Sticks and Stones

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Staring up at the sprawling mansion, Jack whistled under his breath. The trees hadn’t been able to mask its Spanish styling from the road, but as soon as he pushed open the heavy door that opened into the front court, its sheer size had ground him to a halt. Heavy, dark columns lined the bricked walk to the front door, with lush greens dotting the vast yard. The soil in the nearest potted plant was damp. He would bet anything Paul Dunham had at least one gardener who came in to take care of his landscaping. A maid, too. Maybe even a cook. Stars like him always had the full entourage, though as far as Jack could tell, Paul wasn’t quite Hollywood’s typical celebrity.

His palms were sweaty. He had begged and argued with Jesson for an hour to get the opportunity to deliver the script and score for Sticks and Stones to Paul personally, but now that he was here, his nerves were conspiring against him. Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? they whispered. This is Paul f*****g Dunham. You aren’t fit to shine his tap shoes, let alone be bold enough to costar with him.

Except this was the opportunity he’d been working his tail off to get. He had camped out in Schary’s driveway for weeks until the studio head finally caved and gave him his first screen test. He’d taken on every crap script they’d thrown at him, just to prove they couldn’t get rid of him that easily. He’d persevered, and he’d danced until his feet bled, and when Schary refused to move him into starring roles because he couldn’t carry a tune, he’d taken voice lessons until he could get through a whole song without driving the teacher to her earplugs.

Nobody in the system worked harder than Jack Wells. The magic of it was, though, nobody knew just how hard that was, because he always made sure to keep it light on the set.

He stopped in front of a window and checked out his reflection before knocking. His blond hair was mussed, the top curled beyond repair. He probably shouldn’t have kept the Roadmaster’s top down for the drive over. There was a fresh sparkle in his blue eyes, though, and his color was high from the cooler breeze. Or maybe that was just excitement about finally getting to meet one of his idols face to face.

Paul f*****g Dunham. Probably the most gorgeous man to currently grace the silver screen. Dark hair, darker eyes, with that wicked slant to his smile when he was about to break into song. He was the kind of bloke who always looked like he had a secret he wasn’t going to share, no matter how hard you begged. Jack wanted to know just how much Paul would take, before giving it up.

As he faced the front door, he switched hands on the script, wiping his palms off on his trousers. He reached for the bell and then hesitated. Did he look like a messenger from the studio? He didn’t want Paul to automatically dismiss him. First impressions mattered.

He zipped up his light jacket and stood up straighter. f**k. That wasn’t any good. Now he was a bellboy.

Opening up his coat again, he rolled the sheaf of papers and almost used them to knock on the door. i***t. What if he’s upstairs or in the back? He’ll never hear a knock.

Jack glanced down at his attire. Maybe he should’ve worn something more showy, something that made it obvious he was a dancer. His trousers were too baggy, and tucking his shirt made him look like he was fifteen and on his way to the headmaster’s. He yanked it out of his waistband, shoved the script into his back pocket, and pressed the bell. From deep within the bowels of the house, the chime resonated through the walls, making his stomach flip. The only way to calm it was to take a deep breath and lean against the jamb in wait.

A short woman opened the door and smiled at him sweetly. Her face didn’t betray her age. Her curly, black hair was gathered up under a cap. “Yes? Can I help you?”

For a moment, he felt ridiculous for assuming it would be Paul standing there when the door opened. Of course, the man had a housekeeper. He was a huge star.

“Got a delivery for Mr. Dunham, luv.” He laid the English accent on thick, and gave her his brightest smile. There wasn’t a woman in this whole town who could resist them. “Straight from Mr. Schary himself.”

She held out her hand. “I will take it for him. Mr. Dunham is not to be disturbed right now.”

“Ah, but I’ve got instructions to give it over, all personal like.” He tipped his head closer. No housekeeper was going to block him from meeting his idol today. “See, Mr. Schary’s a tad peeved we haven’t started rehearsals yet. I wanted to give Paul the heads up so he didn’t get surprised when he shows up on the lot next week.”

“I will take it for him and give him your message. Mr. Dunham is in his studio, and he is not to be disturbed.” The maid’s smile didn’t falter. “He is very clear about that.”

Yes, Jack was sure he was. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the script, holding it out for her to take. “Well, far be it for me to disturb a man when he’s working. Though all that noise must drive you around the bend.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Dunham is very quiet. He keeps to himself in the backyard.” She waved her free hand above her head. “I never hear a thing. I don’t even see him most weeks.” One final smile before the door began to close. “Have a good morning.”

“You, too, luv,” he murmured, more as an automatic response than anything else. His thoughts were already elsewhere. Backyard. Keeps to himself. Nobody would be back there, which would make it the perfect opportunity to get some one-on-one face time with his upcoming costar

In case the housekeeper was watching through the window, Jack went back through the heavy gate. He waited until it clicked shut behind him before jogging along the front of the building. A stone fence protected the rear of the house. Though it was nearly as tall as he was, the top was smooth enough to grab without wrecking his hands. He swung himself up and over, landing lightly on the other side.

His heart thudded. At least, his hands weren’t sweating anymore. Now, his body ran on the same adrenaline that fueled his best work. He was half-hard as he crept along the stone walk to the corner of the house.

He paused and watched the housekeeper come across the rich green grass, away from a low-slung building sitting at the edge of the property. The patio doors opened and shut. He counted to ten, then twenty, before sauntering toward the studio.

Show time.

The faint strains of a saxophone filtered through the walls, growing louder when he pushed the door open. “Gotta say, Paul, I do like your style.”

Paul stood in the center of the large room, the script in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He wore a T-shirt and a loose pair of pants. Both clung to him, wet with sweat. His hair was damp, too, and standing on end, pushed out of his eyes. He froze when Jack spoke, then slowly lowered the glass. “What?”

“This.” He swept an arm toward the studio as he prowled around its edge. Mirrors lined the opposite wall, and the hardwood floor was polished to perfection. His c**k hardened the rest of the way at the thought of hours spent on its shine. “Makes me wonder if I should’ve blown my last check on my own space instead of my new ragtop. Except then I remember how much my car’s helped me score, and I think…” He dragged his hand along the smooth dance rail. “Maybe not.”

“I meant, what the f**k do you think you’re doing back here?” Paul bit out. “I don’t even allow Melinda in here.”

“Yeah, but Melinda’s not like us, now is she?”

Paul’s brow clouded. “Let me make it clear. You are not invited in here. Get the hell out.”

The man was bigger than Jack had imagined, taller than him by a good four inches. His shoulders were broader, too, but the hips were every bit as delectable as they’d appeared on a screen thirty feet high. Jack leaned back against the rail, resting on his elbows, as he raked his gaze up and down the man he was going to be spending the next few weeks with.

“Now that’s not very friendly,” he commented. “Here I thought, you and me could take a few minutes and look over the script. There’s some good stuff in there.”

“I don’t care what’s in the script. I’m doing this movie because I have to.” Paul crossed the room and tossed his script on the table that held his record player. The music came to a sudden stop. “Besides that, it doesn’t really matter what’s in the script.”

The have to stung. No denying it. But Jack refused to let his grin fade. Paul wasn’t going to get him that easy. It was probably just some test to see if he had the grit to stick it out.

“‘Course, it doesn’t,” he agreed. “It’s all about the music.”

Paul snorted. “The music? Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, kid. You have a real killer sense of humor.”

His eyes narrowed. “Not that I’m arguing with you, mate, but I’m not sure I follow.”

“How are your voice lessons going?”

Shit. He’d hoped Schary would keep that private, but apparently not. “Not bad.” And then, because Paul had probably nettled the one spot he was most sensitive about, “How’s the workshops with your acting coach coming?”

“Your information is about as out of date as your acting style, Jack. The last time I had an acting coach, I was thirteen, and preparing for my first speaking role.”

He might be Paul Dunham, but Jack didn’t take that kind of attitude from anyone. “Huh. Well. Guess that explains a lot then.”

Paul folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Every line of his body was straight and perfect. Even when he stood casually, he looked like he was dancing. “Let me offer a suggestion, Jack. You can do with it what you will. Keep your attitude in check until you have something to offer the studio. It’s not really your most attractive asset.”

“Bloody hell, I know that.” He smirked. “You’d know it, too, if you weren’t so far across the room.”

Paul’s nostrils flared, and if Jack wasn’t mistaken, his brown eyes traveled down Jack’s body to settle on his crotch. “I think maybe you should stop trespassing before I have Melinda call the cops.”

“When it’s just starting to get interesting?” He deliberately shifted his weight, splaying his legs a little bit farther out. It was easy to balance against the rail. His grace was one of his biggest strengths. “Be a shame to waste this time together. Once we hit the studio, we’re going to have Thayer getting in our way.”

Paul stalked over to the door. “Melinda! Please tell Philip I need him in the studio!”

Pushing off the rail, Jack came up beside him before his voice died out. “And tell him to make it quick!” he shouted, hooking his arm around Paul’s shoulders.

Paul shoved Jack away with enough force to send him stumbling back to the wall. “Since you don’t understand when you’re not wanted, Philip will help you find your way off my property.”

He sincerely doubted Philip was a Boy Scout, ready to lead the way with his trusty compass. The wise choice would’ve been to walk out right then with an apology to MGM’s golden boy and a promise to behave himself from then on, but acting smart had never been Jack’s strong suit. He shoved a hand into his trousers pocket, silently relishing the way Paul’s eyes immediately jumped to his crotch again, and c****d his head.

“You know, Schary warned me about you.” He hadn’t, but Jack wasn’t above concocting a few untruths to throw Paul off his game. “Said you were none too happy about how casting had played out. I have to admit, it’s a little flattering knowing someone like you is nervous ‘bout a guy like me, stealing some of your spotlight.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “The only thing I’m worried about is you embarrassing me and dragging this movie down. I don’t need a bomb on my resume because my costar can’t keep up.”

“No worries there, mate. There isn’t anything you can throw at me to knock me off my game.”

“Oh, really? I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Boss?” They both turned toward the door at the rumbling question. Philip, Jack presumed. He was the size of two men, maybe three. He had a round face and hands the size of picnic hams.

“Please escort Mr. Wells back to his car. He’s apparently lost his way.”

Jack ducked beneath the man’s meaty grasp, and skirted both of them to get to the door. “Think I might remember it, after all.” He winked at Paul, mildly pleased that it deepened the man’s scowl. “Offer still stands, Twinkles. You feel like giving it a few turns around the dance floor before next week, just give me a ring.”

Paul waited until Jack was halfway down the walk to call out, “Hey, Jack? Don’t hold your breath.”

He resisted the urge to flip Paul off. Disappointment already burned away the edges of his earlier enthusiasm, slowly being replaced by the low roil of anger. Thought he was too good for the likes of Jack Wells, did he? Well, Paul Dunham was about to get the rudest awakening of his professional career. Nothing was going to stand in Jack’s way of making Sticks and Stones the biggest hit MGM ever had, not even a narcissistic, arrogant, laurels-stuck-up-his-ass celebrity like Paul. And if he could make Paul’s life a little more miserable at the same time…

Jack grinned as he flat-handed the gate open to the driveway. A month of shooting and recording with the bastard would still be worth it.