From Morocco to Paris (21 page)

“Zane, again, I’ve
never
asked you for that.”

“So what
do
you want?” Zane reached down, seeking his hand. He found Davey’s fingertips and brushed against them. “You tell me all the time what you don’t want. But you never tell me what you
do
want.”

“I want this,” Davey said softly. “I want these times, when you’re honest. I want the times behind closed doors when you’re just Zane, not Zane Reed, the swaggering braggadocio. That’s not the man I care about.”

“Did you just call me a
braggadocio
?” Zane tried not to laugh for fear of more pain.

“I did, because you are.”

“I think I can give you that.”

“Time will tell.” He took Zane’s hand and squeezed.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Zane asked. “Does this mean we’re good?”

“It means I’ll take it under consideration.”

“That’s a start.”

“Right now though, you better get some rest.” Davey squeezed Zane’s hand again and then placed it on the bed and patted the back. “You’ll want to be ready when we pull that gauze out.”

“What was that you hit me with anyway? Was that a tea service tray?”

Davey smirked. “Yes, there was a little kitchenette in the hut and a tea kettle. You’re lucky it was too dark for me to find that.”

***

Zane awoke, this time to deep blue twilight. His face still hurt. He needed food, badly. He wondered at the time.

He shifted, felt a warm weight against his shoulder, and looked down. Davey’s head rested there, his hand on Zane’s chest. Zane just gazed at him a moment. Davey’s breath wasn’t shallow or even enough to be asleep. The warm press of his body, above the covers and Zane below them, took Zane back to the day two months previous with Elliot and Cristiano dancing on the bed.

Cristiano
. Another issue he would have to work out.

“God.” Zane groaned, dropping his head back on the pillow. “I’m fucking starving.”

Confirming Zane’s suspicion, Davey immediately lifted his head. He looked sleepy-eyed and tousled.

“We’ll get that shit out of your nose, and then you can eat,” he said.

The face Davey made after carefully removing the bandage from Zane’s nose assured him he didn’t look very attractive. To Zane’s satisfaction, he finally saw a touch of guilt in Davey’s eyes.

“Man.” Davey gritted his teeth. He turned and pulled the wastebasket closer to the bed. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

The gauze being pulled out felt like someone was jamming something sharp and evil up Zane’s nostrils. To Zane’s credit he only yelled once, when a particularly well-lodged piece came loose.

“Blow your nose.” Davey held a tissue against his face.

Zane’s nostrils were too congested with dried blood to let any air through. He found blowing his nose more agonizing than getting the gauze out. Afterward every breath burned, his sinuses filled with fire.

Davey inspected the contents of the tissue. “There’s some blood, but I think it’s from the clog coming out. I think you’re all right.”

Zane moaned, touching his swollen nose. His voice sounded much clearer.

“That’s so fucking gross,” Zane said. “How can you look at it?”

Davey threw the tissue away. “Zane.” He looked back at him. “When we were in the desert, my tent was right next to our little makeshift bathrooms. I’ve gone beyond the pinnacle of gross in this lifetime and seen the other side. Your bloody nose hardly compares.”

“Yeah, that was a shitty time.”

Davey got up from the bed. “That’s a creative and yet accurate way of putting it.”

Davey called Ian, and he brought them something to eat. His expression when he saw Zane’s face perfectly defined the word “aghast.”

“My self-esteem is through the roof right now,” Zane said, snatching the bags from him. “Food.”

Later, in the bathroom, Zane stared in dismay at the reddish-purple blob in the middle of his face.

“I may need plastic surgery,” he said.

“It gives you character!” Davey called from the room.

Zane hobbled out of the bathroom and looked at him despairingly. Davey sprawled on the bed on his stomach, never having gotten out of his robe. He kicked his legs idly, staring at the TV. Ian had left after they ate. In some weird way, Ian had redeemed himself, and maybe, he had led Zane down the right path after all.

Davey flipped through channels with the remote. “God, there’s nothing in English.”

“That’s because we’re in Cairo.” Zane walked over to the bed. His voice still sounded nasal. “They speak Arabic.”

“Dey speak Awabic,” Davey mocked. He looked at Zane with a smirk as he sat down.

Zane tried to make a face at him but couldn’t get anything to work right.

“You ready for shooting?” Davey asked. “Elliot’s probably going to run you like a dog on principle.”

“I expect it.”

“He’ll never believe you won, looking like that.”

Zane smiled. “He knew you would win. But then, so did I.”

Chapter 17

“Here, I grabbed your mail.” Davey shoved an envelope into Zane’s hand. “Who still writes letters?”

Zane sat in a chair under the shade of the production tent, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. He looked down at the envelope and read the return address.

“It’s from my Momma. She doesn’t like ‘the email.’”

“My Momma,” Davey mocked. “God, you’re such a hillbilly.”

“You’re a valley girl,” Zane shot back. “Like, oh my God! Who sends
letters
? I just
text
.”

“You’re ignorant.” Davey flopped down in a chair across from Zane. He had his laptop and opened the lid. “We got a WiFi connection yet?”

“Rory said they got it up a little bit ago. How come no one ever sends you any mail?”

“Because I don’t come from the backwoods,” Davey said and took a drink from the water bottle he constantly kept on his person. “My people know how to use phones and computers.”

Zane sighed and fanned himself with the envelope. Shooting in Giza proved just as miserably hot as Morocco -- with the horses and hundreds of sweaty, improperly bathed human beings, the smell equaled Morocco as well. Only one thing kept Zane’s spirits up.

“Two more days,” Zane said. “Then we’re out of here and off to Paris.”

Davey, trying to balance his laptop and put the cap back on his water bottle at the same time, looked up at him brightly. “Gay Paree!”

“Paris.” Zane pressed the envelope to his heart. “Land of gentle booze and running water. A place where a man can sleep in a clean, comfortable bed and order room service. And showers!”

“Do you think it’s true, Zane? The stories of old? Shopping malls and food that doesn’t make you puke an hour after you eat it?”

“I tell you, we shall see this land, and it will be all we’ve dreamed of and more! We’ll sail to it with haste!”

“I don’t know about you guys,” Elliot said from nearby, “but I’m taking a plane.” He sat in a chair studying his script.

Zane wiped the envelope on the front of his shirt. “Ew, you got sweat all over my letter, Davey. Your disgusting grubby hands.”

“Save it, it’ll be worth money someday.”

Davey started clicking away on his laptop. Zane rubbed his nose and winced -- it still hurt sometimes, and every once in a while he experienced a nasal hum when breathing too hard. Three weeks had passed since the night Davey bashed him in the face. A return to the hospital pronounced his nose fractured but not broken and it gradually went back to normal size. Only his pride still hurt, since everyone thought he’d lost a fight to Davey and the jokes were endless.

“Oh,” Davey said. “I got an email from Ian.”

Zane frowned. “
You
got an email from Ian?”

Elliot stood up from his chair. “I’m going to find a more quiet place,” he said and shot them both a disapproving look.

“Oh please.” Zane opened his envelope. “You only have two lines in this scene.”

Elliot swatted Zane across the head with his script as he went. Davey had his water open again, and the bottle dangled from his mouth as he read the screen. He had no sense of propriety, as he also wore shorts and his legs were wide open, showing them off clear to his upper thighs.

“I can almost see your underwear,” Zane said, unfolding his letter.

Davey lifted his eyebrows provocatively, the bottle still hanging from his mouth.

“Why do you have an email from Ian?” Zane asked. “What’s he doing emailing you? And when did you give him your email address?”

“I doon’ know,” Davey said. Then the bottle fell from his mouth and landed in his lap. Zane winced at a nearly full bottle dropping in his crotch, not to mention so close to his laptop, but Davey didn’t flinch. “Oh my God!”

“What?” Zane leapt to his feet, worried. Surely if something bad had happened, Ian would have emailed
him
.

“He sent me a picture of his cock!” Davey grabbed up the bottle and took a quick drink.

“What!”

Zane rushed over, but stopped when Davey spit the water at him and started laughing.

“Idiot. He didn’t send me a picture of his cock.”

Zane went back to his chair, scowling. “You got my letter wet!” He tried to wipe the paper with his hand but only succeeded in smearing the ink.

“I’m about to dump this bottle over my head.” Davey gazed at the screen, rubbing a hand over his face. “God, I can’t wait to get a shower!” He scratched his head.

“Stop it,” Zane said. “You look like you have fleas.”

“I think I do have fleas.”

Zane wanted to douse himself with water as well. Thick, sticky sweat coated the back of his neck and congealed in his armpits. He knew he reeked, even though he had long passed the point where he could smell himself. His learning experiences on set were fulfilling, but harsh.

“Oh God.” Davey gasped. “He didn’t send a picture, but God, is this ever filthy.”

Zane read his letter, one of his mother’s usual missives telling him everything going on at home in Kentucky.

“Uh huh,” Zane said. “Not falling for it again.”

“Your brother should have been a writer. God. Now
that
is descriptive.”

“Right.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the production crew drifting from the area where they were filming. A breeze stirred, ruffling the awning and caressing the slick back of Zane’s neck.

Davey moaned and Zane rolled his eyes.

“He wants to lick me -- oh God, there?” Davey wiggled in his chair and took a drink of water. “He says he wants to taste my beautiful ass and see if it’s as sweet as the rest of me.”

“I am trying to read a letter from my mother!” Zane said and held up the paper. “Do you mind? What is he really saying?”

“That he wants to put my ankles back to the headboard and make me cry out to Jesus.”

Zane shook his head and tried to read his letter again.

Davey stood up and walked over to him. He held the laptop out.

“Why don’t you see what it says for yourself?” Davey asked. “It’s your email, after all.”

Zane grabbed the laptop. His inbox was open on the screen.

“You hacked my email!” Zane said in disbelief.

Davey went back to his chair and sat down. “I didn’t hack it. You told me the password when you were drunk the other night.”

“It’s still illegal!”

Davey smirked and stretched his arms above him. “I’m going to prison. Where I’ll be handcuffed to a cell door and sodomized by the warden for a pack of smokes.”

“You wish.”

Zane started reading. The email wasn’t nearly as illicit as Davey suggested.

“He actually did use that line about my ass,” Davey said. “The night he tried to get me in bed.”

“You must be special, it usually works.” Zane narrowed his eyes. “He says he’ll meet us in Paris. Invoking his ‘visit my brother on the set’ privileges again.”

“I know, I read it. He’s a world traveler, huh?”

“We both like to travel. We were never at home when we were younger. When we were teenagers we used to take the bus down to Nashville on Fridays with our fake IDs, get wrecked all weekend, then come back on Sunday for church.”

“How Godly.”

“Maybe the rest of my family can come for a visit too. That would be nice. Or I could go home for a couple days…”

“My best friend Troy is coming to Paris too.”

“Is he?”

“Yeah, just for a week or so.”

“I know how nice it is to have loved ones around.” Zane smiled and closed the laptop. “I’m glad he’s coming to see you.”

Davey got up and walked over to him. He leaned over and put his hands on the arms of Zane’s chair. He smelled of the gamey funk they’d had all over them for days, not so much repellant now as familiar. Zane glanced around, his old instincts still intact, but everyone else was off doing their jobs.

“You know, sometimes,” Davey whispered, a little smile on his lips, “you’re a hell of a guy.”

“Only sometimes?” Zane smiled back.

After another glance around, Zane grabbed a handful of Davey’s t-shirt and tugged him forward. He stole a quick kiss and released him. Davey’s lips tasted salty.

Davey stood upright and smiled, the light dancing in his eyes. “And surprising, too. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” Zane handed him back his laptop. “Would you do me a favor though?”

“Maybe. Depends on what it is.”

“Stay out of my fucking email?”

Davey cackled, took the laptop, and walked out into the sunlight. He swung his water bottle back and forth, an arc of water shooting out the open top.

***

Filming wrapped on a Friday, and Saul threw a party on Saturday night, their last hurrah in Cairo. Most of the secondary cast and extras were leaving the production, and the principle actors were continuing on to Paris. Elliot would do his primary scenes there.

Saul held the party in an enormous convention room at the hotel and steeped the festivities in Egyptian culture, from the decorations and food to the entertainment. The tables were draped with black tablecloths and heaped with flowers, the walls covered with sweeping lengths of tan and gold cloth. Golden statuettes and torches gave the room the atmosphere of a temple. Several tables near the doors held an eclectic array of food, most of the dishes quite exotic. Traditional dancers and musicians provided entertainment, the sound of ouds and tambourines filling the air.