The Beat of Love: Fake It Till You Make It, #3

By L. Loryn

They each need what the other has.

Miguel Costa knows everyone in the celebrity world, but he's not on the A-list. He's on the C-list. Maybe the B-list if you ask the right person. He's got a new movie coming out and what he needs is a quick injection of popularity.

Tsela "WOLFE" Begay is on the A-list-- and he's not even an actor. With long hair, brooding dark eyes, and a perpetual frown, he's making women (and men) swoon left and right. The only problem is under dark eyes and a calm demeanor lies a volatile temper and bad press follows him around like a sick puppy. He needs Miguel's wholesome reputation on his side.

A little dirty work with their managers, and suddenly they're in a good, old-fashioned celebrity relationship. Mandatory for a year, say their managers.

But between Wolfe's terrible temper and some secrets from Miguel's past, can they really stick it out for a year? And make their fans believe it's real at the same time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. Loryn
• Release date: Jun 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386923824

Book preview

The Beat of Love

A Gay Romance

(Fake It Till You Make It Book 3)

By L. Loryn

Copyright 2018 L. Loryn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MORE GOOD READS

Part 1

Wolfe divided his studio into three parts: the north studio, the south studio, and the apartment. The north studio was the larger studio and was located on the second floor. It was designed for live band recordings and groups renting studio space. The south studio was where he set up his personal office. It was also on the second floor. His computer and beat-making equipment lived there along with microphones, a black couch, and an ugly rug.

You want to hear what I’ve been working on? Wolfe rumbled, flicking on the light to the south studio and leading his best friend, Zoe King, inside.

Sure. Just the beat or you have some words to go with it?

No words, yet. I was thinking about a collaboration with you. I do the sounds and you do the words. Something a little different. He sank into his rolling office chair, propping his feet on his desk, while Zoe draped herself over the couch.

What kind of feel?

Smoky sexy. Like you want to light up and get it on at the same time.

All right. I can dig it. Chuckling, Zoe raked her fingers through her short, platinum blonde hair and hung her delicate hands over the arm of the couch.

Wolfe booted up his computer and, after a series of key pressing and switch flicking, the monitoring system. Complete with several individual speakers and two pairs of larger speakers on either corner of his desk, the system played his newest song. His full lips mimicked the tune, moving over silent sounds as his head bobbed back and forth, long hair rippling with his movement, each twitch sending waves down to the tips of each strand. When the song started, he couldn’t resist making preliminary changes, adjusting the layers of the instruments, making some tones softer while bringing out others. However, as the song continued, he abandoned his obsessive editing and enjoyed the sound, closing his eyes and drumming his fingers on the desk.

Love it, Zoe nodded, Are you trying to make an album out of this idea?

Sure. Wolfe turned the music off and poked around his computer, opening an internet browser and idly checking his social media accounts.

Do you have a topic in mind?

Kind of. I’ve been thinking about relationships a lot.

You mean your lack of one?

I guess. I mean the dynamic. The feelings you get when you’re with another person. Meeting, being together, ending it. The whole process of emotions people go through and how the other person never leaves your world. It doesn’t have to be a romantic thing.

It doesn’t have to be, but it could be, Mister Chronically Single.

I’m married to my career. Wolfe smirked, pressing his lips to a plain black ring on his finger.

Funny. So, what are your plans for the weekend? Still don’t want to hit up the party with me?

Noah’s coming over in a little while. He said he has to talk to me about something or another. Then I have bands with scheduled studio time tomorrow. Easy work, I’m only engineering what they want. It’ll probably be terrible.

Noah? Can I stay? He’s cute.

He’s my producer-manager, he’s off-limits unless you want to complicate things more than necessary.

Nope. I want to see him with his shirt off, though. Zoe’s thin lips spread into a grin.

Right. Not going to happen.

So, party?

The yacht party thing? No, not my scene.

Not mine either, but you have to be seen around to keep your name out there and stay relevant.

Yeah, thanks. I hate going to those parties and pretending to be into fancy drinks and their lame mainstream music. Collaborating with popstars isn’t my idea of a good time.

Yes, but if you do a few collaborations, it can stir up more excitement for new projects and ongoing work.

I know. I know.

And you could possibly get laid. Zoe picked at her nails, staring down the bridge of her nose, before cutting her silver eyes to Wolfe with a mischievous glint.

Right, because I’m interested in fucking social climbers.

Easy pickings. Think on the bright side. Zoe stretched, Play the track again, let’s work.

Shaking his head, Wolfe restarted the tune, playing it through on a loop as Zoe hummed along. She created lyrics piece by piece, cooing and popping words in here and there. While they hung out, she developed a smooth chorus. She swayed her hips to the tune and her added lyrics until her voice rasped, and she called for a break, gulping room temperature water down her throat. Wolfe golf-clapped.

Brava, he teased. Next time I’ll write down my thoughts while I make the beat. You can use them as a jumping-off point, if nothing else.

Zoe bowed, Thank you, thank you. Musical genius right here. She pointed at herself, spun on her heels, and tramped out of the studio down to the first-floor apartment. Spinning on the staircase rail, she made her way through the living room into the kitchen. Wolfe followed her, sitting on the counter as they split leftover pepperoni pizza and clear lemon-lime soda.

So, what’s been going on with you?

Nothing much. I’m still laying low with the chick I’m dating. She doesn’t want to be in the spotlight and it’s okay, I don’t want to be public with the relationship either. Oh, Zoe snapped her fingers, I’m doing a duet with a country music singer. I was contacted by his manager. And this small LGBTQ company wants me to model for them. They like promoting gay celebrities, of course.

Lesbian.

I’ll punch you, Zoe warned.

Lesbian! Wolfe repeated before hopping off the counter and racing out of the kitchen, tossing his pizza crust into the box on the way. Zoe threw her pizza down, catapulting herself from her seated position, and chased him. She tackled him into the couch, knee to his chest and grabbing his wrists. He fought against her with a grin painted on his face, kicking his legs and twisting his body. He flailed until he was pinned.

What’d you call me?

Les-- Wolfe struggled against her, yanking at his arms. Zoe growled. Her grip tightened on his slender wrists.

A gay female, Wolfe panted, arching under her before they both erupted in laughter.

You’re an ass. Zoe flopped down backwards, "And the word lesbian is for dudes fetishizing the idea of women being together. Plus, I’m more or less bisexual, but I’m very rarely interested in men."

Huh, Wolfe grunted. A knock at the door blocked them from starting an in-depth conversation and Wolfe scrambled to his feet. He glided to the door, hair effortlessly falling back in place, draping over his broad shoulders and pooling in the center of his back. Relaxed eyebrows and parted lips changed to a hardened expression and neutral frown as he opened the door. Noah.

Wolfe, hey. Just got back from the meeting I told you about. Noah let himself in, stepping past Wolfe’s slender form into the living room. Hey, Zoe.

Hi. Zoe waved, I’m going to go up to the studio.

Yeah, Wolfe waved Zoe off as she ascended the stairs and turned his attention back to Noah. What meeting?

I met with Miguel Costa’s manager today. I thought I told you.

No, Wolfe’s voice crunched like gravel under a shoe. I suppose you forgot.

Well, doing damage control over the last guy you punched has kept me busy. You’ve got to stop punching people. It’s seriously no way to solve problems, dude. Noah slapped Wolfe’s shoulder.

Right. What happened during the meeting? Wolfe chose his words carefully, placing them in order in his mind before opening his lips to speak, allowing silences to unravel during their conversation. It was an economy of words. A tight one.

Well, as you know, he’s starring in a new movie coming out this winter.

Didn’t know. Don’t care.

Noah restarted his explanation. He’s starring in a new movie coming out in about ten months. Action flick. He’s not a big-name guy, so his manager was trying to think of ways to shoot him into the spotlight.

This involves me how? Wolfe folded his arms across his lean chest.

You’re going to date him.

No.

Yes. I told her you would. It’s good for him and he’ll clean up your image a little bit. Smooth out some of those rough edges.

No.

Look--

No.

No, seriously. You pay me to help your career. I’m helping your career. It’s an eight-month gig, he’s cute, he’s sweet. Your next album is supposedly about relationships. Everyone will eat it up.

Wolfe sucked in a breath, held it, then exhaled in a growl. Fine.

Excellent. You meet him tonight. Change clothes.

No. I’m going in this.

Black shirt, black jeans, black hair. Exciting. You look like a gothic rave kid.

Well, Wolfe’s eyes widened.

Change the shirt, keep the skinny jeans. No heavy eye makeup and no dead bodies.

Tch.

You hired me to manage. I’m managing. Go get ready. I’ve got a driver coming for you in a few hours to take you straight there. Look up Miguel Costa so you don’t stand there like an idiot when he approaches you.

Whatever, Wolfe snorted. Anything else?

You’re going to put on the makeup, aren’t you?

Yeah.

Nope, nothing else. Please be there and please be nice. Who knows, you might actually like him.

Probably not.

True, what was I thinking? You have a friend besides Zoe. Crazy, Noah chuckled. I’ll be at the party. If you’re not there, I’ll come by to drag you there myself. After his warning, he clapped Wolfe on the shoulder again and exited his place, closing the door behind him and leaving Wolfe to his own devices. Wolfe paced the living room before taking the stairs two at a time up to the second floor, peeking in the north studio and stepping inside the south studio.

Zoe’s sultry voice played over his beat, and she hugged the microphone. Pale hands latched onto the stand, she rose one shoulder as she danced to the beat, accenting her sensuous words with a confident sway of her hips. When she saw Wolfe, a smile lit up her face and she loped over to him.

How’d the talk go? Her thumbs hooked in her worn jeans.

I’m dating Miguel Costa.

Wait, what? The action movie star? He’s not your type. I mean, I assume he’s not your type.

Noah set it up with his manager. Cross promotion, basically.

Interesting. Is he your type?

Not particularly.

Do you actually have a type?

Not particularly, Wolfe repeated himself, hands wiggling into his pockets. And I’m going to the party tonight.

Ha! What are you wearing?

This. And makeup.

At least change to a different shirt. You look like you’re smuggling in the drugs.

Okay. He said a car will be around in a few hours to pick us up. Do you know anything about Miguel Costa?

"Of course. He plays in a lot of action movies, Spanish and Portuguese usually. He’s big in Brazil. The movie he’s working on now, Forever Furious, is his first big-time movie."

What else?

He’s openly gay and is an LGBTQ public figure. He does a lot of charity work and donates a lot of his earnings to LGBTQ youth organizations.

Figures. Anything dirty about him?

Actually no, not really.

Then why did his manager want me to be his fake boyfriend?

Well the pickings are slim when it comes to openly LGBTQ people and you’re more famous than him. And who doesn’t like a bad boy? It would be the ultimate fantasy.

I’m not a bad boy.

You punched paparazzi last week. A few weeks before, you broke someone’s camera. Then there was the time someone called you an American Indian. Zoe shrugged.

Well, he was in my face. The camera was in my face. And I’m not an American Indian. I’m Native.

The world knows. Anyway, people like a bad boy who’s good to his partner. Like if you went with him to volunteer somewhere, people would eat it up. Or, if they were able to think your songs were about Miguel.

Yeah, yeah. Okay, fine. Let’s get ready.

Sure thing. Can I ask a straight-people question and you not get angry? Zoe bit her bottom lip, searching the room as her eyes worked their way back to Wolfe.

He studied her, brooding. My preference is being on top.

Yep. I was wondering. Zoe’s cheeks bloomed with color and she glanced at the floor, studying the wood laminate planks.

You’re picturing it. We’re friends, please stop. This is already awkward enough without you being weird. Shit. What does he look like?

Brazilian. Bronze. Buff. He’s two of you, maybe one and a half. If you’re a soccer player type, he looks like he belongs on a football team somewhere.

Huh, Wolfe stared at the wall for a few lingering seconds before shivering. C’mon. Help me pick out a shirt. Wolfe turned the light off in the studio, and they both went from the second floor back down to the first and into his bedroom. Zoe reclined on the bed as they went through his closet. The nope pile grew faster than the maybe pile, and when they’d gone through all of his non-black shirts, he set to trying the potentials on. The final consensus was a burgundy button-down tailored to his body, sides curving over sharp hip bones and tails swooping lower. He rolled the sleeves up and rotated his arms while looking in the mirror.

You look good.

It’s constricting, he grumbled, And I look straight-laced.

No, you don’t. You look like a bad boy in a button-down. Zoe rolled her eyes as Wolfe continued critiquing the outfit in the mirror. He tugged his skinny, black jeans down lower, exposing a sliver of rich brown skin over a sliver of fitted briefs.

They spent the rest of the time applying makeup. Zoe applied a full face of makeup, complete with a contoured nose, highlights, fake lashes, and eyeshadow while Wolfe kept it simple, sticking to a little eyeliner and a swipe of mascara.

Do you mind if I cut this shirt up? It would make a really cute crop top. Zoe held up a faded band t-shirt, placing it over her boyish chest.

It’s fine. Go for it.

Or should I cut it on the back for a peek of skin?

The second would look better, Wolfe concluded, kissing Zoe’s cheek. She cut stripes in his shirt, he added jewelry to his outfit, and they raided his refrigerator again before the driver pulled up to his property. The driver rang his phone and within minutes, Zoe was pushing Wolfe into the limousine. Wolf collapsed into the vehicle, scooting across the seat and glaring at his friend. They rode in silence for the first half of the trip, Wolfe staring outside and Zoe text messaging on her phone, legs crossed and oversized shoes dangling, weighting her feet.

Hey dork. Are you getting nervous about meeting Miguel?

No, Wolfe replied automatically. A little. Fake-dating is weird.

You’ve never done it before, so how would you even know?

Fake-dating seems like it’s going to be weird. Better?

Yep. Zoe bounced in her seat. "I’m so excited you’re coming, though.  The paparazzi will be all over you. I can see headlines now: Reclusive Song Producer Steps Outside. Except better since I’m not a journalist."

You’re excited for the headlines?

Honey, people worship you. You could kick a rock, and everyone would be all over it. Plus, I like when you come out with me. It happens so rarely because you’re the ultimate introvert. People ask about you all the time.

And what do you say?

I say you’re home working or hanging out, and it’s not your scene.

Hm. I don’t see why everyone likes being on three-story boats hovering over water. Plus, you see the same people all the time, why keep coming?

Socialization. Connections. Friends. Getting out of the house.

Yeah, okay. Wolfe twisted the plain ring on his finger with his thumb, sighing as the limousine slowed in front of the huge yacht. A mix of people littered the area, some famous people, some hoping to see famous people, some still climbing the ladder. Wolfe ducked his head as he stepped out and strode around to the other side, opening the door for Zoe as paparazzi snapped picture after picture. She linked arms with him, leaning in.

I thought you’d forgotten how to do this, Zoe chuckled, a quirky grin playing on her face.

Impossible. He stood statuesque beside her while she chatted with the people hovering at the entrance, answering questions about her ensemble and rumors of who she was dating. She denied dating Wolfe for the sixty-seventh time and rubbed the bridge of her freckled nose when they asked for a name. Zoe weaseled away from the crowd, guiding Wolfe onto the yacht before letting him go. Her arm uncoiled, and she squeezed the rolled-up sleeves of Wolfe’s shirt.

Stay out of trouble, call me if you need anything, and for god’s sake make friends, Zoe begged. She kissed his cheek and flounced into the crowd, her home-altered shirt billowing behind her. Left alone, Wolfe peered around, side stepping when laughing couples passed him and muttering as he moved deeper into the yacht. He circled the lower level, grabbing a deep red drink from a serving platter. Downing it like a shot, he thumbed the empty flute in his slender fingers.

Hey, Wolfe, right? A man wearing an oversized leather jacket strolled up to the long-haired man, slipping his hands in his tight blue-jean pockets and pushing his shoulders to his ears.

Yeah.

"I’m Jerry from A Dozen Hummingbirds. We’ve got studio time with you tomorrow?" Jerry extended his hand to Wolfe, firm pectorals moving under his thin shirt. Wolfe shook his hand.

Drummer, right?

Yep. I can’t wait to be in the studio tomorrow. We’ve been saving up for time for a while now, really trying to work out the best song to record. But seriously, don’t want to talk about work until tomorrow. In a neutral gesture, Jerry held his hands up and chuckled. His bushy eyebrows relaxed on his oval face. I’m shocked to even see you here.

Wolfe tipped his head, Not really my scene, but I came with Zoe.

Ah, right. Zoe. If these parties aren’t your scene, what do you like doing in your free time?

Wolfe locked eyes with Jerry. Don’t have a lot of free time, he admitted. The hairs on his neck bristled.

Sure, and I imagine you like what you do enough to where it doesn’t matter?

I guess, Wolfe’s lips twitched, and his temperature crawled up.

I tend to sit around and practice my craft, but I really wish I had time for snowboarding or some other extreme adrenaline sport, y’know.

Wolfe’s brain shut down, Jerry’s voice registering as a distant background noise.  Jerry listed all the extreme sports he wanted to try including, but not limited to, skiing, water skiing, skydiving, and deep-sea diving. Wolfe gulped air over a reply before clearing his throat and ducking his head.

"I’m looking for