Break the Rules (Rough Love Book 7) Read online

  “But Ballard, what does that have to do with the character? Or the play?”

  “Can you just answer my question? You’re like my primary resource right now, since that therapist totally failed.”

  “I’m your primary resource?”

  “Yes,” Ben says firmly.

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

  “Trust me.”

  Ben finds that the hardest work is in the casual cruelty of his characters; Xander has never been like that, and it’s hard to find the kind of remorselessness Ben thinks the characters require. But he plans, and he rewrites, and he takes notes, and he asks questions, and he rehearses, and the producers are pleased with him. His cast compliment him. His confidence grows.

  And in the end, Ben finds, he’s so immersed that he doesn’t think twice about directing Fletcher to stab into someone harder, or to tie them up, or cut their throat. Fletcher the character is taking life, a collaboration between Ben as the writer-director and the amazing actor, Jarrod Kramer, he cast with production approval. Ramona was actually the one who suggested him, but as usual, her professional eye was spot-on. Ben has made a mental note to send her flowers or something, half to apologize for being such a dick himself, and half to thank her for Jarrod.

  Because Jarrod somehow makes Fletcher not just funny, but whimsical in the midst of the violence, and Ben’s mind is completely devoid of any sexual connotations any of these acts might have. He’s pleased with himself, and he thinks he’ll be able to pull it off, this weird, strange little play of his that ends with the stage awash with blood, the actors drenched like Carrie on prom night. His questions to Xander taper off, because he’s found the characters, and Fletcher is not like Xander, not at all. Fletcher is empty; it’s part of why he’s so amusing when he apes human emotion. Xander, for all his issues and struggles, is filled to the brim with emotions, hopes, fears.

  Ben leaves a note on each dressing-room mirrors for his actors, with three key ideas that he wants to instill in them for each performance: Fear is power; Violence is beauty; No kindness except to animals. And each night before the performance, before his pep-talk to the cast, he reads it to remind himself.

  But Fletcher and his family of killers are still hard work. The play itself is hard work, from blocking through runs through tech week, and even harder once it opens. There are small injuries, not every night but regularly, thanks to the amount of blood on stage; one of the actors slides in it, or they have to grab at one another surreptitiously to keep their balance, or cover while someone catches their breath after a painful fall.

  Every night, the cast end up covered in red goo, and Ben, who is brought out on stage at the end for curtain call, is thoroughly drenched with a bucket of blood by a different cast member. It’s a cheeky tradition started by Jarrod on opening night, and it carries on throughout the run. The first time took Ben by surprise, and as he stood there dripping, gasping, the crowd howling with laughter, he worried he might have issues with it, feel panic or nausea, but found it didn’t bother him at all. The color is just about right, but the consistency is not, and it lacks the scent, the threatening, instantly recognizable smell of fresh blood.

  Also, the taste is all wrong, but it’s not like Ben is ever going to admit that to anyone.

  Early reviews of Blood Bond are very positive, and although Ben made a resolution not to read the critics, that goes out the window early on. The cast are overjoyed to be getting such good reviews, and Ben can barely believe his quirky little horror-comedy is doing so well. But once everyone settles into the swing of things, and the initial excitement and energy has worn off, Ben has time and space to feel a familiar ache.

  He misses Xander like sunshine, feels like a plant left to grow in the dark, leached of all its color. And although the Rules help maintain connection, it’s difficult. Ben doesn’t have much time to spend with other people, because they’re at work when he’s at home, and he’s at work each night. He ends up alone more than he would usually prefer.

  Xander’s parties and events, covered extensively in the tabloids and industry media, make him jealous, and he tries not to ask about them too much when they talk. There are also rumors about Xander’s relationship with one of his co-stars, Harris Devlin, but Xander does take the time to assure Ben that it’s just the usual tabloid bullshit.

  “There’s no one else for me, baby,” Xander tells him. “You’re the only one I want.” But he sounds almost melancholy when he says it. Ben tries to take a little comfort in knowing the distance is just as hard for Xander as it is for him.

  Ben is pitied by the Blood Bond cast, who can see that something is wrong, and that it’s not just the effort of corralling a family of violent psychopaths for laughs every night. He confides in his lead actors that he misses someone, and they all know who he means, but are kind enough not to push, and protective of him, their beloved director.

  At talkbacks after the shows, Ben begins to find it hard to engage with the audience, with their incessant questions about violence, about blood. During the day he sits around his apartment until he can get the energy together to dress and go for coffee. At night, he opens up his soul to the violence and fear and cruelty he himself has created, then tries to rein it in enough to keep the audience laughing.

  He starts to really understand Xander’s insistence on balance. Ben feels like a wobbly spinning top that’s about to fall down.

  One night, he sprains his wrist slipping over in the blood as he walks onstage, even before receiving his own bucket of the stuff. After taking in the applause, pretending to enjoy it, he heads backstage to hide his foul mood from the cast, trying to shake it off. Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

  He shoves open the tiny director’s office he’s been using for the run of the play and—and there’s Xander. In the flesh. Looking pale and tired and—it’s Xander.

  “Oh, my God,” Ben says, giving a laugh. “You were here? Tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Xander says, standing up. “It was going to be a surprise.” His voice shakes, but all Ben can focus on is his lanky frame rising from the chair.

  Ben’s heart expands and rises like a helium balloon. “And you’re waiting in my office,” he says with a big grin. “Oh my God. This is the best night of my—”

  “Ben,” Xander says sharply.

  “And what do you mean, going to be a surprise? It is a surprise!” Ben can’t stop smiling. “Holy hell, dude, if I’d known—”

  “Ben,” Xander says again, and Ben finally takes in his expression. Xander looks closed-off.

  “What? Oh, right, the blood. I’ll go shower, and I have an audience talkback, but then we can—”

  “No,” Xander says. “No. I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.” He’s leaning back against the wall, looking as though his long, elegant legs will give way if he stands up straight.

  Ben looks at him, confused. Feels his self-esteem start to crumble, just a little. “Was it—oh, man. Did it totally suck? Fuck.”

  “No,” Xander says dully. “It did not suck. Far from it. Very effective characterization you’ve drawn out.” Ben stares at him. He hasn’t seen Xander look like this since…ever.

  “Then what’s wrong? I don’t suck and you wish I did?”

  Xander shoves his hands in his pockets, looks at the ground. “I just wish…” He shrugs. “I wish I hadn’t come. And I think we should break up.”

  “You what now?” Ben asks, because he’s pretty sure he misheard.

  No way would Xander be breaking up with him. Not now, not ever.

  “I think,” Xander says, looking at the door behind Ben, “that we should break up.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Ben says automatically. He smiles. “Hey, is this what we’re doing now? Breaking up over plays? Are we jealous of each other or something?” Because he knows Xander is joking. “Sorry I’m so awesome and all, but—”

  “Please stop. I mean it.” And when Ben looks at him closely, he can see that Xand
er is too pale. Too controlled.

  “What?” Ben says, and for days afterwards he wishes it hadn’t come out so astonished and so bewildered. “Wait. What? Did you hate the play? Are you jealous? Because I got to do theater before you?”

  Wow, was that the wrong thing to say. Xander develops two bright spots of red over his cheekbones. “I guess I just didn’t expect to find my boyfriend writing and directing a parody of me on stage, like I’m some huge joke to him.”

  The fake blood is starting to get sticky, and Ben thinks, I should shower, because when he doesn’t get it off quickly enough, it irritates his skin and makes him itch like crazy. I should walk out of here and shower and when I come back I’ll realize this is just some insane hallucination.

  “What are you talking about?” he says. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. A parody?” Xander is so white that Ben starts to worry about him.

  “You see me like that? Like that?”

  “Xander, I—” Ben is beginning to get freaked out. “Seriously, man, sit down before you fall down.” Xander stumbles towards a chair and grabs at it before sitting heavily. He won’t look at Ben. “What the fuck, Xander?” Ben asks gently. “Really, what the fuck?”

  Xander drops his face into his hands and Ben can hear him struggle to control his breathing, like he’s doing a yoga thing. “Is that—that’s how you see me? Like some kind of capricious monster?”

  Ben is so astounded that he can’t reply. “No,” he says after a horrible silence. “Why would you even think that?”

  Xander sits up and glares. “That, for one thing.” He points at Ben’s note on the mirror, the same one he’s given out to the cast before each performance.

  “That’s just a reminder. For me. About what to tell the cast to bring to each performance.”

  “And where did you get that from? From me.”

  “No, I didn’t. It’s just stuff to remember. Just some key phrases. And you were just one person, one source I looked at.”

  “Your primary source,” Xander snarls, standing up again, and Ben feels his own temper flare, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. “That’s what you said.”

  “Sure, why not? You’re more familiar with this stuff than most people I know. But that doesn’t mean I think you’re like that. It doesn’t mean I think you’re violent or cruel. I did a lot of research and I distilled it down, and—”

  “Bullshit. I’m not stupid, Ballard. What that guy was doing on stage—that was pure satire. You’re directing some D-lister to do his very best impression of me. And Jesus, I can’t remember the last time I felt so incredibly disrespected. Oh, no, wait, I do. When you cut me. What was that, a dress rehearsal?” Xander is trembling, his hands clenched. “And, hey? For future reference,” he says, his face distorted, ugly, “I would never be jealous of something like this. I just got cast in one of the most significant plays of the twentieth century!”

  Ben is beginning to get seriously angry, like he hasn’t in a long time. And he knows their voices are carrying, that anyone backstage can probably hear them, but he doesn’t care. “And Blood Bond is just some dumb horror show, huh? Well, what about Jasper Crane, Xander? He’s not exactly fucking Hamlet!”

  Xander gives a dismissive shrug of one shoulder, and Ben sees red. And it’s not the fake blood that keeps getting in his eyes, either.

  “Excuse the absolute fuck out of me,” Ben shouts, “but I thought you were over that cutting thing. And if you saw anything tonight that reminded you of yourself, you’re just reading into it. It’s not about you, Xander. Not everything is about you. I put a lot of work into this, and what little I got from you, it was just bits of things. Just bits of information that I thought about, and if they fit, I used them.”

  It doesn’t make any difference: Xander is implacable. He barks a laugh, and then says, “Yeah, you used them alright. It’s not just bits, though, is it? It’s bits you gathered together to make into something whole. Bits of me. Researching me like a science experiment and projecting that into your characters, because you don’t have it in you yourself, not really. Just like when you cut me. But this—this was in front of a whole audience.”

  “Fuck you,” Ben says, shocked. “Fuck you, Xander, seriously. You’ve always thought I’m some second-rate hack. So the only way I can get near anything authentic is by copying you, riding your coat-tails? Well, fuck you. That’s not what this was. You’re the one projecting.”

  “We’re done,” Xander spits.

  They stare at each other, and then Xander brushes past Ben like he’s some obnoxious photographer on the street, rips open the office door and slams it behind him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You should call him.”

  “Katy, I’m not calling him. Just stay out of it.”

  “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You do. I’m worried about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Katherine, stop badgering your brother. Benjamin, feet off the coffee table.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” they chorus.

  “I’ve only been saying it for decades,” she sighs. “Now, does anyone want more shortcake?”

  It’s a Monday, and Ben is at his parents’ regular Sunday lunch. They’ve moved it to Monday since it’s Ben’s only day off right now. Ben didn’t want to go, but Katy insisted, saying that he’s too thin and he hasn’t been eating. The play has continued, and Ben is doing the best he can, although his cast are really directing themselves these days. But somehow Blood Bond has become the cool hit show of the LA season, and Ramona has booked Ben for several different writing projects off the back of his success, so he doesn’t have to worry about the next job. There’s even talk of adapting Blood Bond for film or TV, but Ben just cannot find it in himself to be excited about it.

  It’s been three weeks since he fought with Xander, and there’s been complete radio silence between them. And Ben sure as hell isn’t making the first move. The night of the fight, his fury was dulled by exhaustion and shock. Since then he’s only become angrier. But it’s not the normal, fiery rage he’s used to, all-consuming. This is simply a state of being, getting blacker every day, and it doesn’t seem to be going away any time soon.

  “You should call him,” Katy whispers again as she digs into her second piece of cake, and Ben rolls his eyes.

  Later that night, much later, when he can’t sleep yet again, he logs on to his computer and does what he’s been doing with regularity: checking up on Xander. It always makes him feel like a stalker, and even more isolated, but he can’t help himself. He’s noted with satisfaction Xander’s silence on all his personal social media channels since that night, but the pictures of Xander out at parties or premieres or show openings make Ben’s heart seize and his gut twist.

  It’s also how he finds out that Xander has cut all his glorious hair off and adopted a buzzcut. It’s so strange to see him like that, and Ben wonders what made him do it. He fantasizes that it’s because of Xander’s grief; outward evidence of the inward pain, an attempt to show remorse perhaps. Maybe he’s going a sackcloth and ashes routine. The asshole certainly should. But in the end Ben realizes it’s probably just because of whatever The Hunter calls for. Maybe Jasper Crane gets the electric chair at the end of the season, or something.

  Christ, Ben hopes he does. He’ll watch it in fucking slow-mo.

  But it’s too much, looking at pictures of Xander out and about and living his life as though everything’s just fine, so to distract himself, Ben continues his research into sadomasochism. At first he’s not sure what he’s looking for—answers, information, a reason? But the more he finds out, the more confused he becomes. Night after night he wades his way through articles on Freud, Krafft-Ebbing, de Sade, Lacan, Nietzsche…each article leads to another and another and another.

  But he avoids Jung. He’s decided he’s never going to even think about Carl Gustav Jung again. In fact, if he knew where
Jung was buried, he’d be inclined to go piss on the fucker’s grave.

  At the end of it, the only thing he knows for sure is what he doesn’t believe. He doesn’t believe Xander’s sadism started because he chewed on things when his baby teeth came in. And since Ben wasn’t spanked as a child, he’s pretty sure his own tastes didn’t develop from that either.

  Through his Googling and reading and research, he also finds sites that he knew existed, although he’s never bothered to look at them before; sites where people congregate and talk about all the things they do, form friendships…date. And night after night, when it hits three am and he still can’t sleep, and Xander hasn’t called or texted or emailed or done anything at all to suggest he gives the slightest fuck about Ben, these sites become more tempting.

  But to his own shame, Ben still can’t let go. He does it first thing in the morning, before he’s still really awake, so he can blame habit, but he still does it: still faithfully marks in the XR on his ass. For about three seconds after he does it, it makes him feel good, and then everything crashes down again. Everything is black again.

  He doesn’t know what to do with the journal he wrote for Xander. Burning it is his first instinct, but that would feel like self-immolation. He puts it away in a drawer, underneath a stack of old bills. He’s tempted, too, by the thought of hurting himself, even pauses one night in the kitchen and looks at the knife block. But he’s still too used to Xander’s mandate against harming himself, even though he hates to admit it.

  He puts the knife block away in a cupboard.

  Ben dates.

  He figures the tabloids have always run stories about him going back to girls, so why the hell shouldn’t he? The news that he and Xander have broken up is a big story for one day, but the news cycle moves on fast that it dies soon, and they’re more interested in running stories about Xander banging his Hunter co-star.