Rules to Live By Read online

  Brutus was a new development in their relationship. Alistair had bought him, already two years old and thankfully well trained, at the height of filming Blessed Father when Jon had alternated between nerve-racking visits to the set and sleepless nights at home by himself. He was supposed to be company for Jon, something for him to care for when Alistair couldn’t be there to care for them both.

  Goddamn him and his psychobabble, but it had worked, or close enough. Brutus was good company: not too demanding but lovable, and his schedule was as regular as clockwork. Four in the afternoon meant a walk outside, and therefore Jon had to put on actual clothes and act like an adult for half an hour. Not his favorite thing to do, but if it was something he liked doing it wouldn’t need to be on the list.

  Did sweatpants count? No obvious stains, and his T-shirt was clean . . . “Close enough,” Jon muttered. “Let’s do this.”

  He followed Brutus to the door, slid into a pair of flip-flops, and undid both the dead bolts and the key lock. “Have you got your ball?” Alistair would laugh at Jon asking the dog questions as though he expected an answer, but Jon got his revenge whenever Al slipped into baby talk. “Go get it!”

  Brutus ran down the hall and came back with his worn toy.

  “Good boy.” He opened the door and stuck his head out onto the veranda of their sprawling Spanish-style home. It was the biggest house he’d ever lived in, and he could have been happy with a lot less, but what this home offered them that so many others hadn’t was a bit of isolation, a buffer zone between their private life and the outside world. Before they’d gotten together, Alistair had lived in the heart of Los Angeles, and Jon knew that he missed the hustle of city life and the energy he got from being around so many people. This house was their compromise: close enough to the city that they could get there for work, but far enough away that Jon didn’t feel like he was suffocating. He could manage in a city—hell, he’d lived in New York for years—but he didn’t really enjoy it anymore. Time and circumstance had transformed him into a recluse.

  It was a little cool, but he wouldn’t be outside all that long. He didn’t miss having to bundle up in four layers just to keep from freezing like when he’d lived on the East Coast, and Edinburgh’s winters didn’t even bear remembering. Scotland had been full of things Jon enjoyed, but its weather wasn’t one of them.

  Sixty-five breezy degrees in California: that he could handle. Only a few spots of blue were peeking through the pale, drifting gray, but the vividly green grass lining their driveway and the long, understated blooms of the walnut trees still managed to draw the eye. Nah, it wasn’t that big of a hardship to be outside.

  He armed the alarm, then stepped outside and headed down the steps to where Brutus was waiting, already bouncing eagerly back and forth on his front paws by the ball. “What, now?” Brutus stared up at him adoringly, and Jon sighed. “Yeah, fine.” He threw the ball as far as he could, sending Brutus racing after it, and headed down the drive and out onto their private road.

  He walked and threw, and Brutus ran and fetched, down to the end of their property, where their closest neighbor, an elderly woman he only knew as Mrs. Wozniak, sat on her porch, slicing peaches. She had free-floating, frizzy gray hair and wore a tie-dye dress and no shoes. She smiled when she saw them, and waved him over.

  He didn’t like casual conversation. He wasn’t good at it, and most people were so insipid that talking with them quickly became intolerable, but Mrs. Wozniak was an exception to his distaste. For one, she only ever talked about food—no invasive questions—and two, Jon was required to talk politely every day to one person who wasn’t Alistair. This rule wouldn’t be too onerous today.

  “I just got some beautiful fresh peaches.” She held one of them aloft as he approached. He leaned his arms on the bannister that encircled her porch. “My daughter sent them to me from Colorado. Eat this.” She held out a slice, and Jon ate it right out of her sticky fingers. “Oh, cheeky.” Her grin wasn’t exactly disapproving, though. “What would your young man think?”

  Jon swallowed. “He’d be happy I didn’t bite.” The peach was a little tart, but still sweet enough to make him sigh.

  “You should eat more.” It was a familiar refrain. “So skinny, look at you. You must nibble at your plate like a bird.”

  “I’d eat more of those peaches.” He’d forgotten how much he liked them; it had been ages since he’d had one.

  “I’m making cobblers with these. I’ll bring one over for you tomorrow. After that, I’m switching to persimmons.”

  Jon grimaced like he could already taste the bitter fruit. “Those are inedible. What can you possibly do with them?”

  “Oh, so you know everything about persimmons now?” Mrs. Wozniak shot him a glare that could have withered plums to prunes. “There are plenty of varieties, and some of them are delicious. I’ll make a tart. It’ll put color in your cheeks.”

  “I’ve got plenty of color,” he groused, leaning down to retrieve Brutus’s ball, and then threw it away from the house. It fell a pathetic thirty feet or so away, and Mrs. Wozniak clucked. Brutus dropped it back at his feet within seconds.

  “Color. Exercise.” She pointed her finger emphatically at him with each word. “Good eating. All important things, all good reasons to get out of that mansion of yours more often.”

  “I’m out right now”—Jon waved his hand at his chest—“talking to you. I get out.”

  “Hmm,” was all she said to that. “Take a peach home. Take a few, actually. My daughter sent me two boxes, and they’re all ripe.” She handed him two, which he balanced in one hand while dealing with Brutus’s ball in the other. Mrs. Wozniak grinned at him. “Don’t mix those up on your way back.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” Everyone’s a smartass. “Have a good afternoon.”

  “You too. I don’t usually watch awards shows, but I’ll be rooting for your film tonight.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled, small but real, then started back toward the house. By the time he got there, his arm was tired enough that he was reduced to kicking the tennis ball for Brutus, but it had been a full half hour walk, so bam, another thing done. The timing was good too. He had a red carpet to stalk.

  He unlocked the door, shut off the alarm, and went inside, then got Brutus some fresh water and a chew stick. Jon walked over to the board and slashed check marks in a couple of spots—walk, check; in-person socialization, check—then set one of the peaches on the counter and carried the other with him into the living room, where the TV took up most of one wall. He sat on the couch and pulled his laptop over, because if he was going to watch this shit storm, then he had to have some sort of outlet to distract himself with. He opened up the rough draft of Blessed Father’s sequel, turned on the television, and started to type.

  Blah blah, red carpet interviews, who’s wearing what, girl in pink, girl in blue, girl who looked like a mermaid, girl—Cate Blanchett, amazingly hot even though he wasn’t interested—another girl, man in a badly fitting suit, Hugh Jackman, Channing Tatum—not interested, but nice suit—and there, finally, was Alistair Fraser.

  Anyone else would look ridiculous in his outfit: a somber black suit, bright-green shirt, and a skinny gray tie that belonged on a hipster or an engineer, but Al pulled it off. The green brightened the red in his hair and close-trimmed beard, and Jon put his work aside for a moment just to watch Alistair look effortlessly handsome and confident as he handled his interview with What’s-Her-Name.

  “Alistair, you look amazing tonight!” What’s-Her-Name exclaimed. “You decided on a very bold look this evening. What drew you to these colors?”

  Alistair smiled politely. “My stylist. I basically do whatever she tells me to when it comes to things like this.”

  “Well, she has excellent taste. Is this Ralph Lauren?”

  “Good eye, lass. The shirt is.” He was obviously playing up the Scottish accent, which was charming as hell. Jon rolled his eyes as the interviewer flushed ev
en through her heavy makeup, one hand fluttering like she wanted to touch something but couldn’t decide what.

  “Well, thank you! So Alistair, you’re nominated for Best Actor tonight, along with your costar Edward Temple—that’s unusual, one film receiving a nomination for both of its leads, but there’s no denying you two were incredible in Blessed Father! I have to know, though, is the competition causing any friction between the two of you?”

  “Not at all.”

  Jon had to stop himself from gritting his teeth. It was true. Alistair and Edward were the Hollywood bromance of the season thanks to all the publicity they’d been doing for the movie. They genuinely got along well too, which was . . . nice. Yeah. Nice. Jon looked at his open document and changed the bindings used on Edward’s character from rope to chain.

  “Edward is an amazing actor, and I think I’ll be equally pleased if either of us wins tonight.”

  “That’s so sweet!” What’s-Her-Name’s broad smile sparkled brighter than the jewels in her earrings. “Oh wait, there he is. Edward!” She waved, but he already was coming over. He could never resist a chance to appear on camera, the publicity-hungry little shit. “Edward, you look fantastic tonight, and congratulations on your nomination! Alistair was just saying how deserving of the win he thinks you are.”

  “Good evening, Karen,” Edward said, so uptight he could have eaten coal and squeezed diamonds out of his ass. He was wearing pinstripes—who wore pinstripes to the Oscars?—and a blue tie to match his eyes. The suit was a small blessing. People fainted when confronted with that man in a tuxedo; Jon had seen it. “As usual, Alistair is too kind to me.” Edward casually placed his hand on Alistair’s lower back, light but still possessive, and Jon started to grind his teeth loud enough to hear despite the noise from the TV. That hand was going to be the first thing to go. “He’s just as deserving of honors. His work in Blessed Father was truly inspired.”

  “It’s an incredible movie. I’ve never liked a serial killer so much, which . . .” She glanced at the camera and tittered. “Oh gosh, now everyone knows my dark secret! It’s just, you were so convincing as Father Patrick, who in some ways is such a laudable character, and in other ways is so . . . so . . .”

  “So wrong,” Alistair offered. “So disturbingly misguided, laboring under so many untruths that, nevertheless, have taken hold in his mind.”

  “But so worthy of redemption.” Edward smiled as he nudged Alistair with his shoulder, and Jon shut his eyes for a moment. Every interview they had together, Edward initiated some sort of touch between them, a visual intimacy to enhance their unspoken one. It might be juvenile, but Jon hated seeing anyone else act like they had the right to put their hands on Al. Thankfully, Al preferred to keep his hands to himself if he wasn’t out with Jon.

  “Yes!” Karen agreed. “The interactions between your characters are so intense, and I know that every interviewer has probably asked about this ad nauseam, but the relationship between the two of you in the film . . . How much of that was influenced by what you have together in the real world?”

  Here comes the bromance. Edward jumped on the question like he’d been waiting for it. Hell, he probably had.

  “I know that for myself, I felt more able to be authentic with Father Roman’s emotions on-screen thanks to my friendship with Alistair.” Edward turned toward Al even as he kept his gaze on Karen. “Dramatic roles like this one require that you expose your vulnerabilities to the people you’re working with, and I don’t think I would’ve managed nearly as well as I did if the two of us hadn’t been such close friends. It’s going on five years now, I believe.”

  I’ve known him for over a decade, asshole. Of course, there was a seven-year gap between when they’d first met and when things’d actually become official between them, but still, if it was a question of longevity, Jon won. He looked back down at his computer, willing his white-knuckled fingers to move. This was a pivotal scene in the sequel, the moment that Father Patrick would become irredeemable in the eyes of the audience, but the sympathy had to remain . . .

  In his mind, Jon watched Al’s hand tremble as he picked up the knife, his righteousness warring with his sense of friendship. In Blessed Father, the younger priest had been a distraction—initially a welcome one as they worked together to preserve their flock and the town where they lived. When Patrick’s methods for dealing with the Nazis were discovered by his brother priest, Roman had turned on him, and in doing so sealed his fate. Now Father Patrick put the Lord’s work first, and that meant Roman’s death. His slow, excruciating death, so he had plenty of time to repent before the end . . . Just how far could Jon push the violence in this scene while still maintaining an R rating? Then again, if Tarantino could get away with Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained . . .

  “Of course, it helped to have such a fantastic screenplay,” Alistair said, catching Jon’s attention just as Al looked out at the camera, a little smirk on his face that Jon knew was meant for him. He smiled back, even though no one was there to see it but Brutus. “Jon has a way of making even the darkest characters compelling.”

  “Jonathan Jones, yes! You accepted his Golden Globe for Best Original Screenplay. If he wins tonight, will you do the honors of accepting on your partner’s behalf again? Or is it possible that we’ll see the man himself here this evening?” She glanced around, as if anticipating Jon’s appearance any second.

  “No, Jon won’t be here tonight.” Alistair’s tone was a familiar blend of apologetic and firm. That was the voice he always used when redirecting people away from Jon.

  Edward smirked. “There’s nothing like nearly getting into a fistfight with Colin Farrell at last year’s Globes to put an end to Jon’s enthusiasm for awards shows.” He sounded so damn smug. Karen giggled and pressed her fingertips to her cheek.

  “I remember that.” She sounded almost wistful. “I was so sad I didn’t have a chance to interview him after it was all over.”

  “Jon was quite apologetic after the fact,” Alistair forged ahead smoothly. “Regardless, if he wins, I’m prepared to accept the Oscar for him. He certainly deserves it.”

  “I’m sure Alistair’s speech will be better, in any event.” The bite in Edward’s words was almost unnoticeable.

  Alistair turned to Edward, and his voice was almost too soft for the camera to pick up when he said, “Be nice.”

  It was a tone Jon knew well, and his heart clenched to hear Al use it on Edward, even if it was for his benefit. Edward lost his superior expression in favor of something with a touch of genuine remorse, and Jon recognized Edward’s desire for Alistair’s approval as clearly as if he were looking at himself.

  Al didn’t have to yell to get what he wanted. He didn’t have to be forceful to make people listen to him. He was firm and quiet and nearly hypnotic, and almost no one fought him once he pulled out the voice. No one but Jon, that was. Seeing the effect Al’s tone had on Edward was a little gratifying, in a vindictive, slightly selfish way.

  Karen moved on to another celebrity a moment later, and Jon texted Alistair. Training up a new pet?

  He waited impatiently for a reply, breathless with tension and hating himself for acting needy.

  I’m far too busy for more.

  Jon smiled at his phone, but it turned into a grimace a second later. Have you eaten anything? He really, really didn’t feel like eating right now, but it was one of the rules: three meals a day. “Meal” was a fairly versatile word, but it still required something going into his mouth that wasn’t liquid.

  Just about to. He grabbed the peach he’d brought along and bit down. This one was softer than the slice he’d eaten earlier, sweeter too, and he had to push his laptop away to keep it from getting juiced. It tasted better than the toast and protein bar he’d choked back earlier, and he kept at it until there was nothing left but the pit. He got up to throw it away, and Brutus followed him hopefully into the kitchen.

  “Is it dinnertime for you, too?” Jon asked. Bru
tus’s tail wagged harder. It would be about an hour early, but Jon was okay with being a softie on occasion. He washed his hands, poured Brutus a cup of the gourmet, organic kibble that Alistair insisted on, then walked over to the whiteboard and checked off the Meals line.

  He headed back into the living room and managed to zone out for the next few hours, busy inside Father Patrick’s head as he took Father Roman, his friend and foil, completely apart. It was a holy act for him, an act of devotion, even an act of love. It was also probably the darkest thing Jon had ever written, and the thought of bringing this potent dynamic to life for people who didn’t realize such a dichotomy was possible thrilled him. Father Patrick was all about intensity, the burning drive of his emotions overruling his logical mind. He didn’t care about the consequences of his actions, he just cared about what he felt was right in the moment. Jon knew exactly how he felt.

  Undoubtedly a lot of the story would change when the studio got its hands on it. That was the nature of giving his work to people who intended to make a ton of money off it. He hoped he’d be able to convince them to do the scene as graphically as he wanted to, though. He’d spent a lot of time researching the martyrdom of the different saints whom Father Patrick would associate with Roman, and the death needed to resonate for both the character and the audience.

  A scene from Blessed Father pulled Jon’s attention back to the TV. It was time to award the Oscar for Original Screenplay. His eyes went to the sparkling Golden Globe on the mantle above the useless fireplace. He really didn’t care about the awards, but it would be nice to have one of each. He could use them as bookends.

  “And the winner is . . .” Well, all right, maybe he’d treat an Oscar a little better than a bookend if he won. He had to lift his hands away from the keyboard, they were shaking so badly. Hurry up already, the winner is— “Wes Anderson!”

  Jon’s throat ached for a moment like it was collapsing, and he exhaled shakily. It was fine. It really was; he didn’t need it. The Globe had been a pleasant surprise, one that Alistair had certainly thought he deserved, but if Jon had to lose to anyone, it might as well be Wes Anderson. He was one of the few people in Hollywood Jon felt like he could have an actual conversation with, on the rare occasions they’d had reason to talk to each other.