Page 29 of Notorious

“Are you going to cancel your return flight?”

“Only booked a one-way,” I admit.

“Did you rent a car to get around town?”

“No, I used a Lyft from the airport.”

As he scrubs, Kurt keeps up the chatter like we’re at a church social.

Shucks. He’s forcing me to talk so he knows I’m still here. He’s also keeping me from fixating on all the junk in my brain.

It makes my sour heart get a little sweet on him. Heck, it was already more than a little sweet on him.

As we gab, I scroll through social media and come across some photos of Kurt and me from last night.

We look like we belong together—two men in tuxedos grinning at each other. Kissing. Hanging off each other. Drinking.

He’s prettier than a speckled pup. Damn.

It’s more than his looks, though—it’s the way he treats me like I’m someone special, even though I don’t deserve it. I can’t deny I like it, though. Can’t deny I want him. I save the images to my phone.

Then I stumble on the aftermath of my speech. I’d forgotten that I’d essentially tossed a grenade but left before it detonated.

There are all kinds of stories about my lawsuit against the studio. Reactions from performers, fans, and studio brass about my retirement. Even some comments from politicians—both those who condemn porn as a scourge on society and those saying that we need stronger laws to support and protect the actors.

I throw my phone down, still shooting the breeze with Kurt about his favorite restaurants in Las Vegas and where we should stop for lunch on the way back to LA. I busy myself with poking around his room, but he doesn’t have much here that reflects him other than some red luggage with black piping.

He emerges from the bathroom wearing a dress shirt and slacks. If that’s what he wears for a drive through the desert, I wonder what it takes to get him to go out in only a T-shirt. His hair is slicked back, and he’s freshly shaved.

Damn.

I wanna devour him.

But I leave him alone, because he’s all gussied up, and I shouldn’t mess with that.

He packs quickly and calls down for the valet, but when we step out of the elevator in the parking garage, we’re confronted with a horde of paparazzi.

Flashbulbs go off, photographers jostling to get the best images of us.

Oh, damn. It’s getting real.

“So it’s true you married Velvet the Cowboy, Mr. Delmont?” one reporter says, shoving a microphone at Kurt, whose eyes widen to the size of spare tires.

“What are your future constituents going to say when they learn you married a gay porn star?”

“Have you seen your opponent’s reaction?”

“What does Melissa Delmont think of your marriage?”

“Is this in response to Sam Stone being in a romantic relationship with Julian Hill?”

Kurt’s gobsmacked. I whisper in his ear, “Put on your sunglasses.”

He nods and pulls them out. He seems to be frozen, and while I don’t want to make things worse for him, I want to move this along. Something clicks inside me. I guess I’m more used to invasive press questions than he is.

I throw an arm around his shoulders. Then I flash my big aw-shucks smile, turning on my charm. “Thanks for your interest in Kurt, but he’s not going to be answering any questions right now.” Kurt melts into my side, reinforcing my decision to take care of this for him.

“Photos have surfaced of you partying last night,” another says. “What do you have to say about that?”

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