Free Fall Apart by SE Culpepper

closed his eyes and released a loud breath. “The Newlands are a lot to deal with. An intense bunch.”
    The bed moved as Zane stretched across it to touch the tip of his nose against Mark’s. “So are the Whitlows—don’t forget you’re one of us now.”
    Mark paused, bemused. “You’re right.”
    Zane dropped a kiss on his brow and got up. “I’m always right, Mr. Whitlow .” He disappeared from the room and Mark heard him call down the hallway. “Breakfast! Then phone calls.”
    “Great,” Mark grumbled to himself. “Reid’s probably going to burn this place down.”
     
    ***
     
    Alarik could have slept in; it was the first morning in weeks that he didn’t have to be anywhere by eight o’clock. He couldn’t sleep, though. He was up with the sun, sitting out on the balcony that overlooked the same lawn and terrace where Mandy and Luke had pictures taken. The morning was surprisingly chilly and he was in sweats, legs stretched out in front of him as he drank a scalding cup of tea and tried to figure out what happened with Damon the night before.
    He was unaccustomed to men fleeing from him in general, much less without some kind of provocation. Damon simply disappeared. One moment he was at Alarik’s side, and the next, poof …he vanished. He wasn’t in the ballroom, on the dance floor, in the lobby, or in the parking lot. Franco was too busy nuzzling at his wife to be interrupted for help in finding him, and when Alarik looked for Todd, he was disappointed again.
    Damon left him with a fleeting smile before Luke tossed the garter and although he’d been hoping to spend more time one-on-one after the festivities, Damon hadn’t given him an opportunity to ask. Alarik didn’t have a number to call. The only thing he did know was that Damon worked at the family sporting goods store and he was supposed to open up shop this morning.
    As soon as he finished his tea, he was going to shower, grab breakfast and drive to Ventura where Mandy had mentioned Damon lived. Alarik already looked up the sporting goods stores in the city, and the list was longer than he expected. He could rule out the well-known chain stores, yet, even so, he was left to cull though quite a few smaller businesses. Prepared to spend the day visiting each one until he saw Damon’s auburn hair and hideaway smile, he found Wright Sports at the bottom of the list.
    Armed with an address, Alarik was going to give chase, like he’d told Mandy he wouldn’t. Although, this wasn’t about “a fuck.” Damon was worth one more shot.
    The hotel offered a vast breakfast buffet and after looking over all the choices, he ordered an omelet and flipped through a copy of Details magazine while he ate. Brad Pershall, an actor with looks that eclipsed his chops on camera, yet who was gathering a larger following every day, was on the cover. Alarik’s friend, Claude, was the photographer.
    Claude loved geometric shots with harsh angles. The cover was a desaturated close-up of Pershall’s jaw from below, displaying his perfectly manicured facial hair and bone structure. Pershall’s eyes were heavy-lidded, but open, staring downward into the camera lens and giving the impression of condescension, scorn. The images attached to the article itself were equally good, and each one managed to make Pershall appear more of a dick. He’d have to give Claude a call and see if he’d done that on purpose.
    Alarik read through the article and snorted in derision at Pershall’s response to an inflammatory comment from the interviewer concerning Zane Whitlow.
     
    When questioned about rumors circulating through the lobbies, hotel bar rooms and restaurants of Los Angeles, that his work of late is a tacit attempt to dethrone the reigning king of action and dramatic films, Pershall laughs, finishing his drink in one swallow. In the past, he’s been vocal concerning the influence of Zane Whitlow on his own career, yet, now, Pershall is nonchalant, noticeably