Ask Austen Studios!
He buzzed the stopper and leapt out of his seat, waiting impatiently for the doors to squeal open. “Thanks!”
His heart might be doomed to a very sad life, but at least he could help Noah out. Bring in some solid cash every week, not the unreliable fifty from an odd gig, and the even more unreliable income from royalties.
One recording certainly hadn’t got him far.
But hey, he was in his early twenties. Heaps of time.
Why wasn’t this door opening?
Never mind, this nice redhead would let him through. Then he’d find Wentworth in his office. “Can I help you carry those?”
The woman peered at him over the teetering pile. “Are you the extra who lost his hat?”
That sounded plausible. “Sure.”
“Take the top box.”
He took it and followed her inside to a storage room full of clothing. “Put it on the table there and take a fedora. Try not to lose it. See you on set tomorrow morning.”
She shooed him out of the room, and Zach did as he was told, fedora in hand. He’d leave it with Wentworth to return.
He twisted it and popped it on with a sliding swish of his fingers across the brim. An office window spat a pretty suave image back at him, if he could say so himself.
Jeez it was empty in here. Where was everyone?
Although.
It was only nine in the morning.
On a Sunday . . .
Zach halted. He hadn’t exactly thought this through.
He returned to the entrance and yanked at the door. It didn’t budge. Was this deadbolted?
He skidded to the costume room. “Nice redhead lady?”
No one.
This was . . . the story of his life, really.
He reached for his phone to call Noah—he always knew what to do in these situations—
Where was his phone?
God. Please say he hadn’t left it at heartbreaker79’s apartment.
He called out into the studio. “Hello? Um, anyone there?”
No reply was forthcoming. Zach pressed the fedora more snugly onto his head, like it might cover his stupidity.
A phone. He’d find a phone and sort all this out.
The first office, the second office, the third—none of them had a desk phone. In fact, he couldn’t find a single landline in the place. Modernity had condemned him to a night locked in at Ask Austen Studios.
Oh, a recording studio. Niiiice guitars.
Okay. This could be worse.
If he was stuck here for the next twenty-four hours, he could at least enjoy himself, right?
He plucked a guitar off the wall and brushed his fingers over the strings. She’s a beaut.
Zach flung himself on the sofa and plucked out a few random melodies, singing along until he yawned. Bit too late out last night. Couldn’t have gotten more than three hours of zzz’s—most of that had been wild debauchery, which had been delicious until 79 had forgotten his name and reverted to calling him DJ.
Why couldn’t the men he liked show a little more affection?
He strummed lazily, head thrown back on the top of the couch, staring at the white ceiling until it turned black.
“Excuse me. Can I help you?”
Zach peeled his eyes open a slit. A hazy face, warm blue eyes iridescent under a short crop of brown hair. Then a blinding white shirt. Then a strip of horrid Wizard of Oz print fabric masquerading as a tie.
Zach reached out and grabbed the monstrosity, pulling the man close. “Are you real?” he croaked. Though that whisper of breath over his lips suggested he wasn’t dreaming. He tilted his head closer. “Tell me I’m not the only one trapped in this godforsaken technical desert.”
Oz Tie blinked those paua blues.
Zach felt for the guitar and hauled it between them, strumming. “Technical desert,” he sang. “Are you my saviour or a mirage?”
Oz Tie seemed frozen in place.
“Did you know Wentworth McAllister once wrote a ditty while stuck in an elevator?”
“Are you here for Wentworth?”
“That was the aim. But. Well.”
“He doesn’t usually come in on Sundays. Besides, he’s sailing this weekend.”
Zach palmed his forehead. Right. He knew that. Or he should have known that.
Could he still be a little drunk?
That’s it. From now on he’d quit drinking, quit parties, quit fucking, and he’d go to bed by ten. Eleven.
He dropped his hands to the strings and plucked. The chorus to “Sorry For The Stupid Things”.
Oz Tie harmonised.
Zach pushed the man’s firm chest, sitting himself upright. “You know Babyface?”
“It’s my job to know good music.”
So he worked in the music department? Maybe he had noise cancelling headphones and that’s why he hadn’t heard Zach calling out earlier.
Oz Tie straightened to a pretty impressive height. If music didn’t work out for him, he could try for acting. Maybe not The Hulk, but a gay Captain America for sure.
Of course, someone would have to take care of his wardrobe. He’d never seen a duller suit in his life.
Oz Tie hauled in a breath; Zach stopped strumming and rested his elbows on the guitar. Gosh, what was he going to say?
