Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Apparently not.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” I ask.
Jordan doesn’t answer me and drives from the studio toward Sunset. I assume he’s taking me out to some hot new bar, but we’ve done that scene. I don’t see why he’d think that would help us.
When he drives into a sketchy part of West Hollywood and pulls into a parking garage, I’m confused.
“Where we’re going doesn’t have valet?” I ask.
“Hell no. It’s not that type of place at all.”
“Are we going to get mugged?”
“You’re so sheltered. It’s adorable. We’re not famous tonight.”
“I don’t know how that works for you, but for me, I can’t go outside and not be recognized.”
“Oh, you’ll be recognized, but where I’m taking you, you’ll always be treated like a human first, famous second.”
“Where is this unicorn of a place?”
Jordan finds a parking space. “A gay bar.”
Oh shit. My face must speak for me because Jordan doesn’t miss a beat.
“You’re thinking about needing to call your agent, aren’t you? Are you worried about rumors of gay being contagious and you’ve caught it?” He’s mocking me, but it’s not that.
“I don’t care what people think of me, but I’m picturing the headlines. With Eleven getting back together, I have to think how my actions affect the other guys.”
“Are you forgetting you’re playing a gay character in a movie? This is the epitome of research for your role. Tonight, when you walk through those doors, you’re no longer Blake Monroe. You’re Madden.”
Right. I’m Madden.
I can do this.
Chapter Four
Jordan
I purposely chose the hole-in-the-wall bar called Hole, for a reason. It’s old, it’s run-down, but the drinks are cheap, the owners are an old married couple—the cutest old dudes in all of LA—and the clientele is the most diverse I’ve ever seen in this city.
There are the party guys who pregame at Hole before moving on to a twink bar later for half-naked, sweaty fun. There are the low-key regulars who meet up with their friends weekly. The bartenders are muscled, the servers are old-school campy drag queens, and the whole atmosphere of it is homey. There are Daddies, bears, twinks, lipstick lesbians, trans and non-binary people, and every other letter under the rainbow. From the stereotypes to complete opposites and everything in between, with one common theme among them all: acceptance.
Back in my modeling days, I’d come here whenever I wanted to feel like I belonged.
It’s the only bar I can think of in the area where Blake can see the vast differences within the community. I think he’s too in his head about playing a gay man correctly that he doesn’t realize there is no incorrect way. All representation matters, and everyone’s experiences are different. He should be playing Madden as Madden. Gay isn’t all Madden is, and I’m hoping he’ll see what I mean when we enter Hole.
As we step over the threshold, I watch for Blake’s reaction.
He takes it all in but keeps a passive look on his attractive face. His square jaw is covered in the thinnest blond beard known to man, and it’s so fucking sexy, but that thought makes me realize how bad an idea this might be. The guys here are going to try to eat him alive.
Eh, I’ll protect him.
“Drink, Madden?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Sure, Eamon.”
We walk past the small dance floor, where bodies of all shapes and sizes fill the space, and head straight to the bar where John, one of the owners, is serving. He sees me, and his face lights up.
“Superstar!”
“Ha ha, old man.” I lean over the bar to give him a kiss on his cheek.
John and his husband welcomed me to this scene years ago. I’d come here after failed auditions, crappy shoots, and whenever I was feeling particularly down. They became the people who would put a smile back on my face, tell me not to give up, and encouraged me to keep going when I felt like quitting and sticking to modeling.
The model gigs were fine and paid well—at least I didn’t have to shlep around as a waiter like most struggling actors—but acting has always been my dream. I went to an arts college back in Boston before moving out to LA.
“It’s been too long since you’ve come to say hi,” John says.
“I know, I know.” Ben hates coming here, so I haven’t been in far too long.
John’s gaze catches on Blake. “Hey, you look like that guy in those action flicks.”
I’m quickly learning Blake is recognized one of two ways—as Blake Monroe, ex-boy band member, or Coby Godspeed, movie badass. And it’s usually always the same demographic: women under thirty recognize him as Blake, and everyone else recognizes him as Coby.
Blake opens his mouth, but I cut him off.
“He gets that all the time. This is Madden.”
Blake side-eyes me.
“What can I get you?” John asks.