Red Carpet Ready

An Up North Bonus Scene

Jack

It’s probably not surprising to learn I’ve never put much thought into what people wear on a red carpet. When we were growing up, Stef had these celebrity magazines with headlines like ‘Best and Worst Dressed at the Oscars.’ The covers showed women in fancy dresses, and she would cut them out and make collages to put on her wall. I never spent much time looking at them, and even when she did cut out pictures of men, they all looked the same to me. Handsome heroes in dark suits.

Turns out, it’s not that simple. When David asked me if I wanted to go to the premiere of The More The Merrier, I almost said no. It’s a big night for him and I didn’t want to be in the way. But then he literally said, “It’s a big night for me. I really want you there, no matter what.” Who was I to say no to that?

But I didn’t know that going to a big night involved a whole day of work. They’ve been shuttling me from massages to facials to beard trims and more since before lunch.

“Are you ready?” Ivy pushes through the hotel suite door.

“No.” My hands shake as I try to do up the bow tie for the fourth time. I’m starting to sweat. This is why I told the stylist I didn’t want to wear any makeup. They said it was normal on the red carpet, even for men. I told them I’d just sweat it off in the first twenty minutes. France is going through a record heatwave. A photographer fainted yesterday. They were in a crowd of paparazzi camped out in front of the hotel, waiting for David, and after sitting in the hundred-degree weather for the fourth straight hour, one of them collapsed.

But I didn’t expect to be sweating even before I’d got all my clothes on.

“You don’t need that,” Ivy says, taking the scrap of fabric from me and stuffing it into a pocket.

“But Arturo said—”

“What Arturo doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

Arturo came three days ago to fit David and me for suits. He talked very fast, asked me a lot of questions I didn’t have answers for, and said, “A jaw like yours needs a bow tie.”

I still don’t know if that was a compliment or not.

Except now, Ivy’s walking to the door with my bow tie and doesn’t seem to be willing to negotiate.

“But there’s a dress code.” I read about it on the flight to France. Black tie for the men. Gowns and high heels for the women. I asked David what Tino planned on wearing, and he only winked at me and said not to worry about Tino.

“What do I do with this shirt then?” I say to Ivy.

“Leave it undone.” She waves an airy hand. “Top two buttons. It’s very ‘gentleman spy on holiday.’ Damian will love it.”

He will. Or anything else. He told me I could wear flannel and jeans and he wouldn’t care. But I want to look good. Not for the press. For him. I don’t want him to regret bringing me to Cannes when I could have stayed home and out of the spotlight.

But it’s too late now. My bow tie is gone. I undo the buttons and follow Ivy.

David went downstairs over an hour ago. The premiere red carpet isn’t for another forty minutes, but he had interviews to do. I didn’t get to see him before he left. I was still busy having my hair done. I had a haircut last week, but that’s something else people do on red carpet days apparently. They didn’t cut my hair, but they washed it with something that smelled like cloves, and then a woman with green hair and blue nails spent twenty-five minutes twisting the strands this way and that, until she got it exactly the way she wanted it.

I have to admit it looks good. Like I’ve spent all day out on the water in the wind, but also like I meant for it to look this way.

I run my hands over the lapels of my jacket as we ride the elevator downstairs.

“Are you excited?” Ivy asks.

I give her a tight smile. “More like terrified.”

She squeezes my hand. “He’s so happy you’re here.”

That should help settle me. David. He’s the only person I need to impress. No one else matters.

About six months ago, while we were in Mexico to set up a new round of writers, someone took a picture of us on a catamaran. And someone else put together that I was the guy from the sex tape. And for a day, we were the most interesting people on the planet. But then Roberta and David went on the offensive.  They hired lawyers who told the photographers and journalists to back off. David gave an interview where he told everyone who I was and that he loved me, and that what happened in Alaska was the most important turning point of his life. I could barely look at him for a week after. I hated the fact that he’d had to lay himself out like that for me, but Vin said it did the trick. Social media turned on the entertainment reporters for invading our privacy. And a day later, a rapper’s girlfriend crashed the rapper’s Maserati after she found him in bed with another woman, and just as quickly as our faces had popped up everywhere, they disappeared, and we were no longer the most interesting people in the world.

Those people out there, they don’t know us. They don’t care. They want something to talk about, and that something is never me, unless it’s in relation to David. They only care about him, which is fine by me, because I only care about him too.

The elevator doors open. The lobby is so busy that I don’t see him at first. It’s an ocean of beautiful people walking quickly in every direction. Cheek kisses and hurried cellphone conversations in French. It’s overwhelming.

But then it’s like the sea parting, and David is walking toward me. A few people stop to look at him. Honestly, everyone should. But no one gets in his way, and his eyes are locked on me as he crosses the lobby.

His tuxedo is so black it’s like it swallows the light around him as he walks, except for the satin lapels that shine under the lights. His hair is slicked back, and he clearly let them put makeup on him, because the shadows under his cheekbones are even deeper than usual.

He walks forward until he essentially collides with me, kissing me before I can speak.

“You look amazing,” he says against my lips.

“No, I don’t.”

He tips my chin up, his eyes flashing. “You’re really uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

I tug at the collar of my shirt. “Ivy said I didn’t have to wear my bow tie. But the dress code says—”

“Trust me.” He takes my hand. “No one’s going to be looking for your bow tie. Not with Tino here.”

There’s a rustling like reeds along a shoreline, and anyone who was watching us has already turned their head, because Tino is striding through the lobby like they own the place, and yes, no one is going to be worried about my bow tie.

They’re dressed head to toe in green. Their skirt is so stiff, it makes a “shh shh” sound with every step. It’s got to be six feet across. They’re wearing a tuxedo jacket, but unlike ours, Tino’s is a deep forest green, and cut short so it doesn’t cover the top of the skirt. They are also not wearing a bow tie, but the gleam in their eye says they’re just waiting for someone to make it a problem.

“Should we get going?” David asks.

Tino’s also wearing dark green lipstick and they smile wickedly. “Time to start the party.”

While The More The Merrier premieres tonight, David says the advance buzz is amazing. Everyone’s talking about Tino like they’re some kind of overnight sensation. They’ve been out partying with different actors, directors, and studio executives every night since we arrived three days ago. They banged on our door at two this morning to drunkenly tell us they just got a text from Ethan Petroni.

“Can you believe it?” they said, weaving in excited circles as Damian tried to listen politely, and I wished we were still asleep.

“Who’s Ethan Petroni?” I asked.

“Only like my favorite director ever!” Tino squealed. “He wants to work together. With me! Can you believe it? I have to call Vin.”

We finally got them to sleep on the couch in the living room of our suite at three, and I still deeply miss that hour of sleep we lost, but tonight is for David and Tino. We can sleep on the plane tomorrow when we fly back to Alaska.

Ivy helps us get into the limos that will take us to the theater. For a moment, David and I are alone. I pick at the sleeves of my jacket as we move through the busy city streets.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Fine.”

He slides across the seat until we’re touching from our shoulders to our knees. He tangles our feet together, then wraps his fingers around mine.

“Just say the word and I’ll get the driver to turn around.”

“What? No. You can’t. It’s your premiere.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been to premieres before. I can miss one. Ivy will blame it on bad escargot when the press asks. It’s fine.”

“David.”

“They all want to see Tino anyway.”

“We have to go.”

“Not if it’s going to freak you out.” He kisses my knuckles. “And as much as I think you look amazing in this tux, I can’t wait to get you out of it later. If that later turns into sooner, I’m more than happy to miss a photo op.”

I shift in my seat, already getting hard in my tailored pants. This morning, after David said we should let Tino sleep, he led me to the gigantic shower, where he slowly took me apart with his tongue and then with his cock under the rainfall spray. Sex with David is always hot, and this morning was made unexpectedly hotter by the thought of needing to stay quiet enough to not wake Tino.

“We can’t,” I say, as David kisses my neck.

“I’m Damian Marshall,” he says, breath hot on my skin. “We can do anything we want.”

“David.” I mean to say it like a warning, but I can’t help but open my legs to give him more room as he slides a hand over the inside of my thigh.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” he says, cupping me through my pants.

“No.” I shake my head vigorously. We’re doing this. I’m doing this. The red carpet. For David.

“Then I guess I better be fast.” He slides off the seat, getting on his knees between my thighs. He nuzzles at the fabric, and I’m so hard I ache.

“David.” I say, panting as he strokes me.

He rises up on his knees, kissing me hard, then tumbling into me as we go around a corner. We laugh, but soon enough he’s finding my belt and loosening it.

“Say it again,” he says as he undoes my fly.

“What?”

“My name.” He helps me lift my hips so he can pull my pants and boxers down. “Say my name.”

“David,” I say, then groan as he swallows me down in one long, hot, wet slide. “Oh shit. Jesus. David.”

He goes hard and fast, working his tongue over the sensitive head of my dick before sucking me back into his throat until he gags.

“David. David.” I chant it over and over. Somewhere along the way, I bury my fingers in his hair and he moans when I tighten my grip on him. He likes it to hurt sometimes, just a little. I hold him down, filling his mouth and pushing into his throat. It’s hard to get any leverage, so I can’t really fuck his perfect lips the way we might if we weren’t in a moving vehicle, but just the pressure and heat as he tightens those same lips around me is enough that my toes curl in my shoes.

“David, Jesus. I’m going to come.”

He takes me deep. There’s no way he can breathe, but I can’t stop myself as I release into him, pumping down his throat as my whole body shakes.

David gasps as he sits up again. Whoever did his hair is going to be so pissed with me, because it’s all been pushed to one side. But he gives his head a shake, and everything tumbles back into place.

“You okay?” he asks as he does up my pants again. His voice is hoarse, and I get a little thrill at the thought of him answering questions like that on the red carpet. They’ll never know I did that to him.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Still worried about your bow tie?” He sets my belt back into place.

I laugh. “Not even a little.”

He sits next to me again, nuzzling along the stiff shoulder pad of my jacket until I turn my head so he can kiss me properly.

“If it’s awful, we never have to do it again.”

I take his hand. “It can’t be awful when I’m with you.”

The car slows. The sun is down, but when I glance outside, a crowd of reporters are waiting, cameras poised for us to make our arrival. We sit silently until the car stops and someone opens the door. Cameras are already clicking before David steps outside, and as he straightens the roar of questions become a tidal wave. But he turns his back to it, and extends a hand inside the limo. He bends down and his smile is all mine. All David.

“Are you ready?”

I slide over the seat, take his hand and step onto the red carpet.