He snorts.
“Any publicity is good publicity,” I lie.
I don’t know why I feel compelled to make him feel better. Maybe I do feel bad, maybe he got caught up with Zebulund like Roe did, not necessarily willingly but knowing that resistance is futile.
“Well, that’s just not true is it?” He looks at me through a lock of white-blond hair that’s fallen forward. Even though he’s drunk and obviously in the middle of an existential crisis, he’s tangibly attractive. When his gaze locks on me I don’t have the ability to look away. His eyes are the color of the Grecian ocean contrasted against white buildings and a clear sky.
They’re bloodshot though. And his blond beard is a mess.
“All I’m saying is you don’t need to start auctioning your house just because you were outed.”
His head falls back and his Adam’s apple is highly pronounced. It bobs when he groans.
“You have no idea.”
“Seriously, it’s not the issue it once was. Most people don’t even think about sexuality anymore, and those that do have their own issues to work through.”
I relax back into the couch. The room is decorated in a trendy sort of outdoorsy, Norwegian theme, with exposed wood and lavish furs.
“You really think that, don’t you? You’re cute. Tell me one openly gay male who plays the action roles I do… did.” He slings back another drink from the flask. It must be empty because he leans back for too long and then examines the thing like it might magically make more.
I don’t speak because there’s some truth to what he’s saying.
“But even if it were true.” He burps. “It wouldn’t matter. He’s ruined my reputation and that means more than anything. Nobody will hire me. Hell, I’ll bet nobody is allowed to work with me. I’ve been blacklisted,” he slurs. “He probably has a phone tree set up to bring his enemies down. Calls one person and a few hours later all of Hollywood knows I’m a leper. They won’t go near me.”
There’s a buzz and he struggles to get his phone out of his tight slacks.
“Look another tweet,” he says. “‘@TheRealviktor is gay? Are you serious? Is nothing sacred? #Transformation movies have now been ruined for me. Gross.’ See.” He shows me the phone. Another notification pops up as he does. “Oh, an email. Surprise. I lost my sponsorship with Tag Heuer.” The phone slams against the wall with an expensive cracking sound.
“You really think Zebulund did all this?” I keep my voice steady as the adrenaline kicks up.
“Come on, you’re a smart cookie.” He rolls his eyes and his head goes back too.
I do know. I just want him to tell me how I can bring the man down. I want to get information out of him while he’s angry.
“Just like I know you aren’t Roe’s assistant,” he adds.
I freeze. My knees go numb but I make no outward indication of freaking out.
“I saw the way he looks at you. That man’s crazy for you. Shame you’re lying to him too.”
“Listen,” I say, ignoring that for now. “I believe you, but what can you do? Zebulund’s untouchable right?”
“Everybody has an Achilles’ heel. He found mine.”
“So let me help. Let Miss Mayday bring him down.” It has to be something a little more substantial than a fear of the afterlife. I hope.
Viktor hesitates. He holds my gaze but his mouth remains a tight line.
“I want to help.” I’m delicately pushing the balance here. I hope I don’t go too far—seem too eager.
Eventually, it’s like he decides. He leans forward and lowers his voice. “He’s got dirt on everybody. That’s how he operates. He spies on them. He’s got dirt on your man, and the fact of the matter is it’s too late for him already.” His eyes drift over and go dark. “If Roe crosses him, if he even questions him, that’ll be the end.”
“Where does he keep his dirt?”
I’m too blatant, too bold with my question. It slips out before I can stop, but I’m aggressive and impatient when I’m on a lead. He gives me a skeptical and surprisingly sober look.
“You really want to help me?”
