The Complications of T (3 page)

“I’m sorry,” was all that I managed, and then I realized how that sounded and followed up with: “For assuming. Anything. At all.”

Fuck
.

To my surprise, Tim laughed.

“Stuart, it’s okay. I know I don’t make it easy, looking the way I do. I assume—wrongly most of the time—that simply introducing myself as Tim will do the trick, but… well…” She—He—
Tim
gestured at my flummoxed state with a little headshake. Getting my brain to accept this sudden change of perspective wasn’t going to be easy.

Tim stood and crossed the room to perch on one of the high stools. She… fuck…
He
pushed my neglected cup of coffee towards me, smiling.

“Go on. Ask.”

I took a few sips, trying to look as nonchalant as I could. Like I’d been hanging out with transsexuals my whole life.

Yeah. Right.

So I swallowed my unease and just went for it:

“You’re a transsexual… um… transgendered?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“But… Are you a
new
transsexual?” Lord, I sounded like a fool, but thankfully when Tim laughed, it held no mockery in it.

“No. I consider myself fully transitioned.”

Transitioned.
I tried to recall everything I knew about transsexuals. A few years earlier, a well-known British politician had made a very public announcement to the effect that he was born female, and I remembered being fascinated—and skeptical—over the coverage of his transition. However, when Herbert had emerged as Gladys, a woman who was a fair bit more attractive and feminine
than my own mum, I had felt ashamed of my own preconceptions.

“But your voice?” I said and then gestured to my own face where the black stubble was thick over my jaw. “And… ?”

“And my lack of beard? Easy: I don’t take testosterone.”

“Why not?” My reticence was melting away under Tim’s friendly smile.

“A few different reasons. There aren’t any studies about the long-term effects of using T. Also… The therapist who helped me through part of the process agreed with me that it might be a bad idea,” Tim’s eyes flicked away from mine for a moment. “It took me a long time to get over my anger issues. I’m just now at a point in my life where I don’t feel a constant undercurrent of rage, and taking T would just up my aggressive tendencies, and I don’t want that… But I dunno.” Tim smiled, and it looked a mite sad to me. “Maybe I’m just afraid. A big ol’ coward.”

All I could do was shrug. Tim laughed again, and I thought it sounded a little self-mocking.

“Yeah. How about we just chalk it up to ‘It’s complicated’? There’s a reason I don’t socialize much—and no, don’t you dare apologize again. I’m the one who dragged you home with me like a stray.”

I grinned at Tim. I liked the way she…
he
talked.

“Okay. No apologies.” The hell with preconceptions… I was going to approach this with as much of an open mind as I could. I didn’t want to keep asking questions because it was beginning to feel like an interrogation, but I thought of something else I could do. “Let me make you breakfast,” I said. “As a thank you for being my valiant rescuer.” I was damned if I was going to leave without repaying Tim somehow. And, despite all the awkwardness, I wanted an excuse to stay a little longer. There was something
unsettling
about Tim. I knew that it was probably a terrible word to associate with my host, but that’s how I felt—like my world had been shaken up and I wasn’t able to find my footing just yet. And the thing with Claire…

“Sure,” replied Tim, looking a bit more relaxed. “You know, I can’t remember the last time I had company, let alone the last time someone cooked for me. I don’t have a whole lot, but use whatever you like.
Mi casa es su casa
.”

Happy to have something to occupy my head and hands, I raided the fridge and cupboards and found the ingredients I needed to make frittata. While I busied myself, Tim retreated to the laptop once more. Music started playing from the speakers in the bookcase, and I recognized the soundtrack from the gangster movie I’d starred in back a few years. When I laughed, Tim looked up and we smirked at each other—as I recall, Tim had given the movie a dismal score—and then I set to work making breakfast.

Four

S
O YOU CAN COOK,” SAID Tim, scraping together the last of the egg on the plate. “I’m impressed. And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

“Hey!” I tried a scowl, but it was ruined by my smile. “You know… I thought it was weird that you didn’t even seem to bat an eye, like you were unimpressed by me or my fame. Now it makes sense. You think I’m complete rubbish.” I was teasing, but in reality Tim’s reviews of my movies had really bothered me. Still did.

Tim sat up, looking bemused. “You obviously didn’t read them.”

“Oh I did. You called
Summer Heat
‘pure garbage’, and said that you wished you could destroy every copy of
The Memory of Mr. Moore
in existence so no one would ever have to suffer through it again.” Normally I didn’t pay attention to reviews, but the illustrious Tim White was quoted so often it was hard to brush off.

“I did, yes. But did you write the movies?” Tim asked.

“Well, no.”

“Direct them?”

“No.”

“And what did I say about
you
in particular? What did I say about your acting?” With brow furrowed, Tim watched me.

“Okay. Yes… You said that my acting was the only thing that saved
Summer Heat
from being the equivalent of a lobotomy…”

“Right. And my reviews still bothered you?”

I nodded.

“You know why that is, right? It’s because you
agree
with me. Stuart, those last two… Hell, the last
five
have been complete and utter shit. You had that big blockbuster, what, eight years ago? Rotten Tomatoes gave it a ninety-nine point seven percent and said it was the ‘must-see movie of the year’. I gave it a full five stars. You know how fucking rare that is? I’ve been giving your movies shit reviews because the movies have been shit and you
know
it.”

Tim was right, of course.

“You can do better. Why aren’t you doing better? You’re a world-class actor, Stuart.” A little colour mounted in Tim’s face. “You’re an
amazing
actor.”

I looked down into my almost empty plate and clenched my jaw. The movie I’d starred in after
Babel’s Following
had done well but was nowhere near the blockbuster that
Babel’s
had been.

“You used to pass on scripts all the time. You picked quality stuff, once upon a time, and apart from one or two exceptions, everything you were in was
good
if not fantastic. Then you started saying yes to complete shit… and that pisses me the fuck off.”

Claire and I had gotten married a year or so after the success of
Babel’s
, back when I thought I had finally broken into American movies. Back when the world was my oyster and I thought I had it made. Then, when that next great script just didn’t come my way, Greg had started pressuring me to accept more roles, crappy-but-well-paying roles: romantic comedies, shallow dramas, absurd science fiction movies, historical pieces that only paid lip service to history. Then Claire had gotten pregnant…

“So, I’m washed up. Yeah, I know it,” I said to Tim, without lifting my head. “Why does it piss
you
off so much?”

“Stuart.” I looked up and was startled to see apprehension in those warm brown eyes. Tim nodded towards the far wall. “Go take a look.”

Confused, I rose to my feet and walked over to the huge bookcase.

“Middle shelf.”

I frowned at the collection of movies grouped together and then quickly searched the other shelves before returning to stare in stunned incomprehension at what sat on the middle shelf. Everywhere else, the discs were arranged alphabetically within their genres. Here, instead, was every movie I’d ever been in, no matter how small the part, arranged in chronological order.

My entire career.

“I don’t… what…” I looked over my shoulder and Tim shrugged self-consciously.

“You’re my favourite actor,” came the surprising confession. “I’m a huge fan.”

I turned back to the collection.

“But you hated
Human Error…
”

“Sure. The movie was shit. But you know what? You were amazing in it. Absolutely perfect.”

I shook my head slowly, trying to take it in. There was a rather unmanly giggle trapped somewhere in my chest. Normally people who utter the words “huge fan” creep me out, but this was
Tim White
. Tim White, whose reviews could pull a movie prematurely out of theatres. Tim White who had called Jim Lonney’s acting “as transparent as passed gas” when he won Best Supporting Actor the previous year—a pronouncement so often quoted that Lonney blames White for losing him roles. Tim White whose very name could spike my blood pressure.

Tim White… a huge fan of my work.

“Thank you,” I said, humbled by the praise; I didn’t know what else to say. Then I smiled in surprise and pulled out a boxset of DVDs in a dark-red plastic case. It was a miniseries about a carnival that travelled through Russia in the twenties. I’d only had a minor part in the later episodes, but Maksim was one of the best characters I’d ever played.

“I didn’t know that this came out in North America. From what I understood… There was no interest.” I looked at Tim.

Tim was watching me with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, that’s an import. It was hard to find, actually.”

I put it back carefully and returned to the kitchen island, feeling shy again.

“I know the movies have been shitty lately. I just don’t know what to do,” I said. I honestly had no clue how to put my career back on track.

“You can’t possibly need the money that badly,” Tim replied. “Why not go back to what you did before. Accept roles that you find worthy instead of any old shit they throw at you like you’re a two-bit whore with your legs in the air.”

The words brought heat to my face, and I picked up the dishes and put them in the sink to cover my discomfort.

“Sorry.”

I turned around. Tim had risen and stood a few paces away. The air felt strangely dense between us, like it was charged with electricity.

“I sometimes say hurtful things without thinking. I didn’t mean it… Forgive me.” Tim’s voice was so low I barely registered it. I realized three things in that moment:

The first was that, despite the fact that Tim was also a celebrity of sorts, I was the bigger star and being alone with me had to be downright surreal, especially to someone who followed my career with such dedication. Tim’s words came back to me:
my favourite actor
.

The second thing I realized was that, with the increased proximity, it was immediately obvious to me that Tim was attracted to me and had been trying hard to hide it.

The last, and by far the most startling of the three, was that the attraction wasn’t one-sided. Life decided to throw me for another loop, and I was completely and absurdly confused.

Tim was a few inches shorter, and when she…
he
looked up at me, his beautiful brown eyes were cautious.

I remembered the drunken, groping kiss of the night before and clenched my jaw.

I’m the arse,
I wanted to say, but I stood there as discomfited as eleven-year-old me had been the day Penny Abraham had said she would kiss me if I asked her nicely.

I thought over some of the things Tim had said that morning—about never having company and not socializing. The neat and tidy flat with a single, very private individual who was “complicated”. Tim was alone… But I was just as alone, even surrounded as I was by people day in and day out. Beneath Tim’s cautious restraint, I saw a desperate longing for contact, and I surprised myself by how much I wanted it too.

“Give me your hand,” I said softly, taking the leap.

The look in Tim’s eyes became even more guarded, but he gave me his hand. Slowly, I pulled it towards me until his cool palm rested against my chest.

Tim’s harsh exhale startled me, but I kept hold of his wrist. He wouldn’t look at me for a moment, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears through his lashes. Gently, I moved his hand over my pec and tentatively his fingers followed the ridge of my collarbone. I thought my heart was going to burst it was going so fast, and I couldn’t recall the last time something had affected me so powerfully that my throat clenched and choked off my breath. Even as hungover as I was, it was pure elation I felt when Tim lifted the other hand to put it softly on my shoulder. Then I dropped my hands to my sides and just let him touch me.

At first his fingers were so gentle they were barely felt, but when he stroked down my chest tracing the shape of the cross tattooed there and continued down, following the thatch of dark hair to my belly and then slowly back up again, his touch became more confident. One hand crept up the side of my neck so he could slide his fingers along my jaw, and the other grazed my left nipple. When he pinched it gently, I let out a soft groan. The borrowed sweatpants did nothing to hide the fact that I was getting wildly excited by Tim’s almost leisurely exploration of my skin, and when he pulled away a moment later, I thought that my growing erection had unnerved him. I frowned in dismay, not knowing what to do.

However, Tim just grabbed the shirt he was wearing between the shoulders and hauled the loose, long-sleeved tee forward over his head to drop it to the floor—I stared mutely at him, amazed by the transformation that had taken place. There was no trace of the woman I had assumed Tim to be. Before me stood a finely muscled young man with an almost mischievous grin. Colourful tattoos covered him from smooth, flat pecs to defined abs and crept down his powerful-looking arms. Dragons, flowers, abstract shapes… the
Millennium Falcon
. I grinned; my own tattoos seemed paltry in comparison.

Surprisingly, instead of wilting my cock, Tim’s shirtless masculinity added to my excitement. Almost without thinking, I grabbed him by the waist and pulled him tight against me. Tim froze for an instant, but when I started kissing the side of his neck to test the waters, he curled a hand over my backside and squeezed.