Page 4 of Rocking the Receiver (Austin Troopers)
CHAPTER 4
ALL I KNOW SO FAR
Rupert
On top of being a redhead, my Britishness —as smartass Elliot referred to it at breakfast—doesn’t mix well with the blazing late afternoon sun. Yes, I have a love/hate relationship with the sun since my insanely fair skin burns in the blink of an eye. Needless to say, wearing sunscreen wasn’t an option, simply because… shininess, stickiness, and whatnot.
Thankful for the constant breeze, I nonetheless stand under the retractable awning on the edge of the terrace to benefit from the shade. How is everyone but me unbothered by the heat being all dressed-up? I inwardly thank Sally for insisting that I order a dress shirt and a dark green linen suit—to make my eyes pop, she claimed—for the occasion because I had nothing suitable to bring from Nashville. I’m not a big fan of linen, but I must look good if the appreciative glances I’m getting are any indication. Most of all, it keeps me cooler than a typical designer suit, so no complaints there.
Yeah, this Brit kid’s come a long way from second-hand clothes, a crappy house, and a single mom who could barely make ends meet; bless her for always supporting me. Tim got a glimpse of that life. He’s the only friend who’s stepped foot in my childhood home and who I introduced to my mom. That’s how close we are, but I felt the need to make him promise to keep it under wraps because it’s nobody’s business. Thank fuck, my so-called fame hasn’t reached a level where the media digs into the past, and I intend to keep it that way.
Tim is the man of the hour, and I don’t mind that he’s too busy to chat with me. The point was to share this moment with him. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. He said he was grateful for my presence, so that’s all that matters. So, here I am, on my second glass of red—it’s the Rh?ne Valley after all—taking stock of the sprawling vineyards and olive groves surrounding the Lefevre estate. I am also people-watching; the numerous guests mingle, guffaw, and drink.
It’s a beautiful party. My best friend hasn’t stopped smiling and is currently surrounded by family and close friends, their voices rising and falling in cheerful, rapid French. I’m one of two native English speakers, and Victoria is fluent in French. As for me, I can catch most of it if people speak slowly, but I have a hard time speaking it. French grammar is a bitch!
Victoria and I talked for a while earlier, but she’s evidently busy entertaining her guests. If I’m honest, I feel a bit isolated. You’d think that my former modeling career and current music one would make me comfortable around people; you’d be wrong. I’m far from a people person, and it’s difficult for me to chat with someone I barely know, let alone strangers, especially if they speak a foreign language I haven’t exactly mastered. I can discern the topics of most—wine, the honeymoon, and shared moments at school—but I prefer to listen, although most of them speak English.
Tim catches my eye and waves me over. Taking a sip of my wine, I make my way through the crowd. “Rupert!” Tim greets me with a joyful face, clapping me on the back. “What’s up, my man? Why were you hiding over there? Scared of the French women?”
I hold up my free hand in surrender. “I’m not hiding…” That’s up for debate, actually.
I gulp the rest of my drink to buy some time, and he swiftly signals one of the waiters to pour me a refill. With rapt attention, I watch the bulky blond guy in a dark suit oblige. His cheeks are reddening. Is it the sun or something else? Expectant, I lick my lips, guessing he plays rugby in his spare time. When he’s done filling the glass, his blue gaze meets mine from under his long lashes. A split second suffices. My pulse trips over itself. He’s gone before anything remotely inappropriate can be witnessed.
Is it better this way or should I head to the bar area later?
Yes, as much as I adore my best friend, I am lying to him and I’m not even ashamed of it. A big white lie is better than taking the risk of coming out and potentially threatening our long-time friendship, that makes it a no-brainer. I get that it’s fine to come out on my own terms, but over the years, we’ve shared so much. I doubt Tim’s homophobic, but I’m afraid he might not comprehend why I’m hiding my sexual orientation, and keep the true nature of my relationship with Sally a secret all this time. Truth be told, I’m scared shitless that he might resent me for not trusting him, no matter how deep-rooted our friendship is.
Before I know it, Tim is joined by his fiancée. Looking radiant in a long lacy summer dress, she’s surrounded by a group of well-wishers around our age who I assume are her friends. “It’s good to have you here,” Claire says, like her beau has about ten times today. Then, her eyes brighten. “I’d like to introduce you to my closest friends.” Her intentions are clear. It's flattering, but my mind leans towards the bar.
Why would Tim try to hook me up when he bought into the Sally charade anyway? Surely, he knows I’m not a cheater or a one-night stand kinda guy. But then again, he doesn’t really know. I definitely favor anonymous hookups, which are much less risky considering my career path.
“Rupert, this is Camille and her sister, Nadia,” Claire says, gesturing to two lovely young women who beam at me. “Ladies, this is Rupert, Tim’s best friend from the UK. He’s a rock star now and lives in the States.”
Who am I to contradict her, right?
Next, Tim informs me of their pedigree, but I zone out until they say, “ Enchantée ,” in unison, their eyes sparkling with interest.
I mirror their greeting in my embarrassing attempt at French.
Tim and Claire are soon pulled away by another relative, leaving me with the two sisters. They start talking, switching seamlessly between French and English for my benefit. I nod along, getting bits and pieces, but my attention keeps drifting back to Elliot.
“Would you like to dance?” Camille asks, her voice breaking through my thoughts.
“Sure, why not?” I set my drink on a nearby table and take her hand. We make our way to the makeshift dance floor where other couples are swaying to the music. Somehow, my eyes spot Tim’s younger brother, Elliot, studying the crowd from afar. Nope, not the crowd; he’s watching me intently, his gaze unwavering. Taking a look around, I realize that everyone else is so engrossed in the party that they couldn’t care less. There’s something about his stare that sends a shiver down my spine. As much as it concerns me, I embrace the feeling—slowly but surely—and berate myself for reveling in it a little too much.
He’s just a kid , I remind myself. Maybe my behavior yesterday upset him, and he’s just pissed at me, unable to get over it. That has to be it.
Last time I saw him, he was what? Six or seven. I remember him vividly because it’s not every day that two unrelated redheads live under the same roof, even for a short period of time. The kid was begging for attention back then, just as he is now. Elliot is the only child born from the union of Philippe and Victoria. A late one at that. He’s the youngest of seven siblings in a family where he’s the only one with fair hair and freckles. The only one with a not-so-typical French name. The only one with a different physique from his father. The only one who chose American Football over rugby. My buddy, Nathan, would probably have a field trip with Elliot’s backstory; he loves a unique story, especially when it involves karma and oddities, and the Lefevre kid definitely strikes me as odd. Shaking my buzzed head, I push my inner debate aside, focusing on the task at hand.
The Beatles version of Twist and Shout propels me to the present, and I push my inner debate aside and focus on Camille. Tim takes the stage with Claire, and I show off my best moves while telling my dance partner how I love the song, which reminds me of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off , an 80’s movie that I used to watch with my mom.
I still feel the weight of Elliot’s stare on my back. I can’t help but glance over my shoulder. It’s swift, but as our eyes briefly meet, his expression is unreadable. Then he averts his gaze, and I turn mine back to Camille.
I feel self-conscious. It frustrates me that I can't quite put my finger on what pulls me towards Elliot. Well, strike that. I hate that the kid figured me out when the rest of the world believes in my love story with Sally and assumed straight orientation.
“Is everything alright?” Camille, who can’t see him, inquires, noticing my distraction.
“Yeah, just... taking it all in.” I’ve perfected my fake smile to a T, so she mustn’t read my unease. Dancing to a French song that Camille says is a major hit at the moment, I manage to whirl around in order to face Elliot. The more I try to decipher the younger brother’s intense scrutiny, the more intrigued I feel. What’s his deal?
As the song ends, I excuse myself and escape to the bathroom, where I splash water on my face, hoping to break my trance. Then, I spot the waiter and make a beeline towards the bar. After discreetly polite and professional small talk, he hands me my Chateldon sparkling water along with a napkin with his digits on it. Later tonight…
That was so easy. Almost too easy, but why bother overthinking things when two consenting adults are on board?
Thoughtful, I make my way back to the edge of the terrace to collect myself. I feel a presence beside me and turn to see Elliot standing there, his gaze finally meeting mine.
“Enjoying the party?” His voice is low, tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
“Yeah, it’s wonderful.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I study him. “Your brother’s very lucky.”
Elliot’s eyes don’t leave mine. “So am I.”
“Oh, yeah?” There’s a tension between us that I can’t ignore, an unspoken connection that makes my heart race. I’m drawn to him, but I know that I can’t act on it. Not here. Not now. Not ever. That hot waiter is a much safer bet. He opens his mouth to speak, but I interject, “Why do you keep staring at me?” I challenge, unable to hold back any longer.
Elliot shrugs, a faint smirk playing on his plump lips that I shouldn’t be lusting after. “Just trying to figure you out,” he blurts out, his tone teasing but his eyes piercing.
“Well, good luck with that.” I force a chuckle. “I’ve been working on that for twenty-eight years, and I remain unsure what the answer is.” I’m not even lying. Reminding him of my age helps put things into perspective. I’m not gonna lie, the kid is hot as fuck, too hot for his own good probably, and the energy he exudes is appealing. In another lifetime, he’d totally be my type.
He laughs softly, the tension easing just a bit. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He swallows. “Don’t think I buy your act, though.” My eyes widen as he turns to walk away, but changes his mind, glancing back at me. He threads his long fingers through his luscious mane of strawberry blond hair. My fingers twitch, aching to join his. Fuck! “By the way, don’t forget you owe me one.” With that, he leaves me hanging. Mind racing. Mouth parched.
Guilt spiking.