Page 126 of If the World Was Ending

He let the door swing shut behind him and crossed the space to Colby. They kissed softly, and Colby wrinkled his nose as one of his hands touched the back of Hunter’s neck and came away damp. “You’re almost sweating as much as I am.”

“I’m a hardcore fan, dude, we don’t just glisten like a part-time fan,” Hunter replied, mocking offense. “It’s hard work screaming the lyrics and yelling your name. I sweat.”

Colby kissed him again, this time playfully. Kenner groaned. “You two are making me sad that I’m single.”

“Colby. That word.” Ford had stood up and was crossing the small room.

Hunter pressed his mouth closed tightly. Hunter and Ford just kind of orbited each other without acknowledging each other. When they had to speak, they kept it cool but civil. Colby broke free of Hunter and walked out of the room with Ford. They crossed the hall and stepped into the opening act’s room since they’d already left to go party somewhere. The band was two girls and a male drummer. Ford had also put them together. They were great.

“The label got back to me.”

“About the solo album? The songs I gave them?” Anticipation and hope swirled through his insides. Ford nodded, but the tight line of his mouth had those feelings turning to dust. “They’re passing?”

“They are,” Ford replied, and Colby felt anger rise like bile in his throat. “And before you say another word, know I’m in your corner. Those songs are amazing, and when this tour is over, you should shoot your shot. You have a solo career in you. I know it.”

“What did they say, exactly?”

Ford heaved in a heavy breath and, on a long exhale, blurted it out. “They didn’t think that your new image would be one that would gel with your current fanbase, and they didn’t have the resources at the moment to take on another artist from scratch and build you a new audience.”

“Right. So, in layman’s terms, you wanna be gay, and we don’t got time for that.” It was happening. Everything that had scared him and Hunter to begin with. It was real. There were actual consequences.

“Revolution isn’t the only label,” Ford reminded him. “And for the record, I’ve sent your demo to Ideology and a new indie label called H&A, which stands for Haight and Ashbury. They’re looking for bluesy folksy rock stuff like this. And don’t let the indie label fool you, they were formed by industry veterans and successful ones at that. So let’s not give up. I’m gonna make this happen.”

Colby nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ford said and nodded. Then he flashed a rare, silly smile. “Now get back to Hunter before he explodes. He’s like a kid after a day at Disney after you perform. He needs to recite every detail of his experience and bounce up and down while doing it.”

Colby laughed. “Thanks, Ford.”

Six months later, it happened. A reporter on the red carpet for the premiere of Hunter’s new movie asked it. Clearly and precisely. “You brought your dad and Colby Keaton to the premiere.”

“I did. I would have brought my cat too, but he doesn’t like crowds,” Hunter had quipped, feeling over the moon. This movie was great. Andi had directed the hell out of it, and Hunter had poured his lifeblood into it. He was funny and poignant and angsty and heart-warming. He had never been more proud of his work.

“Is Colby Keaton your boyfriend?”

“We have to keep moving it along,” Courtney, his new publicist, had said firmly with a tight but friendly smile that only publicists pulled off. She swept her hand out, motioning for Huner to keep walking.

“Yes.” The reporter blinked. Courtney’s smile wobbled. Hunter grinned. “Have a good night.”

News of the movie, his impeccable acting, the brilliant script, the artistic directing, the breathtaking cinematography, and the movie soundtrack were all eclipsed by one stupid word out of Hunter’s mouth. It was all that every outlet, every site, every news show—entertainment-based or otherwise—was talking about. Hunter woke up, saw everything, and promptly threw up in Colby’s bathroom. Well, his bathroom too now since he basically lived in the Laurel Canyon house with him. The lease on his Spaulding Square home was up next month, and they were in the process of caging in one of the four tiny patios that surrounded Colby’s property so Manuel would have his own outdoor sanctuary.

Colby got out of bed and stood behind him, rubbing his back and running fingers through his hair. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s a lot. And it’s fucking terrifying. I get it.” Colby walked over to the vanity and filled the beveled-glass cup with water, then handed it to Hunter on the floor.

“But you aren’t sick with stress.”

“I don’t have an anxiety disorder,” Colby reminded him. He picked up Hunter’s toothbrush and squeezed toothpaste onto it. “Have you heard from any of the cast? Andi?”

Hunter shook his head. “My phone was eerily message-free when I woke up.”

As if on cue, it began to buzz on his nightstand. But he already had the toothbrush in his mouth, sawing away, so Colby walked over and looked at the screen. “Chris Westchester.”

Hunter spit into the sink and rushed to the phone. He put it on speakerphone. “Chris. Hi.”

“Hello to you too.” Chris laughed. “Oh, and Marc says welcome to the club. Officially.”

“What club is that? The one where my career floats down the sewers of Los Angeles?”