Spectacular

By K.L. Noone

Jason and Colby Kent-Mirelli have settled happily into married life, decorating their house, and planning their next blockbuster film project together. But a family emergency calls them home to be with Jason’s parents and stirs up old emotions.

Jason loves his parents, and they love Colby. But Jason hates hospitals and hates feeling helpless. Colby’s anxious around crowds, strangers, and noise. And Jason’s trying hard to take care of everyone.

Fortunately, Colby’s very good at taking care of Jason.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Oct 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685502973

K.L. Noone

K.L. Noone loves fantasy, romance, cats, far too sweet coffee, and happy endings! She is also the author of Port in a Storm and its upcoming sequel, available from Less Than Three Press, and numerous short romances with Ellora’s Cave and Circlet Press; her fantasy fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Sword and Sorceress anthologies. With her Professor Hat on, she teaches college students about Shakespeare and superhero comics, and has published academic articles and essays on Neil Gaiman’s adaptations of Beowulf, Welsh mythology in modern fantasy, and Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mom… Standing in sunshine, next to the large windows of an upper-floor Raven Studios hallway, Jason Kent-Mirelli ran a hand through his hair. Tried to breathe. He was an actor. He could manage that. Why didn’t you call me earlier? Is Dad okay? What happened?

He’s doing fine, it’ll be a quick procedure, they said—

Mom, he’s getting a hip replaced! Tomorrow!

Well, we knew you and Colby were busy with the new project and meetings and all. We didn’t want to interrupt. Donatella Mirelli’s voice managed to gently pat her son on the shoulder, being patient with him. I’ve texted your sister too, but she shouldn’t worry, she’s in the middle of bar exam prep. And you shouldn’t worry either. This is routine.

Maybe it is if you’re not Dad! Jason glared at the sunlight. It seared his eyes. Too hot. Like his shirt, suddenly: long sleeves that he wanted to shove up. So he could get to work. Of course we’ll come over. Tonight?

Only if you’d like to, his mother said, far too calmly for Jason’s peace of mind. I’ve taken a few days off at the restaurant, and your Aunt Coco will be coming by, too. We just wanted to let you know.

Jason pressed fingertips to the spot between his eyes. Exhaled. Mom, you know I want to be there. He did. Of course he did.

The sunshine burned at the nape of his neck, when he turned away from it. The hallway was deserted otherwise, as it had been when he’d gotten the text and instantly ducked out of the meeting room to call back.

The world lay blank and pale, suspended behind the scenes of a Hollywood studio building. Hushed. Empty.

Except it wasn’t empty. Because when he looked up he found blue eyes and long legs and slim wavy-haired concern, and all of that became his anchor, his fixed point, his answer. Colby, having just come around the corner, stayed quiet but crossed to Jason’s side and set a hand on Jason’s arm: here with him.

We’ll come over, Jason said. We’ll help with getting the house clean and set up, find the old wheelchair if he needs it—we can do some cooking, so you don’t have to bother—

His father would be fine. Probably. Theoretically. People got hips replaced every day.

Most of those people weren’t Luca Mirelli, one-time best stunt driver in the movie business, until that on-set crash had left him with a limp and a lot of scars, metal and pins and bolts and replacement joints, holding pieces together to heal. Jason’s father, being Jason’s father, had philosophically accepted that accidents happened, and he was still alive, and anyway he loved his profession and the long Mirelli family legacy of stunt work and movie magic, from dusty historical spaghetti westerns and gladiators to modern-day glittering blockbusters, on the ground and making them all possible. He’d started training other drivers—and sometimes actors who needed to know the basics, including his own son plus a few of the ever-increasing horde of cousins—instead.

Safer, these days. Instructing, consulting, advising. But more safe didn’t mean perfectly so.

Colby’s hand tightened a fraction on Jason’s arm. Colby adored Jason’s parents, and they adored him right back. They’d scooped him right up into the family, a big exuberant Italian-American hug, even before award-winning adorable romantic-comedy movie star Colby Kent had officially become their son-in-law.

Colby had, Jason knew, been hesitant but happy: shy, in the way of someone who’d never known that parents could love without conditions, without critique or neglect. Tentative, because Colby had a lot of bad memories associated with touch. But willing to try, softly bright-eyed when Luca called him son, and excited to explore variations of homemade pesto with Jason’s mother.

Who announced now, on the phone, Well, your father says you don’t have to come if you’re busy, but he might like to see you, at least when he gets home, while the father in question shouted, from a distance, Don’t let your mother make you feel guilty! I’m fine!

No you’re not! Jason retorted. You’re getting a new hip! Again!

It’s only a hip, I can live without it!

The point is you don’t have to!

Your father, Donatella sighed, over a continuing background grumble about everyone fussing too much. So, Jason, yes, come if you would like, but only because you would like, and only if it’s no trouble, understand? I mean it.

Right, Jason said, planning the fastest drive, overnight packing, some sort of quick pasta dish, hand-grips and anti-slip precautions for around the parental house, a call to his father’s usual physical therapist. We’ll be over later this afternoon, we’re about done here anyway.

They weren’t. But they could be. Colby nodded.

Let me know when you’re heading over, his mother agreed, and the two of you be careful, too, and don’t drive too fast, Jason Lorenzo.

Who, me?

Both his mother and Colby got very amused; Donatella said, We love you both, we’ll see you later, go on, and said good-bye, and went to deal with Jason’s father or surgery preparations or taking-a-day-off restaurant requirements or all of the above.

Jason breathed out, slowly. Sunlight hit his shoulder like a punch of gold. The air tasted simple, clean, lightly cold because the air conditioning was on in the building.

Colby’s hand was warm on his arm. Jason put his own atop it.

Colby said, I can pop back in and tell Jillian we’re done for today. We are, in any case; it’s gone well. It had. The script—one of Colby’s, of course—was a delight, a sparkling clever old-fashioned murder mystery at a family mansion. The characters were multilayered, individual, memorable; the lines were memorable too, wry and funny and pointed. Jason had not been a producer on a film before, not involved in those initial decision-making processes; Colby had been, more than once, and was a helpful guide to everything Jason didn’t know, as usual.

They’d been going over notes on Colby’s script. Planning the production timeline. Looking at locations. Tossing around a few names that Amanda, Jill’s usual casting director, had suggested. One or two had been a surprise; Jason’d had the