Overexposed

by Amelia Oliver

  Ronald:

  Please come to the house.

  A.S.A.P.

  CHAPTER 2

  Seth

  Twelve Hours Earlier

  I stop twirling the remote in my hand so I can press pause and I’m again staring at the image frozen on the screen. Scratching absently through the facial hair along my jaw, my thumb rewinds the footage. Pressing pause at the spot I’m looking for, I exhale on a deep frustrated breath before hitting play. Again. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve watched this horseshit, each time my frustration inching higher. There are a lot of thoughts running through my head, none of them overly positive.

  Standing from the custom made, heritage green leather recliner I’m sitting in, I walk over to the walnut finish wet bar that runs along my study wall. I really need a drink. I turn my wrist to see the face of my Patek watch and the fucker mocks me. How is it only ten thirty? More importantly, why am I even out of bed? Grabbing a bottle of water, one of those trendy brands that drinking it is supposed to make your spunk taste like rainbows or some shit, I head back to the recliner for more self-inflicted torture.

  When you’re looking at a two hundred inch flat screen that has your motionless image plastered all over it, there really is no escaping some realities. I live my life in the spotlight. Front and center, famous as fuck. Famous for what exactly is where the debate begins, but I don’t give a fat rat’s arse what the haters say. With at or close to four million followers across all of my social media accounts, I’m loved by plenty. Fuck you, very much.

  Yeah, I’ll always end up a b-story - as they say in the biz - but if it’s a slow week for the bigger movers and shakers in this town, I sometimes get a bump. Or if I should, say, do something to set the tongues wagging. Which, to be as fair as the hair on an albino’s arse, is pretty often. But when I’m featured on scum-bag, pap driven, less than gossip, shite celebrity news shows like the one I’m looking at right now, I just want to tear my hair out of my head. How fucking old is this footage anyway? They’ve dredged it up from the sodding archive that’s for sure. And what really pisses me is that there’s not even a current story to link it to.

  Hitting play yet again, I watch as the cameraman in question comes so close to my face you can count my bloody eyelashes before I give him a shove and he stumbles, nearly falling on his arse. Rather than stopping the tape again, I let it play through a little longer this time, watching as the recorded me speaks to the stumbling cameraman.

  “I’m warning you mate, get that bloody camera out of my face or I’ll shove it so far up your arse, all you’ll need to do to record, is open your mouth and pull your todger.”

  I chuckle a little at that. Not a bad effort considering how completely sloshed I was at the time.

  This ‘StarzNow’ story is at least two years old, maybe more, and was at a nightclub opening in New York. It’s also been spliced and edited so many times I barely recognised it, and I’m in the fucking thing. Drunk off my arse, yes, but I was there - which is how I know that what I just watched did not go down like that. I never touched the cameraman. Walking backward, he’d tripped over his own fucking shoelaces, but in an automatic reflex, I’d raised my arms to stop his fall.

  The actual events had gone something like: camera in my face, me telling him where I was going to shove it, his clumsy arse tripping, me reaching out to stop his fall. Bloody marvellous what editing can do though, because suddenly, here I am, two years later, in a story - and I use that term very fucking loosely - featuring the top twenty celebrities who have a violent streak. What. Fucking. Ever. I should’ve let the tosser land on his arse, right onto the pigeon shit covered sidewalk.

  Rubbish like this usually doesn’t bother me, but recently I’d been working my hardest to change the direction of my stagnating career.

  Being a scripted reality television star has been damn good to me. My breakout success came as a cast member on an extremely popular, international reality franchise nearly ten years ago. Opportunities came thick and fast. I was a young, insolent Brit with zero fucks to give and America ate that shit up as fast as I could feed it to them. From there I began filming a spin-off show of my own. The network was gagging to put together anything that would keep me on their air and the viewers glued to their channel. But in this current age of Netflix, YouTube and the like, I’ve feel like I’ve ridden what had been a cash laden whore so hard, she’s not got anything left. Well, anything left I’m interested in that is. What ever is left, I’m just not feeling it.

  I’m not completely barmy; I’ve diversified my brand. Yes – my brand – if you can believe that shite. I lent my name and collaborated with a well-known active wear label to create my own apparel line - which I’ve since sold for a fuckton of cash. Course, it’s since gone to the dogs. I’d joined the fragrance race and have an affordable range of signature scents for the lads and the ladies. It doesn’t outsell Beckham’s shite, but it’s better than most. And lets not forget I’m quarter owner of a beverage brand that produces a few products. One of which is the happy jizz water I’m currently drinking. You want to know a secret? It’s filtered bloody tap water with a drop of reconstituted citrus in it. Annnd that’ll be a tenner, thanks for playing.

  So, my point?

  Horseshit stories like the one paused on my screen are not fucking helping me make the career transition I want to make. I’m an actor for fuck sake, or at least that was the plan when I started out. Somewhere along the way I seem to have become an accented bobble-head, one networks and corporations only want as the name or face to promote their shit. Everything that is, except the one thing I want the most - a legitimate acting job. A bona fide Hollywood movie. I don’t even need it to be a blockbuster; a credible indie role is as equally appealing.

  Hearing the gravel crunching under car tyres in my driveway, I delete the recorded footage from my queue and walk over to the window. Pulling back the heavy block-out curtain, I watch as a little bit of a thing gets out of the cherry red chick ride she’s driving. She’s obviously expected here because one of the far too many fucking people in my house has to have let her in the gate. I’m intrigued about who she is, as while she looks like she’s fucking twelve, she also looks too classy to be one of Sonny’s bits of fluff. Her shiny chestnut hair bounces as she walks, and while her frame is tiny, she walks with a purpose. Girl is on a mission.

  I can’t fight back a snort as I watch her navigate her way over the large, rough-cut stones that make up the driveway. Her displeasure at how they must hinder her stride is clear on her face, as her mouth is pouted up so tightly it looks like a cat’s arsehole.

  Hearing my phone buzz where it’s resting on the arm of the recliner I’d been sitting in, I reluctantly drop the curtain and leave my view of the pouty little bit of fluff. Wonder who she is?

  Picking up my phone, I see a message from my agent slash manager. Ronald Ashton, or Rash to his mates, is a good guy. Solid integrity, is not all showbiz, and actually gives a shite. He works hard for his clients and while he costs a quid, it’s not exorbitant. Fucking agents.

  I’d changed management about a year ago. My previous agent wouldn’t take me seriously when I’d repeatedly said I wanted to transition out of reality television and into movies. Finally tired of not being heard, I told him to bugger off and sacked his lazy arse. By sheer fucking fluke, an acquaintance of mine who was already with Rash, set up a meeting for us and somehow we clicked.

  Rash had not only taken me seriously from the outset, he’s been trying some new approaches to get me out of my current stream and into new waters. That said, most haven’t proven results yet and I know some of that is on me. I’m not the easiest guy to represent. I’m sure the silver tinges in the dark hair around Rash’s ears weren’t there when we first met.

  Rash:

  She’s here.

  We’ll be in the dining room.

  Seth:

  What the fuck are you talking about?

  Who’s here?

  S
eth:

  Jesus, Rash, I didn’t even

  know YOU were here!

  Fuck me swinging, too many bloody people have access to my house. Not that I mind Rash being here of course. Particularly as it seems we had a meeting, but I’m a little worried I’m too used to doors opening and closing at all hours of the day, and night, without me giving a shite.

  Rash:

  Piper Quinn. She’s your eleven a.m.

  Humpft, so that’s why I’m up. I knew there had to be a reason. A thought dawns on me. He’s not talking about that little bit of fluff in the Malibu Barbie car, is he? Surely fucking not?! Is she even old enough to have anything other than a paper route?

  Before I can ask, I get another message.

  Rash:

  Image and branding consultant.

  You agreed to meet with her.

  On the off chance that I am meeting the pouty mouthed twelve year old, I decide to see what she’s made of. Let’s face it; if she can’t handle me, it’s best she walks away now. I’m looking for serious professionals to help with my career, not glorified secretaries who are looking for a celeb to screw as their meal ticket.

  Grabbing the bottom of my Thrasher t-shirt, I rip it off and throw it on the recliner. Let her get a look at the goods, hey. Just as I walk out the door, I see one of the cast of thousands in my house has left a pair of sunglasses on the wet bar. Snagging them, I slide them on and make my way down stairs. As I hit the landing she comes into sight. Bloody hell, it’s her all right.

  Show time sweetheart…

  “Are the hookers here yet?”

  * * *

  I can feel Rash’s eyes drilling holes into the back of my bonce as I walk away from that fucking joke of a meeting. Tell me what the fuck I can drink in my own house? Who the hell did she think she was dealing with?

  Dodging the sudden swarm of people, who at my appearance all instantly try to cram themselves up my arse, I storm across the flagstone and let myself back into the house. Closing the double glazed doors that open into the butler’s pantry behind me, I shake my head. Grabby arseholes. Who exactly are all these fuckers anyway? Jesus, there are more topless women out there than on a porn set. Sonny really knows how to invite the classy ones. I’ve got to seriously think about letting that guy go. I’m not even sure what it is he does for me.

  Figuring I might as well wait here to face the music, I lift my arse up onto the long marble countertop that serves as a prep bench for outdoor entertaining and wait for my lecture. As predicted, I hear the butler’s pantry doors open then bang closed, followed by the appearance of an obviously flustered Rash.

  “Oi, can I sack Sonny?” I ask him before he can speak and spotting my confiscated drink; I reach over, snag it up, and swallow it in one gulp. Ahh. Beats a bloody bottle of water. And tastes even sweeter given Miss Prissy Knickers isn’t here to stop me.

  “What? Sonny? Do you mean the guy with the sun tattoo?” Rash looks at me like I’m a screw loose. “Seth, he doesn’t work for you.”

  Huh. Go figure. Then why the fuck is he here all the time?

  Rash was easily drawn into me distracting him away from my impending lecture, but not for long. He moves directly in front of me now, pulling his glasses from his face and rubbing his free hand across his eyes. I brace because I know as soon as he’s expelled the deep breath he’s just sucked back, I’m in for it.

  “What the hell was that Seth? I swear sometimes you purposely make it hard for yourself.”

  He might have me on that one, I did after all set out to fuck with Piper. Even though she shocked the shit out of me when it turned out she had a backbone. Which may or may not have given life to a bone of my own. Doesn’t matter though, I’m looking for someone who can give me proven career strategies, not a fucking life coach.

  “Rash, get real, mate. You saw her. She’s a poppet! Those big doe eyes and a pouty mouth that’s too sexy to be taken seriously. Until she opens it of course, and then suddenly your balls shrivel in fear because they realise the mouth belongs to a bossy know-it-all. Nah, fuck that for a joke.”

  “I’m not kidding Seth, this is nothing close to being a joke. You’ve dismissed everyone I’ve set up a meeting with. You find some arbitrary problem and you’re done. That capable and highly skilled woman was from ESM. Elliot Scott Marketing! Do you get that? You’ve been in this town long enough to understand the weight they carry. Do you know how many favors I had to cash in to even get them to take a meeting with you?” His bright blue eyes back behind his horn-rimmed glasses are alight with frustration, and if I was really honest with myself, a touch of disappointment.

  “What do you mean cashed in favours to get them to take a meeting?”

  This was news to me. Of all he’s just said, that bit stands out.

  “I told you that ESM are the best in the business. What I’m not sure you understand is that they’re so good Seth, they choose their clients. Industry rumor is that they decline three times as many requests than they accept. If I didn’t know Devon Scott, one of the founding name partners personally, I can’t even be sure we would’ve gotten a meeting.” He pauses making sure I’m hearing him before he continues. “They don’t need us Seth. We need them. More specifically, you need them.”

  Fuck. Still. “I won’t be told what I can and can’t do in my own house, Rash, like I’m some nappy wearing ankle biter. Where does she get off with that shite?”

  “Seth, please. Listen to me and listen to me carefully. You get so frustrated when no one takes you seriously, yet you refused to even hear Piper out, and she works for the most serious company in the business. So I ask you this…if you want to be taken seriously, don’t you think it’s about damn time you start taking yourself seriously too?”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I sigh loudly, but I don’t answer. He’s sort of got a point, but then again, so do I. Who walks into a man’s house, having known him for all of three seconds and puts him on the wagon like she’s got every right to do it?! No.

  “Please, just sleep on it. Piper Quinn is who you need, Seth. I haven’t steered you wrong yet and I’m not going to now.”

  With that said, he claps me on the biceps and gives them a squeeze, then turns and heads out of the pantry. He’s almost to the other side of the attached formal dining room when he stops and speaks over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, you got another offer this morning.”

  “Really? Way to bury a lead man. That’s awesome,” I say, thinking my morning might be perking up a little. “Was it for the bad guy cameo in the action drama with Indiependence?”

  “Nope!” Rash yells loudly as he moves again to leave the room, not turning around. “Bachelor Dance Quest.”

  Bollocks. Fuck my life.

  * * *

  Deciding there’s nothing else to be done for the day, a day that has already gone tits up, I figure with all these fucking people in my house, I might as well join them. Maybe one of the topless broads would be up for sucking my cock? Nothing gets your mind right like having your central nervous system rebooted by a hot, wet mouth capable of sucking your soul out through your lizard.

  Hopping off the counter, I open the cabinets until I find the liquor stash. Grabbing a bottle of Patrón Silver, I flip my sunglasses down and head back outside. I do my best not to make eye contact with anyone. Sonny included, no matter how hard he tries. I want to get a steady buzz going before dealing with any of these people.

  My mind keeps wandering back over everything, including that bullshit offer from the dance show. It’s no secret those desperate fuckers take anyone. Getting a call from them is not a sign of a healthy career. If I don’t start to get some serious offers, I don’t know what the hell else to do. At this point I’d even be happy just to get a chance to audition for a role.

  I keep hearing an annoying voice in my head. A voice that sounds a lot like Piper fucking Quinn telling me I’m not the first person she’s helped. Tipping back the Patrón bottle that’s stayed attached to my hand ag
ainst my lips, I gulp down a few quick mouthfuls to drown her out.

  By the time I’m good and sauced, like proper shitfaced, I can no longer hear Piper’s voice. Piper’s smoke-filled voice that comes out sounding all sexed up and has no business belonging to her. Not that I remember it or anything. Good for you, Seth. All is good with the world.

  I don’t need her telling me what to do or how to run my life, fuck that. I’m perfectly in control of everything and it’s only a matter of time before I’m making movies. She’ll see. I’ll start small, accept the little roles, and work my way up. Fuck, I’ll even take non-speaking parts. Then again, I’m too good looking for little roles. Right? And who wouldn’t want this accent whispering to them from the big screen or from their home theatre system. Apparently, women love a British accent, think they’re listening to Henry Cavil or some shite.

  Not sure when it got dark, so I guess it’s pretty late now. The party still seems to be going strong though. I still don’t know who most of the people are, and I’m way past caring. I’ll live my life the way I want and fuck what anyone says. That includes my arsehole neighbour who keeps calling to ask for the music to be turned down. Last I checked this wasn’t a nursing home, you giant fuck-stick. I’d called him back a little while ago and I told him to kiss my arse. So he knew where it was, and because it’s just the kind of helpful guy I am, after I’d hung up I pulled down my shorts and taken a picture of my cheeks. When I’d messaged it to him I‘d typed, pucker up here, underneath it.