Who We Were: Love Starts Here, #3

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G ood morning, everyone. My name’s Jessie Conner, and I’m here for an exclusive interview with current Oscar nominee Bowen Phillips. And, Bo—can I call you Bo?

He grimaced but offered a nod because why the fuck not. He would never be Adan to these people, and he preferred it that way.

Bo, she went on with a grin, "might I start off by saying that I was a huge fan of yours growing up?"

He tried not to groan—he really did—and he was fairly sure he managed to play it off as a joke. But in reality, he’d rather walk on hot coals than talk about what he was pretty fucking sure she was about to bring up.

His childhood.

Or, rather, his childhood stardom. Which hadn’t ended well for anyone.

Thank you, he forced out. He’d been in the Hollywood interview game—or well, back in the Hollywood interview game—for long enough that the creeping anxiety that liked to wrap around his spine and make his legs feel numb was nothing more than an old friend.

Now, sitting in front of this reporter, who looked pretty much identical to all the other reporters he’d been forced to talk to over the last two weeks, was just business as usual. They were all like this—sort of plastic and well trained and didn’t actually give a single shit about him or his story. They just wanted ratings, and he understood that and resigned himself to an hour of absolute, soul-crushing boredom interspersed with dodging personal questions they’d been instructed not to ask.

Though last time, he’d entertained himself by watching a beetle move in and out of the interviewer’s heavily hair-sprayed, very blonde hair.

He wasn’t sure she’d even noticed it happening.

…going to?

He blinked, affecting a smile because he’d entirely lost the plot. He was exhausted, he still wasn’t used to going by his old stage name, and frankly, that was the last place in the world he wanted to be. Sorry, I…

"Am I boring you, Mr. Phillips?" Her tone was playful, but her smile had a sharp edge.

Clearing his throat, Adan dug out his award-winning grin he’d perfected for the press, then winked at her for good measure. Not at all. My agent just forgot to remind me that the talking part of my job also requires me to get six hours of sleep, and I haven’t been able to do that with all the travel. He tried to sweep his hand through his hair, but he’d forgotten his long locks had been tied up in a messy man-bun…or whatever the hell stylists were calling it these days.

His fingers caught and dislodged the tie slightly, and he blushed, his anxiety increasing.

The woman—Jessie Something-or-other—took pity on him. Like, actual pity, simmering there in her contact-blue eyes. We understand, of course. It’s been a whirlwind since you made your comeback. Do you mind if we talk about that for a minute?

He did mind, because the last thing he wanted to talk about was being a fourteen-year-old diva on a speed binge that got him arrested, tanked his career, sent him to rehab, and bankrupted his parents. He’d seen enough shitty TV specials with the words What Happened to Baby Bowen Phillips in obnoxious title font to last him a lifetime.

He’d love to sit down and tell them all what actually happened. How the film and TV industry destroyed children. How the managers and agents looked at them like dollar signs and didn’t give a fuck who was doing what to them and where, so long as they showed up and said all their lines.

But the public didn’t really care about that. They wanted his story to be tragic because it came with his triumph—a ridiculous comeback on some B-list reality TV show starring other fallen child actors from the early nineties. He’d been talked into it by some washed-up agent trying to stage his own career restart on a Friday night when he was making best friends with a bottle of Bacardi 151.

That would teach him to answer his phone drunk, he supposed.

He was struggling to regret it, really, because he was ridiculously broke at the time, and having a fat payday was a dream come true. His job was steady, but it wasn’t enough to do more than pay his own bills, and his mom’s arthritis was getting too bad for her to keep working.

Plus, the reality of the business was, when it was good, it was really goddamn good. Before the pressure tried to suffocate him, he had actually loved acting, and it was those memories that tempted him right back into the spotlight.

He’d just forgotten about all this. All the simpering and smiling and playing it up for the camera. All the times he had to leave who he really was behind in the dark shadows, because no one wanted to know what a mess he still was after all these years. Not unless it came with a very public breakdown that could sell newspapers.

It hadn’t taken him long to remember why, at fourteen, the life had nearly destroyed him. But it was what it was, and he was honest to God still surprised after all this time, the public gave a single shit about him.

But here he was after one reality show that didn’t waste a single minute of airtime making sure he’d become a comeback sensation. And three weeks after the premiere, the phone began to ring, and the offers came pouring in.

His first real offer worth anything was a role in an indie film with a half a million-dollar budget. His agent had gotten him a decent deal, though, so if the movie took off, the residuals would be able to pay his rent and catch his parents up on some bills.

And, well, that was exactly what happened.

And then some.

That little indie film started getting press and attention, and the words Oscar nod started floating around. The next thing he knew, he was in Cannes being hounded by the press, and people were pulling out old photos of him at seven years old with his too-bushy brows and his little hands on his hips.

People were quoting his goddamn catchphrase from his shitty Friday night sitcom. I am being-hayve!

He’d even seen it on a t-shirt when he got back to LA, and he wanted to fling himself into the Pacific.

Except, then the real money started coming in, and, well…

Here he was. Two more films, another Oscar nom for best actor, and so many interviews, he wanted to bury himself in the earth until it was over.

Is it true you haven’t dated since you were a teenager? Jessie asked him, dragging him out of his thoughts where he could answer interview questions on autopilot. One of his stipulations about these interviews was that they didn’t go into his personal life. They always tried to push it, of course, and normally he was good at being able to avoid a conflict, but not always.

And inevitably, one of them would get very bold, and he’d be put on the spot without a canned answer.

Clearing his throat, he narrowed his eyes and shrugged. I haven’t had a serious relationship, no.

And you’re…gay?

He tried not to blush. It was the fucking twenty-first century, and he was rich and kind of famous. Why the hell should it even be a thing? I came out in ninety-eight, he said. It was a year after his famous spiral, and it was the last public interview he’d done before he was officially listed as retired. His agent had been convinced at the time he’d ruined his career with that one, and back then, he’d been happy about it.

Misery had been his only company, and he wanted to pull all the walls down.

I’m sure there are plenty of people excited about that. You’ve been labeled a gay icon on Twitter, Jessie said.

Adan knew they’d be showing some clips of tweets when they eventually aired the piece, so he just smiled and shrugged. If I can make it easier for any kid to come out, I’m happy to share my journey.

And that is…?

He couldn’t help his glare, but he tempered it after a beat, and he hoped there was enough of his passive face on camera that they could cut out his visible irritation. Being a teenager isn’t easy—being a gay teenager, at least back then, wasn’t something you were supposed to be. And I know we’ve come leaps and bounds, but not every kid has access to the kind of support they deserve. But, like plenty of celebrities have said, it does get better.

And yet, you’re still not dating, she pressed.

His smile felt more like a grimace, and he shrugged. In the background, he could see Charlie speaking furiously to someone, and he was gratified to know his agent was at least trying to make them stick to their agreement. That has nothing to do with my sexuality. I’ve been working nonstop since the TV show came out, and it wouldn’t be fair to any partner of mine.

Well, if you need help with matchmaking…

I know who to call, he said, showing more teeth.

They went through a few more questions about his newest movie, which were far easier to answer. It was a mind-numbing action flick with a bisexual lead who was palatable because he flirted with guys but ended up with the girl. The press could have a field day with calling it representation, but it wouldn’t bring the hellfire and brimstone crowds knocking on his door.

Would you like to kiss a man on the big screen someday? Jessie asked.

At that, he laughed, though he didn’t mean to. I mean, depending on who it is…wouldn’t we all?

It ended shortly after that, and he didn’t even bother giving her a goodbye as he stormed past the woman trying to drag him back into the makeup chair to get the shit off his face, and he backed his agent, Charlie, into a corner.

What. The. Fuck.

I’m sorry, he said in a rush, gently removing Adan’s hands from the front of his shirt. You know how they are.

He did. He did know, but he paid Charlie a ridiculous amount of money so he didn’t have to be put on the spot like that. Taking a breath, he closed his eyes and shook his head. It’s fine. It’s not your fault, and I think I handled it alright.

The signed agreement was that I see the piece before they release it, so I’ll make sure they’ve edited out anything that makes you look…

Charlie didn’t finish his sentence, but Adan didn’t need him to. Anything that would make him look unstable, or like he was on drugs, or losing it again. Anything that made him look like taking Bowen Phillips off the shelf again was leading him to that point where he cracked and ended up destroying his life.

Because this time, he wasn’t fourteen.

This time, his youth wouldn’t save him from the inevitable crash.

Let me get this shit off my face, Adan said, glancing over at the little makeup table that was blissfully empty. Then we can go over the rest of my afternoon.

Charlie gave him another pat, and Adan resigned himself to being puppeted around like his life didn’t belong to him.

Because, in all reality, it didn’t.

Not anymore.

Adan was not supposed to answer his phone after midnight, because his life was like a gremlin and should not be fed after the witching hour.

It was a rule Adan tried desperately to live by, and yet it was a rule he always seemed to ignore.

The night before the premiere, he felt something like ants crawling under his skin, and he had a sinking feeling something was going to go wrong. He was in LA but at a hotel instead of his condo, mostly to avoid his place being swarmed by paparazzi when he woke up to have his usual morning coffee on his terrace.

Since the debut of the TV show, people were paying attention to him like he was worth their time, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. He’d spent the last twenty-five years being ignored by the public, except the occasional Where Are They Now producer trying to get him to give a candid interview about his office job and how far he’d fallen from the limelight. And even five years before, he had been entirely resigned to living the rest of his life as a total nobody.

He’d made peace with it.

Mostly.

So all of this was causing him to feel weird and a little…itchy. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know what to expect when he’d signed that first contract for the major motion picture. He was barely out of diapers when he first smiled at a TV camera—and for fourteen years, being a celebrity had been his identity.

But God, how quickly he’d forgotten.

When the hundred-and sixty-five-million-dollar blockbuster had swept the nation, opened at number one, and he’d seen a payday like he’d always dreamed about when he was a kid, it had all come rushing back.

Except this time, it wasn’t cereal box endorsement money. It wasn’t made-for-TV-movie money. It wasn’t let’s do a commercial for LEGO money.

This was pay off every debt he’d ever even thought about having and then buy his parents a condo in Santa Barbara so he’d never have to worry about them again kind of cash. Which was exactly what he did.

He’d cried a little bit in the car after handing them the keys and hugging them tight, because there had been a point in his life where he wasn’t sure he was going to walk away from the mess his life had become. But not once, not a single moment in his spiral and recovery, did his parents ever look at him like he wasn’t worth saving.

He dove in with a hunger he hadn’t expected, and he resigned himself to knowing that he’d never fully have privacy ever again—which meant that answering relationship questions like the one in the interview felt more painful than ever.

Adan had never done well with other people, even before the celebrity world took over his life again. And it was moments like this, in the quiet of a hotel room right before chaos descended, that he felt the most lonely and the most fucked up. It was in those quiet spaces that he thought back to every single person he’d ever had the courage to ask out, and he traced the lines from their warm start to the very short, very cold finish.

Because he was fucked up.

His past had fucked him up.

His present was even worse.

Everyone wanted his attention now that the press said he was worth something, and it made things so much more difficult because he didn’t even know what the fuck he wanted for himself.

Most of his failed one-night stands were because he couldn’t get his dick to cooperate. And he’d always had that problem, but in his younger years, he chalked it up to too many drugs, and when he got clean, all the meds he was on to try and keep his brain from falling into fragmented pieces.

He didn’t have answers about himself now, though. He’d been off most of his meds for years, and he still couldn’t seem to find that connection between his brain and body, because his mind said he should want to fuck, and to get fucked, and to be taken apart by a partner.

And he did—sometimes. But it was almost like an abstract idea, and his body just wouldn’t get on board.

When he brought it up with Aimee—who had now starred in two movies with him and was probably the closest thing he had to an actual friend—she had gone on about asexuality and spectrums and things that just made his head hurt and his ears ring. He curled into himself and breathed and told himself to ignore her, no matter how right some of it sounded.

He just didn’t want to have another fucking thing different about him. And, in reality, he’d done enough drugs as a teen to fuck up his body.

So…it was probably that.

It had to be.

That didn’t stop him from calling her, though, in spite of the fact that she was one floor above him in the hotel. He was feeling all twisted up inside again after a failed date the weekend before and after seeing all of his costars with their significant others at the prescreening party. They’d all looked so happy and intimate and all of the things he was pretty sure he wanted but had no idea how to reach for.

It had driven him to drink and cry on the phone to Aimee, which he knew was the wrong coping mechanism for that weekend. But it was also a lot easier than doing something responsible, like calling his therapist.

You know, maybe I’m into kink, he said, halfway into a bottle of pinot as he stretched out on the suite balcony. Maybe I can’t get it up because my partners aren’t finding like…my hidden desires.

Aimee laughed quietly. Sure, babe.

He sat up a little and squinted out at the skyline, which was never really dark in Hollywood. The haze of the lights and the city and the muggy ocean air seemed to hover like a blanket over the horizon. Are you saying I can’t be into kink? Just…just because I can’t get it up?

No, Aimee sighed. I’m saying the answer’s probably right in front of you the whole time, she replied. But you know me. I can’t resist a bit of light choking, so it might be worth exploring a bit.

He knew an unfortunate amount about her preferences. That’s…choking is not for me.

She laughed again. "I know that. I could see you more like…a violet wand and panties kind of guy, you know? Or maybe skirts. Something soft and feminine."

At the word feminine, his skin began to tingle. Not in an I want to lie down and get railed sort of way, but something else. Something quiet, and soft, and needy. Of course, he couldn’t begin to know what that even meant, so he shoved it aside and focused on her words instead.

He had no idea what the fuck a violet wand was, but the idea of panties wasn’t the worst one he’d ever heard—one that seemed tame enough he didn’t need to think too hard about it.

Maybe you should do a little shopping tonight, Aimee said. Use this time you have to yourself to see if you like it?

He let out a stressed laugh, dragging a hand down his face. Where the fuck am I supposed to find all of that at…fuck, what time is it? He held his phone away and squinted at the screen. You want me to go search for an all-night Walmart?

Oh, honey, she drawled, a tiny hint of her Southern accent coming through. I can actually help you. Can you sneak out for a bit, or are those assholes perched outside of your room?

He laughed. It’s two a.m.

You know that means nothing to those vultures, she said with a scoff. Look, just call your driver and get them to take you to the address I just texted you. They cater to people who don’t want to be seen.

Saying yes seemed a little reckless and wild, and he felt alive for the first time in a long, long while.

He sent a message to his driver, who was slow in getting back to him—which was fair, considering the time. But Mike always showed up without complaint, though Adan knew it wasn’t out of some sense of loyalty—more like he made a grand for these post-midnight trips.

He slung on a pair of yoga pants, then tucked into the largest hoodie he’d remembered to bring with him. Adan had always liked the feeling of swimming in thick, soft cotton, no matter how hot it was. Cocooning had always made him feel safe, like he could burrow away from whatever was bothering him.

He knew deep down that the majority of the population would probably give a limb for his first-world, rich-guy problems, but he couldn’t really divorce himself from it now that he’d careened into the universe where he was Bowen Phillips.

Wrapping his arms around himself, Adan took the private elevator down to the side door, then slipped out and hurried into the front seat of the car. Mike didn’t look over as Adan leaned into the console and punched in the address Aimee had sent.

He also didn’t bother to tell the driver that he had to keep his fucking mouth shut about this—because Mike not only knew better, but Adan’s publicist had a nice little NDA tucked inside his office drawer.

Fuck, what a life, he thought as they hit the road.

The shop was forty minutes from the hotel, so it would be another forty back. He was going to be wrecked come morning, but he didn’t really care that much. Half the actors would show up still drunk, the other half high out of their minds.

So, no one would notice if he showed up on the cusp of a sexual revelation, and that was kind of thrilling because he couldn’t really remember the last time he’d orgasmed. He’d had a wet dream once, six months before, but his brain was such a mess, it didn’t even let him remember what it had been about.

He’d just woken up in a puddle of come with a vague hitch in his breath like he’d been running.

If he hadn’t been alone, he might have been humiliated.

He’d tried to get off in the shower after that, his hand all slick with soap as he stroked himself. And yes, it had felt nice, but he couldn’t get more than a half chub and a faint tingling sensation in his balls. Pleasure—actual pleasure—had been just outside of his reach.

Like always.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he opened his little bubble game on his phone and wasted time, ignoring a string of increasingly drunk texts from Aimee, who was going to be regretting life by morning. The silence between him and Mike was actually comforting, and when the GPS alerted him to the shop only a mile away, he felt a vague sense of regret because he knew what Mike was going to think the moment he realized where they were.

I’ll only be a few minutes, he said as they came to a stop. He bit the inside of his cheek as he tried to find the courage to actually look up at the building, and he debated about giving his driver at least some kind of explanation.

Mike made a soft noise—maybe not a scoff, but it was obvious he didn’t believe him. The place, Eve’s, was obvious about what it was, even if it was one of the more subtle places he’d seen in West Hollywood. The building was nondescript, and there were no windows, but there was a single door with iron bars and a little note taped in the corner that he couldn’t read from the car.

He licked his lips and debated about telling Mike he wasn’t, like, buying porn or anything. But he realized he didn’t owe him an explanation. He was doing this for himself, taking back a little bit of control in the chaos.

Throwing his hood over his head, Adan hurried toward the shop door and whispered a prayer no one was around to see him. For a moment, he drowned in a small coil of panic, worried that maybe Aimee was just trying to set him up for humiliation.

The place looked more than dead—it looked half-abandoned. He couldn’t imagine that actual celebrities frequented this place. But, then again, he had seen stranger things. He glanced up and saw block letters on the note telling him to knock for entry.

His palms started to sweat, but he gave in and reached through the bars, tapping gently on the door. Nothing happened for so long, his heart started to race. He wasn’t brave enough to look back and see if Mike was watching him, but he would have to make that short walk of shame back if he was denied. His throat went a little tight.

Then the door opened.

Mr. Phillips?

He bristled at the sound of his stage name. When he was a kid, he’d all but abandoned his given identity because Bowen was the kid everyone wanted—the kid who