Kris is helping the night clerk get the Thai delegation checked in when a vision straight out of his nightmares struts through the revolving doors.
He's 5'7" (including the platform boots), thighs shockingly bare under bright yellow hot pants and a mesh top, and he is nestled securely under Adam Lambert's arm.
"No," Kris says, already hurrying around the counter to intercept them. "No, no. What are you doing?" he hisses.
Adam pulls his…friend…closer and grins. "Hi, Kris."
"Don't 'hi' me! Who is he?"
"My companion for the evening, obviously."
"But…." Kris looks around frantically. Thank god the lobby is mostly deserted at this hour. If the press find out about this….
Adam arches a thick eyebrow and smirks. "Don't worry, I'm paying for his discretion."
Kris's face tries to pale and flush simultaneously, and his heart has rented a suite in his stomach.
Adam's companion bats heavily made-up eyes and blows Kris a kiss.
"If you require companionship for an evening, the hotel would be happy to arrange someone for you," Kris makes himself say. “Someone…subtle.”
Adam's smile sharpens the way it always does when he's teasing Kris. "Don't you mean you would arrange someone? Or maybe you wouldn't even have to; maybe you'd just come up to my room yourse—" He blanches unexpectedly, leaving the last word between them unfinished and unmistakable.
Kris closes his eyes to let the sting of that insult fade, to find his center before he loses his temper, but a high-pitched voice intrudes, "Good thing you're not paying me by the hour, honey."
He has to glare at the prostitute, who is eyeing Kris like this scene is way more entertaining than the services he's been hired to perform.
"Mr. Lambert," Kris says, squaring his shoulders and smoothing his herringbone silk tie with every ounce of control he has left. "As always, please let me know if there's anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant. I hope you and your guest have a wonderful evening." And then he nods politely and turns back to the counter, ignoring the clomping heels and giggles that accompany their walk to the penthouse elevator.
Since Adam Lambert's arrival at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, he has somehow charmed every employee, from the valet boys to the spa masseurs to Howard, the hotel manager—which is where Adam got his hands on Kris's personal number, along with instructions to "let Kris know if you need anything. I mean anything."
On top of the texting, Kris gets at least seven calls from Adam per day. And the thing is, Kris doesn't always mind them. Sure, there are the calls that should go to room service or the concierge. And don't even get him started on the countless errands Adam's lazy-ass PA should be running instead of Kris. But he doesn't mind every call, not even the late night ones that wake him up when Adam calls for help falling asleep, or when Adam makes Kris spend his lunch hour juggling fork and phone while Adam asks what he should get his mother for her birthday.
In the two months Adam's been staying at the Beverly Wilshire, Kris has had more conversations about Adam's mother than he's called his own.
Kris is going over his closing checklist with the bartender when Adam calls.
"How can I help you, Mr. Lambert?"
"Hi, Kris. Hi. So it turns out that I…well…Brad's never had strawberries with Dom before. Can you believe that?"
Adam sounds scandalized, so Kris doesn't volunteer that he hasn't tried that combination either. He hums a vague response and waits for Adam to get to his point.
"I mean, he hasn't lived. So we need to fix that."
Kris slides his finger along the bar top, finding no trace of stickiness. He ticks a box and asks, "Are you asking me to do something for you?"
Adam huffs. "I thought you were supposed to read my mind, anticipate my whims. That's what Howard promised."
"You got that from our brochure."
"Kris," Adam says, and his wheedling tone turns abruptly curt. "Send up some strawberries and champagne."
"Of course, Mr. Lambert," Kris says, putting a professional smile in his voice. "They'll be up in four minutes. Let me know if you need anything else."
Twenty minutes later, his phone rings again. Kris tucks the phone under his ear and finishes locking the pool maintenance room. "Are the strawberries and champagne not to your liking, Mr. Lambert?"
"No, they're fine. They're great. Thank you so much."
Adam's prostitute giggles in the background.
Kris's jaw tenses. "Then what can I do for you?"
"Well…this is kind of a personal request…."
"Your Brad isn't the only one getting paid for his discretion," Kris says, and then gapes at his own comment, the tile walls laughing at him with flickering blue light. Adam is silent for a long time—long enough that Kris can't bear it any longer. "You called for something?"
"Yeah, lube," Adam says, and Kris's face flushes. "But, uh, the good stuff. Something really high-end. Maybe the kind that heats up when you—"
"High-quality lube, of course," he interrupts desperately. "I'll make sure you have a selection in half an hour. Is that soon enough?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's. That's fine."
Another giggle, sounding closer to the phone.
"Will that be all this evening?"
"Yeah, that's all. Thank you."
"You're very welcome. Good night, Mr. Lambert."
And Kris pounds his forehead against cool tile for a few seconds before pulling up his Yelp app to find an all-night sex shop.
He's sitting up in bed, setting his alarm, when his phone rings again. Kris has to take a couple calming breaths before he feels up to answering.
Adam doesn't sound particularly coherent. Room service had sent up three bottles of Dom Pérignon Rosé along with the quart of organic strawberries, and Kris wonders how much they've drunk already, if a drunken prostitute can still get it up...and whether that would bother Adam while he fucks him. He buries his face in his palm and talks over Adam's babbling about the perfect temperature for a bedroom.
"Is there anything you need from me, Mr. Lambert?"
The last thing Kris hears before the call cuts off is that obnoxious giggle.
He sets his alarm, lays his head on the pillow, and tells himself that he isn't being paid enough for this job.
At 10 a.m., Adam's companion sashays into his office without even a courtesy knock.
"Hi," Brad says, plopping down in the empty chair in his high-heeled boots and hot pants. At least he appears to be wearing one of Adam's t-shirts. The petite man practically drowns in it.
Kris allows himself a moment to enjoy a different sort of drowning fantasy before beaming at his visitor. "Good morning. I trust you had a pleasant evening?"
"Assistant Manager, huh?"
Kris stands to make a preemptive strike. "Yes. Was there anything you needed? I would love to show you to the door, if you're having trouble finding your way out…."
That giggle again. "I bet you would. Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm not going anywhere." Brad digs into the top of his boot and pulls out a credit card. He tosses it on the desk.
Kris notes the name on the card and sinks back down, excruciatingly slow. "If you're considering blackmailing Mr. Lambert or this hotel," he starts, his voice gone colder than he'd thought possible.
Brad waves him off. "Don't be ridiculous. Adam's keeping me on for the rest of the week; that's a little present to keep me happy while he's at the studio."
Kris isn't sure he believes him. He's tempted to punch the little guy and call the cops right now. He would probably get around to asking Adam for confirmation…sometime next week.
But then Brad says, "I'm supposed to go with him to some events and stuff? Oh, and dinner tonight. At Chateau Marmont."
Kris's daydreams of throwing Brad behind bars evaporate. He winces at the restaurant name; getting a reservation on a Saturday with only eight hours notice will murder his stockpile of good will there. It's exactly the kind of impossible request Adam loves giving him.
Brad kicks his heels up onto the desk, showing off waxed skin. "That means I have to buy some 'appropriate' things to wear." He makes air quotes and rolls his eyes…but there's only smug satisfaction when he adds, "He said you'd take care of me. Personally."
Kris slumps back in his chair and begins revising his definition of hell.
Hell is, obviously, buying clothes for Adam's prostitute.
Last night, hell had been sending one of his porters to Amorous Eddy’s 24-Hour Sex Emporium on Whitlow for some quote-unquote high-end lube. The week before that, it had been begging the executive chef to personally prepare a Campbell's Soup Green Bean Casserole à la Leila Lambert.
But today, it’s this: ignoring the politely scandalized eyebrows of his personal tailor as Brad makes snide comments about the fabrics draped around Roger’s private consultation room.
“I think we should stick with a conservative palate—black, maybe charcoal,” Kris suggests, and Roger nods agreement. Drastic measures are required if they’re going to make Brad look anything like appropriate.
Brad looks up from the maroon silk handkerchief he’s twirling and pops a spearmint bubble at the two of them. “You really wanna put me in a suit?” he asks.
“A three-piece?” Roger says doubtfully. “Maybe that will help with the….” His eyes flick up and down Brad’s everything, and Kris nods agreement.
Brad grins at the two of them, throws a booted-heel up onto a chair, and poses with his bare thighs on display. “Alright then. Which of you lucky boys gets to take my measurements?”
Roger makes a small noise of distress and hurries into the back room of the shop.
And Kris has tried, okay? He has tried to be patient.
He'd sacrificed a pair of his own jeans so he could smuggle Brad discreetly out of the hotel, but Howard had spotted them anyway. And the scowl he’d thrown Kris from across the lobby meant Kris would be taken to task for his obvious lapse in judgment and good taste. Kris had put up with Brad's inappropriate flirting, the not-subtle-at-all innuendos and gum popping on the drive across town. And now—now Brad is costing him the future services of the best (affordable) tailor in L.A.
Kris grabs Brad’s elbow and pulls him away from the chair, so he has both feet on the ground when Kris rips him a new asshole. “What the hell is wrong with you? This is serious."
Brad stares at him, his eyes wide and innocent, but his mouth twisting with an unvoiced laugh.
"In a few hours, you're gonna be out with one of the most famous men in Los Angeles. In public. Everyone's going to see you, and if they catch a hint, if they even suspect what you are, he's the one who's going to get destroyed by the media. Okay? So suck it up, quit the laughing act, and try to be a goddamn adult for a few hours."
Brad's smile spreads, lighting up his eyes, and it's hopeless; he's hopeless. Kris should call Adam and tell him he needs to find another companion, because Kris isn’t a miracle worker, and that’s what it will take to make Brad presentable in just eight hours—
“Is that why you’ve had a stick up your ass all morning?”
“Adam’s rep; you’re all tied up in knots about making Adam look good.”
“No, this is a service provided—“
“Nope, you said it. You’re trying to protect him. God, you’re so obvious.”
“Excuse me?” Kris folds his arms across his chest.
Brad ignores his anger and gestures around the room. “Look at this stuff! This is ridiculous!”
“This is fashion. And if you’re going to—“
Brad snorts. “Seriously? Wow, no wonder you two haven’t gotten your acts together. It’s like you’re speaking completely different languages.” He shakes the maroon handkerchief at Kris. “You’re gonna put me in spats and pocket squares? Make me look all conservative? Adam is a rock star. The only three-piece suits he wears are covered in spikes and glitter.”
Kris’s brain stalls out, refusing to acknowledge Brad’s point even as his stomach relocates to the basement.
“What does Adam wear when he goes out to dinner? Come on, you probably know better than anyone. Does he wear a suit?”
“Sometimes a jacket,” Kris hedges. He can feel his face turning red.
“One of these jackets?” Brad’s stare is merciless.
Kris flinches. “No,” he admits. “He wears….” He doesn’t know how to describe the clothes Adam wears. He could recite a catalog of specifics—the rhinestone-studded wrist-cuffs, the grey cotton tunics, the chains, the harem pants, and the layers of dangerous, decorative belts—but the only words his brain has to describe them are “effortless”; “sexy”; “bold.”
Brad’s right; if Kris dresses Adam’s date like this—like Kris—it would be a farce; a tragic comedy all over the gossip blogs.
Brad’s look softens. “I know, honey. Don’t worry.” His hand dips into Kris’s pocket and pulls out the black credit card. “I’ll show you where to spend this.”
Brad takes them to boutique after boutique, Congregation of the Forgotten Saints to Skingraft to the Mohawk General Store. Kris cringes over the distressed denim biker vests, the striped clown-pants tighter than even Adam would wear in public, but he holds his tongue. He doesn’t know the first thing about rock and roll fashion. If Adam expects Kris to be an expert on everything, he’ll have to get used to disappointment.
By early afternoon, Brad’s leading him into AllSaints on Robertson Blvd. The door jingles with their entrance, and Kris sees three heads pop up from various displays, scenting the air. The sales staff take one look at Brad (or Brad’s hot pants and boots), and pounce, descending on him like he’s their favorite kind of prey. Kris clutches Adam’s credit card a little tighter and hopes they don’t end up buying the whole store.
The young clerks whisk Brad away to a dressing room, and Brad returns wearing faded jeans, cowboy boots, a sheer t-shirt, and a burnt-orange angora cardigan. Kris blinks. Color-wise it’s a little garish, but it’s definitely more along the lines of Adam’s wardrobe. And Brad actually looks….
“This is what I’m saying,” Brad says in answer to his unvoiced opinion. “This is fashion.” He turns to a full-length mirror, blows a kiss, and smacks his ass. The sales staff whistles in approval at the display. He turns to them, holding out his arms, and says, “C’mon, keep it coming.” Giddy laughter accompanies their return to the dressing room.
Kris checks his phone, uncomfortable with Adam’s silence. It’s nearly 2 p.m. Any other day, he’d have heard from Adam at least three times by now—even just a series of texts whining about the traffic or his management team.
Brad returns to the sales floor in a motorcycle jacket, a yellow button-down, khakis, and loafers. Kris and a female customer stare for a moment, and then the customer asks, “Does that jacket come in women's?”
One of the sales clerks leads the customer away to find her perfect jacket, and Kris blurts out, “You look good,” the emphasis betraying his astonishment.
Brad smirks and pulls Adam’s credit card out of Kris’s hand. “Adam said any clothes I wanted. I’m taking him up on that. Are you gonna try to stop me?”
Kris turns over the silent phone in his hand and shakes his head. “Go right ahead. I’m just the chauffeur today.”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re way more than just the chauffeur.” And then he holds the credit card aloft and announces, “No limit, bitches! I’m trying on everything.”
As though waiting for those magic words, a manager appears out of nowhere and introduces herself to Brad. Kris watches her lead Brad away, fawning all over his pretty face, his pretty chest and ass. He digs his hands in his pockets and waits.
Brad is a natural showman. Kris can't really blame Adam for noticing him on that cursed street corner last night. But after watching Brad parade in and out of the dressing room a half dozen times, Kris starts to lose interest.
Before Brad dives into his next outfit, he tugs on the manager's wrist and points to Kris. "You look bored," Brad declares.
"I'm not," Kris protests, hiding his phone behind his back.
"I think," Brad says, strutting over to Kris in skull-print leggings and a black belted tunic, "I think you need to get caught up in the action."
Kris folds his arms. "Uh, no thanks."
"Nice biceps," the managers breathes, eyeing the way the jacket strains over Kris's arms.
"Nice everything," Brad corrects her. "C'mon, Kris. Live a little. I insist."
Brad can't actually insist on anything, here, but Kris finds himself tugged into his own dressing room by a nose-pierced sales clerk all the same.
"Okay, hot stuff, let me have a look at you," the young guy—his nametag reads Jaime—chirps.
"I don't think," he starts as he shrugs out of his jacket. He doesn't have a clue what he should wear, what he would feel comfortable putting on. He feels comfortable in his suits—powerful, distinguished, appropriate….
"Don't worry, that's what I'm here for. You just let me do the thinking for you." Jaime hangs Kris's jacket up on a peg and eyes his Italian silk tie like he's a bit intimidated. (Kris won't deny that that's part of its purpose.) "Going out on a limb here: no leggings?"
"No leggings," Kris agrees.
Jaime tries him in two pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, a vest, and snakeskin shoes before beaming and shoving Kris back into the main room.
Brad, the manager, and their coterie of giggling attendants—arms occupied with heaps upon heaps of garments—turn and stare, and all start chattering at once. Someone whistles. Brad hooks Kris's arm and draws him over to the mirror, showing Kris what he already saw in the smaller dressing room reflection: long-sleeved oatmeal tee, tan vest hanging open, dark-wash denim so tight he's a little nervous about trying to sit down, and slithery, shiny shoes.
Kris likes the look. The shirt is tight all over, but the vest covers his nipples (the fabric was a shade close to sheer for his liking). The jeans and shoes make him look tall—quite the feat. But he can't see himself being noticed like this. Not the way Brad draws the eye. Kris isn't sure whose attention he's hoping to attract, but then Jaime pops up behind him and throws a bright blue keffiyeh over his head, looping and knotting it just so.
"Oh yeah," Brad says, leaning into Kris's side. "He's gonna totally lose it."
Kris folds his arms again and demands, "Who?"
Brad ignores him, trailing a hand down Kris's abs, smoothing over the t-shirt. Kris sucks in a breath at the overly familiar touch, and then coughs in surprise when Brad dips his fingers under the shirt and tugs at the button of his fly. "Look at you, Sandra Dee," Brad murmurs in his ear, and Kris watches his own face flush red in the reflection. Brad winks at him and then waves at the sales staff. "We need a belt. Get us a belt."
A girl and a guy fly off in opposite directions, but Brad's eyes narrow on Jaime's hips.
"That one," he announces. "That is exactly the belt I need."
Jamie and Kris look down at Jaime's belt. It's a nice belt, Kris admits—burnished bronze studs in dark leather.
Jaime looks like he's going to laugh, to tell Brad to go fuck himself, but then he turns and asks the manager, "If I give him my belt, can I get one of the new Tommie Lord ones on discount?"
When Kris is back in his familiar, comparably uncomfortable suit—the tie feels a little restrictive, the tailored cut of the jacket just a hair tighter on his arms than that t-shirt and vest—he meets Brad and his tower of clothes at the register and pulls out his personal card.
Brad takes it away from him and tucks it into Kris's breast pocket, smoothing the silk to lie flat. "Adam said any clothes I wanted," Brad repeats. "I want those clothes. For you." He points to the small pile of clothes Kris had tried on, now including Jaime's belt. Brad cocks a defiant hip, and Kris has to laugh. Brad isn't nearly the demon he'd seemed that morning.
Or so he thought.
"Next," Brad declares, as the register starts tallying up a frankly-alarming number, "mani-pedis!"
Kris balks at the pedicure, but he still finds himself seated in a leather recliner next to Brad, in a small day-spa just north of WeHo, getting a foot massage.
He isn't thinking about the clear polish drying on his buffed and trimmed fingernails just yet.
"I need you to do me a favor," Brad sighs as his feet soak in a pool of hot, bubbling water.
"What's that?" Kris asks, a stupid smile on his face. He can't help it; this is the most relaxed he's felt all month. The massaging lumps in the recliner are still rolling up and down his spine, reducing already pulverized muscles to confit.
"Give my regrets to Adam tonight."
Kris turns his head and blinks at Brad. "What?"
"I won't be going to dinner with him." He shrugs. "I've gotta get home before my husband leaves me."
Kris's good vibes evaporate. "What?" He leans over the arm of the chair, flailing wet nails at Brad. "But he hired you! You spent his money! You're married?"
"Yup," Brad says, smiling serenely. "Happily."
Brad giggles. Kris had forgotten how much he hates that sound.
"But you're a prostitute!"
The manicurist rubbing Kris's calves looks up sharply, and Kris mentally slaps the back of his own head.
"I know what it looked like last night," Brad says, "but I'm really, really not."
"He said," Kris blurts, and then lowers his voice to a hiss. "He said he was paying you for your discretion."
Brad nods. "Sure, we made a deal. But I never asked for any money; he just offered."
Kris stares at Brad, trying to make sense of a happily married prostitute turning down an easy week's stay with the world's hottest rock star.
Brad looks at him fondly. "I think I blew your mind. Okay, picture this." He settles deeper into his chair and holds his hands up to craft the images. "It's Friday night in WeHo. I go out to one of my favorite clubs and get blitzed on cranberry vodka martinis. I'm missing my hubby, so I call it a night and head outside to catch a cab. I'm standing on the sidewalk, looking totally fabulous and waving my arms like a chicken, when this ferocious Aston Martin coupe pulls up and rolls down the window. And inside is—" Brad glances down at Kris's manicurist, who is listening far too attentively, "—well, you know who."
Kris can see it happening. He can see Adam being exactly that preoccupied, too focused on his latest crisis to notice the obvious things…like other people's schedules, or a busy nightclub.
"And he says his GPS is busted and he needs directions to a certain hotel," Brad continues, his eyes lighting up with the memory. "I say I sort of know how to get there, and he says 'good enough,' and offers me a lift and cab fare back, if I'll show him. It was totally innocent, you know? Who's gonna turn down a ride from…him."
Kris has to switch off the chair massage; he's already writhing in embarrassment over what comes next.
"So we're driving down Santa Monica and he says I look good—which, yes, obviously. And he offers me $500 to do him in his hotel room."
"You're. Married," Kris grits out. He wants to punch Adam, but Adam isn't here. And his manicure isn't dry yet.
"Haven't you ever heard of an Exceptions List?" Brad strokes a hot pink fingernail down his own throat. "You-Know-Who is on mine. Anyway, he'd clearly gotten the wrong impression about me—I’ll admit, my double-entendres probably hadn’t helped. But yeah, that gorgeous motherfucker propositioned me out of the blue. So I texted my guy, and he said 'one night.' Which I've had, so now I have to get home before I turn into a pumpkin." His smile drops into a moue of disappointment. "And I didn't even get laid."
Kris is beyond-relieved to hear that Brad won't be scandalizing the hotel for the entire week. It takes him a few extra seconds to absorb Brad's last words.
"You didn't get laid?"
Brad shakes his head. "And it's not like my husband's ever gonna believe me. I just wasted my Exception on a night of pathetic angst."
Kris stares at him, willing Brad to explain. "I sent you guys strawberries and champagne. I got you high-end lube—" and thank god Brad cuts him off, because his voice was getting kind of shrill.
"God, what an asshole," Brad says, like he's outraged on Kris's behalf. "We were supposed to be fucking like bunnies, but all he wanted to do was talk about the hot, stuffy guy in the suit who hates everything about him." Brad levels his gaze on Kris. "Meaning you."
"Me?" Kris blurts.
"What'd you think all that drunk dialing was about? I had to take the phone away from him, or he would've kept calling you all night."
"Me?" Kris blurts again, and then protests, "I don't hate him!"
"I know," Brad says, and now he's gloating. "It's too delicious. That's why I decided this morning: he owes me for the no-sex and the frankly offensive hooker-assumptions, so I'm keeping the clothes he just bought me and giving him the guy of his dreams."
Kris should be keeping up with Brad's twists and turns a lot better than this. He decides to blame his lag-time on the massage-induced endorphins instead of his racing heart.
"I mean you, Sweetie," Brad says, helping him along.
"But I'm just…. What am I supposed to…?"
"I'm so glad you asked," Brad says.
At 7 o'clock, Kris leans against the polished counter and orders a Manhattan. He ignores Curt's surprised double-take at his outfit and glances around the elegant lobby bar. No sign of Adam yet. Kris resists the urge to check his phone, pressing his palms to the bar instead.
"Hot date tonight?" Curt asks as he slides him his cocktail.
Kris mumbles something and pulls out his wallet, but Curt snorts and walks away, refusing to accept his money. Kris makes a mental note to go easier on his next bar inspection—what does it matter if a couple dozen glasses are left for the morning staff to wash?
The grandfather clock in the corner chimes a discreet quarter-past, and Kris fidgets with a loop of scarf. And then hands settle on his hips, and a voice breathes in his ear, "Oh, I knew you'd look amazing. Your ass in these jeans…." The hands slide down to squeeze his ass, and Kris spins around in self-defense.
"I'm not Brad," Kris says.
Adam gapes at him like he's just groped the pope. "Oh fuck, sorry! Sorry!"
No, I'm sorry, Kris wants to protest. But instead he blurts out, "Brad isn't coming."
"He told me he's standing you up. I couldn't leave you waiting in the bar for hours." There, he's done his duty. He can slink back to his office and hide for the rest of the night. But he can't help adding, "I don't hate everything about you," in a terribly revealing non sequitur, because he has lost all control over his mouth.
Adam's eyes go even wider, frantic with what Kris guesses is terror.
"I don't hate anything about you. Except the drunk dialing. That part sucks. But I don't hate you," Kris insists.
"Um," Adam says, pale and gorgeous and lost for words.
"Mr. Lambert," Curt says from behind Kris, and they both look to find a tall drink waiting next to Kris's.
"So," Kris says, wishing he knew what to say next.
Adam sidles to the right, stepping around Kris, and Kris lets him go, his shoulders slumping. Until Adam catches his elbow and tugs him onto a barstool, their knees bumping as they sit side by side. Adam takes a long sip of his drink, Kris does the same, and when they lower their glasses, they've each found a small smile for the other.
"He wasn't a prostitute, you know," Kris says.
Adam's eyebrows draw together and his smile dims. "He wasn't?"
Kris shakes his head. "Maybe a conman, but definitely not a prostitute."
"Oh shit." Adam scrubs a hand over his face, fingers splayed wide to avoid smudging the eye shadow. "I was kind of high last night. I think I stole that car, too."
The laugh escapes before Kris can button it up. He has the fleeting thought that talking to Adam in person is seven times better than talking on the phone; this way, he can see Adam's blush, the sheepish duck of his head.
"I was at this awful party and just needed to bail. I think I took Kanye's car…."
Kris laughs even harder, and Adam's pout blossoms into a grin.
"You're laughing at me," he points out.
"Yeah, yeah I am," Kris says.
"You never laugh at me." Adam is smiling at him, his hand three inches from Kris's where they're wrapped around their glasses on the bar.
Kris can't explain where he's gotten this courage from. Maybe it's the way Adam's eyes keep darting down his body, like he can't get over the way Kris is dressed. Which reminds him…. Adam lifts his drink for another sip, and Kris says, "You don't wanna know how much Brad charged to your card today."
Adam sputters and glares, looking like a completely normal—albeit really hot—guy, not the mega rock star Kris is supposed to bend over backward to please. Although Kris wouldn't mind bending over backward for Adam. Figuratively or literally.
"Hey, it's not all bad news," Kris says, sneaking a hand out to pat Adam's shoulder. "I got you that reservation at Chateau Marmont."
Adam glares at him some more, and then his expression suddenly clears. He sits up straight, finishes his aborted sip, and licks his lips.
"It cost me an arm and a leg, too. I had to bribe the maître'd with a complimentary weekend stay on the ambassador level." Kris licks his own lips and says, "So it'd be a shame to waste it."
Adam's hand settles on Kris's knee, and Kris's twitch of surprise turns into a caught breath, looking up at Adam from under his eyelashes. "That's why I like you so much," Adam purrs, leaning an inch closer. "You always think of everything."
It's Kris's turn to blush, but he settles a hand over Adam's and asks, "So that's a yes for dinner?"
Adam makes Kris wait at the bar, walking over to the valet stand himself to get his (possibly stolen) car brought round. Kris watches him go, letting himself enjoy the view for once. When Adam returns for him, Kris stands up to meet him. He's delighted when Adam's arm slides around his waist, and he leans against his side when Adam murmurs into his hair, "Where the hell did you find these pants, Kris?"
Kris debates honesty for a moment, and then decides why not. "I'm glad you like them. You paid for them."
Adam huffs a little, but his hand slips lower, settling in Kris's back pocket proprietarily as they head toward the lobby doors.
Kris flushes to the tips of his ears, but he can't stop smiling, either.