Nick knows his deepest secret—he’s a bisexual masochistic submissive—won’t mesh with his macho, action-hero Trevor Nichols persona. He flees Hollywood in disguise for a secret vacation in his hometown of Sarasota…and a trip to a BDSM club. Nick didn’t expect to fall in love with Lucas and Leigh, but he’s never been happier. This is who he wants to be, and Lucas and Leigh are who he wants.
Lucas and Leigh have been best friends since college. Both had their share of heartbreak. Lucas is gay, but he’s Leigh’s Master and lover, and they’ve decided to get married and have a baby. Meeting Nick at a munch throws a hiccup into their plans, because they’re both attracted to the hottie who looks vaguely familiar.
Now the paparazzi are on Nick’s trail and threatening to turn Lucas and Leigh’s world upside down. Can he still have it all, or will he be forced to say good-bye to protect them?
Trevor Nichols was known for fast driving, hot women, and kicking bad guys’ asses. Usually, in ninety minutes or less.
Nicholas Trevorsky, however, wanted nothing more than to escape Hollywood, the paparazzi, and the macho image he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Ironic, considering how thoroughly he’d cultivated the image in the first place.
He knew he shouldn’t be complaining, but he couldn’t help it. He’d finally reached the end of his rope, the straightjacket of fame he’d chased so hard and successfully years ago now threatening to choke off his life and happiness.
For example, he’d flown into La Guardia three days earlier, and no less than four photographers had trailed him from the moment he entered the main terminal until he’d hailed a cab to his hotel. No doubt working with the ones who’d tailed him from his LA condo all the way to LAX. By the time the cab deposited him at the hotel, several more paparazzi had jumped out of following cabs and rushed to photograph him before the doorman kicked them out of the hotel’s lobby.
With a nondescript rolling black suitcase, and a nondescript black duffle bag slung over his shoulder, he’d checked in, went up to his room, and settled in, hoping for a little peace. Ten minutes later, one of the bellhops knocked on his door.
But that interruption had been expected.
In the man’s hands, the package Trevor had shipped overnight to himself at the hotel from LA. He’d received a notification on his phone upon landing that it was out for delivery on the truck.
“Thanks.” He handed the kid a twenty before he closed and locked the door.
Taking the box over to the bed, he ripped it open. Inside lay a black backpack, new, an electric hair trimmer set…
And a package of dark brown hair dye.
Everyone was used to Trevor Nichols’ slightly shaggy, dark blond locks.
No one would be looking for the man with the military-short, dark brown hair.
The paparazzi would be looking for anyone leaving with a duffle bag like his, which was why he needed the backpack.
An hour later, he lay naked on the bed, watching TV and freshly showered, eating a room-service burger. He’d used the longest clipper attachment to buzz his hair down, then had followed the instructions on the box to color what was left. He’d flushed the trimmed hair down the toilet, not wanting any of the maids who cleaned his room next week to glom on to what he’d done and possibly sell the news to the photogs downstairs.
Right now, they’d be looking for him as-is, disguised with a hat and sunglasses, maybe.
Not walking out in plain sight and looking completely different.
And not just a couple of hours later, either.
He’d booked the room for a week and had requested that housekeeping not service it unless he asked them to.
Not at all uncommon for an A-lister to do.
The general supposition the photogs were making, he knew, was that Trevor was in town for a movie premiere the next night. Not one of his, but for close friends of his, a husband and wife director team he’d worked with several times before.
They hadn’t expected him to walk out, dressed like a Salvation Army reject in a poorly fitting suit. Or with brown eyes, courtesy of the contact lenses he’d obtained a few months back as part of a movie role. Nonprescription, all they did was change his blue eyes to brown, and combined with his glasses, he looked completely different. And he’d slouched, making himself look shorter and dumpier.
Not even the doorman had recognized him. If he hadn’t had his room key card in his hand, he suspected the doorman wouldn’t have even offered to hail a cab for him.
As the cabbie drove him back toward La Guardia, Nick Trevorsky glanced out the back window. Outside on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, several photogs were standing and talking. They’d glanced at him and several others who’d walked out at the same time without registering a second look in his direction.
He wasn’t their intended target. Brown hair, brown eyes, glasses…not Trevor Nichols.
So they thought.
Well, in a way, they were right. He wasn’t Trevor Nichols. He was Nicholas Trevorsky.
I guess Clark Kent wasn’t wrong after all.
He’d rented a car at La Guardia and driven from New York to Florida, enjoying a blissfully carefree trip, checking in to nonexclusive Interstate-exit hotels without a single person recognizing him. His California driver’s license picture was several years old, his hair shorter than people were used to now, and wearing the pair of glasses he usually eschewed in favor of prescription contacts.
Glasses he wore when he checked in every time, another diversion.
And now he was in Sarasota, wistfully cruising through old neighborhoods and parts of town he hadn’t seen in too many years.
Way too many years.
He’d even thought about looking people up that he’d known and decided to nix that idea. He was here for one reason, one specific purpose.
Rather, one specific place.
His old hometown had a BDSM club. Not the fancy, billionaire-infested swanky club of romance books, but a real club with real people as members. He’d carefully researched on the Internet, on FetLife, and had decided if he wanted a chance to finally be himself, he needed to just nut up and do it.
Trevor Nichols was an action-adventure movie star women wanted to be with and men wanted to be.
All Nicholas Trevorsky wanted was to find a competent Dominant, man or woman, to help him be who he wanted to be.
Because the secret he’d also carefully guarded from the world wasn’t just that Nicholas Trevorsky wasn’t the alpha and dominant action-hero ladies’ man of his movies, but that he was also a submissive bisexual masochist.
* * * *
His business manager, Clark, was the only one who knew where Nicholas was. He’d told Clark he was using the time off he’d built into his filming schedule to get some rest, relaxation, and do some writing on a few of his own projects he wanted to develop as a director and producer.
Nick had used the credit card for the LLC Clark had created for him to rent a condotel apartment on Siesta Key for eight weeks. Clark had also hired a lookalike to put in random appearances around LA over the next several weeks at some of Trevor’s regular haunts so that Trevor’s presence wasn’t missed. Grocery shopping, a restaurant, morning coffee—whatever.
Anything to give Nick a chance to breathe. They’d dropped hints on the official website that he was relaxing and would be vacationing in Europe before filming kicked off for his next movie, so his lack of official appearances wouldn’t seem odd. It just meant more paparazzi would be stalking his LA condo when they couldn’t locate him anywhere else.
He’d told Clark either this mini vacation happened, or he’d publicly be retiring on his laurels from acting and focus only on his directing and the small production company he was starting. Unlike some stars, he’d been stingy with his earnings. His condo in LA was paid for, as was his car. He had a considerable nest egg in savings which would continue to grow if he was wise, royalties and residuals filtering in to feather his nest. He didn’t splurge very often, and even then not by Hollywood standards.
Tonight, he would attend a dinner munch. From a fictitious e-mail account he’d created to use with his FetLife account, Nick had made contact with the Suncoast Society and had RSVP’d to the event.
He’d been assured by the hosts that, as a newbie, he would be welcomed.
He was nervous, but he was an actor. The slight Southern accent he’d arrived with in Hollywood and had strenuously worked to eliminate would now come in handy.
He planned on doing a lot of watching, a lot of listening.
And, maybe if he was really lucky over the next few weeks, he’d finally get a chance to scratch the desperate itch he hadn’t been able to reach in…years.
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