Gerry put a hand on Jack’s arm. “Just one hour left of filming today, you know. We need Sperminator 8 to our distributor by the end of the month or it won’t be released in time for Christmas.”
“No pressure, then.” Quinn smirked at Jack over Gerry’s shoulder.
“Could you just go in and …?”
“No. I’ll wait for Grady to come out,” Jack said, loudly.
Gerry pursed his lips. “Whatever.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Maybe one of the catering boys will step in. We can hammer the robot torso to fit someone else. We can re-attach the hanging eyeball …”
“You still have that sad puppy look, Jack,” Tomasz said. “There is nothing wrong with Grady, I’m sure. You’re a couple, I have never seen two guys more together. Ever since that day Gerry found you both behind the trolley for refreshment …”
“Making out when you were meant to be extras for the Spurtacocks crowd scene,” said Quinn.
“… and I couldn’t believe you’d do it in such a public place,” Gerry said. “So many times.”
“And so fucking noisily,” Tomasz added. “I cannot be expected to perform with that racket going on.”
“Rattling the tea urn,” Quinn sniggered.
“I have never had to do a second take of the chariot scene in all my career,” said Tomasz with gravity.”
“I had to offer you both a contract,” Gerry said to Jack. “Haven’t you both been happy with the company?”
“Of course,” said Jack, knowing at this moment he’d never been less happy in his life.
“I looked damned good in that toga.” Quinn’s eyes misted over with the obviously fond memory. “I enjoyed the whole film. Blood, guts, swords and shields….”
“Lube, rubs, probes and sheaths.” Tomasz grinned. “All of the latest latex, Gerry offered us. I was a fine Centurion.”
“Couldn’t afford a hundred guys,” Gerry said, again to his non-existent audience. “The budget cuts, you know.”
Quinn grimaced. “And then there was the horse shit, of course.”
“It was very realistic.” Gerry was obviously eager to remember his artistic successes, too.
“It stank.” Quinn’s nose wrinkled again.
“So did the auto-cueing of yours,” Tomasz growled.
Quinn stuck out a flexible, extraordinarily long, and much-admired tongue at him.
“I don’t know what to do,” Jack said, very loudly this time.
They all spun around and stared at him, as if they’d just remembered he was there.
“It’ll be all right, Jack,” Gerry said. “You’re not the only one in the relationship, you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack thought his brow might be permanently furrowed with all the frowning.
Gerry shrugged. “If you’re wondering what Grady’s up to, why don’t you just ask him?”
They all turned away from the trailer and started ambling back on set. Jack watched them go for a moment. Quinn yanked down the edge of his camo pants where part of the frayed seam had got caught between his buttocks. Tomasz shifted his headpiece and yelped when the edge of it scraped his ear. And Jack could hear Gerry muttering something like “Can’t get the staff.”
Jack sighed deeply, and his gaze returned to the closed door of his trailer. He was glad to see the back of his friends, really, even if they meant well. He needed some time alone, to think things out.
What was Grady really up to in the trailer? Without him?
And why was he so nervous about interrupting him?
Clare London, Author 