Last time on L.A. Connections…

Brett enlisted Eddie to help locate Mickey’s yacht slip and later turned to Sadie for backup. Miranda tore into Zoanne for aiding Vaughan’s attempt to steal Siobahn. Natalie was hurt when Riley dismissed her M.B.A. ambitions and later sought comfort from Steve, who clashed with Briggs at a bar. Jane grew concerned after noticing cuts on her client Amelia’s arm. Sadie tried and failed to get Heather to push Iris for Alex Reynolds’ new film. Keaton pitched a Nathan Blackthorne biopic to a reluctant Stormy. During a night out, Blake ran into a remorseful Sheldon before provocatively kissing Travis to prove a point. Meanwhile, Miranda planned a big agency party—unaware it coincided with the release of a vengeful prison inmate targeting her.

* * *

From his spot at the far side of Rack & Tap, Briggs cradled his beer bottle, absently peeling away at the label. His attention, however, was fixed across the room on Natalie.

She sat at the bar, laughing at something the guy beside her—Steve somebody—had just said. He’d been watching her since the day of her headshot shoot, unable to shake the way she’d looked at him when her car broke down a few days later.

Of course, she didn’t know that it hadn’t been by chance—that the dead engine wasn’t bad luck. That a discreet, practiced twist of a wrench on her battery cables before she left Hal Bedford’s office had set the moment in motion. And when he swept in to her rescue and she smiled with such gratification, he’d known it had worked.

Lucas Briggs was thirty-three, had been a photographer since journalism class at Van Nuys High School, later scraping by on wedding gigs and the occasional commercial job until landing steady work with an agency. He’d had a few girlfriends, but none stuck. The same thing always came up when things ended—too possessive. They said it was like a flaw, but to him, it was loyalty and dedication. He just knew what he wanted, and when he wanted it, he didn’t like to wait.

Across the bar, the jukebox spilled Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’. He watched as Steve stood, muttering something to Natalie before heading toward the bathroom. Without wasting a second, Briggs slid from his stool.

When he reached her spot at the bar, his shadow loomed over her. “Hey,” he said with a casual smile, though he’d been rehearsing the words in his head for twenty minutes. “Listen, I’m sorry if I came off pushy tonight. I just… think you’ve got something.”

As she set her glass down, his gaze dipped—quick but deliberate—tracing the length of her legs before returning to her face with an easy grin.  

“Thanks,” she said, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile.

“You want to have a drink tomorrow?” he asked, leaning in just slightly. “No agenda. Just… see where it goes. I meant what I said—I think I can help with your career.”

Natalie offered a tired but genuine smile. “Well… I could use all the help I can get. If you really think so, then sure.”

His grin widened. “I do. And I don’t say that lightly.”

She tilted her head. “Alright then. Tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said quickly, pulling out his phone. “You’ve got my number already. Can I get yours?”

Natalie took his phone without hesitation, tapping her digits into the glowing screen before handing it back. “There. Just… don’t turn into a stalker, okay?” she teased, half-laughing.

Briggs chuckled with her, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“Everything alright here?”

Briggs turned, and found Steve looming behind him, his eyes sharp and suspicious.

Natalie sat up straighter. “Steve, it’s fine. We were just talking.”

“Talking,” Steve repeated, his gaze still locked on Briggs. “I thought I told you earlier to back off. Or didn’t I make myself clear?”

Briggs smile was slow and deliberate. “Crystal.” He lingered a moment longer, letting his eyes rest on Natalie before stepping back from the table.

Steve slid in beside her, still watching Briggs as he retreated to the far end of the bar. His hand settled on the table, close to hers. “Don’t let that guy fool you,” he muttered under his breath. “Something’s off about him.”

Natalie glanced down at her drink, saying nothing. Across the room, Briggs lifted his beer and smiled to himself.

* * *

The marina was quiet, engulfed in fog and bathed in moonlight. Brett and Sadie moved in silence along the docks, both dressed in head to toe black. She carried a flashlight tucked into her belt while Brett’s beam swept across the weathered planks ahead, leading them toward the far end of the marina where slip 407 was situated.

“Okay,” Sadie whispered, hopping over a coiled hose, “remind me again why I’m sneaking around a yacht in the middle of the night? I had plans to binge Touched by an Angel and break out my kombucha.”

“I told you,” Brett muttered. “I’m retrieving something that belongs to me.”

“That’s not a real answer,” she hissed. “You said you needed help ‘grabbing a file.’ What kind of file? Tax stuff? Secret treasure map? Hidden baby clause in a prenup?”

Brett didn’t answer.

Sadie stopped walking. “Okay, no. You do not get to drag me out here dressed like a goth ninja and pull the mysterious CEO card. Spill.”

He turned toward her, jaw clenched. “It’s an NDA.”

Sadie squinted. “Like a contract?”

“Like a nondisclosure agreement,” he said flatly. 

She stared at him. “Wait… is this a sex thing?”

He didn’t respond.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. “Is it one of those hush money situations? Brett.”

“It’s not like that—”

“Exactly how many women have you done this to?” she cut in. 

“Just one. And she was—I mean, we were both—”

Sadie threw up a hand. “Nope. Don’t say it. Don’t say you were both drunk. I can feel the cancellation radiating off you already. I should have known my sister wasn’t the first woman you put the moves on in the workplace.”

“I didn’t do anything criminal,” Brett snapped. “It was messy. It got handled. But Mickey got his hands on the paperwork and he’s using it to control me.”

She folded her arms, squinting. “This Mickey guy sounds dangerous. And by the way, this so counts toward you convincing Heather to put her up for Glass Gardens.”

“I’ve told you, Heather and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Oh my god,” Sadie said, gasping. “You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you? You still love her. I knew it.”

“Sadie—”

“Unfinished business. Lovers turned rivals. I live for this.”

“We are in the middle of a felony right now,” Brett reminded her.

“Fine.” She started walking again, a little too cheerfully. “Let’s find your gross old paperwork.”

As they reached the end of the dock, the yacht came into view. The faintest blue light glowed beneath the hull.

Sadie lowered her voice. “How do you know he’s not home?”

“Miranda’s husband,” Brett said, crouching low near the access ladder. “Eddie. He’s a P.I. Has a guy at the marina. Said Mickey’s SUV pulled out at 6:10. No return scheduled. Packed an overnight bag and told his assistant to cancel his usual dinner delivery.”

“Well,” Sadie muttered. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

Brett reached for the lock.

“Just so we’re clear,” she added, “if we get murdered, I’m blaming you in the afterlife.”

He didn’t respond as the lock clicked open.

* * *

It was past ten, the house finally quiet after Heather, Kelly, Stormy, and Jane had left. The last of the wine glasses still sat on the patio table outside and the fire pit still blazed. Inside, Miranda curled up on the sofa in a fluffy robe, a notepad balanced on her knee, scribbling ideas for the M.B.A. party—names, themes, and seating arrangements flowing in quick, neat handwriting.

Eddie came in from the kitchen with a fresh drink in hand, settling into the armchair opposite her. “So,” he said casually, “what do you think about the possibility of Stormy working with Keaton again?”

Miranda didn’t look up right away. She tapped her pen against the page, then finally glanced over, her expression unreadable. “I think… it’s his choice.” Her tone was measured and noncommittal. “I don’t know that it’s mine to judge.”

“Come on, you must have some feeling about it,” Eddie prodded. 

Miranda sighed. “Keaton shares the same mother as Stormy and I, but for me that’s really where our association ends. Sure, I’m cordial to him at family dinners and when I see him at parties—hell, I even go out of my way to say hello to him if I run into him on the street. But I just don’t want a relationship with him. Does that make me a bad person?”

“Of course it doesn’t,” he replied. He studied her, but she’d already turned back to her notepad, jotting down Lighting? Strings vs chandeliers? in the margin.

Upstairs, the thudding crash of guitars suddenly rattled through the ceiling—Tiger, blasting metal music in her room. Miranda flinched, pressing a hand to her temple. “Oh, god.” She set the pen down with a sharp click. “Can you please deal with her? I cannot handle my daughter tonight.”

Eddie chuckled softly, draining his glass as he stood. “On it.”

She leaned back against the cushions, eyes drifting to the notes she’d already made. Celebrate Siobahn. Iris and Riley. Statement of resilience. The party was going to be huge.

Above, the music pounded louder, and she exhaled, muttering to herself, “And hopefully, worth it.”

Eddie climbed the curved staircase, the thud of bass of Black Sabbath grew louder with each step until it vibrated through the hallway walls. He tapped once on Tiger’s door, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

The room was a neon cave—blacklight posters on the walls, laundry spilling out of a basket, and Tiger sprawled across her bed in a band T-shirt two sizes too big, earbuds dangling, head bobbing to the distorted guitar riffs blasting from a turntable and high powered speakers.

“Hey.” Eddie raised his voice over the music. “You trying to shake the foundation loose, or just drive your mother insane?”

Tiger smirked without looking up. “Maybe both.”

Eddie crossed the room and adjusted the volume.  “Your mom’s downstairs with a migraine. Give her a break, huh?”

Tiger groaned, rolling onto her side. “She doesn’t get me.”

“Judging from your similar tastes in music, I’d have to disagree,” Eddie said.  He dropped into the desk chair, spinning it once for effect. “But you crank this at ten-thirty, you’re not exactly helping your case.”

She pulled her knees up, hugging them, her eyeliner smudged. “She wants me to be something I’m not.”

Eddie studied her for a beat. “She wants you to be happy. But she also wants you to consider other people’s feelings. That crack about your uncle Stormy and aunt Jane wasn’t your finest moment. So do us both a favor—keep it low tonight.”

Tiger rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Eddie ruffled her hair as he stood, earning a dramatic groan. “Good kid.”

Back downstairs, he found her still on the sofa, pen in hand, a determined list growing across the notepad. He dropped beside her with a quiet sigh.

“Handled?” she asked without looking up.

Eddie smirked. “Handled.”

* * *

The windows of Sheldon’s Tri West condo blazed with light for a brief moment before the motorized shades closed, dimming the room. Amber lighting softened the edges of the modern space, casting a warm, intimate glow across the bedroom.

Beneath the tension knotting in Blake’s chest, Cannons’ Fire For You pulsed through the speakers. The synth beat shimmered in the background, the song’s languid rhythm wrapped around them, slow and seductive, as if the room itself were trying to nudge them back into one of their old patterns.

Sheldon’s shirt hung open, half-untucked, his voice low and cautious as he leaned in and whispered to Blake. “We don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’ve made your point.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. “I’m not trying to make a point.”

But even as the words left his mouth, Blake knew they weren’t entirely true. He was trying to prove something. Because deep down, the reason things with Sheldon had never really worked wasn’t just about timing or distance—it was commitment. Or the lack of it. Sheldon had always kept one foot out the door, always framing what they had as fluid, undefined, flexible. And Blake? He’d been the one holding it together, the one who felt too much, wanted too much, and usually said too much.

Well, not anymore.

If this was what Sheldon wanted—casual threesomes with gym rats or Instagram models, a connection with an escape hatch—then fine. Blake could play that game too. But something inside him was already asking how long he could keep that up.

Before he could answer, Travis stepped between them and pulled Blake into a kiss that shut his mouth and scrambled his thoughts. His hand slid to the back of Blake’s head, fingers knotting through his hair. Blake froze for half a second, shocked at how easily he folded into it. When Travis finally pulled away, Blake blinked, dazed.

Then Travis turned and kissed Sheldon—just as confidently, just as deeply. Blake watched as Sheldon melted into it, his body arching slightly forward, mouth opening to meet Travis’s. Their kiss went on longer. More familiar, or more needed. It was hard to tell.

Blake’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Okay, he thought. So this is real. He could feel his pulse thudding in his throat. The air between them had thickened—need, tension, maybe even jealousy swimming somewhere beneath the surface.

Then Sheldon looked at him, his lips still wet, his expression torn between doubt and heat. “Blake…” he said, like he didn’t trust any of this.

Travis leaned forward. “Take off your clothes.”

Sheldon hesitated just long enough to make it clear he needed to be told twice. His shirt hit the floor, followed immediately by his pants. 

Travis kissed the back of his neck while Blake’s hands roamed possessively over his chest. Travis took control first, holding Sheldon’s wrists above his head while Blake knelt beside him, dragging slow kisses along his ribs, hips, and thighs. Sheldon writhed, half in disbelief, half in desperate need.

They didn’t let up, their hands and mouths all focused on him. Blake kissed him deeply as he shrugged off his shirt and pants, left in a pair of black Versace underwear. Travis took his cue and began to undress, peeling off his shirt to reveal a defined torso with a trace of hair spread over his chest. When he removed his pants, Blake took him in and noticed Sheldon doing the same. The head of Travis’s cock poked out from the waistband of his tiny blue briefs, stretching upward clear to his belly button. Blake stared in amazement, then watched as Travis pushed Sheldon to his knees in front of him. 

Sheldon lowered Travis’s briefs and took him into his mouth, his hand resting on the base of his shaft as he swirled his tongue slowly around the head, teasing him gently before taking more of him. Blake could testify that Sheldon gave incredible head, so he had no doubt that Travis was enjoying himself. 

Next, Sheldon turned his attention to Blake, lowering his underwear and wrapping his lips around him. At the same time, Travis leaned in and kissed him. Sheldon worked his magic tongue on them— first one, then the other, then repeating until he couldn’t take it any more. 

Rising to his feet, Sheldon leaned in to Blake and kissed him hungrily, leading him to the bed and pulling him on top of him. Blake entered him slowly, staring into his eyes as he slid in, inch by inch, breath by breath. Travis got on the bed and knelt beside them, his lips starting at Blake’s neck and shoulders and then down his back to his ass. He reached down, his hand circling Blake’s girthy cock as it entered Sheldon. 

After a few minutes, Blake pulled out and gave Travis a nod of his head. On cue, Sheldon rolled over onto all fours. Blake lay before him on the bed, legs outstretched as Travis got behind Sheldon and eased his cock inside of him. Blake watched as Sheldon’s eyes rolled backward, wincing from both pain and pleasure.  

Travis took his time, gently easing in all ten inches. Blake leaned in and kissed Sheldon hard on the lips. “You okay?” he asked. 

Sheldon nodded, unable to form words. He took Blake’s cock into his mouth and worked it with expert skill. Behind him, Travis went slowly, and when he felt Sheldon begin to loosen, he increased the pace. 

By the end, all three collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion, their skin slicked with sweat, waves of pleasure still washing over them. Blake lay on one side, tracing lazy fingers down Sheldon’s arm. Travis on the other, breath warm against the back of his neck.

* * *

Brett moved through the dark inside of the yacht, his flashlight beam scanning across the rooms as he went.

Sadie lingered just inside the door, arms crossed as she stood lookout. “I would have never thought this is where we’d end up after that day I barged into your office.” 

Brett ignored her, moving into a small study tucked behind a glass door. He rifled through drawers—empty. Cabinets—locked. He found a drawer labeled “client archives” and pulled it open. Nothing.

“This is like trying to find a needle in a haystack,” he muttered.

“You manifested disappointment,” Sadie whispered back. “That’s on you.”

He turned, frustrated. “Help me check the back—there’s a—”

A sound from outside stopped them both. The faint creak of the dock. A footstep. Then another.

Sadie froze.  “Someone’s on the gangway,” she whispered.

They both killed their flashlights as footsteps moved closer. Brett ducked behind a built-in couch. Sadie darted to the door, opened it an inch and peered out.

A man was boarding. A crew member, maybe. Security? Dock staff?  He stepped into the salon, his silhouette filling the entry.

Sadie stepped forward into the dim glow of the LED floor strips, arms up like she was doing performance art.  “Whoa! Whoa. Don’t freak out,” she said, her voice calm and airy. “We’re not robbing you. I’m here for an energy clearing.”

The man frowned. “What?”

“I’m Zarabeth. Chakra consultant. Mickey booked a session with me. Full moon reset. Very hush-hush.”

Brett could feel the tension in the room as he hid from view.

The man squinted at her. “Mickey didn’t say anything about this.”

Sadie lowered her arms slightly, her tone suddenly more commanding. “That’s because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s having a hard time sleeping on the boat,” she said. “Restlessness. Imbalance. Classic water-energy disruption. I told him if he didn’t get a clearing soon, the marina would feel it. Like… emotionally.”

The man looked utterly lost. “You’re serious?”

“Frighteningly.”

He hesitated.  “I’m gonna call him.”

“No need!” Sadie cut in quickly. “We’re done anyway.”

She reached back, grabbed Brett’s arm as he stood. “We’re just leaving.”

Brett didn’t say a word as they briskly stepped past the man and onto the dock.

“You tell Mickey he’s gonna feel a huge release around the solar plexus tomorrow morning,” Sadie called over her shoulder. “You’re welcome!”

They walked fast, then faster, then broke into a run as soon as they hit the end of the dock.

Brett yanked open the passenger door of Sadie’s beat-up old BMW. They dove in, slamming the doors behind them.

“Did you find it?” she asked, peeling out of the lot.

Brett shook his head. “No NDA. Nothing.”

“Cool. So we risked arrest and possibly death for nothing.”

“You bluffed a man with a neck tattoo into thinking you were a chakra consultant. I think you won.”

She grinned. “So what now?”

“Now I find another way to get Mickey out of my life without him blowing up my career,” Brett told her.

“How did you get mixed up with this guy anyway?”

“Don’t ask,” Brett said with a shake of his head.  

* * *

When they got home from Miranda and Eddie’s, Jane had barely set her purse down before she tore open a cardboard package the Amazon driver had left on the porch—another stack of pregnancy books and a box of vitamins spilling onto the entryway table. Stormy kissed the top of her head and left her sorting through them while he went upstairs to check on R.J.

He found his son in his room, lights dimmed, the bluish glow of the TV screen flickering across his face. R.J. sat cross-legged on the carpet, headset clamped over his ears, thumbs flying over the controller as digital gunfire rattled from the speakers.

“Hey,” Stormy said from the doorway, arms folded. “Did you finish your homework?”

R.J. didn’t look up, eyes glued to the screen as his character ducked behind a wall. “Almost.”

“Almost?”

“I’ll do the rest before bed,” R.J. muttered, mashing another button.

Stormy sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “Bedtime is now,” he said. “Five more minutes and then finish your homework and go to bed.”

This time R.J. paused the game and glanced back at him, sheepish but stubborn. “Okay, Dad.”

Stormy nodded once, pulled the door half-closed, and continued downstairs. He went into his study and picked up Keaton’s script, then joined Jane in the living room where he began reading. After twenty minutes, he was half done. 

“Did you know,” Jane said, breaking the quiet, “that babies can start recognizing sounds from outside the womb by the third trimester? Like music, or our voices.”

Stormy, sprawled at the other end of the sofa with the script open in front of him, didn’t answer right away. 

Jane watched him, her book slowly lowering onto her lap. “Stormy.”

He blinked, looking up. “What?”

She tilted her head, curious. “How is it?”

He hesitated, glancing back at the title page, then let out a small breath. “It’s… actually really good.”

Jane smiled, shifting closer, tucking herself against the arm of the sofa. “Good as in worth doing?”

Stormy nodded slowly. “Good as in… Yeah, maybe.”

But as his eyes drifted back to the title page—American Star by Keaton Hartley—he began to reconsider. His half-brother’s pitches were always slick, always convincing, but they often came with strings attached.

Stormy brushed his thumb absently along Jane’s hand, but his gaze stayed fixed on the page. The script was good. Better than he wanted to admit. Still, in the back of his mind, a question gnawed at him—was Keaton honoring Nathan, or just exploiting him one last time?

Jane squeezed his hand, grounding him again. Stormy forced a smile, but his unease lingered.

* * *

The warm breeze had picked up by the time Kelly and Heather pulled up to the curb in front of Rack & Tap. The glow of neon spilled onto the sidewalk as they stepped inside, the sound of chatter and clack of pool balls washing over them. Journey had long since faded from the jukebox, replaced now by a twangy country-rock song no one seemed to know the words to.

Kelly slid into a high-top booth near the back, shrugging out of her jacket. “I needed this,” she sighed, glancing at the bar. “Something about talking business all night makes me crave cheap beer.”

Heather grinned, settling in across from her. “You? Cheap beer?”

“Fine,” Kelly admitted with a smirk. “Medium-priced beer.”

Their drinks arrived quickly, condensation already dripping down the pint glasses. Heather swirled hers idly, her brow furrowed. “I noticed you got pretty quiet when Stormy brought up Keaton tonight.” 

Kelly took a long sip before answering. “Oh? I didn’t notice.”  

Heather tilted her head, her look incredulous. “Come on, get serious. When was the last time you even talked to him?”

Kelly shrugged, eyes fixed on the bubbles rising in her beer. “It’s been… a while.”

“A while?” Heather pressed. “Kelly, you looked like you’d seen a ghost the second his name came up. Don’t tell me you’re still—”

“I’m not,” Kelly interrupted quickly. She set her glass down a little harder than she meant to, then tried to soften it with a half-smile. “I mean, not like that.”

Heather arched her eyebrows. “Not like what?”

Kelly sighed, finally meeting her friend’s eyes. For a moment, the loud clatter of the bar and the crack of pool balls seemed to fall away. “I don’t know. Maybe I still… feel something. I wish I didn’t, but I do. Keaton was a mess, but he was my mess once. And part of me can’t shake that.”

Heather sat back, exhaling through her nose. “That’s dangerous territory.”

Kelly swirled her glass, then sensed there was something in Heather’s remark. “What?” she asked slowly, studying her. 

Heather lifted her drink, buying a few seconds, then set it back down without taking a sip. “What?”

“You got all wispy when you said dangerous territory. I can tell you’re holding something back,” Kelly said. “Spill it.”

Heather sighed, slouching back against the booth. Her voice dropped, low enough that only Kelly could hear.  “Brett and I… we slept together. The other day.”

Kelly blinked, her mouth parting, caught between shock and a laugh that never came. “Your ex-husband Brett?” 

Heather nodded once, her lips tightening into a line.

Kelly leaned back, her eyes narrowing. “Okay, this is big. How did this happen exactly?”

“I went to his office to drop off the McReady memo and—”

“Oh my god, you did it in his office?” Kelly cut in with disbelief. 

Heather shook her head. “No.”  A pause as her lips curled into the faintest of smiles. “We did it in the elevator.” 

Kelly nearly choked on her beer. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It got stuck between floors,” Heather explained. “It’s not like we planned it.  We started arguing like we always do and the next thing you know he’s kissing me.” 

“Do your arguments always end like that?” Kelly asked with a laugh. 

Heather shrugged. “Not always.”  

Her response sent Kelly into a tailspin, nearly coming out of her chair. “What? This has happened before? How many times?”

“A few.” 

“A few?” Kelly lamented. “Girl, how have you kept this from me? Does Miranda know? Does Jane?” 

“No,” Heather said insistently. “And I don’t want them to.”

Leaning back, Kelly placed a hand against her forehead. “Okay, so what does this mean? Are you getting back together?”

Heather shook her head firmly. “We are not getting back together.”

“So it’s just sex then,” Kelly said. “Okay, I get that. But you had a relationship with this man. You have a daughter together. How are you going to keep emotions out of it?”

Heather’s smirk faltered. She stared down at the condensation sliding down her glass, her mind slipping elsewhere. “I don’t know. I just have to. I can’t get serious about Brett again. Whenever I do, I get hurt.”

Kelly narrowed her eyes. “Heather…”

“What?”

“You already have feelings, don’t you? I can see it on your face.”

Heather didn’t answer right away. Her gaze went unfocused, drifting toward the neon glow above the bar, as though she could will herself into denial. But her silence said more than words. Finally, she gave the faintest of nods, almost to herself.

Kelly exhaled slowly, the weight of it sinking in. “Oh, god. You do. What are you going to do?” 

Heather looked back at her with a half-smile that was all sadness. “Nothing.”

* * *

The bedroom was softly lit, the city glittering in the distance through half-drawn drapes. Miranda sat at her vanity, sliding off her Cartier cuff and setting it neatly in its leather box while Eddie did his nightly rituals in the bathroom.

“Busy day tomorrow?” Miranda called into him as she pulled a brush through her mane of dark chestnut

“Sort of,” he replied after taking a break from flossing. “Meeting a new client for lunch.”

“Who is it?” 

After returning to the bathroom and rinsing his mouth in the faucet, Eddie called back.  “Courtney DeLoache.”   

“Courtney DeLoache?” she asked, her tone clipped, the way it always got when old names resurfaced.  “As in the same Courtney DeLoache we went to high school with?”

“That’s her,” Eddie said as he emerged from the bathroom and sunk to the floor where he did a series of pushups. 

Twisting off the chair, Miranda crossed the room and stood before him, hands balled at her sides.  “What does she need with a private detective?” 

He waited until he was finished with his set before answering. “You know I can’t discuss that, Miranda,” he said, on his knees as he took a few deep breaths.  

“Oh, come on, you’ve discussed cases with me before. What’s the big secret about this one?” 

“I just promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone, that’s all,” Eddie said before completing twenty more pushups.   

Annoyed, Miranda climbed into bed and crossed her arms. “You remember how horrible she was to me, don’t you?  She got some kind of sick enjoyment out of finding ways of making my life hell.”  

“Oh god, not the talent show again,” Eddie said and collapsed onto his back. 

But Miranda was already launching into the tale. “During the spring talent show when I was a sophomore, I blanked on the lyrics to Complicated, and ran off stage in tears. Courtney got hold of a recording of it and made copies and handed them out at the Homecoming dance.” 

“Miranda, that was over twenty years ago,” he said. “Forget about it.”  

“You act like that’s the only crappy thing she ever did,” Miranda pressed. “She was a total bitch to me every chance she got.”

Eddie slid into bed beside her, propping himself on one elbow. “Well, you know… you probably gave it right back to her. No offense, but you were really unpleasant as a teenager. Why do you think it took me so long to talk to you?”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so it’s my fault I was bullied?”

“No,” Eddie said evenly. “But maybe stop for a second and remember—you’re not sixteen anymore. And neither is Courtney.”

Miranda clamped her lips together, silent for a beat before turning toward him again. “Then tell me why she’s hiring you.”

“I can’t!” Eddie’s voice spiked, frustration slipping through.

Her eyes flashed, sharp and unyielding. With two sharp claps of her hands, the bedroom plunged into darkness. She rolled to her side, her back to him, leaving the silence to fill the space between them.

* * *

The apartment was quiet when Natalie and Steve walked in, the scent of takeout still lingering faintly in the air. Natalie dropped her purse on the counter just as Riley stepped out from the hallway.

He looked tired—drawn, almost like he’d been crying—and his voice cracked slightly when he spoke.

“Hey,” he said. “I was hoping you’d be back.”

Steve said nothing, just crossed his arms. Natalie waited.

Riley shifted his weight. “I owe you both an apology. For earlier. I’ve been… off. This whole thing with Kelly, the meetings, the commercial shoots—it’s happening fast. I feel underwater most of the time.” He let out a breath. “That’s no excuse, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

A beat of silence stretched out before Natalie gave him a small nod. “Thanks for saying that.”

Steve exhaled sharply and offered a tight shrug. “Alright. Clean slate.”

Managing a crooked smile, Riley reached for Natalie’s hand and pulled her gently into his arms.  “Think you can forgive me for being a complete idiot?” he asked.

Natalie tilted her head, pretending to think it over. “Mmm… I guess,” she said with a grin, planting a soft kiss on his lips.

“Thanks,” Riley murmured, then turned to Steve. “And you. Come here, man.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, but Riley was already pulling him into a firm bro-hug, patting his back theatrically.

“Hold me, big fella,” Steve said with mock desperation.

Riley burst out laughing and pushed him away. “Hey, holster it, cowboy. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

They all laughed for a moment, the tension of the day subsiding. After a beat, Natalie’s tone softened.

“Look… I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive earlier,” she said. “We’ve always said we’re in this together. Just because it’s happening for you now doesn’t mean it won’t happen for me, too. It’s just…” She hesitated. “Hard not to feel like I’m standing still while you’re racing ahead.”

Riley took her hand again, nodding.

“I’m actually meeting with Briggs tomorrow,” she added. “The photographer who did my headshots. Steve and I ran into him at the bar, and he said he thinks I’ve got something.”

Riley’s smile faltered slightly. “Briggs?”

“Yeah,” Natalie said. “He offered to help. Thought I should go for it.”

Riley gave her hand a squeeze, trying to keep his expression neutral. “That’s great, hon.”

But as he said it, he caught a fleeting look from Steve—a flicker of something that told him Briggs was a problem.

* * *

By the time Travis left, the bedroom smelled of cologne and sweat, the sheets tangled in a way neither Sheldon nor Blake wanted to bother with. Sheldon had suggested wine, so they moved to the living room—wearing only underwear, the flat-screen glowing with an episode of Schitt’s Creek.

Blake curled into one end of the sectional with a glass in hand, watching David Rose spiral through another meltdown about artisanal soaps. Sheldon sat beside him, legs stretched out, half-listening, half-lost in thought.

“Kind of fitting,” Blake said after a sip, nodding toward the screen. “All the melodrama over relationships. Pretty on the nose.”

Sheldon gave him a slight smile. “Yeah. Except ours isn’t going to be winning an Emmy.”

Blake smirked, leaning his head back. “So, let’s cut to it. You had fun tonight. Admit it.”

“I did,” Sheldon said simply, turning the stem of his glass between his fingers.

“See? I knew it.” Blake grinned, triumphant. “I’ve been telling you—you thrive on this kind of thing. Monogamy isn’t your forte.”

For a moment, Sheldon didn’t answer. On-screen, Moira’s voice soared into another dramatic tirade, filling the silence between them. Then he sighed, shifting to face Blake more fully.

“I was into it,” Sheldon admitted. “Travis is hot, and yeah—he has a big dick. I mean, really big. But…”

“But what?” Blake asked, arching a brow, already expecting a sly suggestion of who they might invite next.

Sheldon’s gaze held his. “I was bored.”

Blake blinked, caught off guard. “Bored?”

“Yeah.” Sheldon took a long sip of wine, then set the glass down. “That kind of thing—it doesn’t do it for me anymore. It used to feel like freedom. Now it just feels… empty.”

Blake let out a short laugh. “Empty? Come on. You loved every second of it.  I was there, remember?”

Sheldon shook his head, his tone softer now, almost vulnerable. “I liked it in the moment. But afterward? It felt hollow. Like when you shame eat In & Out in the car after the gym when what you really want is filé mignon and lobster.”

Blake stared, trying to read him, waiting for the punchline. “So what—you’re saying you don’t want to do this again?”

Sheldon leaned forward, his expression firm but not unkind. “I’m saying I’d rather have something real. With you. Just you.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than the sitcom chatter filling the room. Blake tightened his grip on his glass, unsure whether to laugh, argue, or admit that somewhere deep down, it was exactly what he wanted to hear.

Sheldon closed the space between them and took Blake’s face in his hands. The kiss came hard and certain and full of urgency.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads still touching, Sheldon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you. Always have.”

Blake closed his eyes, letting the words settle, and for the first time in years, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

He rose from the couch, stretching with casual ease. “Top-off?” he asked, already heading toward the kitchen island where a half-empty bottle of Cabernet breathed beside a crystal decanter.

“Sure,” Sheldon said and handed him his glass

As Blake turned his back, Sheldon’s phone buzzed. He lowered his gaze.

TRAVIS: It was good to be inside you again.

Sheldon’s breath stalled. Heat rose under his collar as he thought back to the day he got back from New York…

Labor Day

A 90’s emo punk band worked overtime in the backyard of some actor whose name nobody knew but everyone pretended to. Fairy-lights draped over eucalyptus branches, champagne sweating in silver buckets, and party guests mingled with fake smiles.

Sheldon stepped onto the terrace and looked out at the life he’d been absent from for a year. His social life in New York had been virtually nil—devoting all his time to the play. It felt strange to be among people his own age with the same nepo baby baggage as him.

“Back from the big city?” came a voice from behind.

Sheldon turned as Travis appeared by the outdoor bar, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. He smirked. “Yeah, I landed a couple hours ago.”

Travis chuckled. “You look like New York treated you right.” His eyes flicked over Sheldon in a not very subtle fashion. “Sharpened you up.”

“Thanks… I think,” Sheldon replied, nodding at the crowd — young agents, rising actors, a studio assistant telling a story too loudly.  “Heard you got the EA job at my dad’s agency. How’s that going?” 

Travis ran a thumb along his glass. “Good. Keeps me out of trouble. He expects a lot, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar,” Sheldon mused.

Someone laughed near the pool—an up-and-coming actor with a series buzz—as a tray of drinks passed by. 

Travis leaned a little closer. “You should stop by the office. Say hi sometime.”

“Maybe,” Sheldon said. It came out softer than he meant.

Staring into his eyes, Travis’s lips curled into a grin. The band launched into one of their biggest hits and the volume skyrocketed.  “Or we could…” he said, shouting over the music. 

Minutes later, they were in an upstairs bathroom inside the house, Sheldon bent over the vanity as Travis fucked him from behind. 

“God, you feel so good,” Travis said, sweating profusely as he gripped Sheldon’s waist with both hands… 

Today

Sheldon blinked, the Brentwood terrace dissolving, replaced by the warm haze of his living room lamp and the murmur of Blake humming in the kitchen. His hand moved before his conscience could catch up, thumbs tapping quiet and reckless.

SHELDON: yeah, was hot. 

Three dots alerted him to a reply coming from Travis, so he quickly tapped out a follow up. 

SHELDON: i didn’t tell Blake about Labor Day fyi so please keep it on the dl 

Travis responded with a thumbs up emoji. Sheldon glanced up and saw Blake returning.  Quickly, he deleted the message thread and set his phone down. 

“Sorry, the cork was stubborn,” Blake said, cheerful and oblivious, handing him one. “But victory was achieved.”

Sheldon forced a smile and reached for the glass. “Worth fighting for,” he murmured.

Blake settled beside him, his thigh warm against his. “To us,” he said again, offering a soft little cheers.

Sheldon lifted his glass and swallowed hard. 

* * *

When they got back to his house in Venice, Brett tossed his keys onto the entry table with a metallic clatter. He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair as he slipped off his jacket.

Sadie hovered in the open space between the living room and kitchen, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.  “Well,” she said. “That was mildly traumatizing and strangely empowering.”

Brett gave a tired half-smile as he slumped onto the edge of the couch. “Hey, you were pretty good under pressure,” he said. “You kept your cool.”

“I always keep my cool,” she said, then paused for a few moments, looking around awkwardly. “Do you have wine?”

“In the kitchen.” Brett nodded in the general direction. “On the island counter. Help yourself.”

Sadie disappeared for a moment and returned with a half-full bottle of pinot and two stemless glasses. She poured them both full and handed one over.

“To criminal trespassing,” she toasted.

Brett clinked his glass lazily. “And failing to find the damn NDA.”

They drank in silence for a beat. Brett leaned forward to set his glass down, rubbing the back of his neck absently. Sadie watched him, her eyes softening.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

He looked up at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. “Not really.”

“I mean, I get it. You’re in deep with this Mickey guy. NDAs, yacht espionage. I’m glad you felt like you could trust me.”

Brett nodded once. “Yeah.”

Sadie hovered a moment longer. Then, slowly, she sat beside him on the couch. “I know I act like a lot of things don’t matter to me,” she said. “But that did.”

Brett shifted, about to respond—but Sadie misread the movement. She leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, lips brushing against his before he could stop her.

He jerked back. “Whoa. Sadie—no.”

Her eyes flew open. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Brett said quickly. “But that’s not… that’s not what this is.”

Sadie blinked, horror dawning on her face. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not you,” he said, hands up, trying to be gentle but firm. “I’m just… I don’t think of you like that.”

She stood up fast, nearly knocking over her glass. “Of course you don’t.”

“Sadie—”

“No, it makes sense,” she said, her voice cracking as she backed away. “I’m not one of your cute little Hollywood types. I mean, I’m not Iris, or your secretary—what’s her name—Sam? Yeah, I’m just the fat sister.”

“That’s not fair,” Brett said, rising to his feet.

“No, I made a fool of myself,” she said. “I mean, I should have known, right? You? Interested in me?”

Before he could stop her, she was at the door. She opened it, paused just long enough to mutter, “I hope you find your precious NDA,” then stormed out into the night.

Brett stood frozen in the doorway, the soft click of the door closing behind her. 

* * *

Eddie had settled against the pillows, his eyes heavy, while Miranda lay beside him, wide awake, her thoughts still circling the name Courtney DeLoache.

She turned toward him, trailing her hand across his chest. At first, Eddie hesitated, but when she shifted closer, pressing her lips against his jaw, he let out a low groan and drew her in. Whatever anger she carried found another outlet, dissolving into urgency and heat.

Their bodies moved together, the earlier tension redirected and transformed. Eddie responded eagerly, meeting her touch, matching her rhythm, until finally the room was filled only with the sound of their breathing.

Afterwards, Miranda lay tangled against him, her head resting on his shoulder, their skin still warm. For a few moments, they lay in silence, breath evening out, the earlier tension between them softened.

Then she lifted her head, her eyes catching his in the dim light. “Okay, now tell me why she hired you,” she demanded.

Eddie groaned and flopped his head back against the pillow. “Oh, that’s what this was? You think you can just seduce me into giving up client secrets?”

Miranda gasped, sitting up straighter. She clapped twice, prompting the lights back on. “Excuse me? I did not use sex to get what I want.”

He gave her a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “Oh no? The timing sure feels suspicious.”

She crossed her arms, chin lifting with imperious grace. “I initiated because I love you. Because I wanted you. Don’t flatter yourself, Eddie—it wasn’t some interrogation tactic.”

Eddie chuckled, rolling onto his side to face her. “So the fact that we’re immediately back to Courtney is just… what, coincidence?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, though her smirk betrayed her. “Total coincidence.”

Eddie laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Miranda said, sliding back down beside him, her tone sly now. “But you married me anyway.”

He kissed her, still chuckling. “God help me, I did.”

* * *

The glow from the streetlights outside barely reached the sofa where Steve lay sprawled on his back, shirtless, one arm flung over his eyes. A fan hummed in the corner as he tried to sleep, but his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

From down the hall, muffled giggling broke the silence. He craned his neck. It was Natalie’s laugh, followed by another low sound—Riley’s voice, unintelligible but unmistakably playful. A soft, rhythmic creak followed. Then again. Then again.

Steve sat up slowly, eyes fixed on the dark hallway. The laughter faded, but the creaking continued in subtle, steady intervals—soft, but distinct.

Without a word, Steve got up from the couch, careful not to let the floorboards betray him. He wore only boxers, his chest bare and damp with the heat of a restless night. The hallway stretched before him, dimly lit by the glow of the oven clock.

He padded forward, silent. At the bedroom door, slightly ajar, he stopped and listened. He heard a gasp, then a soft moan, the unmistakable rhythm of Riley and Natalie fucking on the other side of the door. His jaw clenched.

For a long moment, he stood there in the dark—motionless, caught in some fragile space between curiosity and pain. He pushed the door open a bit further, and when their naked bodies came into view—Natalie straddling Riley, the silhouette of her perky breasts in perfect view. 

He watched them intently, his hand instinctively massaging his flaccid member until it began to swell. For a moment he thought she saw him standing there in the doorway, but soon realized her eyes were closed, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Standing back a step just to be safe, Steve continued watching them.

* * *

The opposite side of the apartment building was darker, quieter. No pool lights, no laughter from neighbors—just the quiet buzz of a distant HVAC unit and the faint rustle of the breeze through the hedges lining the back fence.

Briggs stood in the shadows, half-hidden behind a warped wooden fence, his camera hanging from his neck. From his vantage point, he had a clear view through the bedroom window.

Inside, Natalie and Riley lay tangled together, laughing quietly beneath the soft amber light of a bedside lamp. The curtains were drawn hastily, but not enough to prevent him from seeing everything.

His jaw tightened. Not with arousal, but with something colder. Possessive. Entitled.

The lens cap in his hand dangled by its strap as his fingers tapped it rhythmically against his thigh. His camera remained untouched—for now.

Then something shifted in the room. The guy from the bar. The one who told him to get lost. 

Briggs spotted him standing just outside the bedroom door, shirtless, still as a statue as he watched them. Separated from them by only a few feet, and yet clearly not part of the scene.

Briggs tilted his head, narrowing his eyes back onto Natalie. A slow, amused grin formed on his lips.

He took a step back, the gravel under his boots crunching softly. He slowly lifted the camera.

I was on fire for you
Fire, on fire
Fire, on fire
Fire, on fire
Fire, on fire