"Yikes," Bill yelped, yanking a hair out from between his brows. That fucking hurt like a bitch! He frowned at his reflection, trying to decide where to tweeze next.
"Bill! Do you know what time it is? Get your furry ass on the set, now! We're already three hours behind on shooting. Guido is out there having conniption fits. If you make him wait any longer, he's going to start chewing on the cameraman. Move!"
"Mitch, I'm well aware of the time. Tell Guido the Fagnificent that I'm coming."
"Not until you get in front of the cameras, you're not."
"Ha, ha ... funny. You're a funny guy, Mitch," Bill answered. Rolling his eyes, he bent closer to the mirror and returned to trying to separate his eyebrows by thinning the forest of hair that insisted on connecting them. He winced as his tweezers tugged another coarse brown hair from his skin. Damn it! He should have gone in for electrolysis years ago.
"Come on, Bill! If I don't have your butt on the mattress in the next five minutes, Guido is going to call for my head. Please, have a heart, Bill. Think about my ex-wife and three kids. Alimony and child support. A mortgage. A car payment--"
"Okay, okay! I'm ready," Bill said, sighing. Mitch was the film company's electrician/carpenter/driver/assistant director, and the only man on staff who actually possessed half a brain. He was also Bill's best friend, and Bill didn't want to get him into hot water with Guido because Bill wanted to primp.
Returning his tweezers to the leather case next to his collection of razors--straight, electric, and disposable--he stood up and took one last look at himself in the mirror. Warm brown eyes looked back at him, set in a face that was handsome in a craggy, biker-bear sort of way. He'd warred with his facial hair until he'd gotten it penned into a neatly trimmed goatee that framed his full, sensuous lips.
The irony of a satyr having a goatee was not lost on him.
Topping out at just over six feet, Bill's curving horns added another four inches to his height. They scraped the ceiling of the "dressing room," which was actually the bathroom of the cheap motel room Guido had rented for the purpose of filming his latest skin flick, tentatively titled, Satyr-day Night Fever.
His torso was powerfully muscled; his broad shoulders tapered to a washboard stomach and lean hips. Bill's deep chest and ridged stomach were usually covered in thick, curling brown hair. Sliding a hand over his now-smooth chest, he thought to himself that if he had been smart he would have bought stock in the company that made his favored brand of depilatory cream years ago. He went through gallons of the stuff to keep himself on the human side of fuzzy. It would be so much easier--and cheaper--if Guido would let him assume fully human form for the shoots. That form wasn't half as furry as this one.
But it was the uniqueness of Bill's lower half in his natural form that had garnered him his fame and fortune. Okay, not so much the fortune part, but he had had his picture in People magazine once, which was more than most humans could say.
Bill Tragos was a satyr. From his hips down he had the body of a goat. More like a ram, Bill was prone to say. Goat sounded puny, frou-frou, something that Bill most definitely was not. Between his furry, muscular, cloven-footed legs hung his moneymaker, his claim to fame--a dick that would look more at home on a horse than on a goat.
John Holmes had nothing on Pan.