"Well, I'm definitely down to hit a bar up with you," Logan says. "As long as you don't mention that we were hanging out off set to anyone when you're filming again."
The secrecy is weirding me out, and maybe it's a terrible idea anyway. I look at Logan's face. "Should we not do it then?"
"No, I think that would be fun. Where do you want to go? Campus Sports maybe?" he jokes, immediately bursting into laughter. "What about the Cardinal?"
The place is a tiny indie bar with half a dozen tables, a perfect location to have a discreet conversation, and it's undoubtedly dead at this time on a Saturday. "Yeah, that sounds good," I agree.
Logan smiles, seeming genuinely excited to spend time with me away from the mansion. "Ok, I'll meet you over there!"
We climb into our cars and drive back down the long driveway of Bob's estate, beginning the 20 minute trip to downtown. Questions are still roiling through my brain, my dick stiffening every time I remember fucking Logan. The images are obnoxiously vivid, my shaft filling out even more in my gym shorts thinking about the way he'd moaned when I plowed him with everything I had. Fucking Viagra! How long is this shit supposed to last? I try to drown everything out with music, turning my stereo's volume up almost as high as it can go. I don't even know what I'm expecting from having a tipsy conversation with Logan. I'm dwelling on it as we slowly return to civilization, crossing back into the familiar grid of streets near the college campus. I want him to tell me that plenty of his other straight scene partners found themselves getting into the shoot and enjoying it, enjoying his touch, his mouth, his ass. I want him to reassure me that it doesn't mean anything. We were just acting, just filming a scene to get paid.
The Cardinal is deserted when we walk inside, understandably since it's 4:00 PM. After Logan and I both get carded, I walk up to the bar and order a double whiskey and Coke, Logan asking for some fruity shit, waving to one of the guys behind the bar. I throw my card down and pay for both drinks, a habit I'm apparently incapable of giving up, the two of us settling at a table. I'm the one who'd asked to hang out, my scene partner looking up at me like he's expecting me to say something as we both quietly sip our cocktails. I don't know what to fucking say. I have no idea how to start this conversation. Why the fuck did I do this? Why am I always putting myself in these horrible situations?
"How's your drink?" I finally ask, trying to fill the silence.
"Good," Logan answers, taking another long sip. "How's yours?"
I gulp more of mine down. "Hard to fuck up a whiskey and Coke," I mutter.
He laughs nervously, looking down and sipping again before he gazes back into my eyes. "What's your real name?"
"Jamie. What's yours?"
"Kyle. But don't call me that on set if they pair us together for another scene," he cautions. "Bob will be pissed."
He's bringing up the apparently absolute prohibition against us hanging out together outside of the mansion for the second time in less than an hour. "What's wrong with us hanging out and talking?"
"It causes drama," Kyle explains. "Models fuck, models have tiffs when it doesn't go well, they get pissy and start badmouthing each other and then they don't want to work together. It gets in the way of Bob's schedule, and all he cares about is making money."
"I guess that's fair," I say, slurping more whiskey down before I turn awkwardly silent again. What the fuck is wrong with me? I know exactly what I want to say, and now we're alone together. Why can't I fucking say it?
Kyle looks more comfortable with his drink mostly finished. "You feeling a little weird about filming today?"
He's known that since I turned strange in the shower, when I was certain he'd picked up on the confusion scrawled across my face. "Yeah," I admit, the booze finally starting to hit. "More than a little."
Kyle stares down at the table like he's not sure how to respond before he looks back up at me. "What's going through your head right now?"
Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? I knock back the rest of my drink before I feel like I can answer him. "A lot of stuff," I say puzzlingly. He's being way too patient kindly looking up at my face after a response like that. He must have been in this position with a scene partner before.
"Should we get another drink?" Kyle asks.
Knowing that he's worked with other straight guys, I feel like he understands exactly what I'm experiencing right now. Booze is the best way to the truth. "Yeah, that's a good idea," I answer.
"Just relax, I know one of the guys working here. He'll hook us up," Kyle says, standing up and walking over to the bar for both of us.
I feel like a fucking idiot. I'm outgoing, carefree, and buoyant for a living, but I'm making this feel like an awkward first date from hell. If I met up with a chick and she acted this way with me, I probably would have already been running out the door. This guy is way too patient. Maybe I should just leave. This is fucking pointless.
Kyle comes back to the table with two fresh drinks in hand, sliding one over to me. While I'm eagerly slurping my second whiskey and Coke down, not offering another awkward word, one of the bartenders walks up and sets down a wooden tray with six full shots of clear liquor.
