“Good morning. It’s Mr. Morgan,” I say, giving the alias Ivy uses when booking us into hotels. Vin stomps off toward the shower in his shimmering robe.
“Yes, good morning, sir. How are you today?” Her voice suddenly has that breathless quality like she’d do anything I ask, whether that’s go for a swim in the freezing water outside or hike deep into the woods to find me freshly picked berries. It’s the tone I get from most people, but after my conversation with Jack, it feels extra weird.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Would it be possible to have breakfast served early?”
Thirty seconds later, after a lot of very perky reassurances that an early breakfast will be no trouble at all, I hang up. “All set. Get a move on!” I bounce at the edge of the mattress, kicking my heels against the oak bed frame.
“I still hate you,” Vin calls over the sound of running water.
“You’ll hate me less when I tell you who I met.”
“Curtis Hollingsworth?”
I snort. Although now that I think about it, Jack the fisherman had a certain resemblance. Curt and I were in the firstShadow Leaguetogether. Might have screwed around a bit, but not publicly. He was nice to look at and had a legion of fans who hovered outside the hotel for a chance to see the back of his head. Jack is red where Curt is blond, and a little younger too. And there was something about Jack’s face that said he was less prone to smiling than Curt was, but still... not a bad likeness.
Vin pokes his head out of the bathroom, eyes wide. “Hollingsworth is staying here?”
I blink, caught somewhere between a memory of me and Curt in bed on a rare day off and a fantasy of me and Jack rolling around in the big bed upstairs. “What? No. Nothing like that.”
“Oh.” Vin pouts, and I roll my eyes. Vin so isn’t into the burly Viking type.
I am though. But that isn’t the point. Four-poster fantasies aside, I can’t seduce a unicorn, and Jack is definitely one of those.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.” I didn’t realize when I got dressed that there really wasn’t anywhere to walk to. We’re on a floating hotel in the middle of nowhere. It backs onto a shoreline that’s basically dense forest I didn’t feel brave enough to try on my own when no one knew where I was, so I could only go as far as the end of the dock.
“And you came face to face with a Sasquatch?” Vin is still sulking, but he’s also getting dressed, so we’re making progress. We’ll grab something to eat and get back to Jack as soon as we can. I can’t wait for Vin to meet him. Of all the things I thought I’d find up here in the middle of nowhere, someone like Jack hadn’t even made my list.
“No. Better than a Sasquatch.” I can barely control my grin at the thought of the quiet man on the fishing boat who offered me coffee and conversation with no other agenda. Not after the last ten days of endless questions and requests for comments. Not after the months—hell, the years—of cameras and cellphones and people asking for a photo or a hug when the last thing I want is to be touched by another stranger. I told Roberta I wanted to be famous, I just didn’t realize I’d have to give up so many pieces of myself—from my sexuality to my personal space—to do it.
Of course, there’s a chance I’m wrong about what happened this morning and it’ll all spectacularly blow up in my face, but with everything else that’s gone sideways lately, I believe Jack was genuine.
I hold the hotel room door open, trying to hurry Vin along.
“Nothing’s better than a Sasquatch,” he says as he slides his shoes on.
“Yes, there is. Vin, I think I met someone who doesn’t know who I am.”
* * *
As we come downthe grand staircase that leads to the hotel’s main lobby, a few staff members scurry by. They keep their eyes down as they’ve no doubt been trained to, though one young woman can’t help herself and turns at the last second, staring at me with wide eyes like she’s seen a ghost. I get that a lot.
Encounters with fans typically fall into one of three categories. There are people who do their best to keep their cool and fail. Usually if they do manage to say anything, it’s a stammered “Hi. I love your movies,” and then they hurry away.
Then there are the superfans. The ones who scream and cry and beg for a selfie and talk to me in a way that always leaves me a bit uncertain as to whether they understand Damian Marshall is not the same person as Dex Russo, the mafia son trying to reclaim his life in theShadow Leaguemovies. These fans can get overwhelming, but they’re mostly harmless.
And finally, there are the weirdos. They’re like the first group in that they don’t approach, but these ones hover, watching. It’s downright creepy, especially when it goes on for more than a minute or two. Sometimes people don’t realize they’re doing it. One woman was so enthralled, she tried to follow me into the men’s room at La Patrie in New York City, then burst into tears when a waiter asked her where she was going.
Others, well, I don’t know what they’re doing, but there’s always a chance they’re building up an idealized impression of me so they can then send me streams of letters or social media messages about how we’re meant to be together after the time we almost met while I was waiting in line for coffee at a Starbucks in Pittsburgh.
Honestly, I haven’t been inside a Starbucks in a couple of years. The risk isn’t worth it. One look at my social media DMs is enough to explain why. Not that I manage my own social media anymore. I stopped after the firstShadow Leaguebecause it was too much to keep up with and not good for my mental health. The things people feel comfortable telling you when there’s a few phone screens between you is truly weird and frequently disturbing. I’ve received everything from marriage proposals to death threats, pictures of strangers naked to some truly intrusive questions about my sexual preferences. And I don’t just mean my orientation. There was one guy who seemed determine to figure out my preferred type of sex toy by sending videos of himself demonstrating how each was used. Ivy sent me the highlights before she finally blocked him. I asked Roberta if any of her other clients had the same problems, and she waved it off, saying it was the price to pay in the industry.
Still, the staff at the lodge is well-trained to pretend I’m just another guy. Except for Jack. He wasn’t playing along. I know what that looks like. He honestly believed every word I told him.
Of course, all of it was true. The name on my birth certificate is David Morgan, and my dad is a racist bigot from the backwoods. It’s just not the story I give most people. Or anyone, really. Not since my career took off. To everyone except Vin and Roberta, I’m Damian Marshall, movie star. People want to talk about my movies, my international adventures, and how I feel about getting snubbed at the Oscars last year. No one wants to hear about my childhood growing up as a gay kid in the middle of nowhere.
The main dining room is silent as we enter, but a crash and muffled shouting comes from the kitchen. A woman in a Wild Eagle polo shirt and khakis walks us to a table, then hurries into the kitchen when we ask for coffee. Although she repeatedly reassures us that it’s no trouble we showed up early, the ruckus coming from behind the kitchen doors leaves the impression that someone has been caught off guard.
This is only reinforced when the blonde woman who met us on the dock the day before rushes into the dining room, stopping short when she sees us. I’ve forgotten her name, but she’s definitely the one in charge, and she can’t be happy that we’ve caught her staff unprepared.
