Prince of the Playhouse by Tara Lain

pissed.”
    “Then be pissed. But remember, this is political. She’s a queen, you’re a prince. You know what that’s like, Gray. Don’t think for a second you don’t. Hell, you had to sneak in here so as not to be mobbed by everyone who wants a piece of you. So be a pissed political animal.”
    “Did you get to go to school?”
    What? Fast change of topic. “Yes. Eventually. A, uh, mentor paid for my first year in fashion school, and after that I got scholarships.”
    “What kind of mentor?”
    Damn, could they change the subject? “A man from my neighborhood who saw promise in me.” He shrugged.
    “How did you know you liked fashion?”
    He grinned. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about Shakespeare?”
    Gray shrugged. “I’m interested.”
    Ru rested his head against the cushion. “My mother took in sewing. I used to rearrange her supplies, and then I started sewing things of my own. Not a popular pastime in my neighborhood, trust me.”
    “What about being gay?”
    “What about it?”
    “Was that popular in your neighborhood?” Ru glanced up, but Gray seemed to really want to know.
    “Hell no. You’d rot in hell before you came out.” He frowned. “That didn’t mean nobody got ass fucked. I used to think some of those guys were queer, since they liked to ball other dudes so much.”
    “What guys?”
    Ru sucked in breath. Shit. “Just the guys in my neighborhood. That’s all.”
    “Did they leave you alone?”
    How the hell did they get on this topic? “Yeah. Shouldn’t we go back to the inimitable William S?”
    The knock on the door turned them both around. Ru glanced at Gray, who rose. “I told him to deliver the food about now. I had him bring salmon since I know you like it. Is that okay?”
    “Perfect, darling. Like you read my mind.”
    Gray opened the door, took several large bags from someone outside, and closed the door after him.
    “You didn’t pay him.”
    “It was Chris. I asked him to pick up salmon from Rick’s.”
    “But he didn’t drive you here.”
    “Too ostentatious.”
    Ru shook his head and went to get plates to set the table. “Is it worth it? Trading all your privacy for wealth and fame?”
    “No.”
    Ru stopped at the dining room table and stared. “Wow. I never expected that answer.”
    Gray brought the bags into the kitchen, with two furry palace guards flanking him. “Maybe it is for some people. Not for me. It’s like I never got to choose.” He shrugged. “I know. Like Artie said, ‘Oh, poor baby.’”
    “No, I understand. While I’d like to be a successful fashion designer, even reaching the top of my profession won’t keep me from walking on the street, going places I want to go, or being whatever way I choose. You don’t have any of those luxuries.”
    Gray sighed, and it came from somewhere in his soul. “I was nineteen when I hit big. I’m from a small town in Michigan where I was a big fish in a tiny pond. I wanted to impress my father, buy my mother a new house, get a fast car. I hadn’t the slightest idea what that meant.” He cocked half a smile. “I sold my soul to Ferrari.”
    “You could quit.”
    Quiet.
    Ru turned to find Gray gazing at him with wide, storm-filled eyes. “Weird, man. I’ve heard a lot of solutions, but nobody ever says quit.”
    “Sorry, didn’t mean to be a downer.”
    “No. It points out that I have choices. I like that idea. Thanks.”
    “One thing money does do is give you options.” He grinned. “Or at least that’s my assumption.”
    Gray wobbled his head. “Not really. It makes you an industry. You can’t imagine how many people live off what I do. It’s terrifying. You know. You’re a successful designer. You must keep a ton of people employed.”
    “No.” He planted a hand on his hip. “I’m almost a successful designer. I still have Fashion Week—and Hamlet —between me and that goal.” He poured some kibble in the two dishes he kept for the dogs. “Until then, I’m just