#clembakeson

Ray Garraty wouldn’t call himself a micro-manager when it came to his films, but he was particular about his artistic vision.

“Look, I know she’s relatively unknown, but you look at that audition tape and tell me you don’t see the potential!” He argued, skimming through the script.

“I can see the vision, I’m just saying it might not be the right part for her,” The casting director, a fellow by the name of George Fielder, said. They were on a Zoom call together to discuss Garraty’s latest film, a horror movie revolving around cannibalism whose name had yet to be finalized.

“Just take a minute and imagine her covered in blood,” Ray urged.

“I’m imagining it. And I think she’d do better as a victim than as a main cannibal,” Fielder sat back in his seat, looking over a paper that Ray assumed was the actor’s resume. “You sure you want an unknown next to Janice Bosko?”

“I know for a fact Jan won’t care if her co-star is an unknown. She’s not vapid like that.”

“The script would need rewrites too, that part was written for a man, not a woman.”

“So I’ll talk to the screenwriters. God forbid a few pronouns have to change, that’s all it’d really need.”

Fielder let out a sigh, tossing aside the resume. “Hear me out for a second.”

Ray looked up from the script, “Go ahead…”

“I have someone in mind who I think would play the part well, but you’d probably have to contact him yourself.”

Ray resisted the urge to frown, already not liking where this was going. “Who is it?”

“If we could just get Adam White—”

“Absolutely not.”

“He’s a great actor! You know he’s a great actor! He’d be damn near perfect for the project, and if it’s you he’ll probably say yes to it—”

“He left the industry for a reason, Fielder. I’m not about to drag him back into it, over my dead body. Drop it, or I’m finding a new casting director.”

Fielder was quiet for a moment, scowling slightly. “… Fine. No Adam White. But we at least need a chemistry read on this Marisol Wyman before we make any final decisions.”

“I expected nothing less, put her on the callback list.” Ray glanced at the time. “I gotta cut this short, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Alright, talk to you later, Garraty.”

Ray closed out the Zoom window, glancing back over the script. It’d already gone through a few revisions, but surely asking for a relatively minor change wouldn’t be too difficult. Although he wouldn’t ask them to do so until the actress was for sure cast. If she did well in the chemistry read with Jan, Ray was gonna fight tooth and nail to get her cast, that’s for damn sure.

He started flipping through the script, grabbing a pen to make notes. Would only pronouns need to be changed if the character’s gender was changed? Or would there be greater implications to the change? But perhaps the change could add more to the story, add a layer to it they hadn’t previously considered.

His phone buzzed on the desk, and he immediately grabbed it to take a look. The notification said the text was from Peter McVries. Ray quickly opened it to answer.

Pete: Would I be right in guessing you would want tickets to my next tour? Pete: Dates aren’t decided yet but I just wanna make sure. Ray: Right as always Pete Pete: And Stebbins? Ray: I’ll convince him! Pete: As long as the convincing involves no kidnapping Ray: Aw you don’t wanna surprise him? :( Pete: I don’t want a guy who can bench both of us in a situation where he thinks he has to fight us Ray: I think Stebbins would just talk his way out of a kidnapping situation Ray: Traumatize the kidnappers more than they traumatize him Pete: He just psychoanalyzes them the whole time Ray: SWAT comes to save them and the kidnappers are crying on the floor while he’s still tied up Pete: Oh don’t make me think of a tied up Stebbins Pete: Do you think his family does kidnapping drills? Pete: Like the royal family? Ray: … I’m gonna ask him when I next see him Pete: please tell me the answer, I’m curious now Pete: Anyways, save two tickets for you guys? Ray: Of course of course

Ray set his phone down, returning his attention to the script.

✦ ✦ ✦ 

It was a long day in the recording studio.

Peter McVries always did his best to take care of himself and his instrument when it came to recording days. But still, he knew he was going to need a hot cup of lemon tea with honey when he got home tonight.

“How was that take?” Pete asked once the recording light in the studio dimmed.

“I think that was the one, McVries,” His producer, Tressler, said into his mic from the control room. “Go take a water break and I’ll pull you in for a listen in a minute.”

Pete grinned, setting aside his headphones and taking off his guitar, setting it aside as he left the live room. He headed over to the lounge, taking a seat while he waited and grabbing his bag from the other chair. From his bag, he pulled out a leather notebook, well-worn and pages starting to curl already.

Since signing on with a record label and hitting his big break, Pete had turned the focus of his music onto a concept he’d been holding onto since he first started writing. The basic idea was that there would be an album for each of the six forms of love defined by the ancient Greeks. The one he was currently working on Storge, or familial love.

He flipped open the notebook, smoothing down the page as he found the lyrics to the song he had just recorded for.

The first song of the album was dedicated to his parents, a song about losing the people you most love and looked up to and trying to carry their legacy with you. The second was dedicated to his little sister, Katrina, and detailed the pride he had in her after raising her all these years. The song he had just recorded was, somehow, even more personal, its lyrics less straight-forward and far more up to interpretation than the last two. But he meant for it to be like that.

It hinted at two different meetings, two different people. One loud in his beliefs, headstrong and sure. The other quieter, more guarded, but with a softness one could catch if they looked at him right. How those two and the singer grew together and stayed together, even through distance and busy lives. No one would be able to pinpoint who this song was about, the two subjects themselves may not pick up on it, but Pete knew. Pete was the only one who needed to know.

“Hey Pete!” Pete glanced up to see Tressler peaking out from the control room. “Sample’s ready if you wanna come take a listen!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Pete said, tucking the notebook away again.

Hours later, Pete finally returned home for the night, and prepared his much needed tea.

He set the mug on the side table while he waited for it to steep, plopping himself down on the couch and grabbing the remote to scroll through the different shows and movies. Ray had given him a list of recommendations, but truth be told Pete only looked through them half the time, and he didn’t feel like watching something Ray would interrogate him about later (as endearing as those interrogations were).

Just as he was about to switch off of Netflix, he came across the comedy specials section, and saw a familiar face that piqued his interest. On the title card was “Ten Naked Ladies” in big bold font, next to an image of his dear friend, Hank, presumably on-stage and holding a microphone.

Pete grinned to himself, before standing up and pulling out his phone. He took a selfie with the TV screen, before returning to the couch and sending the photo to Hank.

Pete: [Image of Pete grinning in front of the TV Screen, the Netflix title card to Hank’s special displayed on the screen] Pete: You didn’t tell me it started streaming already! Hank: Well clearly I was too busy with the ten naked ladies to keep you updated Pete: Is Clementine one of those ladies or are they all in addition to her? Hank: Obviously she gets the ten naked ladies too

Pete chuckled to himself, tucking his phone away and turning on the comedy special.

✦ ✦ ✦ 

The stage lights were near-blinding, but Hank Olson was used to that. He was even grateful for it, in the beginning of his career. But nowadays, seeing the whole crowd while he did stand-up didn’t phase him much.

If anything, hearing and seeing the crowd’s reactions like this fueled him. If it didn’t, he didn’t think he would’ve been able to make a career out of being a Funny Guy.

“So speaking of college,” Hank said into the mic, setting down the water bottle he just took a drink from. “I met my best friend in college— We were roommates all throughout undergrad. And lemme tell ya’, I have no idea how the fuck this guy isn’t sick of me yet.”

That alone earned a laugh— Not one of the biggest, but that was fine, this was only lead-up so far.

“So important context: I’m bisexual. Don’t get too excited gentlemen— I am also happily married!” Hank grinned as the crowd let out joking groans of disappointment. “But I’m bisexual, and I didn’t realize this until about halfway through college.”

“Now, I got around a bit in college,” Hank continued, “And my poor roommate— We’ll call him Art, ‘cus that’s his name— Was subjected to many nights of me taking someone home. So two years into us being roommates and him being somewhat used to my escapades, I bring home a guy. I didn’t warn him that I was bringing home a dude this time, I just showed up with the tall glass o’ water jock in tow.”

More laughter erupts from the audience. Hank waits a few seconds for it to calm down.

“So we go to my room. Have our fun. He gets dressed again and leaves. And Art is waiting in the living room for me, because he’s just figured out I’m bi and wants to, y’know, talk about it and give me his support, right? I waltz out, shirt off, afterglow of sex all over me. And he goes, ‘Hey, I didn’t know you were into men?’ And I, having just freshly dicked down a man who can bench-press twice my weight, goes ‘Oh I’m not.’”

Roars of laughter overwhelm the crowd, and Hank tries to hold back his smile as he waits for a window to continue.

“That is how hilariously deep in the closet I was! So Art— Being the fucking saint that he is— sits me down and has a very long, very round-a-bout conversation with me about how typically, you do not fuck men if you are not into men. And I point out, ‘Hey, some lesbians have had sex with men before!’ To which Art goes, ‘Hank. Are you a lesbian?’”

He pauses for a brief moment to take another sip of water, a few audience members giggling in anticipation.

“And I say, ‘Well, no, I’m not a lesbian.’ And he says, ‘Then that doesn’t mean anything, does it?’” More laughter, it’s like a drug to Hank at this point of the night, “So after many hours of talking, all the while I’m still shirtless and have yet to have a post-sex shower, we finally, finally come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe… I might be bisexual.”

More laughter and applause. Hank used to mentally keep track of how many laughs he got during a routine, but nowadays it was too many times to count. He was only halfway through his set and he’d already lost track.

He went through a few more bits, the audience eating it up every step of the way. By the end, they were roaring with applause as he waved, took a bow, and walked off stage.

Hank all but ran to his dressing room, immediately checking his phone for the time once he got there. Fuck, it was late— But of course it was late, all his shows ran late like this. His agent once suggested he try to add some morning shows, and Hank recalled telling him he’d rather deep throat a cactus than do two shows in one day. He loved stand-up, but his throat would murder him if he kept up that kind of frequency.

Clementine was going to be asleep by now. She’s staying in a nearby hotel with him tonight, and he knows damn well she’d try to stay awake, but she was never one to stay up very late in the first place. He could already imagine her curled up in the hotel bed, lightly snoring and hugging onto a pillow like the pillow was Hank himself.

God, he couldn’t wait to tell Clementine how tonight went.

✦ ✦ ✦

Art Baker was always anxious right before a fashion show. He couldn’t help it, he cared about his designs and the pieces he crafted so much. He spent hours sketching, cutting, dying, sewing, constructing all manner of pieces, he’d truly have to be insane not to care about how it’d look on the runway.

“Hoooold still,” Art muttered, straightening the headpiece on his model, Clementine, and smoothing down the fabric of her sleeves. “How does that feel?”

“You want the nice answer or the real answer?” Clementine cracked a smile.

“Hmm… Gimme both.”

“Nice answer- Feels fantastic. Real answer- I feel like I’m wearing a hundred pounds of fabric and like I’ll topple over if I sneeze.”

Art let out a hearty laugh, “Fair enough, fair enough— But is there anything that needs to be changed? Nothin’ digging in where it isn’t supposed to or anything?”

“Nope! It’s good,” Clementine smiled again.

Art took a step back, looking her up and down as he walked a circle around her, keeping an eye open for anything that was out of place or needed fixing.

The piece that Clementine was modeling was from his newest line— One that was inspired by funerary wear and mourning attire of different countries and cultures and time periods. Clementine’s piece was inspired by the Victorian era, complete with a shawl to cover her head— Art swore he could hear Hank bemoaning in his head over how the shawl covered his wife’s beautiful face.

“Corset’s not too tight?” Art raised his eyebrows to Clem.

“It’s just as tight as it should be,” She confirmed.

“And the shoes?”

“I will throw them off the second I’m off the runway, but they’re workable.”

Art nodded sagely, glancing at his watch for the time. “Alright, I need to go check on the others,” He glanced back to her, “Any word on Hank?”

“His show’s probably gonna run too late for him to come— I already told him not to rush if he runs late. Our reservation’s good to go either way.”

“Reservation for two or for three?”

Clementine grinned, “I think you know the answer to that.”

Art gave a smile and a wink. “I’ll see you in a few, gorgeous.” He turned and headed off to find his other models.

He spent a good few minutes perfecting each and every piece, and making sure each and every one of his models were comfortable and ready to go. As this continued, he kept checking the time, counting down the minutes to when the fashion show would start and when he’d have to go and take his seat.

Finally, it was time to go.

As he rushed to the hall, his assistant, Elsie Parker, caught up to him. “Mr. Baker, the show’s going to start in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, thank you, Elsie. I’m more than aware,” Art said, good nature alive in his voice.

“Just making sure— They’re going to try and invite you out for drinks afterwards, too.”

“Are they? Who told you?”

“No one told me, I’m just good at my job,” Elsie replied.

Art laughed, patting Elsie on the shoulder. “Tell them I appreciate the thought, but I already have dinner plans on the schedule.”

“Alright. Oh, and don’t forget you have tickets to Collie’s game next weekend,” Elsie reminded him.

“I didn’t forget!”

The show itself went off without a hitch, and by the end of it Art was rushing himself backstage again. Clementine had stripped herself of the piece in record time, already in her casual clothes again, and the two gave out goodbyes as they rushed to the street and to their cars.

They met up again, at a little bar and grill, to discover they’d almost missed their reservation.

“He’s going to be here soon, I promise,” Art explained to the hostess. “He’s just coming back from a show.”

“Sir, if your entire party isn’t here, I’m afraid your reservation will be forfeit,” The hostess explained.

“He’s almost here, he’s looking for parking!” Clementine said, looking up from her phone.

“Just five more minutes, give us five more minutes,” Art negotiated. A few of the other patrons were giving the two of them looks now, and he knew it wasn’t from being recognized— Art rarely got recognized in public. Clementine did far more often than he did, but even she could usually skate by unnoticed when she tried. No, there were starting to make a scene over a reservation.

The door to the bar and grill opened, “I’m here, I’m here!” Art heard a few gasps and excited whispers, and he turned with a smile to see Hank approaching the hostess stand, a charismatically apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry— The parking situation was fuckin’ nuts.”

“O-Oh…!” The hostess suddenly looked bashful as her eyes landed on Hank. “Uhm— Hank Olson?”

“The one and only,” Hank replied.

The hostess looked to Clementine, then to Art, gears turning in her head at the situation. Finally, she said, “It was a party of three for Clementine?”

“Yes,” Clementine breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Alright, right this way—” The hostess grabbed some menus and directed the three through the restaurant. As they walked through, some of the other patrons stole glances at Hank, and Art swore he heard one or two mutter about Clementine as well. Not a single person spared him a glance, but he didn’t mind.

The three of them took their seats in a booth, quickly ordering their drinks before continuing their own conversation.

“So how was the show?” Hank asked.

“Went off perfectly. You should’ve seen Clementine— Actually, maybe it’s best you didn’t. You might’a died on the spot,” Art teased.

“Any plans for next weekend?” Clementine asked, swirling her straw in her drink.

“Oh, I’m going to go see one of Collie’s games, actually,” Art replied.

“Man, he never gives me tickets to his games,” Hank complains.

“Have you ever asked him for them?” Art asked.

“… Well, no.”

“Maybe start there, Hank.”

✦ ✦ ✦ 

If anyone ever had the audacity to say ice hockey wasn’t that rough, Collie Parker would pop out his flipper and show off his four missing front teeth. That usually shut people up real fast.

It didn’t stop Zuck’s bragging, though. If anything, it only fueled it.

“The universe had to humble you, Parker. Face card that lethal, it had to bring you down a few points,” Zuck teased. The two of them were in the hockey locker room, along with the rest of their teammates, getting ready for practice.

“If we’re talking face cards then you’re next on the chopping block. Pretty boy like you won’t last much longer without a puck to the face,” Collie jabbed back, pulling on a shirt.

“Nah, the universe loves me too much to mess this up,” Zuck grins and motions to his face, “Parents paid way too much for braces for me to lose ‘em.”

“Your parents got you braces? They’re gonna regret that when your teeth are knocked in,” Collie grinned right back, “And when that happens, I’m gonna be laughing in your face.”

“Laugh all you want, at least I still have time to win over the ladies!”

“Oh, you think I have trouble with that?” Collie raised his eyebrows.

“I’m just sayin’, I don’t see you going on any dates.”

Collie didn’t answer. Instead, he grabbed his phone from his locker room stall and opened a text convo, ignoring Zuck’s attempts to get his attention again.

Collie: Can you and Rank verify that you like me without my flipper Collie: I’m proving a point to a teammate Collie: A text or voice memo is fine Gary: Rank wants to know if he can include the dick sucking in his testimony Collie: Zuck doesnt need to know about the dick sucking Gary: Its for Zuck?? Gary: I think Zuck needs to know about the dick sucking Collie: Your dicks going on blast, not mine Gary: Can we put your dick on blast? I think it deserves to go on blast Collie: No this convo is about the flipper Collie: Stay focused Gary: Too late. Thinking about dick now

Collie rolled his eyes, tucking his phone back into his duffel bag.

“You almost ready, or do you need a few more minutes to stare in the mirror?” Zuck asks, patting Collie on the shoulder.

“Oh, I’m ready. Whoever scores the fewest goals has to buy the other guy’s beer.”

“Just beer? Boost it up to dinner and we got a deal.”

Once they got on the ice, practice started. Warm-up laps around the rink, then flow drill, then breakout, then stations (Collie and Zuck both focused on scoring for the most part), then finished off with conditioning.

After an hour, they were washing off in the showers.

“You cheated,” Zuck declared, scrubbing himself down.

“How the hell did I cheat?” Collie asked, rinsing out his hair.

“I’m still figuring that part out, but I swear you did!”

“I don’t think it’s good faith to accuse your teammates of cheating, Zuck,” Collie said, flipping his hair out of his face.

“Man, this is a fucking shower, not a shampoo commercial,” Zuck teased, turning his shower off.

“You’re just jealous I’d be in a shampoo commercial before you,” Collie teased back. Personally, Collie hated getting booked for ads and commercials, but Zuck seemed to jump at the chance to be in an advertisement. Collie was pretty sure he just liked getting free shit out of the deal. Zuck shook his head and flipped off Collie before walking off to get a towel.

Collie finished his own shower not long after, toweling himself off and taking a moment to braid his hair back. By the time he made it back into the locker room, most of his teammates had already dipped. Zuck, however, was sat in his stall, doomscrolling as he waited for Collie. Ever a man of his word, Collie knew Zuck would pay for his dinner tonight, even if he moaned and griped the whole way. Collie would at least be nice and pick a place they both liked, to make up for Zuck’s bruised ego.

Collie grabbed his phone from his duffel bag and checked his notifications. He nearly dropped his phone when he saw Gary had sent him a nearly 20 minute long voice memo. He didn’t even know voice memos could be that long.

“… Hey Zuck? How much time you got right now?”

✦ ✦ ✦ 

Anyone who knew anything about the photography world knew the name Gary Barkovitch.

To say Barkovitch was a talented photographer was putting it lightly. What really stood out, however, was the fact that he was utterly insane. Anyone who had to tag along with him for a shoot could testify that doing so was bound to lead to a heart attack. A tour guide in Iceland once regaled how they swore he almost fell into lava while photographing the volcanoes.

He didn’t even stick to just one kind of photography. It was like the man was allergic to commitment (if you told his husband this, he’d laugh). He dabbled in portraits, events, landscapes, animals, he even had a brief stint as a paparazzo before deciding it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Basically, if you had an interesting subject for him to photograph and the right kind of money, he’d deliver.

His work pulled him all around the world, but today, Barkovitch was in his home state of Florida to photograph a horse race.

He’d gone through the stables before the race, photographing the horses themselves as they were getting ready to run. Photographing the race itself was a different story, there were only so many shots he could get, and he had to be selective in what spot he’d shoot from and the precise moment he’d capture each photo.

It was hard not to keep focusing on horse number nineteen, Paper Crane. Even moreso not to focus on the horse’s jockey, Rank Sanders. Others could accuse Barkovitch of favoritism all they’d like. They’d be right, he barely even bothered to hide it.

But hey, photos were photos, and even if the was a bias towards a particular horse and jockey, he still got plenty of shots of the others. The extras of Rank would be kept for himself. Even better, he’d have Rank all to himself once the day was done.

Barkovitch made his way to the stables once the races ended for the day, camera still hung around his neck and a prideful smile plastered on his face. He reached Paper Crane’s stall and hooked his arms over the top of the door, “Another win, Ranklin!”

Rank, who had just dismounted from Paper Crane, looked over to Barkovitch. His face split into a grin, showing off the snaggle-tooth Barkovitch loved to tease him over so much. “Felt like I was racin’ a bunch o’ amateurs.”

Barkovitch’s grin grew, and he held up his camera. “Wait ‘til you see the shots I got— Pretty sure I got a good one of your ass.”

“You gonna send that one in for publishing?” Rank joked, walking over to the stall door so he and Barkovitch were face-to-face.

“Nah, that one’s for my private collection.”

“Sure it is,” Rank said, before leaning forward and planting a kiss on Barkovitch’s lips. Barkovitch kissed back greedily, only being held back by the door between them.

When he broke away, he said, “Think any of these stalls are empty?”

A wicked grin crossed Rank’s face, “Oh, I think we can find one—”

Barkovitch’s phone started ringing in his pocket, and he let out an annoyed groan as he fished it out, ready to reject the call, until he saw the caller was Richard Harkness. “Stupid fucking…” He gave Rank a look that begged him to say ‘hang up and let me fuck your brains out’.

Rank raised his eyebrows, “… Did you bring your strap?”

“… No…”

“Then let’s wait ‘til we get home.”

Barkovitch let out an over-dramatic groan, before answering the phone and holding it to his ear. “What d’you want, Four Eyes?”

“Geez, did I interrupt something?” Harkness joked.

“Yes.”

“… Ah, I see. Anyways. I’m writing a new book—”

“When the fuck aren’t you writing a new book? You write in your fucking sleep.”

“I’m writing a new book, and I need a new author portrait for it. And I was thinking ‘Well, what friend of mine who’s so good at photography has done all my other author portraits before—’”

“Yes, I’ll fucking take your picture.”

“Great, awesome! Text me your availability and I’ll see you then!” And Harkness hung up before Barkovitch could reply.

Muttering a curse to himself, Barkovitch shoved his phone back into his pocket and looked to see Rank was taking the saddle and gear off of Paper Crane. “… So how soon until we can leave?”

“Gimme a few minutes, Gary,” Rank replied.

Barkovitch let out a huff, crossing his arms on top of the stall door and resting his head against them.

✦ ✦ ✦ 

Richard Harkness prided himself on his work ethic. The heinous amounts of coffee helped with that.

He was on perhaps his fifth coffee of the day while he went through more revisions with his editor at the publishing house.

“Look, I’m not sure what you were trying to accomplish with that passage, but it’s not coherent,” His editor said, circling said passage with red pen.

“It’s not supposed to be coherent,” Harkness explained, “The character is delirious and not thinking straight, and the prose is reflecting that.”

“It’s going to be off-putting for your readers, and not in the way you want it be.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“… Alright,” Harkness let out a deep sigh, “But it has to be a little incoherent.”

“You can make it reflect their delirium without making it unreadable, I believe in you.”

The meeting continued on, and by the time it was over Harkness felt his work had been thoroughly reamed through. It was a necessary process, but certainly a humbling one.

He should have continued working on the next draft when he got home. Make all the revisions that were asked of him, tweak a few things here and there, fix the grammar mistakes that were caught. Instead, he opened up the word document for an entirely different manuscript and started working on that story instead.

Harkness always worked on multiple books at once. He was convinced that’s part of how he got so many published in the first place. This particular story was still being mapped out, but it was a murder mystery revolving around an old money family. He didn’t think it was his most creative story, but he was having fun planning it out, and who doesn’t like a good murder mystery?

He made the main character an author— He couldn’t help it. A lot of his stories included at least one character who wrote. It was his little easter egg to himself. The character— who happened to be given up for adoption at a young age— was going to find out he was related to the old money family in question, and is invited to have dinner with them one night. It would be then that the patriarch of the family is murdered, and the main character has to not only prove his own innocence, but figure out who the actual murderer is.

He paused for a moment as he got to the scene where the character meets one of their family members for the first time. His mind flitted through all the possible outcomes, how this type of meeting could go, before he realized he knew someone who could give him some insight on this type of situation.

He picked up his phone and called Billy Stebbins.

The phone rang for a minute, before it was answered with a “Harkness?”

“Hey Stebbins,” Harkness grinned, though he knew Stebbins couldn’t see him. “I’m working on a book right now and I had some questions for ya’. You got a minute?”

Stebbins was quiet for a moment, and Harkness could imagine him shrugging before saying, “Sure, go ahead.”

“So how old were you when you found out you had half-siblings?” Harkness immediately dove in without anymore preamble.

“Fifteen. I met them when I was seventeen.”

“And when you met them, was there any kind of… Connection, would you say?”

“No.”

“… Not even a little?”

“Well, Scramm was six when we met, and he clung to me immediately. But I think that’s because his mom hyped me up a lot before we met. Aside from that there was nothing.”

“No instant connection at all? What was it like then?”

“There was no magic moment of ‘wow, these people are my family and I love them.’ I just met a group of strangers and started living with them. That’s all.”

“But surely there was some point later down the road where you started seeing them as loved ones, right?”

“…They’re my family. I tolerate them.”

“How long did that take?”

“What is this book about?” Stebbins asked.

“Oh, murder mystery where the main character finds out he’s a part of an old money family and then gets accused of murdering the patriarch of the family.”

“…”

“… I promise it’s not based off of you.”

“You don’t sound certain on that.”

“I may have been a little inspired.”

“How does the patriarch die?”

“Still deciding that. I’m thinking knife to the back, nice classic kind of kill. Possibly a bullet to the head instead but then I’d have to make everyone hear the gunshot.”

“Not if the killer uses a silencer.”

“Yeah, but silencers don’t actually completely silence a gun shot, do they?”

“Not completely. But if you have most of the other characters on the other side of the mansion when it happens then they reasonably may not hear it.”

“Hm. Got a lot to consider,” Harkness typed a few things down. “Anyways, that’s all I needed, thanks for talking!”

“I want a signed copy of the book as payment.”

“Will do, will do. Take care, Stebbins.” Harkness hung up the phone, opening a tab on gun silencers before continuing to plot out the novel.

✦ ✦ ✦ 

Billy Stebbins had five half-siblings. That alone would’ve been a lot, if he didn’t have to live with all of them in the same house.

James and Julia Kingsley, the twins, were arguing about something Stebbins didn’t care to pay attention to. Caleb Jefferson was flirting with the makeup artist who was touching up his foundation. Brayden Kingsley was on his phone muttering something about Instagram that couldn’t be heard over the roar of the blender making his smoothie. Jason Scramm was sat next to Stebbins, crunching on some yogurt and granola and paying to no mind the chaos around him. And Stebbins was just trying to eat his jam and toast in goddamn peace.

In any other household, this would be the extent of the chaos (sans the makeup artist, perhaps). But this wasn’t any household; this was the Kingsley family, the stars of the hit reality TV show Keeping up with the Kingsleys.

Around them, cameramen and sound techs and all manner of crew were scrambling around, getting everything set up for the day. Soon enough it’d be Stebbins’ turn to get his makeup touched up and to get a mic hooked up to his shirt. The first episode of the season was being filmed today. He already missed the show being on break.

“One hour until cameras start rolling!” His step-mom, Harriet Scramm, declared as she walked into the kitchen, her hair and makeup already done. Stebbins resisted the urge to roll his eyes— despite his distaste for the show, which was Harriet’s idea, Harriet wasn’t all that bad, so he tried not to act too rude to her.

“Mama, are you sure we can’t bring Cathy along?” Scramm asked through a mouthful of granola. Stebbins resisted the urge to cover his mouth for him— Scramm wasn’t six anymore, he could remember his own manners. 

“No, Honey. Her parents haven’t finished signing the NDAs,” Harriet explained, walking over and kissing Scramm on the top of his head. “We’ll see if she can come on another day, okay?”

Anyone who wanted to make an appearance on the show had to sign an NDA, but because Scramm was under eighteen and still in high school, his friends and girlfriend had to have their NDAs signed by their parents as well.

Scramm grumbled an agreement, in the grumpiest he could possibly sound (which wasn’t very grumpy, Scramm had always been the human embodiment of a golden retriever puppy, ever since Stebbins had met him).

The blender started up again, some crew members started arguing about a camera, and James and Julia’s voices raised, and all at once the noise was too much. Stebbins dropped his toast onto his plate, stood up, and stormed outside onto the porch.

The noises all become muffled the second the door slammed shut behind him. Stebbins stepped away from the door, leaning back against the wall of the house and wiping his hands over his face. The house was large— A mansion, really. Even after all these years Stebbins still wasn’t quite used to the sheer amount of space, enough space to comfortably fit a family of eight and leave room for guests. One would think the amount of space would make getting away from the cameras easy, but he knew once they started filming there was little to no escape from them.

His phone started buzzing in his pocket.

He pulled it out of his pocket and answered it, just to get it to stop. “What?”

“Yeesh, did I call at a bad time?”

Stebbins breathed out a sigh. It was just Garraty. “We start filming in an hour.”

“Oh, I did call at a bad time,” Garraty said. Stebbins could perfectly picture the sheepish look on his face.

“Did you see the video I sent you?” Stebbins asked, changing the subject before Garraty could bring up whatever he called about. Probably another movie offer, knowing him.

“Uh, the one where they’re trying to figure out what fetish I have based off my cinematography?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“… Well was it accurate?”

“I don’t have a thing for feet, that’s for sure,” Garraty was quiet for a moment, as if waiting for Stebbins to say something, but Stebbins instead waited for him to fill the silence more. “… They might be onto something with the blindfolds, though.”

Stebbins smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Wait, what?”

“What’d you call for?”

“Right, okay, so,” Garraty started, sounding somewhat thankful for the topic change, “There’s this movie—”

“No.”

“And we’re currently casting it—”

“No.”

“And I think you’d be really good for this one role—”

“Absolutely not.”

“One chance, Stebbins. Give me one chance.”

Stebbins smirked to himself. Garraty had been trying to cast Stebbins in a movie since Stebbins was eighteen, well before the two had properly met. Initially, he’d been annoyed at Garraty’s persistence. Now, it felt like a fun little game. Keep tugging Garraty along and see the lengths he’ll go to get Billy Stebbins on the big screen. Stebbins has even briefly considered agreeing to be in a different director’s movie, just to fuck with Garraty (the idea always loses its sparkle when he remembers that means he’ll have to actually act in front of a camera.)

“Nope,” Stebbins says, popping his lips on the ‘p’. Garraty groaned through the phone. “That all you had to ask?”

“Well, I had more, but I won’t keep you if you’re busy,” Garraty said.

Stebbins wanted to not be busy. He’d rather stay out here on the porch, talking to Garraty ‘til the sun went down, away from cameras and away from his family. But that wasn’t an option, he had to suck it up and deal with it.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later,” Stebbins said.

“Seeya later,” and with that, Garraty hung up the phone.

Stebbins stuck his phone back in his pocket, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. If he focused enough, he could pretend he could only hear the birds and the breeze, and not all the people inside the house. 

“You okay, hun?” Stebbins opened one of his eyes to peer over at Harriet, who has just stepped outside. She’s looking at him with barely concealed worry; sometimes she acts so motherly towards him, Stebbins forgets she’s only twelve years older than him.

“I’m fine. Things got… Loud,” He responds, opening his other eye but looking out towards the yard instead. ‘Yard’ was putting it lightly, the Kingsley house (mansion) was on a large swath of land, not a single neighbor in sight from the house itself.

“How much longer you need? I can give the cameramen some grief over nothin’ if you need me to buy you some time,” She half-jokes, which makes Stebbins smile slightly.

“I’ll be fine, I just need a minute,” He said.

“Alright… Oh! I almost forgot— I just found out mango jelly is apparently a thing, so I bought you some to try. It’s in the pantry when you want it— Don’t forget to put it in the fridge after you open it,” She rambles a little, reaching over and straightening his shirt collar a little. “We’ll be right inside when you’re ready.” He nods in response, and she grins before turning and walking back inside.

He leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. Just one more minute. One more minute, then he’d go subject himself to having his life recorded for other people’s entertainment.

One more minute.

"You better mind your eyes, Arthur Baker!" The sound of her laughter is teasing and melodic as Clementine snaps her fan shut and reaches out to swat him with it, soft music that floats over the din of conversation flooding the crowded juke. "In all my days, I swear I ain't never seen somebody quite so conspicuous."

Art ducks his head to hide his face, burning and bashful. "It ain't that obvious!"

"No," Clementine sighs dreamily, an unexpected agreement. Lacquered lips twist into a teasing smile. "No, it ain't, is it? At least, not once you roll your tongue up and put it back in your mouth so y'can pick your jaw up off the floor. Better hurry, you'll start catchin' flies soon."

"Would you quit it?" If Art tries to sound firm, the nervous giggles that carry the question undermine his every attempt. When he glances back up, a pair of dark eyes are waiting to catch his gaze from across the room. Even in this low light, Art can't miss that sparkle; bright and curious, it tempts him the way a flame tempts a moth. He wants to fly closer. Art immediately twists to face Clementine again. "Out here causin' a whole scene for what? It's gonna be your fault when he comes over here and—"

"Sugar," Clementine interrupts, leaning in close to tap Art on the tip of his nose with one fingernail, "I'm pretty sure that's the whole point."

Art knows she's right. That is the whole point, ain't it? Matter of fact, it's dang near the whole reason they came out. The other, of course, being that neither of them would ever turn down a reason to get all gussied up and go out on the town. But tonight? Tonight, they've got a purpose—and that purpose is currently dancing his way through the crowd with an empty glass in hand, clearly in search of a new drink.

Clementine fell first—she'd been the one to see him last week, sitting at the bar with a mint julep and a smile wider than the Atchafalaya as he chatted up the barkeep—but Art thinks he might've fallen harder. The last time he felt this sort of flutter in his chest was the first time he'd laid eyes on her, after all. It's an electric sort of feeling, love at first sight. Art thinks it's almost like lightning, how sudden and blinding it comes on. He never guessed he'd be so lucky to get struck twice.

“You’ve been starin’ at him a lot.”

Hank startles, something hot and shameful burning through him. “It’s not– Clem, yunno I’d never fuckin’--”

“I know.” She pats his arm. Usually, he’d revel in the touch, especially when she’s looking so good in her bathing suit. The guilt prevents him, though. He feels a little sick with it. “Hank, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Just be fuckin’ honest. You don’t look at Art as just a friend; you look at him the way you look at me.”

He sputters, “You– you don’t mind?”