Page 93 of Love On and Off Set

Iwas staring. Had been staring at ghost guy for more than thirty minutes. I just couldn’t understand how he could be alive when I’d watched him die three months ago. A beautiful October morning. The Friday before Thanksgiving. One of my favorite times of year because I was always thankful for what I had. Specifically, living on my own, away from my family in Chilliwack and their oppressive views about homosexuality.

Like that being gay was a sin against God.

Yeah. God and I hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things. The day my co-worker died in my arms was the day God and I had parted company forever.

Except now I was staring at my co-worker. In the flesh. Who was clearly laughing and enjoying the company of an entire group of people that included three gay couples, a lesbian couple, several het couples, and one couple I couldn’t figure out and since it was none of my damn business, I just moved right along.

So I could keep staring at ghost guy.

Suddenly, my view was blocked.

My gaze traveled upward from the black linen trousers, to the interesting belt buckle to the electric-purple tie to the crisp white shirt and black jacket.

Higher still to the guy wearing the clothes I’d just weirdly catalogued.

Oh, serious dude. Black hair, dark brown eyes, who, if I had to guess, rarely smiled. He was with the guy who wore a pale-blue shirt with multicolored unicorns and had white-blond hair, blue eyes, and the widest smile I was pretty sure I’d ever seen.

And this couple had been sitting next to ghost guy.

I pasted on a smile. “Uh, hi.”

Serious dude looked seriously unimpressed. “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Robbie.” Shit, was I supposed to tell him that? “I mean, Robert. I mean…why are you asking, anyway? Who are you?”

“I’m the security supervisor for the studio. I’m responsible for the health and safety of all the cast, crew, and employees who work there.”

I blinked. “Studio?” I frowned. “What studio?”

His scowl intensified. I hadn’t thought that possible—but it did. “You’re saying you don’t recognize people at the table?”

I tried to gaze around him to actually look at the people sitting at the table.

He moved to block my view.

I rolled my eyes. “Dude, if you don’t let me look, how am I supposed to know?”

“You’re saying you weren’t watching us?”

“Who’s us? I don’t know any of you.” Not strictly the truth—because I knew ghost guy. But that kind of wasn’t the point. Or was it? “You’re saying you all work at the studio?”

“Yes.” Kind of growly.

“For how long?”

He arched an eyebrow.

I sort of gestured. “Like five days, five weeks, or five years?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back. “Everyone is more than five weeks.”

I did some calculations in my mind. “More than three months?”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, I’m curious.” Right…like this isn’t going to land you in a heaping pile of warm cow shit. “I might, uh, know someone. And I didn’t know he worked for a studio.”

Serious dude put his hands on his hips. “I can confidently say everyone has worked there for more than three months. Now, what’s this about?”