Fall Apart

by SE Culpepper

  This was Leo Wright at his finest—covering the tough topics without everyone realizing they were tough. He sandwiched the personal with the casual.

  “He’s going to be doing more work on the west coast. Maybe we’ll swing by if he’s in town.”

  Leo gave a satisfied nod and went back to tallying receipts. They worked in silence for a little while before his dad called out to him. “If you’re seeing Todd tomorrow, give him a message for me.” Damon only had to wait a beat. “Tell him I know he’s waiting for me to keel over so he can have my wife. Next time he flirts with her, I’m chasing him off with a baseball bat.”

  “That’ll be his fourth warning like that this week.”

  ***

  Zane was in a holding pattern just outside the studio for one of the largest nationally syndicated radio programs in the U.S. Spike Delaney, the host, was going through the latest celebrity gossip with his co-host, Jill Sutters, and when they took their next break, Zane was supposed to go in and take a seat at a microphone.

  The timing sucked, but it was on purpose. They wanted to dish with him about the latest happenings and he would spend the first half of the interview tap-dancing around a starlet’s addiction issues, a singer’s extra-marital affairs, and so on… It was exhausting to be neutral and pretend that he’d never had a bad thought about anyone or anything in his life. He was used to it, of course, but every now and then he really wished he could get away with saying, “I hate that fucking guy!” when asked a question about someone ridiculous.

  “They’re ready for you inside,” an assistant said, pointing to the glass where Spike was visible, waving for him to come in.

  “Thanks.”

  Zane got a rough handshake from Spike and a hug from Jill who, in spite of seeing actors and actresses on a daily basis, still got a little flustered around her favorites. It was flattering to Zane when she let out a breathless giggle and began to smooth her ponytail.

  “Alright, ZW, we’ll do a quick intro for you, run into some questions, and then maybe you can even field some calls from listeners.”

  “Sounds good,” he answered, adjusting the heavy headphones over his ears.

  “Did anybody offer you anything to drink?” Jill asked. “Do you need anything?”

  Zane held up his water bottle and smiled at her. “I’m good.”

  “Spike,” Jill turned to the host. “Why don’t we have him come in every Friday? Really, we should talk about making this an official segment. Did you see how happy the women are right now?”

  “The man’s good for morale.”

  “Alright,” Zane grumbled. “That’s enough…”

  Jill and Spike pretty much ignored his protests and got comfortable as the “ON AIR” sign lit up. “Hey, everybody, you’re listening to Spike and Jill In The Morning and if you caught the news on the hour, you know that we’ve got Zane Whitlow in the studio with us today. The one and only Mercenary, and I’m guessing future Oscar nominee for his performance in Sacrifice, still gives Jill the sweats when she thinks about him. He’s been kind enough to drop by and share the mic with us. Jill—how you doin’ over there?”

  Jill chimed right in, totally at ease, even though her face was, in fact, bright red. “See, one of the perks of this job is getting the seat closer to the guys that work up all this tortured lust within me. Those of you watching the broadcast online, look at how close I am to Zane Whitlow right now. We could hold hands!”

  “You could sit on his lap,” Spike returned as Zane laughed and hoped he really didn’t end up doing this interview with Jill wriggling around on top of him. “You’ve always wanted that.”

  “Well yeah, that and the opportunity to work with you Spike. Nothing but big dreams for this girl.”

  Zane watched as they bantered, building up the conversation so he could join in. When Spike finally turned the questions his way, he didn’t expect to get hit with the shit so soon.

  “Now, I knew we were going to have you on the show, so I checked out some of the latest interviews you’ve done, some of the stories floating around, stuff like that, and I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but there was an article on your pal, Brad Pershall. Did you see that? I think it was in Details or something.” Spike rifled through some papers in front of him until he pulled out the magazine. “Yeah, here it is.”

  Zane girded his loins. “Nah, I didn’t catch that actually. We’ve been battling cold and flu season at home.”

  “Do you know Pershall?”

  “Sure, we’ve met, but it was just: Hey, how you doin’, great, see ya later. I haven’t really talked to him much.”

  “Well, since this article came out, there’s a lot of whispers out there that he’s sort of calling you out—angling for the title. You just fulfilled the obligation for your contract with The Mercenary series, and he looks like the guy they’ll choose to fill your shoes.”

  There was no question to answer, but Jill and Spike didn’t care about that. They were waiting for a little bit of blood spill.

  “You know, if they choose him, that’s great. I’ve had a lot of fun working with the cast and crew on those movies, but I’ve got other projects that I’m really focused on now and I think the studio will find a great guy to be the next Mercenary, if they really do continue the series.”

  “Ohhhh,” Jill purred. “That was a very political answer. Well done!”

  Zane shrugged, easily hiding the irritation rising up from the pit of his stomach. Junior varsity bullshit with a toddler like Pershall? Really?

  “Seriously, Zane,” Spike pressed. “I mean it’s just us and a huge portion of America listening. Do you think he’d be the right guy to take over the sub-machine gun toting, verbal battery, and bare-ass shots?”

  “As long as he makes sure squats are a part of his training routine, I’m sure the crowd will be happy.”

  Spike gave him a salute and let Jill ease in with a different set of tactics. The goal was still the same, to get Zane to say he hated the fucking guy.

  “I wonder a lot when I see things like this, how much it spurs on celebrity rivalries. There’s a lot of he said, she said, or in this case, he said, he said, and it’s gotta piss you off a little bit when you hear someone saying things. I mean, I highlighted a couple of the more forthright statements that Brad made in the article, like this one about no king reigning forever and stars falling. He’s specifically referring to you. If I were in your sexy shoes, that would make me wanna poke his eyes out.” Jill laughed, the sound so bubbly and effervescent, but Zane saw the intention beneath.

  “Like I said, I didn’t know about the article and anything he might have said, but he’s entitled to think whatever he wants. It’s not going to impact who I am, my work, or how I conduct myself. That’s how I was taught. To focus on the work I’m responsible for and make sure it’s the best I can do.”

  “It doesn’t bother you even a little bit? He said he’s the fresh perspective the world needs, which sort of implies that you’re past your prime or obsolete.”

  Zane gave his most winning smile and Jill flushed again. He wanted to wring her tiny neck. “I think he and I both have bodies of work that will continue to evolve as we take on new projects. I’m really happy with my life and the direction I’m heading and I hope that he’s as happy with what he’s doing.”

  “Your mother really did raise you right,” Jill retreated, patting him on the back of the hand.

  The topic changed to Zane’s upcoming projects and he was able to throw some hints out there about working with Max Hayama, which made both Spike and Jill forget about creating drama of the Brad Pershall variety.

  The interview was about an hour and a half long and by the time Zane was walking to his truck, he felt like he could shoot steam from his ears. He spotted his usual paparazzi followers about a block from the truck and made sure his face didn’t reveal his disgust. Once he was closed up inside, he yanked his cell phone out and dialed up Mark.

  “Hey, babe,” his husba
nd answered immediately. “You killed that interview. Do you feel like Miss America? Peace and love and Just Say No?”

  “Can you believe the crap he’s stirred up already? It was like a Presidential debate!”

  “And you spiked every single question back over the net,” Mark soothed him. “It was really impressive. I mean, I know you and I couldn’t tell you were upset.”

  “Yeah…” Zane sighed.

  “Tell me what you would’ve said if you could’ve answered any way you wanted. Maybe it will help.”

  Zane hesitated for a second, and then opened the valve on the pent-up pressure. “I’d say that if they want Pershall on the throne, then what they’ll get is a fucking Neanderthal with a pretty face. He’ll stand on his mark and grunt when he’s supposed to, but forget about quality, forget about art, and forget about getting back the goddamn ten bucks you just spent on The Mercenary 8!”

  He was breathing kind of heavily as he finished, but the worst of the pressure had dissipated.

  “So are you saying it’s a rivalry now?” Mark chuckled.

  “I’m saying he’s not going to know what hit him.”

  “Good. You’re hot when you’re tough like this.”

  Zane fired up the engine and smiled. One phone call and life was good again. God, what would my life be like right now if I never went to Bora Bora? He didn’t even like thinking about it.10301300010

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The screens in Alarik’s office turned on with a quick blink and dozens of images of Damon greeted him. The stupid grin that followed wasn’t to be helped. That man had no earthly clue of his impact. He was desirable and sexual in a way that told of his lack of vanity. Damon didn’t act like the other men Alarik had been with—showing off their bodies to hide that there wasn’t much depth beyond the surface. There’d definitely been some swimming in very shallow ponds, hadn’t there…? Damon didn’t work that way. He was the richest of wines in a misplaced bottle.

  Alarik clicked through a few more pictures, organizing them on his system, but he couldn’t put off what he had to do. It made him uneasy to think about why he needed Damon’s picture in front of him when he was making a phone call to Max, so he dropped the mouse and dialed up Hayama’s personal cell number.

  “Hello?”

  Alarik took a deep breath. “Max, it’s me. Alarik.”

  The sound in the background changed from noisy conversation to echoing silence in the space of a few seconds. “You’re calling me sooner than I thought you would.”

  “I’m very interested in the offer you made at Zane’s.”

  Max either grumbled something or cleared his throat. “Which offer?”

  Christ. “Were there two?”

  Max’s silence was ominous, but when he spoke, he let Alarik off the hook. “There’s a meeting this afternoon that you should come to if you’re serious about the job. Plans are coming together and you can get an idea of what we’re looking for from you. It’d be a good time to figure out if you want to bring in your perspective.”

  “What time’s the meeting?”

  “Two o’clock at my office. Are you in town?”

  The emphasis on “town” let Alarik know exactly where Max thought he was.

  “I’m at my place in LA.”

  Another pause loaded with meaning. “Come by at one for lunch.”

  Ha ha ha ha ha. HA! Wouldn’t that be a disaster! “I actually think that sounds like a terrible idea,” Alarik answered, trying to keep the laughter reel on his internal sound system only.

  “This from the man with iron control?” The mocking tone was unlike the Max that Alarik was used to. Frustration was brewing behind that calm exterior. “Nothing I say will affect you,” he said slowly. “Come for lunch.”

  Damon’s eyes stared at Alarik from the computer screen and the silence stretched out. Self-control, he told himself. He heard Damon telling him to try for the job so they could see where their relationship was headed, and took in a bracing breath.

  “One o’clock, Max.”

  The line went dead.

  ***

  The receptionist for Sunrise Productions, Max Hayama’s production company, wasn’t at her desk when Alarik entered the office. He could hear muffled conversation coming from down the hall, so he took a seat on the couch in the waiting area. The office wasn’t large and before it had been opened up and converted, it had been someone’s home.

  Max’s personality was all over the place. There were hints of his strength and control in the neutral tones, his exotic and cultured beauty in the splashes of rich color.

  There wasn’t much art on display, but on the wall immediately behind the reception desk was a mural-sized piece of the Sunrise Productions logo in Japanese calligraphy. The front of the desk sported the same logo, but it was backlit. Overall, the impression was no doubt exactly what Max wanted people to feel: that artwork in his hands would be directed with care, focus and beauty. And when Max appeared from the hallway, Alarik had to fight off the squirms because he sensed every bit of that harnessed energy and knew within that he wasn’t immune to it.

  Max stopped and leaned against the desk, watching Alarik for a moment or two. Finally, he approached very slowly, giving Alarik the chance to look him up and down ten times if he wanted.

  Which he didn’t. Not much.

  Max was wearing a button up shirt, untucked, with the collar undone and his tie loose. His jeans were artistically frayed and Alarik knew they must have cost much more than any person should pay for frayed denim—probably because he’d buy the same thing. Max’s boots looked worn and the jeans fell haphazardly over the top.

  It really was too bad that Alarik felt any attraction to this man at all. Really. It was very bad.

  “You’re reminding me of my first time in Tokyo, getting off the train at Shinjuku station.” He tilted his head back to look Hayama over once more.

  Max smiled. A real smile, his white teeth shining. “Good. That means you’re overwhelmed.”

  Shit. He walked into that one. “Me?” he scoffed weakly

  “You.” Max waved for him to get up and follow him. “It’s okay. Come with me, please.”

  So demanding! Alarik wanted to grumble and drag his feet down the hallway on principle. Nobody tells me how I feel! However, that seemed counterproductive; Max Hayama was, after all, his future boss.

  “Taylor went to lunch, but she set up some food for us in the conference room. I want to show you some of the things we’ve been storyboarding. It’ll give you a good idea of the character shots I’m looking for,” Max said as he led them to the conference room. “Before the premiere, I want to release different character images using the website and social media. Zane’s is the most important shot to get right because his image will serve as the main movie poster.”

  Alarik expected a few scenes to be storyboarded, but when he stepped in the room after Max, he gaped at the work that filled the space. One wall was set up as a projector screen and images that had been loaded into a computer system could be pulled up one at a time, or even dozens at a time, to be reviewed. Notes and schedules were tacked up and as he took a moment to absorb it all, he could see the order.

  “Been busy, I see,” Alarik spoke up, staring at the storyboard currently projected on the wall. “This artwork is incredible. Who did this?”

  “A woman named Maki Saitou. I was working in the bay area last year and there was an art exhibition in Berkeley featuring her work. Her technique, her style… It’s unique. She graduated from Cal Berkeley in the spring. I’ve had her working on this from the moment the script solidified.”

  “She works for Sunrise Productions?”

  “You sound surprised.” Max turned his golden brown eyes back to the projected images.

  “No, I think it’s great you got to her first.” The storyboard was like manga. Really exceptional manga. As he looked at the art longer and longer, he realized the main character actually looked like Zane.

 
“I told you. I wanted to work on this film from a new angle: well-known talent, some fresh faces. I want my particular combination to be what makes this film better. It should be set apart from the rest of the movies released next year.” Max gave him a sideways look, his smile faint. “Do you think I’m trying too hard? Is all this too much?” He lifted his hands, gesturing around the conference room at the visible evidence of what he and his team had already accomplished.

  Alarik took another look around and shook his head. “Not at all. I think you’re Hayama Makoto, and you never do anything halfway.”

  The words came out sounding much more intimate than Alarik intended and Max’s eyes suddenly blazed as they looked into his. Taking this job could be one of the worst ideas he’d ever had.

  “You look hungry,” Max murmured, turning away. “Almost as hungry as I am. We should eat before I do something foolish.”

  “Foolish?” Alarik choked, sinking into one of the swivel chairs around the conference table.

  Max pinned him to the spot with the glare that followed. “You flirt even when I know you don’t mean to. It’s part of your personality.” He pulled a chair out of the way and braced his hands on the table. “You care for this man you’ve met and you don’t want to hurt him, so don’t tempt me with empty words.”

  Alarik was mystified. He’d asked a simple question. Or, did he flirt? Was that what he was doing? “I didn’t mean to say—”

  “I’m protecting myself, Alarik. I’m protecting both of us.” Max sighed and pulled up a chair. “Taylor ordered soup and sandwiches. I told her your favorite.”

  “Max—I’m not trying to be flippant with you. I didn’t realize I was creating an expectation…” Alarik left his food untouched even as Max opened the containers in front of himself, his eyes lifting and dropping away again every few seconds.