Two: Love By Numbers, #7

Prologue

Isaac

Déjà vu; the French coined the phrase and today felt like I was living it. Today was a day I’d lived through before. I knew it as soon as I walked in the door.

Black Rose Ink is a pristine and futuristically designed tattoo parlour in Soho, central London. I knew exactly what I wanted before I even made the appointment, unlike that day in Los Angeles, the one that flits through my mind and skitters over my skin as I introduce myself to the young, female receptionist. ‘No Monroe piercing this time,’ my memories whisper. This is different.

I’d planned this. I’d made the appointment. And I’d kept my visit a secret from everyone.

Including him.

The incessant buzz of the tattooist’s gun fizzles through my mind, becoming a physical manifestation on my skin in the form of goosebumps.

It’s not the mechanics of getting a tattoo that has such a profound effect on me; it’s the finality. Choosing to have these words indelible has my mind spinning, and déjà vu hits me once more—I had these very thoughts and feelings in L.A., but for much different reasons.

Last time, I was lost. Last time I was searching for something I never knew I wanted nor needed.

This time, I lie prone beneath one of London’s most sought-after tattoo artists—Braith Connors.

He’s hot.

And gay.

With dark silver hair, piercing blue eyes, and a fit, inked body, Braith is a man I would’ve undoubtedly taken to my bed. Before.

But here I am under the deliciousness that is Braith, with his leanly muscled frame over mine, his talented hands on my skin, and all I can think about is him.

He is all I ever think about.

Despite Braith’s scent enveloping me, despite his eyes reassuringly catching mine and the twinkle of invitation I see in their depths, my mind—my heart—already belong to someone else.

Braith is going to mark me, but far less than Flynn already has. The man that has the world salivating over him in films and on TV is mine, and I am his.

Flynn fucking Phillips.

My one that made us two.

While Braith’s needle etches my skin, I close my eyes and remember all the other tattoos I’ve had, starting with the first.

Acceptance is Serenity

Words not intentionally meant for Flynn, but ones he’s claimed.

I’d inked my acceptance of myself into my skin that day in L.A., but I must admit, during that hour on the artist’s bench, I’d thought about the man who has since laid claim on my heart. Even back then, he’d already taken up a corner of my mind, and dare I say, my soul, despite not being a part of my life at that time.

And now, almost three years after my first tattoo, Flynn is ingrained in every aspect of my world, my family, and me.

There is no Isaac without Flynn.

We are the two who became one, as soppy as that may be—and I know it sounds cheesy. Believe me, I never expected to feel this way.

Both of us were men who didn’t believe in making a lifelong commitment to one person. We each avoided relationships that extended beyond a few nights, and, in Flynn’s case, he shunned any attraction he had that wasn’t towards the fairer sex. Until me.

Yet, despite all the odds stacked against us, here we are.

Flynn Phillips and Isaac Fox—the media’s LGBTQ+ couple of the moment. A label we never sought, wanted or expected, and one that comes with responsibilities for which we are entirely unprepared.

As Braith wipes away excess ink from the skin on my chest before continuing with the design I’d commissioned from him, I absentmindedly rub the tattoo on my inner wrist across the rough denim of my jeans.

The anchor—which matches one on Flynn’s wrist—was my second ink. We got them to celebrate buying our first house together a few months ago. These were the tattoos that gave me the bug, and I developed a mild addiction to getting new skin art that saw me having many more designs on my arms from butterflies, to flowers and whatever else took my fancy on any given day. But, here, now, with Braith’s soft breaths ghosting over the bare skin of my chest, and his needle giving me the best sort of high, this tattoo is all for Flynn.

Above my heart, Braith is carefully inking a compass rose containing an infinity symbol and the words, ‘Wherever you are.’

Because that is where I’ll always crave to be. Wherever he is.

He may not have been my beginning, but he is my end.

And by the time this year is out, the whole world will know it.

Isaac Fox-Phillips.

Flynn Phillips-Fox.

Isaac Phillips.

Flynn Fox.

Isaac and Flynn.

Husband and Husband—I don’t care what name I wear, as long as it links me to him. Forever.

Chapter One

Flynn

Click.

Plump, glossy lips suckle at the sensitive skin of my throat.

Click.

Small, soft hands skate over my pecs, down my ribs, to the leather belt at my waist before—tug.

Click.

Leather slides against leather, a metal button pops free of its fastening, and a zip purrs as it’s dragged open.

"No. For fuck’s sake. No."

An empty paper coffee cup, thrown aimlessly but with some force, lands on the floor a few feet away from my beat-up, black biker boots. The missile flung in a burst of anger by the man a few feet to my left who is watching us intently. The same man who is still cursing up a storm, with most of his wrath-filled words centred on me.

Why? He tilts his head back theatrically, spreads his arms wide like some false messiah and asks the heavens, Why the fuck do they keep sending me these reality TV assholes who don’t know their dick slit from their mouth?

Against the sweat-slick skin of my chest—dewy moisture provided by a make-up artist with a spray bottle—Jessica Baker, my co-star and a Hollywood darling famous for her natural beauty and feisty off-screen personality, laughs softly. The puff of air expelled from her mouth tickles my left nipple, and despite the awkwardness of the situation, my body betrays me at the sensual whisper of touch and the small peak hardens.

Jessica pulls herself away from me, breaking the connection of our skin and turns to boldly face Mikel head on. She’s completely confident in her semi-undressed state, and asks Mikel, our director, Was that a cut? You shouted cut, right? Thank heavens, I could kill for an iced tea, and these panties you have me wearing are about to slice me in two.

Mikel’s eyes snap towards her, and then narrow. The Polaroid camera he’s been using to take random pictures of the scene—a renowned quirk of his—rises to point in Jessica’s general direction as a flash of unrestrained fury passes over his orange-tanned face.

"No, sweetheart. That wasn’t a cut. It was a ‘get me some fucking actors with chemistry.’ I’d get a bigger boner from standing in the freezer section of Walmart."

Jessica smiles, but it isn’t because she finds Mikel funny. It’s a devious smirk, one that says she’s about to push his buttons.

Mikel, she purrs teasingly. I doubt you’ve seen the inside of a supermarket in years. Now— her eyes flit to the attractive, dark-skinned young man waiting in the wings ready to attend to Mikel’s every need —Paulo over there is another matter. I bet he’s gotten plenty of erections in the freezer department. She puts a perfectly manicured fingernail to her lips and taps thoughtfully with a spark of devilry in her eyes. In fact, I bet Paulo can get a boner on demand. Am I right, Mikel? she pouts prettily. Tell me I’m right.

Mikel’s face turns from orange to red as colour fills his cheeks and spreads down his neck. His eyeballs bulge and his lips draw into a tight slit in his ruddy face. It’s no secret that the ‘happily’ married director only has attractive, young, male personal assistants for a reason, and it isn’t because they do his grocery shopping for him.

Take a thirty-minute break, Mikel spits through gritted teeth. "Then you can all get your butts back here and act like you want to fuck each other’s brains out instead of looking like a pair of dead, limp fish. He stares at Jessica and adds, And you, Miss Baker, will watch your fucking mouth. This is my movie, and I will replace your skinny ass with another wannabe before your iced tea is even poured. You got me?"

Jessica smirks before sashaying her way towards the furious American director. Her small, pert breasts are bare and bounce lightly with each step. Her firm, round arse, encased in a mere strip of black lace, sways seductively with each movement of her long, tanned legs, and I know every straight man in the place is sporting a boner of their own while watching her.

Oh, Mikel, she soothes sardonically. Deflection is such a childish strategy, don’t you think? She stops dead in front of him and tips her head back to look him in the eye with one hand on her cocked hip. We all know I’m not going anywhere. She reaches out and mockingly pats an open palm on his chest. So, why not take Paulo and his on-demand boner to your trailer, and work some of that anger out of your system. Her eyebrows hitch slightly, and she tilts her head before adding, I always find a good fucking from behind clears the head.

Mikel opens his mouth to rant, but Jessica slips her pointer finger over his lips, and stage whispers, No need to say anything, your secret is safe with me. I’d never knowingly out anyone. Even if you are a dirty cheater. She tuts softly, her mouth drawing down in a small frown. I pity your poor wife, but it’s not any of my business. I’m just here to make a movie. She pats his cheek condescendingly and adds, So, let’s not make it my business, okay?

A broad smile fills her beautiful face at Mikel’s dumbstruck stare, and she adds cheerfully for good measure, Okay. I’m so glad we had this chat. I’ll see you in an hour, and I’ll be raring to go. Let’s turn this shitfest into a multi-million-dollar grossing movie!

Then she’s gone. Her pert arse disappearing off the set and leaving all of Mikel’s attention on me.

I’m generally not one for confrontation, and I’m also not a pushover, but I’m nowhere near Jessica’s league. I’m new to the film industry and still finding my feet after the colossal hit that Feyness became. Getting into a pissing match with a director notorious for firing actors would only serve to give the press more shit to write about Isaac and me—because they would undoubtedly drag him into this even though he’s on another continent.

No, today will not be the day I go one-to-one with Mikel Brunswick. Despite this role being something that sounded better on paper than in actuality, I need it. If I’d had more connections in the business or experience in the film industry, I would’ve known what working with Mikel entailed. That understanding would’ve ensured I stayed the hell away from this job. Yes, it has a big budget, and yes, it’s got the media in a frenzy, but that wouldn’t have been enough to take on this dark, sexual thriller that still sits on the New York Times bestsellers’ list. Working with Mikel Brunswick has been my personal hell. The man is a nut job and impossible to be around let alone take direction from. He puts me on edge with his constant picture taking, caustic attitude, continuous verbal abuse, and quest for a version of perfection that only he can see. It takes all my self-control not to deck the man when he throws his polaroid stills in my face, often while yelling things like, Look at this shit. Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re not an actor. You’re trash. Fucking trash.

We’ve been a month on the job already, and we’re three weeks behind schedule. Three- fucking-weeks.

If I could quit, I would, but between breaking my contract and the ripples my departure would cause, I’d soon have a shitty reputation that would rival Mikel’s.

If I don’t wrap up this job, my fledgling movie career is in tatters. Though, at this point, letting a pretentious wanker like Mikel talk to me like shit on his Armani moccasins, I’m starting to think fuck my career.

Are you fucking listening to me? Mikel spits, and I realise I’ve zoned out while his rant has gathered momentum. You’re a vapid waste of space. All of you social media whores are the same. Talentless pieces of shit with a pretty face.

I’m aware of my hands curling into fists and my jaw tightening to the point of pain, but I can’t react—he wants me to react. I’d be playing into his hands. With self-control that I would’ve previously said I didn’t possess, I suck a slow breath through my teeth and swallow down the need to smack the pompous prick between his beady little eyes.

I’ll see you in an hour, Mikel. The words are taut and gravelled as I force them painfully from my throat while I repeat Isaac’s name in my head over and over like a mantra.

Isaac. Isaac. Isaac.

I turn and walk away from the man that, in any other circumstance, I’d have caused bodily harm.

Bring your A-game when you come back here or, better yet, don’t bother returning, Mikel sneers at my back, and I falter mid-step, my entire body going stiff.

Isaac. Isaac. Isaac.

I close my eyes and let the image of the man waiting for me back in the U.K. wash away Mikel’s words. With his big hazel eyes framed in long lashes and strong jaw covered in dark, trimmed hair that’s not stubble yet not quite a full beard, he’s all man. A beautiful man, but a man none-the-less, and a few years ago I would’ve punched you in the face for even suggesting I was attracted to him. Yet, now, he’s my entire world.

With Isaac firmly embedded in my mind, I leave Mikel still muttering shit at my back. His words now miss their mark. His bullshit and bluster are nothing compared to what I have waiting for me back home, and I know exactly what I’m going to do when I get to my trailer.

I ignore the eyes of everyone on set as they follow my exit. Undoubtedly, today’s drama will find the ears of the execs, and I’ll have my agent on the phone by the end of the day issuing warnings and threats of repercussions. Come to think of it, shouldn’t my agent have my back? Maybe it’s time to find new representation. Jake, Isaac’s brother, had offered to set me up with his management team, but I’d stubbornly wanted to go my own way. It felt too much like taking advantage of my boyfriend’s family connections, and I didn’t need to give the media any more ammunition on that front. There were already articles out there that implied the only reason I got my break-out role in Jake’s film was because of Iz. To some reporters, the facts didn’t matter. Facts like: we only got together during the filming, and I’m sure he hated me before that. If he didn’t, he should have. I was a complete prick towards him.

But that’s all water under the bridge now, mostly. I still haven’t repaired the gulf between my parents and me. But I’m a work-in-progress. I have to accept myself before I ask for my folks to accept me too, and I’m almost there. Almost.

Iz is eager for me to take that step towards reconciliation stating that my parents will love me no matter what. I’m not so sure, and I avoid all