Free L. A. Heat by P. A. Brown Page A

manic-looking Bette Davis, clichéd darling of the drag-queen set,
tormenting Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? , he leaned
down over and kissed Des. He eyed Des’s Mojito sitting in a damp circle
on the red and white chintz tablecloth.
    “Been here long?” he shouted.
    Des offered his familiar lopsided grin, the one
that set off his white teeth perfectly against mocha-colored skin.
    “Not that long,” he shouted back. He waved
languidly at Ramsey, who held up two fingers and barely waited for Des’s nod
before he grabbed bottles off the top shelf and began mixing Chris’s Cîroc
martini and another Mojito . Des bounced to his feet. “I’ll get those.”
    “Thanks,” Chris said when Des returned and handed
him his drink. He leaned closer so he wouldn’t have to talk so loud. “Where do
you want to—oh, shit, what’s he doing here?”
    Kyle, the boyish, twenty-one-year-old dancer Des
was hooked on like bad smack, appeared at the end of the bar.
    “He asked to come.” Des sucked on his drink,
avoiding Chris’s eyes. “His audition went sour. He didn’t want to be alone
tonight. You know his parents threw him out when he came out. He didn’t have
family like yours that left him expensive homes when they passed on.”
    “Well aren’t you a fucking ray of sunshine. You
know I never asked my grandmother for anything.”
    “But you got it anyway,” Des said. “Just like my
folks didn’t disinherit me. You ever think how it might have turned out if they
had?”
    “I got to school under my own steam. You could
have, too.”
    “And done what? I took philosophy and English lit,
for Christ’s sake.”
    “Then you’d have taken a different major if push
came to shove.”
    Des shook his head. “I’m not smart like you. The
only thing I’m good at is retail. That would have meant minimum-wage rag jockey
down on Melrose. At least Kyle has talent. I want to see him make something of
himself.”
    Like that was ever going to happen. Hollywood was
full of talented wannabes and never-weres. “There are better guys out there.
Guys who can appreciate you—who don’t think you owe them.”
    “And I guess you’d know that better than anyone,
wouldn’t you, Miss Queen of the One-Night Stands.”
    “Hey, not fair. They’re not all one-night stands.”
    “Oh?” Des said. “When was the last time you went
to bed with the same guy two nights in a row?”
    Chris stared into his martini, groping through his
memory for a rebuttal. “It happens.”
    “You don’t remember, do you?” Des made a point of
looking around them.
    “If you really know where all the decent men are,
why are we here?”
    “Just because you like being alone,” Des said,
“you think everyone does.”
    Movement by the front door caught Chris’s eye. As
though on cue, Bobby the actor made his entrance. A peacock couldn’t have
strutted any prouder before a yard full of squawking hens.
    “Is that one of those better guys?” Des jerked his
chin toward Bobby. “Because I know what that one is, even if you don’t. You are
such a hypocrite, Bellamere.”
    Chris looked away from Bobby. He was startled by
Des’s anger and was tempted to deny knowing the guy. But one look at Des’s face
told him the lie would not fly.
    “At least with Kyle I’m trying,” Des said. “You
can’t see past a pair of tight jeans and a pretty face.”
    “Des—”
    “Rick, I was hoping to see you.” Bobby slid his
hand down Chris’s neck, kneading the tight skin above his collarbone. “Spare a
seat?”
    “This one’s free—” Des stood up so fast his chair
crashed into the table behind them. A heavily rouged and hennaed drag queen
shot them an evil look before going back to her Cosmo, her three-inch fuchsia
nails beating an irritated tattoo on her glass.
    Chris scrambled for the door, but Des was faster.
By the time he hit the sidewalk Des had already snared Kyle and was walking
down the boulevard toward Sunset.
    Chris got in front