few people here who wanted to meet you and thank you—this is Eric Westerhaus, our Artistic Director, and Tom Suarez, our Managing Director …"

Sam welcomed the distraction, and out of the corner of his eye he watched Garrett leave the room while he shook hands and half-listened to the other men. A few minutes later they left as well, and Sam wasted no time in gathering his things together. He tugged his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed his helmet and left the room. On his way to the parking lot he passed the rest of the cast as they were piling into cars, and he waved off their pleas to join them. He steadfastly avoided looking at Garrett, although he swore he could feel Garrett's gaze on his back as he walked to where he had the Vespa parked.

He raised a hand in farewell when their caravan of cars passed him by, and then he pulled out his cell phone. Sam pushed the slider open and began thumbing keys. I'd rather drink with you two, let me know where you're going. A minute later the phone chirped with a reply, and then Sam donned his helmet, got on the motorbike and rode away.

~.~.~

Excerpt from Laguna's Shakespeare in the Hills Delivers Laughs, Drama and Magic by Nathan Singer, for the Los Angeles Times:

"… Garrett Sonders was an earnest and likeable Bassanio, the noble wastrel who sees marriage with Portia as the answer to his self-inflicted) money troubles. Mr. Sonders, the star of the popular new sitcom Serve Me Up,brought an innocent charm to Bassanio, and proved very capable of handling a romantic lead. After a few early stumbles, he delivered the verse with a relaxed, confident manner.

The real marvel of this gifted ensemble was a last minute stand-in. Sam Jensen's Antonio was wonderfully complex; most actors try to present Antonio as completely sympathetic, but Mr. Jensen showed us Antonio's dark side as well, reminding the audience that Shylock had reason to hate the Venetian merchant. It was a wonderful contrast to the indulgent affection he bestowed on the young Bassanio.

The chemistry between the two actors was remarkable, and together they gave a surprising, touching love story—between Antonio and Bassanio—that was mesmerizing to watch. In fact, when Bassanio joyfully embraced the rescued Antonio, more than one audience member was heard to remark that they wished the young man would end up with Antonio instead of Portia.

But at the end, Antonio stands alone, watching as Bassanio leaves him, and Antonio's palpable heartbreak lent a bittersweet air to an otherwise happy ending. With talented actors like these, the Iambic Repertory Company is definitely a theater group to watch."

~.~.~

It's difficult to avoid someone you have to work with every day—especially when you have to act with them—but Sam managed to say nothing to Garrett but his lines during their first week back on set.

Issuing a clipped apology and a terse 'I will not talk about it' had gotten Sam through the second performance of the play, and refusing to answer the phone—or door—whenever Garrett tried to contact him carried him through the rest of hiatus.

At home, Connor clucked at him in disapproval, so Sam ignored him too.

The rational part of him knew he was going about things the wrong way, but Sam was feeling anything but rational about the whole situation. What he'd been trying to dismiss—and suppress—as a stupid attraction had spiraled out of control, and he had the horrible suspicion that what his father had said weeks earlier was true.

The first day back at the studio had been a rough one, although mercifully Garrett had not attempted to speak to him during the reading. Sam had left as soon as they were done, and that became the pattern as the week went by.

Now they were wrapping up a Friday night taping, and there was one more scene to go. Thankfully, Sam didn't have any dialogue, so he played bartender with the extras and took care of the bar.

There were a number of starts and stops—fixing lighting in the kitchen, a few flubs and Jerry trying a few different endings—but otherwise the scene went smoothly and Sam looked up from the pint glass he was cleaning when he heard the last line being uttered.

"Cut and wrap! Okay, gang, I think we'll call this one done." Jerry stood up from his table and closed his episode binder. "We might have a few small re-shoots on Monday, but otherwise we're good. Don't forget to pick up next week's script on your way out, and enjoy your weekend."

The noise level rose in the room as actors and crew began to leave the studio.

Sam put the glass away, yanked his bow tie the rest of the way off and shrugged out of his vest as he walked across the room. He stopped by the script table to pick up his copy, and he looked up when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Jerry.

"Sam, could you stop by my office on your way out, please? I won't keep you long."

"Sure," Sam replied.

His next obstacle was Hayden, who was hovering by the double doorway with his red-headed appendage. "Come out with us for drinks, Sam," Hayden said. "We haven't seen you since the play, and you've been a bit … unavailable."

"Sorry, can't. Boss-man asked me to stop by his office," Sam said, and he pointed at Jerry, who turned a corner and disappeared from view.

"Ah," Hayden said.

There was a wealth of unsaid things in that single word, Sam knew, but he also knew his friend wouldn't push the issue, and for that he was grateful. "Maybe next weekend," he offered.

"I think perhaps I'll hold you to that," Hayden said. He glanced at Jordan, and Sam saw unspoken dialogue pass between the two before Jordan excused himself and left for his dressing-room. "I hope you know, Sam, that you can talk to me about anything, any time."

"I know. Thanks, Hayden." Sam gave his friend a wave and walked down the long hallway that led to the director's office. Two rights and a left later, Sam was standing in front of Jerry's door. He knocked.

"Come on in."

Sam entered the room, and when Jerry gestured at a seat in front of his desk Sam walked over and sat down.

Jerry leaned back in his chair. "So. I have a problem, Sam, and I'm hoping you can take care of it for me."

Sam tensed; he had a good idea of where this was headed.

Jerry continued, "When we stopped production at the end of November, I had a happy cast. Now it's January. We've been back for a week and Garrett's walking around looking like a kicked puppy and you have been a miserable bastard, even when you're not supposed to be acting like one. This tells me something happened during break."

Sam swallowed with some effort. Jerry, I—"

The director held up a hand. "I don't want to know. What I do want is my happy cast back, because that happy cast made a great show that skyrocketed in the ratings. I want to be renewed. Hell, I want an Emmy. Lots of Emmys."

Sam sat stiffly in his chair and stared at his hands.

Jerry pointed at him. "I want you to fix this, Sam," he said. "Take Garrett to dinner, go out for lunch, buy him a drink—hell, fuck him for all I care. But you two have to talk and you have to get over whatever your problem is, because we can't let it hurt the show."

"What makes you think it's my problem?"

"He's not avoiding you."

Fuck. Sam held up his hands in defeat. "Okay, Jerry, I'll deal with it."

"That's what I want to hear." Jerry stood and shook Sam's hand, and then he waved toward the door. "You can go now. You've been doing great work, Sam, let's keep it up."

Sam's mind was racing while he navigated the maze of studio hallways, trying to think of how he could approach Garrett. Going out was really not an option; most of the bars and eateries in town were too noisy, and besides, the nature of the needed discussion warranted a more private spot. His house would be the perfect spot, but the fact that he had been avoiding Garrett for weeks would make a dinner invitation awkward.

Hell, this whole situation is awkward, Sam fumed inwardly as he stopped by his dressing room to pick up his backpack. He shoved the script inside, fished out the keys to his bike and grabbed his helmet before he shut the door and left the room. He had to admit that Jerry was right; Sam couldn't let what really was his problem ruin the show for everyone else. "Time to put on the big-boy pants," he told himself, and he pushed open the door to the side parking lot and stepped out into the cool evening air. Off to his right he saw Hayden, Jordan and Garrett all standing by Hayden's car, laughing and talking together, and a plan suddenly formed in Sam's mind.

"Hi guys," he said, and he walked over to where the other men stood. "So, I know I've been an ass all this week. I can't go out for drinks tonight, but maybe you all can come over for dinner at my house tomorrow night?" He looked squarely at Garrett. "That means you, too," he said.

"That sounds wonderful," said Hayden.

"Sure," said Jordan.

Garrett only nodded and gave him a small, careful smile.

Sam looked at the slight upturn on the lips he had kissed, and he found himself mourning the loss of Garrett's earlier, mega-watt smiles. He glanced away, and then said, "How about six, then?"

Everyone agreed, and when Sam zipped by on the Vespa all three of them waved as he rode past.

That wasn't so bad, he thought. Having Hayden and Jordan around for dinner would help loosen things up, and then he could figure out a way to talk to Garrett alone. The traffic on Ventura Boulevard was fairly light, so Sam began making a mental list of what he would need to get for making dinner. Maybe his father would have some ideas; Sam had a feeling that Connor would be more than happy to help him make peace with Garrett.

~.~.~

It was a perfect night to be out on the main terrace. Jordan and Garrett took care of setting the table while Hayden brought out bowls of various cold salads and opened a few bottles of white wine. Sam slid a large, steaming platter of grilled kabobs onto the table and then they all sat down to eat.

"It's so pretty out here, with all the lights." Garrett kept staring up at the cluster of twinkling snowflake lights that hung from the branches of the tree they were sitting under. "It almost looks like it's snowin'!"

"Yeah, my dad grew up in northern California, so this is his version of snow." Sam reached for the wine and poured himself a glass. The evening was starting well; Sam decided that it had been an excellent idea to include Hayden and Jordan. Garrett was by no means his regular, chatty self, but Sam could see that he was starting to relax.

"It's such a treat to be dining in a famous house like this," Hayden said. "I came here on one of the weekend tours, years ago—before we met, Sam—and I was so glad that your father made the house available for tours; so many private owners don't."

Garrett blinked at Sam. "People come through your house? While you're in it?"

"No, not while we're in it," Sam replied while the Hayden and Jordan laughed. "We do one weekend a month, and Dad and I just make ourselves scarce for that Saturday and Sunday." He took another skewer off the platter. "My dad has always made all the houses we've been in available for tour; it's important to him that people be allowed to enjoy the whole house instead of just staring at it from the street." He chuckled. "Besides, the Wright Trust people always send over a maid service to do the windows and floors, and they dust and polish as well. We figured two days out of the month is worth it to not have to clean the house."

Laughter erupted around the table, and Sam noticed that this time Garrett was laughing too.

The next few hours was more of the same as Jordan regaled them with the tale of a modeling gig he'd done over the break, a photo shoot with two other male models for an underwear ad that went horribly awry when the makeup artist had a wardrobe malfunction.

"… the three of us ended up having to go jerk off so that we could continue the shoot," Jordan said while the other men roared with laughter. "I mean, I love my honey,"—he reached over and squeezed Hayden's hand—"but a pretty woman can still wind my watch, especially when one of her boobs pops out a few inches from my face!"

Sam's face hurt from all the laughing, and as he looked around at the other men's smiling faces he was glad that he had suggested the evening. Their old energy and camaraderie was back, and Sam began to hope that maybe he wouldn't need to talk to Garrett after all.

That hope was dashed a half hour later, when they started to gather up the remains of their meal. Sam carried a tray laden with leftovers into the kitchen, and he winced when Garrett hurried in behind him and set a pile of dishes in the sink.

"I've missed this so much," Garrett said quietly. "I've missed you; hangin' around with you, an' doin' things with you. Sam, can we please talk? Please?"

Sam glanced over at him and as soon as he met Garrett's sad, pleading gaze he knew was lost. How can I say no to that face? He sighed. "All right," he said, equally quiet. "When the other two leave, we'll talk."

Garrett smiled at him, but it was a shadow of what Sam had seen before, and with a pang he realized how much he had missed those earlier bright, addicting smiles.

Sam began to transfer the leftovers to various containers while Garrett loaded the dishwasher. Hayden and Jordan finished clearing the table, and while Hayden helped with the remaining dishes Sam shot his friend a meaningful look and gave a minute jerk of his chin toward Garrett. Ineedyouguystoleaveassoonasw e'redonesoIcantalktohim. Sam hoped the mental talking thing worked with Hayden's friends as well as his lovers.

The edges of Hayden's eyes crinkled, and he gave a single nod.

When they were finished, Hayden gave an elaborate yawn and then peered at his watch. "My goodness, it's gotten late!"

"Late? Babe, it's only ten," said Jordan, and he yelped when Hayden stepped on his foot.

"Oh, was that your foot? I'm sorry, I must be more tired than I realized. I think perhaps we should head home so I can turn in. Sam, thank you so much for having us all over, it was wonderful. Garrett, we'll see you on Monday."

Sam rolled his eyes while he walked with them to the door. "I'm glad you guys could make it," he said, trying to ignore the way that Jordan's head swiveled to notice that Garrett was still in the kitchen, and the suggestive lift of a red eyebrow that followed.

"We're glad too," Hayden said, cutting off any comment that Jordan was about to make. "We'll see you Monday, then."
Sam shut the door after they left, and then he took a deep breath and went into the kitchen.

"Sam, I—"

"Garrett, I—"

Garrett held up a hand to silence him. He hopped up to sit on the granite edge of the kitchen island's counter, and then he reached over and picked up the salt shaker. "I took this mediation class one time," he said, "an' the guy taught us a cool trick to use when too many people wanna talk at once." He handed the shaker to Sam. "This is the talkin' salt. While you're holdin' it you can say what you want, an' I can't interrupt. When you're done, I get the salt, an' then it's my turn to say somethin'."

Sam stared at the stainless steel cube. "The talking salt."

"Yeah. He didn't use a salt shaker, he used a paper clip. But you get my drift, right?"

"Yeah." It wasn't a bad idea, really. And at least he got to go first. "Okay, then." He took another deep breath and dove in. "There is no excuse at all for my behavior the night of the play, and I'm sorry that it happened. I will make sure that nothing like that ever happens again, so you won't have to worry about unwelcome advances." He gripped the shaker, and then he forced himself to say, "And I'm sorry I've been such an ass the past few weeks." He handed the cube to Garrett.

"You have been an ass," Garrett agreed, "an' it's made us waste a lot of time."

"What?"

Garrett held up the shaker to silence him. "Wasted, because if you had just talked to me, you woulda found out that it wasn't unwelcome."

"W-what?" Sam wasn't sure that he heard him correctly. He felt a clenching in his chest, and he shoved down the wild hope that was trying to rise inside him.

Garrett set down the salt, and he reached out and tugged at Sam's shirt, pulling him closer. "I liked it," he said. "I liked it a lot, an' I wish you had given me the chance to kiss you back." He tugged again, harder, until Sam was standing at the counter, between his knees. "I've liked you for awhile now, but I was afraid to tell you—you've always kept your distance. I got the kiss idea when I was watchin' the Al Pacino Merchant, 'cause Joseph Fiennes kissed Jeremy Irons, an' I thought maybe if I kissed you I could show you how I felt." He ducked his head with a bashful grin. "You … took me by surprise that night; I hadn't thought that maybe you liked me too."

"Garrett," Sam began, but Garrett shook his head.

"Uh-uh," he said. "It's still my turn."

"You're not holding the talking salt."

"Shut up." Garrett released one hand from Sam's shirt, and he reached up and brushed his fingers across Sam's mouth. "Kiss me again, Sam, like you did that night. It felt so awesome, an' I wanna kiss you back this time."

Sam groaned and bent his head, and their mouths met in a ravenous kiss. Garrett's arms slid up around Sam's neck, and when Sam cradled Garrett's face in his hands and deepened the kiss, Garrett's mouth opened eagerly and he met Sam's invading tongue with his own. He wanted this all along, Sam thought in a daze as he felt Garrett's fingers tangle in his hair.

Warm lips. A hot, wet tongue. A growing hardness nudging against his stomach. Sam was hard too, and he moved closer, letting his erection press against the inside of Garrett's thigh. Garrett made a noise in his throat at the contact.

Sam broke off the kiss, and then he placed his hands on Garrett's chest and slowly pressed him back until he was lying on the counter, his legs dangling over the edge. Sam then pushed at Garrett's teeshirt until it was bunched up around his chest.

"Sam," Garrett whispered, his voice hoarse. His eyes were so dark that Sam could only see the barest rim of honey-brown.

Sam let his hands roam over toned, tanned skin, sweeping up to skim across hardening nipples and then gliding lower to caress a flat, muscled stomach. Garrett's breathing quickened, and Sam felt the pounding of Garrett's heartbeat beneath his fingers. He slid one hand lower and pressed his palm against the generous bulge in the front of Garrett's jeans.

Garrett moaned and rocked up against Sam's hand.

It was like a drug, watching Garrett respond to his touch. Sam undid the button on Garrett's jeans, and he smiled at the half-whimper, half moan that escaped Garrett's mouth when he slid the zipper down. He bent down and kissed Garrett's belly, delving his tongue into Garrett's navel. "Tell me to stop," Sam whispered, his breath ghosting over the erection that strained against the soft cotton. He tugged the boxers down past Garrett's hips.

"F-fuck no," Garrett gasped. "Don't ever stop—oh!"

Sam ran his tongue along the underside of Garrett's dick, and then he took it into his mouth. Garrett's moans filled his ears as he began to suck the hardened flesh, sliding his tongue against the shaft and then flicking his tongue over the crown to catch the bitter drops of precome that were already leaking out.

"Sam … oh, fuck, Sam." Garrett's fingers threaded through his hair.

Sam continued his attentions, and he slid his hands back up beneath Garrett's teeshirt to rub his fingertips against the pebbled nubs of Garrett's nipples, and then he lightly dragged his fingernails over the taut peaks. Garrett cried out and arched back as he came, and Sam's mouth was soon flooded with hot, wet spend. He swallowed the bitter fluid, and then he released Garrett and started to kiss his way back up Garrett's trembling body.

Garrett hitched himself back up and sought Sam's mouth with his own. "Sam," he breathed, "fuck me. Fuck me."

Sam kissed him hard, and then he slid his hands up unto Garrett's hair and tugged his head back. "Brat," he growled against Garrett's throat, "You know I can't say 'no' to you."

He hauled Garrett off the counter and took his hand, and Garrett clutched at his undone pants and followed as Sam pulled him through the long dining room, up the steps and into his bedroom. Sam flicked on the lamp while Garrett let his pants drop to the floor, and there was a frenzy of pulling at buttons and tugging on zippers while their mouths roamed over every inch of bare skin that was exposed. When they fell onto the bed Sam climbed on top of him, and Sam's breath caught at the way Garrett looked, lying beneath him with legs spread and a wild, wanton look in his dark amber eyes. He was beautiful.

And he's mine. Sam fumbled with the nightstand drawer and retrieved a tube of lubricant, and Garrett teased him with wet, open-mouthed kisses and wandering hands while Sam worked his fingers into Garrett's body. Then he was slowly pushing his cock into incredibly tight heat, and when Sam's hips were finally flush against Garrett's body he had to be still for a few moments, to regain some control over himself.

He began to move, slowly at first, and then Garrett wrapped his legs around Sam's waist and urged him on, rocking up to meet Sam's hips. "More, Sam, more," Garrett begged, and he moaned loudly when Sam pressed him into the mattress and started fucking him in earnest.

"Fuck, you're noisy," Sam said.

"Can't h-help it," Garrett gasped. "Feels so g-good."

It wasn't just good; it was fucking amazing, the friction of his cock moving in Garrett's body. He wasn't going to last long, though, not with the way that Garrett was bucking and writhing beneath him. Garrett's responsiveness was as addicting as his smiles, and Sam gloried in each gasp, each moan, each rock of Garrett's hips.

He slid his hand between their bodies to grasp Garrett's dick, and at the touch of his hand Garrett noisily came again. The sudden tightness that followed sent Sam headlong into climax, and his eyes slid shut in pleasure while he gave one last, deep thrust and came hard, emptying himself into the trembling body beneath his.

Sam carefully eased out and rolled onto his back. Garrett's hand sought his, and their fingers twined together as they lay on the bed, their chests heaving.

"Sam," Garrett managed, "that was awesome."

Sam wasn't sure if 'awesome' came anywhere close to describing the pleasure he'd felt. He turned his head and looked at Garrett. Garrett's eyes were closed while a contented smile curved his lips, and Sam enjoyed the way that the warm light of the room's lamp made Garrett's skin glow. Garrett shifted onto his side, opened his eyes and smiled at Sam, the same wide, bright smile that had doomed Sam all those months ago.

Sam leaned over and kissed him, and Garrett scooted closer and stretched out alongside him. Sam lazily trailed his fingers up and down Garrett's spine while Garrett traced meandering spirals on Sam's chest and stomach.

Their breathing evened out, and for awhile they drifted into a sort of half-sleep. Then Sam felt a butterfly touch of kisses on his skin and the possessive sweep of a hand over his belly, sliding down between his legs. Garrett shifted closer, and Sam felt a hard, thick cock nudging against his hip.

"My turn now," Garrett said, and he reached for the lubricant. Garrett's tongue on his skin wreaked havoc on Sam's senses while slicked fingers thrust and stretched and worked Sam into a state of aching want. Garrett slowly entered him, and Sam couldn't help but moan at the delicious burn of Garrett's dick stretching him, filling him.

"Oh yeah, Sam," Garrett breathed into Sam's ear, "it's so sexy to hear you moan like that." He ran a line of wet kisses along Sam's throat. "Ngh … you feel so good. I've wanted to fuck you for months." He nipped at Sam's collarbone. "Months."

"Then stop yapping and fuck me." Sam slid his fingers up into Garrett's hair and kissed him deeply while he canted up his hips to allow Garrett to sink deeper inside him. He could no longer deny that he too had wanted this for months, wanted this passionate, eager young man to take him and fuck him senseless.

Garrett was a ravenous lover, driving into Sam's body with hard, deep thrusts, and Sam was soon moaning from the jolts of pleasure that spiked through him with every snap of Garrett's hips.

"Moan for me, Sam," Garrett said, panting, "I want you to be noisy too, you sound so fuckin' sexy."

Sam obliged him, and he realized there was a glorious freedom in letting go, in losing himself in their rough, hungry coupling, in letting the world shrink down to the warm mouth on his skin and the hard cock moving inside him. He felt himself harden again, and the friction of Garrett's belly rubbing against his dick while they fucked was exquisite. His orgasm rose and surged through him, and he felt the wet warmth of his release striping his stomach while Garrett shuddered and came deep inside him.

Garrett eased out and they traded slow, sleepy kisses while their hands wandered over warm, sweaty skin. "Fuck, you're noisy," Garrett whispered against his lips.

Sam saw the flash of his smile in the lamplight. "Brat," he said, and he pulled Garrett against him. They were both sweaty and sticky, but Sam didn't give a damn. "Go to sleep." He reached over and switched off the lamp.

They awoke at dawn, and enjoyed a hot, steamy shower together. This time Sam did lick off the droplets of water that clung to Garrett's body, and Garrett returned the favor by dropping to his knees and sucking Sam off while the shower spray pelted them both.

When they got back to his bedroom Sam pulled the towel from Garrett's waist and pushed him onto the bed. Rough kisses and caressing hands soon had them both hard and ready, and a playful tussle began to see who would top. Sam found Garrett's aggressiveness incredibly arousing, so he didn't mind at all when a short time later he was pressed against the mattress, Garrett's cock buried deep inside him while Garrett slowly, thoroughly fucked him for the better part of an hour.

They collapsed onto the bed, sated at last, and Sam drew the bedsheet over their twined bodies and let sleep take him again.

He woke to the sound of a knock on the bedroom door.

"Sam," his father called. "I just got back, and I've got goodies from Bagel Bums." The door opened, and Connor poked his head through the opening. "Get your lazy butt out of bed. Oh! You have company."

Garrett's head popped up, and he blinked sleepily at Connor.

"Good morning, Garrett," Connor said. "I thought I might find you here one of these days. Good thing I bought extra bagels."

"Dad," Sam groaned and flung an arm across his eyes.

~.~.~

It was a beautiful late-April, Sunday afternoon, and Sam and Garrett were stretched out on the living room sofa. Connor had opened every window in the house to allow the gentle spring breeze to blow through, so Sam had to keep a firm grasp on the script he was reviewing—the final script of the season. Garrett was curled next to him, one arm flung over Sam's waist while he snored softly. Sam looked up when Connor poked his head into the room.

"Sam, you have—oh!" Connor's voice dropped to a whisper when he saw Garrett's sleeping form. "You have a phone call," he said, holding up their cordless phone. "It's Kenneth."

Connor waited while Sam carefully eased himself out of Garrett's embrace, and when Sam crossed the room he handed him the phone.

Sam walked out onto the roof terrace just off the living room and sat in one of the chairs. "Hi, Ken, what's up?" He pulled a cigarette out of his pack, lit it, and then tossed the pack onto the table.

"Some good news, kiddo. Your show has been renewed for a second season."

"That's great news." Sam wasn't terribly surprised, since the show was doing so well in the ratings. Still, it was nice to hear the official news.

"It gets better, Sammy-boy. They are upping your pay, and you are going to be sharing star billing with your boy-toy. Both of your names on the same card in the opening credits."

Sam blinked. "Hunh," he said, "Guess my character broke out after all." He decided to ignore Ken's reference to Garrett. "Well, let me know when you have the contract, and I'll swing by and sign it."

"Probably next week. I'm not done with my news."

"Oh?" Sam thought Ken sounded smug; that usually meant he was going to take credit for whatever the news was.

"Remember when you did that little play a couple of months ago? Well, I had invited a few people to see it, and one of them was very impressed. Impressed enough to call me the other day and say that he wants you in this big-ass production of Hamlet he's going to be directing next month." Ken paused for dramatic effect, and then he continued, "Kiddo, he wants you for Hamlet. No audition, either—it's a straight-up offer. Great money, too."

Sam pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Hamlet?

"Oooh, I've surprised you, haven't I?" Ken's voice was tinny. "Go me."

Sam pressed the phone back against his ear. "It won't interfere with Serve Me Up?"

"Nope, it's a summer production. Oh, and I need the name of Garrett's agent; the director is interested in him for Horatio. The kid'll have to audition, but I think he has a really good chance of getting the part."

"Wow." Sam had to admit he had a kick-ass agent. "Thank you, Ken."

"My fifteen percent thanks me just fine, Sammy-boy. Come by my office tomorrow and I'll go over the particulars with you. Email me about Garrett's agent and I'll call them and work out my cut."

"Okay. See you tomorrow." He ended the call, and a few minutes later Connor came out onto the roof terrace bearing two tall glasses of iced tea. He handed one to Sam and then joined him at the table.

"So tell me about this good news," Connor said while he reached over and snagged a cigarette out of Sam's pack. "Kenneth was being annoyingly professional and wouldn't tell me."

Sam took a long drink of tea, and then he filled his father in on what Ken had told him.

"That's wonderful, Sam! We all knew a second season was likely, but the shared star billing—and the pay raise—is a welcome surprise. I think Garrett won't mind at all; in fact I think he will be quite happy to share that with you. And Hamlet! You are going to take it, aren't you?"

"Well …"

"Oh Sam, you must! A show like that will be performed not only here, but in New York and Chicago as well. You'll be acting on Broadway … you might even win a Tony!"

"Dad, don't get ahead of yourself."

Connor made a face at him. "I'm allowed to be proud of my son," he said, and took a sip of tea. "And I am so very proud of you, Sam. Not only for your acting success, but for finally letting that wonderful young man in there into your heart. He is very devoted to you, and I think you are to him as well."

Sam flushed, and he kept his eyes on the table while he ran a finger along the sparkling beads of condensation that had formed on his glass.

"Anyway," Connor said, "I have exciting news as well. I not only got an excellent price for the Koenig, but I managed to get my hands on my dream house."

Sam looked up at him. "That Neutra house you always go on about? The one in Beverly Hills?"

Connor nodded vigorously. "Yes! It's been terribly neglected, and they were going to demolish it and put up some dreadful condominiums! But Kenneth and I swooped in to the rescue and bought it."

Sam frowned. "Wait. Ken bought the house with you?"

"Yes. He knows how long I've wanted that place, just like you, and he asked me if we bought it and fixed it up together, whether I would stay put in it." Now it was Connor's turn to play with his glass. "We've talked about moving in together for about a year now, but he wants to stay in one place."

"And will you? Stay put?"

Connor smiled. "Yes, I think I can. This renovation will take a few years, and I can always get another side-project."

"So … when will you be putting this place on the market?" Sam glanced back at the house, and he felt a pang at the thought of leaving it. He had figured that this house would be the last one he and his father lived in and renovated together, especially when Connor's relationship with Ken started getting serious. But he would miss it.

"I won't be." Connor placed a manila envelope on the table. "I'm giving it to you."

"You're what?" Sam dropped his cigarette, and he cursed as he hastily swatted it off his lap. "Dad, this is a multi-million dollar house—"

"That I would be leaving to you in my will anyway," Connor said. "I couldn't bear to sell my one and only Wright. So I'm giving it to you, because I know you love it even more than I do."

Sam's throat was suddenly tight. He had always assumed that when Connor found a new house this one would get sold and he would find his own place. "You can't just giveit to me," he protested weakly.

"Yes I can, but if you're going to be fussy about it I can sell it to you for a dollar. Or, let's just settle for this pack of cigarettes, since I'm out." Connor swiped the pack off the table and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

Sam gaped at him.

"I planned on you being fussy," Connor said, "so part of the paperwork in that envelope is a quitclaim deed that specifies our one-dollar agreement of sale."

"You're worse than Ken with your conniving," Sam said, and he reached for the packet.

Connor kept a fingertip on the envelope. "There are two … conditions."

A corner of Sam's mouth quirked. "Well, I think I can handle a few conditions, since you're giving me a historic, three-million-dollar house in exchange for a pack of cigarettes."

"I want you to continue making the house available for the monthly public tour weekends. You and Garrett can have a lovers' getaway once a month; you know how I've always felt about needing to allow people to visit houses like these."

Sam ignored the bit about Garrett. "I have no problem with keeping the tours. I think they're important too, and it's just two days out of the month. What's the other condition?"

Connor leaned forward and touched his hand. "This house was designed to be full of people, for parties that fill the terraces and allow people to move through the various spaces as they mix and mingle. Don't let this house become a cave, Sam. Make it a sparkling jewel filled with friends, laughter and love."

A noise from the house caught Sam's attention, and he watched while Garrett shuffled onto the terrace, looking ridiculously young as he rubbed at his eyes and yawned widely. "I think I can do that, Dad," Sam replied softly.

Connor patted his shoulder and rose from his chair. "That's my boy. We have a deal, then. Sign these at some point today and I'll get all the paperwork filed tomorrow. Morning, glory," he said to Garrett.

Garrett blinked. "Huh? It's afternoon." He checked his watch anyway.

"Yes, and you had a splendid nap, albeit on a bony pillow," Connor said, ruffling his hair. He turned to Sam. "I'm meeting Kenneth over at the new place—we'll probably do dinner after, so don't expect me back until late."

Garrett watched him leave, and then he turned to face Sam. "New place?"

"He and Ken just bought a famous fixer-upper in Beverly Hills. They're going to move in together and restore it."

Garrett looked over his shoulder to glance back into the living room. "So he's gonna sell this place? That's a shame, I really like it a lot."

Sam held out a hand to him, and when Garrett took his hand Sam tugged until Garrett landed in his lap. "He's not selling it," he said. "He gave it to me, just now."

Garrett's eyes went wide. "Gave it to you? The whole house?" He shifted until he was comfortably straddling Sam's thighs.

"The whole house."

"But won't it be lonely livin' here all by yourself?"

Sam touched Garrett's cheek. "But I won't be living by myself. I want you to live here with me." He felt lightheaded, almost giddy as he said the words, and Sam marveled at how easily they tumbled from his lips. "Will you?" He let his thumb drift over Garrett's plump lower lip.

Garrett's eyes were dark, shining pools of amber. "Yeah, I'll live with you. I love you, Sam," he said, and he drew Sam's thumb into his mouth and sucked on it.

Sam groaned, and then he pulled his hand away and sought Garrett's mouth in a slow, deep kiss. "I love you, too," he murmured against Garrett's lips. Sam kissed him again, and their tongues tangled lazily while he slipped his hands under Garrett's teeshirt and let his fingers wander over the toned, muscled planes of Garrett's back.

Garrett's breathing quickened, and he began to rock his hips in a slow, sensual rhythm while he trailed his lips along Sam's jaw. "Sam," he whispered, his breath warm and damp against Sam's ear, "I wanna fuck you."

"You do, do you." A rhetorical question, since the hard, thick ridge of Garrett's erection was pressing against Sam's belly. Sam was all for being fucked, but he thought he'd tell Garrett about the renewal first.

"Mmm, yeah. I wanna fuck you for the rest of the afternoon." Garrett worked his hands under Sam's shirt to rub slow circles over his nipples while he continued to rock. "Maybe longer."

Sam closed his eyes as he felt the sensitive flesh harden into taut peaks beneath Garrett's teasing touch. The news can wait,he decided. He'd tell him later and then he'd call Hayden and Jordan and they could all celebrate here, together. "If I end up walking funny at the reading tomorrow, I'm going to murder you."

Garrett laughed, a bright, happy sound that echoed through the house. Sam let Garrett lead him back to his—their—bedroom, and they kissed again while they pulled at each other's clothes and tumbled onto the bed, and then there was nothing but skin on skin, hungry mouths and whispered words of love.

"… a sparkling jewel filled with friends, laughter and love."

His father's words echoed in Sam's mind while Garrett's eager hands and hot, wet mouth moved over his skin.

Yeah, Dad, I can definitely do this.

~.~.~

Excerpt from Star Gazing, a weekly gossip column featured in Television Weekly:

"… The bodacious boys of Serve Me Up are going to be very busy during their summer hiatus, and The Gazer has found out just who's doing what:

Hayden Chance starts filming next week for the Lifetime Original Picture Love's Vengeance. He stars as a young man who tragically loses the love of his life to murder, and he takes revenge on her killers. Can't wait to see Hayden show us his dark side!

Our favorite redhead Jordan Shaw will be quite the jet-setter this summer, modeling menswear during Fashion Weeks in Milan, Rio de Janiero, Barcelona and Paris. Ooh la la!

Grumpy hottie Sam Jensen will be starring as the Melancholy Dane in Gerhard Rhine's hotly anticipated multi-city production of Hamlet, and we'll get the added treat of seeing our sweetie Garrett Sonders as Hamlet's friend Horatio. The play opens at Hollywood's Pantages Theatre on June 21, better get your tickets now!

Looks like these two like to do more than act together; Garrett has moved into Sam's West Hollywood home, the famous Storer House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Word also has it that Sam's father—Modernist architect Connor Jensen—recently gave him that lovely piece of real estate. Hope for syndication, Sam, West Hollywood taxes are killer!

Syndication should be no problem for our boys, since Serve Me Up is a bona fide hit; it recently hit Number One in the sitcom ratings, and it's gathering plenty of Emmy buzz. See you next week, when we'll have an interview and photoshoot with San Francisco's hottest restaurant staff!"

-fin-