11
Damian
EXTRAtainmentUpdate!
Damian Marshall Vanishes
Damian Marshall, previously reported to be in Ibiza following a public blowout with director Anderson Lind, has vanished. It’s now unclear if he was in Spain at all. Since leaving Los Angeles last Thursday, the star has not been heard from or seen officially in several days.
“Mr. Marshall is a private citizen entitled to time to himself” was the official statement from Ivy Sinclair, assistant at Feuerstein Talent, Marshall’s agency. No further comment was offered.
* * *
This is exactlywhat I needed. The salt air blows away the tension that rode on my shoulders like a demon as I headed out of the lodge earlier.
But in its place is a different kind of tension. The unresolved sexual kind. In his knit cap and flannel shirt, Jack is every inch the rugged bear that usually drives me wild. When he asked me what I like to do for fun, I drew a complete blank. Partly because it’s been such a long time since I had a day off that I’ve forgotten what it is to go out for fun’s sake and not because I’ve been paid to make an appearance or because Roberta says it’ll be good for my career. And part of my mental vacancy was because, as I cast back to the years before everyone knew my face, all I could recall were nights out with Vin at gay bars in WeHo. I was a nameless, faceless struggling actor back then, and on more than one occasion I wound up in a bathroom or even going home with a big, strapping bear who would pull my hair and ask me if I liked it rough. I don’t remember their names any more than they remember mine, but I remember the pressure and the heat as they pounded my ass or told me to tip my head back so they could fuck my mouth, and it’s easy enough to put Jack’s face on those memories and imagine what it would be like.
It’s weird, I know, and yes, I’m avoiding my issues—and in particular the script that’s currently folded into the oversized pocket of my parka—but the way Jack’s looking at me as he stumbles toward me says he’s feeling the tension too.
Which is why it’s such a pain in the ass when one of the fishing rods reels out, and he goes back into business mode, stepping past me to grab for it, watching the tip dip and bob with an air of quiet competence that’s as attractive to me as the rest of him.
“What kind of fish do we get here?” I ask.
“Mostly rockfish, I expect,” he says, his eyes on the water. His jaw is set, and I can see him on a red carpet, beard neatly trimmed, staring down the cameras as everyone wonders where this strong, attractive man came from. He’s got a presence that makes people like him right away. Something about him says you can trust him.
Like I trusted him when I told him I was gay. It’s been a while since I’ve said the words out loud. If he ever finds out who I really am, he could sell my revelation to the media and never have to work again. But for now, he didn’t make a big deal out of it, like he hasn’t made a big deal out of anything. Because to him, I’m David, and David can be anyone he wants.
And if he wants to flirt with Jack a bit, he can do that too.
Though the way he’s so thoroughly unimpressed with “Mr. Morgan” leaves me uneasy. He clearly likes David, but I’m not so sure how he’d feel about Damian.
The fact that I’m talking about myself in the third person is a clear indication how twisted up this is all becoming in my head.
The rod curves, and Jack leans back, gripping it hard.
I whistle softly, trying to focus on the present instead of potential messy what-ifs in the future. “Looks like a big one.”
He grunts. “Maybe forty pounds.”
I open my mouth to say something quippy but, still distracted, nothing comes. “Is that... is that big?”
He grins as he glances at me. “Depends on what you wanna do with it.”
Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it?
He steps back, holding out the rod. “You take it.”
“But—”
“Your vacation. Your catch.”
But unlike yesterday, he doesn’t move away when I take the rod from him. He gives me enough space so I can stand square against the rail and reel the fish in, but he only leaves a few inches between us. Enough that when the boat rocks, our shoulders brush for a second before we lean away from each other again.
Whatever’s on the other end of this line, it definitely feels solid, and for every foot or so I bring in, I have to pause and let the rod go slack again. My shoulders burn.
“Hard work, isn’t it?” Jack asks.
“I’m okay.” But within minutes, I’m breathing hard, which is embarrassing. I work out every day. I’ve had contracts specify how much weight I needed to lose or gain for a role. Roberta always strikes that clause out during negotiations, but then I do the diet or change my gym routine to hit the weight anyway. But my standard regime is about looking good shirtless and being able to keep up with the cardio demands of running across the same rooftop a dozen times in a row while the director of photography gets every camera angle he wants.
