Page 71 of King of Hollywood

Too busy spending my nights watching penises bounce. (In preparation, of course.)

Too busy spending my days reading spreadsheets. (Because I needed money to provide for Felix, and art.)

Too busy spending my evenings with Felix. (Whenever his schedule permitted it, his other paramours aside.)

Too busy being in love with a tiny, pastel-wearing gremlin man, to find the energy to care about anyone or anything but him.

I was a lovesick fool and everyone knew it. They could see it on my face, probably. Though my new screensaver didn’t help. I had, rather proudly, turned my desktop screen into a homemade collage of the pictures I’d been collecting of Felix. Most were from the security feed I had going in his kitchen. He’d posed for those, which I found just…ah. So sweet.

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by pretending this was “normal” behavior from either of us. I knew I was odd. Possessive. Obsessive. I’d just…never met someone who not only didn’t care about my more unpalatable personality traits, but maybe even liked that I had them.

Some pictures were more sneaky than those were. For example, I had covertly taken several of Felix at the car show. And there were a few extra fun pictures of him walking his cats outside. Last but not least, I’d collected a rather gorgeous photo that featured Felix crocheting while sitting on his couch.

That one was my favorite. It’d been tricky to get it—and Felix nearly caught me lurking in his bushes, my camera out. My heart had been pounding so loud, I’d worried it would give me away.

He looked so…forlorn in the photograph.

Do you get lonely, Finley?

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t.

“That’s a bit creepy, you know,” Harold hummed as he passed by my office around noon. I already knew why he was here. He was going to invite me to lunch like he did every Thursday. I’d decline—like always. Then he would wander off to leave me alone with my chicken breast and asparagus filled Tupperware. It was routine. A pattern we stuck to.

This time, however, I was in a generous mood—aaaand I didn’t have my Tupperware.

“Lunch?” Harold asked like he hadn’t just insulted me.

“It’s not creepy,” I replied, while still staring wistfully at Felix’s lovely face. “And yes.”

“Yes?” Harold blinked, obviously surprised. “As in…?”

“Yes, I will go to lunch with you.” I turned my computer off and rose from my seat, sliding my laptop into my satchel.

“No chicken today?” He squinted, clearly confused. For ten years we’d done this exact dance and this was the first time I’d ever changed the steps. I was a fan of routine, as was he.

I supposed it made sense that he was concerned.

“No,” I answered, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “No chicken.”

He blinked.

He blinked again.

And then a slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Were you out too late to meal prep last night, Marshall?”

“And if I was?” I sniffed, adjusting my bag. Technically, I would’ve had time when I’d gotten home to cook. But…instead, I’d spent the last hour of the night before bedtime creating the masterpiece that was now sitting prettily as my desktop screensaver. I hadn’t had enough pictures before the car show, and now it was perfect.

“Good for you, buddy.” Harold laughed, shaking his head with obvious delight. “Now how do you feel about cheeseburgers?” My face pinched, and he redirected. “Pizza?” Again, my face pinched. “What do you even eat?” Harold frowned at me in mock concern. At least, I thought it was mock concern. Maybe it was real? I couldn’t tell.

“Chicken.”

“Fucking christ, Marshall.”

We went to a local diner.

I ate salad, ice water, and a giant slice of rhubarb pie.

It didn’t taste nearly as good as the one Felix had bought me.