Chapter 6: On Location

Unimpressive: the word that best summed up the shooting location. When David pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot, Eddie hoped it was only to ask for directions. He was already on his phone before David could park.

"Whoa, wait, hold up, a Motel 6?" asked Andrew.

"That's what I said, moron, keep up," growled Eddie.

"I'll make some calls, alright? It's clearly stated in the contract that you're given a level of accommodation while on location. Maybe there's some mix up. I'll talk to Jeremy."

"Don't call Jeremy, call me a better hotel, immediately, I'm not getting out of this car," said Eddie, before disconnecting the call. Eddie hit the intercom button. "Keep the car running, David, I'm not getting out."

"Yes, sir," came David's voice from the speaker.

Eddie sighed and pulled out his phone to peruse the latest industry news. He immediately stopped short when he saw the front page of his usual source.

Trager's Dirty Secret: Was a back room in the local industry hot spot used to coerce Hollywood-Hopefuls into giving up the goods?

Eddie narrowed his eyes. What a coincidence. That the same situation arose with Waylon when they had gone to Rick's.

Scrolling quickly, without reading the entire article, Eddie saw headers about the secret room, and comments from anonymous victims of the practice. There were pictures of the door in the wall, and the dim lit room behind it with leather couches and video equipment. Eddie recognized all of them as originating from Trager's, and the realization turned his stomach.

A new call popped up on the screen, and the article blinked away.

"Ed, call off your agent, I don't have time to deal with his dick envy today," said Jeremy, groaning over the line.

"He's calling because I was driven to a Motel 6," said Eddie.

"Have you looked around, yet? You toured the town? You're shooting at a strip club adjacent to a brothel, the only other places for rent in the town are mom-and-pop motorway motels, or trying to rent a house from one of the real life inspirations behind The Hills Have Eyes. So, how about you suck it up for a five day shoot, yeah?"

"My contract…"

"Your contract says that you get preferential lodging, and the Motel 6 is it in that town," said Jeremy. "It's not in the budget to charter you a helicopter to and from Bel Air everyday, unless you wanted to pay your own way."

Eddie closed his eyes and sighed. "I suppose, I've stayed at worse…"

"Do you even remember that roach infested beach house during Shallow Tides?" asked Jeremy, laughing. "I hope they bulldozed that place after we left."

"I had to stay outdoors in tents during some of the mountain shots for Return to the Summit," said Eddie, grinning into the phone.

"See? Where's that attitude," said Jeremy, chuckling into the phone. "Everything else is going well with the film, right? Dennis and the production manager seem satisfied."

"Yeah, everything's been going fine," said Eddie. No use in inflating Jeremy's ego by praising the production and thanking him for forcing him into the part.

"Look, if it goes over seven days, I'll personally roast Dennis' nuts, but until then, can you stay at the Motel 6?"

"Later, Jer."

Eddie's head jerked up when someone tapped loudly against the glass of the limousine.

"HEY," called Waylon, cupping his hands around his eyes and staring into the dark tinted window. Eddie pulled away from the door, his face inches from Waylon's only separated by the tempered glass. "EDDIE, you in there? I haven't gotten my room yet, where's yours? Let's be neighbors!"

Eddie sat watching Waylon lean over, and grin stupidly. Waylon turned his head a couple inches, obviously looking at his own reflection. It was odd. Waylon looked positively adorable in a faded band T-shirt and torn jeans. Curly blond hair framed his face, illuminated by the desert sun like a halo.

Looking beyond Waylon, Eddie spotted a group of strapping men approaching. Most of the group wore tank tops or tight muscle shirts. One of them pulled a tattered suitcase over to Waylon, causing him to smile and thank the man.

Eddie narrowed his eyes and pressed the intercom button, again. "I'm getting out."

In a matter of seconds, Waylon stepped away from the car. "Hello again! Is Eddie in there? I couldn't tell."

David smiled before opening the door that Waylon had been leaning against. Eddie stepped out, adjusting his travel-worn gray shirt and black slacks.

"Seems we're all staying in the classiest motel in town," said Eddie, frowning. He shielded his eyes, and surveyed the motel. It looked even more rundown in the glaring sunlight. Light stucco walls, maroon painted doors, and a rusted metal staircase to the second floor. The asphalt in the parking lot radiated heat in hazy waves.

"Hah," said Waylon, grinning. "The guys were telling me there's a brothel nearby, like, right near where we're shooting. If this place is horrible, you wanna go see if they got vacancies?"

"I think I would rather have bed bugs than crabs," said Eddie. "I'll pass, thank you."

Eddie waited while David retrieved his luggage, and walked into the main office of the motel. Waylon walked beside Eddie, rolling his own luggage that shifted and tumbled on uneven wheels.

"We can find something else fun to do in town, then!"

"According to Jeremy, there is nothing for two hundred miles," said Eddie, sighing. "Oh well. It's a good character exercise. Felix likely lived in one of these motels for a long time after his wife threw him out."

Waylon laughed. "Poor Felix, lonely old man in a seedy motel. I bet Randall visited more than a few of these, too, but for completely different reasons."

Eddie hummed as Waylon chuckled and continued.

"Now I'm wondering what would have happened if Felix was drunk and depressed in a motel room, and through the wall he just starts hearing Randall getting fucked to pieces, and he wouldn't even know that was the man that…"

Eddie frowned at the sinful smile on Waylon's face.

"Sorry," said Waylon, shrugging, "overactive imagination. Or maybe it was the plot of one of my videos and I just forgot."

Eddie waited outside of the office while David checked in for him, and Waylon checked in for himself. David emerged first, and Eddie soon found himself sitting on a scratchy comforter flipping through basic cable in a room situated between David and Waylon.

The walls were much too thin. David was showering, and Waylon was playing loud, undulating music, the same song, over and over again. Eddie reconsidered chartering the helicopter.

Eddie tried to be patient-he tried to turn on devices to block out the noise, but it was a losing battle. He walked next door to bang on Waylon's door.

"Just a sec," came Waylon's muffled response. The music ceased, and loud stomping followed.

Waylon opened the door wearing a black crop top, showing his tone stomach and arms. Every visible inch of his tan skin glistened with sweat. Waylon's curls were matted down, and he panted loudly.

"Oh, Hey, Eddie," said Waylon, pausing to wipe sweat away from his eyes. "What's up?"

"The music," said Eddie, clearing his throat. "Um, do you need to…what is it that you're doing, exactly?"

"Practicing my choreography," said Waylon. He laughed at Eddie's raised eyebrow. "We're shooting all the club scenes, Randy Bourbon dances at a club."

Waylon took a step into the room to grab a bottle of water from the dresser. He took a long drink, and Eddie watched his throat as he chugged the water. "Sorry if it was disturbing you. Was it the dancing, or the music? I could just turn it down, maybe?"

"Um, nevermind," said Eddie, averting his eyes, "I hadn't realized it was for work."

"You wanna help me?" asked Waylon, face lighting up. "I haven't really decided how I'm going to dance during our first scene."

"Our scene?"

"The one where Felix meets Randall," said Waylon, grinning.

Eddie knew the script by heart. He knew that Felix was going to sit at a table and watch Randy dance. He knew that Felix would purchase a private dance, and be led into the backroom where the two engage in their first sexual encounter.

Despite knowing what to expect, Eddie hadn't considered exactly what those scenes meant for him and Waylon.

"I feel like it will play better, on screen, if I'm improvising," said Eddie, coughing to divert attention from his discomfort. "It's the best way to achieve a more, awkward, meet cute feel, that way…"

"You're always right," said Waylon, ruffling his damp hair. "Damn, I'm lucky to be working with you. Fuck, man, thanks again, Eddie."

"Well, happy practicing," said Eddie, turning away from the door.

"Wait, um, do you wanna grab some food? Or something? I could use a break," said Waylon.

Eddie took a moment to stare at the small rivulet of sweat pooling in the hollow of Waylon's throat, the pink flush of his cheeks, and the light sheen on his exposed abdomen before shaking his head.

"I apologize, David already brought me dinner," said Eddie.

Waylon's smile remained, but the light in his eyes dimmed. Eddie immediately regretted being the cause.

"Would you like me to send him back out for something for you?"

"Oh! No, that's okay, I'm good," said Waylon, his smile brightening again. He hung out the doorway and watched Eddie until he was back inside his own room.

Eddie stared at the ceiling, but sleep evaded him. He couldn't stop imagining Waylon in his cutoff shirt.

Eddie ran into Waylon in the second story breezeway of the motel first thing in the morning. It was frigid in the breezeway.

"Hey, is your bed comfy?" asked Waylon, yawning loudly.

"No," grumbled Eddie.

"Damn," said Waylon, holding out a steaming Styrofoam cup. "If it was, I was gonna beg to bunk with you. My bed is hard as a rock, and the comforter was so crusty all I could think about was like, how many people probably fucked dirty in that bed, and semen, and…"

Eddie accepted the coffee with a quirked eyebrow.

"What? It's just coffee, free in the lobby," said Waylon, taking a loud sip from his cup. "Tastes like shit. Free shit."

Eddie took a sip, grimacing. It truly was horrible, but the caffeine was welcome.

"I have to admit, I had ulterior motives for stalking your door and bringing you coffee," said Waylon.

"I find that entire sentence very ominous," said Eddie, walking toward the stairs.

"I know, right? But seriously, can I get a ride to the set?" asked Waylon, following behind Eddie.

"You don't have a car on premise?" asked Eddie, pausing at the top of the metal stairs.

"Oh, I don't have a ride anywhere," said Waylon, grinning. "I hitched a ride here with a few of the dancers. I know them from rehearsal, but it's seriously six sweaty dudes in a Ford Taurus, so if you could spare me a seat, I'd be eternally grateful."

Eddie chuckled, walking down the stairs with heavy steps that rattled and clanked.

"What?" asked Waylon, holding his coffee up to keep from spilling as he followed down the stairs.

"Six sweaty dudes poured into a tiny car, sounds like the beginning of one of your videos," said Eddie.

Waylon stopped walking and grinned until his face was split in two. "Are you…are you stereotyping me right now? You think, what, because I'm gay, I love being sandwiched between hot, sweaty guys? Or because I did porn I'm always one bass riff away from an orgy?"

Eddie paused when they arrived at the limousine, already running. "I've caused offense?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"No, I just can't believe you're actually ribbing me," said Waylon, laughing. "Like we're friends. Coworkers. Whatever."

Eddie shrugged as David walked around the car.

"And you're right, it was exactly the plot of Stick-Shift Six, I played a hitchhiker, thrown out when his boyfriend left him for another man, who gets picked up by members of this Australian rugby team…"

"Stop talking," said Eddie. Waylon quickly sipped his coffee and the two sat in silence as David opened the car door for them. They remained silent as they awkwardly dropped into the backseat. It was a short drive to The Sultry Peach.

The producers likely chose the location because it was relatively close to Los Angeles and willing to hand over the entire building for shooting. All of the scenes were shot during the day when the club was closed to the regular clientele.

Eddie grimaced as he looked around the main room. An eternal fog of cigarette smoke hovered in the air, even though no one was allowed to smoke on set. All of the surfaces looked sticky, and the curtains around the stage were threadbare. It was disgusting.

It was perfect for the narrative they were creating.

The first day on the set was often chaotic. Eddie had trouble finding his portable trailer, and his makeup artist was late. Once he was made up and dressed, Eddie wandered onto the set and found the choreographers working with all of the dancers. There was a gratuitous amount of pelvis thrusting and half-naked men.

Dancers of every shade of skin, hair, and eyes moved across the stage. Every one of them was as tall as Eddie, bedecked with muscles, and wearing a ridiculous costume. A cowboy with assless chaps gyrated on the main stage, a police officer in hot pants hovered near catering, and a man wearing a sailor's collar tipped his head toward Eddie with a grin.

For once, Eddie was thankful for his cheap suit, open shirt, and gold chain.

A few catcalls from the crew caught Eddie's attention. Waylon walked onto the stage, flanked by costumed dancers. Eddie had no idea what Waylon's costume was intended to depict. It didn't matter. All Waylon wore were metallic purple bottoms and a mess of glittering body oil.

The lighting was set up to play perfectly with the outfit. Waylon glistened. His body was taut and moved with a fluidity that drew in the viewer's gaze, and refused to let go. Eddie had to swallow to wet his suddenly dry mouth.

Had Eddie always found Waylon attractive? Was he getting a little too into character? Why would anyone keep a strip club so goddamn hot…

The first set up was a solitary shoot in the club bathroom while the dancers practiced. Glaring fluorescent lights showcased the grimy state of the strip club's bathroom. It was filthy. Authentic. It brought out the dark side of a gentleman's club. The patrons that vomited noisily after too many drinks, stole into a stall for a quick sexual encounter, or hid away to do drugs where the bouncers wouldn't see.

The scenes inside the bathroom were difficult. Space was crowded, only one camera, requiring several takes of every scene. Eddie worked through each different version until Dennis was satisfied. Eddie kicked the bathroom stall door until it fell from its hinges for one take. Hours ticked by inside of the stuffy bathroom as Dennis fought to create the right blend of emotions coursing through Felix's veins that fateful evening.

The night Felix met Randall.

The main room in the club, despite its dingy furniture and the lingering smell of ashtray, was a welcome change to the claustrophobic bathroom. The break passed too quickly, and Eddie was led to a chair near the stage. He waited as the lighting and camera crew finalized adjustments.

Waylon walked through his marks with a stage director, ensuring he knew all of his marks and camera locations. His earlier flagrant display was covered with a demure white cotton robe. It couldn't stop Eddie from imagining him bare underneath.

The music was full of bass and house's color-changing strobe lights provided the lighting. Dennis called for quiet on the set, the clapperboard sounded, and filming began.

Waylon's robe had vanished, and he was dancing on the stage. Eddie sat, leaning back low in the chair, legs splayed, and eyes never wavering from Waylon's performance. Eddie needed to watch every move because Felix would watch every move.

How much of Waylon's movements were clever choreography, and how much was his own natural rhythm? Performances of this nature usually left Eddie unamused, but Waylon was something else entirely. It was disconcerting.

Discomfort bled into Eddie's portrayal of Felix. A man, at the end of his rope, dropping by an all-male strip club in some desperate attempt to fuck away his problems. Felix doesn't really have any hope, but then he sees Randy dancing on the stage, something shifts.

Waylon tried a few different angles and moves before sinking down to his knees on the stage. He crawled toward the moving camera, closer to Eddie. Dark eyes burned and a wet tongue slid out between his lips.

Eddie felt hot. He forgot his lines. He remembered that he had no lines.

All he had to do was stay upright, and drool over Waylon's performance. The drooling was automatic, but staying upright proved difficult. Eddie's body threatened to melt into the chair. Then, Waylon swung his legs over the side of the stage.

"CUT," said Dennis. "Okay, Eddie, reel it in, Felix is having a bad night, he's not that easily lost in the performance."

"Of course," muttered Eddie.

"Back on mark, let's go again from Waylon dismounting the stage," said Dennis.

Eddie settled back into his seat and the music cued up. Waylon walked in front of him and put one leg up on Eddie's chair before rolling his hips in an obscene display. The lights glinted off the metallic material of the purple bikini cut briefs.

Eddie stared at Waylon. He couldn't remember if he was supposed to be staring at Waylon's face, or his crotch. It was hard to make out more than dark eyes with the metallic briefs glinting blindingly bright.

Fingers dug into the arms of his chair, and Eddie's mouth fell open as he watched Waylon dance. He tore his eyes away from the briefs and caught Waylon's eyes instead. Smoldering.

There were other extras in the background dancers on the stage, waitresses in skimpy outfits, and an entire army of crew members in the club. But as far as Eddie was concerned, it was only him and Waylon.

Eddie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Waylon leaned forward, smirking, as he put his palm against Eddie's chest. Eddie jumped and pushed himself as flat as possible against the back of the chair. He glared down at his lap.

"CUT," said Dennis. "Eddie, are you okay? You need a break? Because I'm ready to move to the back room, except I need Felix to actually request it…"

Ah, that was right. Eddie had one line.

On the next execution of the dance, Waylon took his time rolling his hips before bending at the waist, reaching across the small table and putting a hand on Eddie's shoulder. Eddie shot up, knocking the table on his thighs on the way up. Waylon snapped upright and stared back at Eddie in confusion.

"Private dance…um," Eddie paused to clear his throat. They could edit it out later. "You do private shows...you dance in private, uh, in tha back?" asked Eddie, as Felix.

Waylon laughed, and Eddie tried to remember if it was scripted. His confusion doubled when Waylon grabbed his face with both hands and grinned. Eddie winced at the feel of clammy hands against his sweaty face.

"Thirty dollars," said Waylon, fighting to keep from laughing again.

Eddie managed a nervous nod, and Waylon slid a single finger down the middle of Eddie's chest, over the open part of his shirt, over the buttons, and stopping just before his belt. Eddie sucked in his stomach so badly it was concave.

"Wanna take me back?" asked Eddie, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Thought you'd never ask," said Waylon, giving a devilish smile. He took his time turning around, pushing his hips out and looking over his shoulder. "This way…"

"CUT," said Dennis, breaking into his own laughter. "Eddie, goddamn."

"I'm sorry, that was good," said Waylon, between laughs.

"You're giving me flashbacks to my first awkward trip to a skin bar," said Dennis, shaking his head.

Eddie smiled and decided to accept the laughter as praise. Getting into character. Sure. That's what happened. He wasn't sure that he did any better in the following takes, considering snickering around set.

"Definitely got it, let's get a few more scenes of Waylon dancing, I want the camera behind Eddie so he's in the shot, just improvise some movements, all the extras on mark, we gotta clear out of this place in thirty minutes so make it count, people."

Only Eddie's back and profile would be visible in the scenes. There was no reason for Eddie to stare at Waylon. No need for his eyes to follow every sway and step, every spin on the pole, every smile, every wink. There was no reason for it, but Eddie stared, anyways.

Eddie waited behind The Sultry Peach where several trailers were parked. The sun was orange, and the remaining crew rushed to clear out for the night. Some of the staff were already arriving, and there were even a few cars pulling up. Probably happy hour.

Waylon emerged from one of the crew trailers, surrounded by some of the dancers. He wore a green plaid shirt over light jeans, but some glitter still sparkled on his cheek. He saw Eddie, and a huge smile broke out.

"Eddie," said Waylon, trotting away from the group.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if you required a ride back to the motel since I drove you here," said Eddie.

"Ah, you know, these guys are actually walking next door to the uh, the brothel," said Waylon, grinning at Eddie's immediate shock. "There's nothing else to do in this podunk town but, it might be fun. I mean, there's drinks there at least, maybe we could talk about the shoot tomorrow."

"I'm afraid I've lost the will to go out on work nights," said Eddie.

"C'mon," said Waylon, giving his best puppy eyes. "It'll be fun."

"I appreciate the invitation," said Eddie, frowning. "I'll consider it."

"That's a no," said Waylon, grinning. "It'd be much more fun if you were there." Waylon paused to drag his eyes up Eddie's figure, gnawing at his lower lip. When he reached Eddie's eyes, and look of confusion, he quickly averted his eyes and blushed. "Er, I'll see you in the morning?"

David was already holding the door open when Eddie arrived at the car and stepped inside. He sat in the back seat, leaning against the door, staring out the window.

Waylon and the dancers walked across the parking lot, over a short fence, onto the adjacent property with a large house nestled away from the road. Eddie scowled and hit the intercom. "To the motel."

A brothel? Did they even have male prostitutes at a brothel in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nevada?

Eddie was worried. Not jealous, because there was no way he could be. He was just concerned that Waylon might get into another situation like he had at Trager's. Or Waylon might get too drunk to perform the scheduled scenes in the morning.

The last point influenced Eddie's decision the most. He paced in his motel room for a half hour before changing into a clean buttoned shirt, a casual suit jacket, and tailored slacks. He texted David to let him know they were going out.

David hadn't seemed surprised in the least when Eddie told him the destination. "Drop me at the gate," Eddie instructed over the intercom. No need to make a fuss, driving to the front gates of a brothel in his company limousine. He walked the rest of the way to the front door, forcing a confident he didn't feel.

A small waiting room greeted him past the doors. It was probably meant to be considered 'Southwest chic' but Eddie imagined a roadside souvenir shop in Arizona had thrown up on the walls. The room was dim, and a closed door on the back wall pulsed behind it.

"Why, hello there, sugar," said a woman in a low-cut dress suit. She was likely in her late forties, fit and beautiful. Her hair was blond with streaks dyed cotton-candy pink. "Here to play?"

"I'm meeting some friends," said Eddie. He reached for his money clip and slid out a crisp bill.

"We're all friends here," said the woman, winking. "Cover charge is twenty, and I need to see some identification."

"How about you keep the change, and we forget about the ID, darling," said Eddie, tapping the bill on the counter. The woman's face seemed to perk up at the word.

"Say, you ever get told you look like Eddie Gluskin?" the woman asked, smiling as she carefully took the bill from Eddie's fingers.

"All the time," muttered Eddie, pushing open the door. A wave of loud music washed over him as he stepped into the main room of the brothel.

Eddie was transported into a wild west saloon—or at least a low-budget, brothel version of it. More wood paneling, velvet cushions on wooden chairs, and a bevy of beautiful women putting their assets on display behind the bar.

A woman in a micro skirt carried a large tray of different colored shots. Eddie followed with his eyes as she balanced the tray and carried it to the back of the room.

Plenty of dark corners with comfy booths and velvet curtains. The tables were lit with kerosene lamps—or, more likely, electronic components meant to mimic said lamps. Several different booths had the curtains drawn, and some tables held men talking over beers with women hovering over their shoulders.

A swinging saloon door in the back caught Eddie's eye as one tall man walked past them, down a long hallway with a gussied up lady on his arm.

Eddie scanned the room until he found a group sitting in the back. The bartender paused and unloaded the entire tray of shots onto their table. Eddie recognized several of the muscle bound dancers.

A handful of women hovered around the table. Some of the actors performed for the women who squealed in delight. Eddie stared until he spotted a glimmer of blond curls. Waylon leaned in to listen to one of his companions before the table burst out in laughter.

Waylon held up a glass with clear liquid and ice. Water—or straight liquor? Eddie had been invited. There was no reason to be insecure. He walked toward the group before Waylon stood up, and brought Eddie's movements to a halt.

"Jake!" Waylon's voice carried through the room. He laughed as he reached out, and slid his open palm across one of the dancers' stomachs, prompting the man to lift his shirt to give a closer feel. The show received catcalls and cheers from the gathering.

Waylon bent at the waist to inspect closer, and someone smacked his ass. The resounding smack caused several heads to turn in the main room. He bolted upright, and his eyes landed on…

"Eddie!" Waylon's grin was huge as he stumbled over the furniture on his way out of the booth area, and back toward the entrance. The group stared at Eddie for a half beat, before resuming their own conversations in more hushed tones. "Hey, I didn't think you were gonna show!"

"Perhaps I have made a mistake," said Eddie, keeping his demeanor cool despite the growing discomfort. "Now that I have seen this establishment, I can say with surety that this isn't the place for me."

"Wait, don't say that," said Waylon, lower lip pushed out in what could only be called a pout. Waylon was pouting. "Stay and have a drink with me? What can I get you?"

"Go back to your group, you seemed to be having fun," said Eddie, glaring back at the booth of dancers. They were all watching closely while pretending to be not watching closely. How did these amateurs get jobs as extras in a movie?

Waylon looked back toward the group and gave a half-wave. "They're fun guys," he said, turning back to face Eddie, "but I'd rather spend time with you."

Eddie scoffed, turning to stare at the bar—anywhere to break eye contact. "I apologize, I was curious about the type of business. Now that my curiosity has been sated, I'm not interested in spending any more time here."

"You don't wanna look at the girls?" asked Waylon, waggling his eyebrows with a smirk.

"Strong pass," said Eddie.

"Not interested in girls?" asked Waylon, eyelids lowering as he took a half step closer.

"You're here, and you're not interested in girls," said Eddie.

Waylon laughed, dimples coming out in full force. "You got me there. Definitely more into tall, dark, muscular guys." The next step forward trespassed into Eddie's personal space. Waylon reached out his hand and stopped just shy of touching the fabric of Eddie's shirt. "Say, you're a tall, dark, muscular guy…"

"Hardly professional," said Eddie.

"Well, consider it practice for tomorrow," said Waylon, smiling. He paused a breath, before sliding fingers along the front of Eddie's shirt.

"I don't require practice," said Eddie, more breathless than intended.

"Sure you do," said Waylon, allowing his fingers to trail up Eddie's chest. "You froze up during that one shot. Every time I touched you, you flinched away. And considering tomorrow's scheduled scene…"

Breath caught, but Eddie made no answer.

"I know it's my fault," said Waylon. "I know you're uncomfortable because I'm a guy, but I thought maybe I could show you it's no big deal, no different than touching a female costar, or maybe I'm doing something wrong and you could tell me how to fix it?"

"You…think I dislike your touch?" asked Eddie. Waylon shrugged, eyes crinkling as he smiled.

"I mean, every time I touched you, you flinched or jumped away," said Waylon. "Like I had cooties or something."

Eddie caught Waylon's hand with his own and interlocked the tips of their fingers. He moved the hand to his heart, maintaining the touch the entire time. Pressing Waylon's fingers into his shirt.

"I don't dislike your touch," said Eddie, squeezing Waylon's hand on his chest. He held Waylon's eye as they stood, touching casually in the middle of a brothel. "If anything, I was unsettled, because I did like it."

Eddie released Waylon's hand and adjusted his jacket to cover more of his shirt. "Enjoy your evening," said Eddie.

"Wait," said Waylon, bumping into a low standing table, following Eddie. "Stay?" A smile bloomed on his face when Eddie paused and glanced back.

"I'll drive you to the set in the morning," said Eddie, resuming his march out the front door of the brothel.

Waylon Park. Worried that he wasn't good enough. It was because he was a bird with a broken wing. That's why Eddie paid such close attention to Waylon's life. He wanted to help him-to mentor him. Encourage him.

The same story as every costar Eddie became attached to in the past two decades of his work.

That was the only reason Eddie couldn't stop thinking about Waylon Park.

A/N: Thanks for the review Ria'Latsyrc :) Next Chapter: The first time filming a sex scene for the movie.