Acting Out

by Tibby Armstrong

  Stone rounded the corner, and the line snapped to attention. In his early to midthirties, the casting director strolled with an unhurried air, pausing now and again to consider a preening hopeful. Wooden beads at Stone’s throat matched the nut brown of his shoulder length hair. Faded jeans gave his entire look a calculated indifference Jeremy didn’t dare to trust. Not when so many other I’ll call yous and overly bright smiles had turned into dead ends and unanswered messages.

  “I was in a Super Clean soap commercial,” one guy said, clearly begging.

  Jeremy closed his eyes, his irritation boiling over at the sight of sentient beings behaving like merchandise. He slouched against the wall, one foot up, and pretended to read his paper. He’d be goddamned if he’d stand in line all day just to kiss someone’s ass when they deigned to show it.

  “You,” he heard the casting director say.

  He kept reading. Tanned fingers snapped under his nose, and he blinked against the sun when he looked up.

  “I said you.”

  He dropped his foot from the wall, tried not to look surprised, and stepped from the line. Striding past disappointed castoffs, he followed Vance Stone into the studio offices where dim lighting, cool air, and bottled water waited. Heaven. He was in heaven.

  Two other actors—both with dark hair and skin unusually pale for the Southern California clime—fidgeted in the reception area. One hummed a current top-forty hit while the other murmured the words to his monologue.

  Stone paused in front of the receptionist, his air at once hurried and bored. “Cindy, it’s three thirty, and we skipped lunch. Order some sandwiches for us, will you?”

  Electric blue fingernails paused over a computer keyboard. Cindy took one earbud out, and a Goo Goo Dolls tune blared from the tiny piece of plastic. “Huh?”

  “Lunch,” Vance enunciated. “Me. Falkner. Now.”

  “Oh!” She popped the earpiece back in. “Have a good one!”

  “Fuck it.” Scowling, Vance turned his attention to the actors and considered them one at a time.

  Still standing, Jeremy leaned a shoulder against the wall and stared coolly back at the man.

  “You,” Vance said, pointing at Jeremy. “You’re up.”

  Jeremy felt the stares of the other two men and deliberately refused to meet their eyes, afraid if he saw the shards of his own repeated disappointments in their faces he’d blow the audition on purpose to give some other suffering sap the chance.

  After handing Vance his résumé and head shot, he trailed him into a windowless room. The place felt barren, utilitarian, with a conference table across from the door and no decoration to speak of. A video camera on a tripod stood in one corner. At the sight of its blinking red light, Jeremy’s palms began to sweat. He resisted the urge to wipe them on his jeans.

  Vance took his seat next to a man Jeremy recognized from studying countless industry event photos. Greg Falkner. Screenwriter. Twenty-six and already a legend, the guy had won a major industry award for his first project, a romantic comedy called Upside. Buzz on the street said after a two-year hiatus, he’d penned a riskier script and put up half the backing on the project.

  Falkner glanced up from a tattered script, and his dark eyes widened.

  Jeremy nodded. Falkner nodded back, giving Jeremy the creepiest feeling he looked at himself five or six years from now, except a little more hardened around the edges and with a whole lot of life under his belt.

  “Why don’t you slate in?” Vance prompted.

  Breaking his staring contest with Falkner, Jeremy turned to the camera. “Jeremy, uh, Jeremy Ash. Twenty. No agent.”

  Fuck. He couldn’t even say his own name without stumbling. He’d blown it already.

  “Okay, Jeremy…” Vance scribbled something as he spoke—probably his name. “We’re not doing monologues. Just cold readings. Take a script. Mr. Falkner’ll read opposite you.”

  Jeremy took the script Falkner held out, and stepped back, unable to tear his eyes away from his doppelganger. He never considered himself handsome before, but something about Falkner gave him a confidence in his own looks he’d never known. A Roman chin, sensually peaked lips, high cheekbones and the fall of dark hair over a patrician forehead screamed power and sex appeal. Was he really that powerful? That sexy?

  Like Narcissus, he felt compelled to stare at his reflection until Vance said, “The camera, Jeremy. You need to face it.”

  “Oh, sorry!”

  He turned to the ominous eye. The pages in his hands rattled. He clenched his fingers so tightly the paper wrinkled. Glancing at the script, he took a deep, nerve-calming breath.

  “Take one, scene three. No Apologies screen test,” Vance said. “And action.”

  “What were you writin’ in class today?” Falkner affected the barest hint of a drawl.

  Shit, was this thing set in the South? Jeremy scanned the page but found no hint of the setting. “Um. Just some notes.”

  “’bout what?”

  Pissed at himself and at Vance for not prepping him for the scene, he glared at the camera. He read the stage direction and saw his character went back to writing. Felt his roommate’s eyes on him.

  “What?” He let his frustration pour into the word.

  “I think I’m gonna have to kick your ass.” Falkner sounded sad. Regretful.

  “Fuck you.” Jeremy kept his eyes glued to the script, wishing he’d had time to do a read-through first.

  “I said I had to. I didn’t say I wanted to.”

  “Couldn’t say no to your bitches?” Derision dripped from his tongue, and Jeremy felt himself slip into the rhythm of the scene. Ah, an argument!

  “What?” Falkner read.

  “McHugh told me.” Jeremy held out the information like the juicy tidbit it appeared to be.

  “Son of a bitch.” Falkner affected the drawl once more.

  “I was waiting to see what you’d do.” Jeremy blew out a disgusted breath and cocked his head to one side. “I’m disappointed…Aaron.”

  He glanced up and lost his place in the dialogue.

  Falkner read, “I really thought…maybe you’d take the chance. Ya know?”

  Using his finger on the script, Jeremy tried to find his place again and stumbled. “Oh! Sorry. Um…” He found the line and slipped back into character. “What? That I’d apologize to the assholes who’ve made my life miserable from the first moment I stepped into the quad?” Fast. Too fast. Slow down. He took a deep breath and mentally kicked himself. Anger boiled to the surface.

  “Why’d you come to Grayson?” Falkner asked.

  “To make men out of pussy cadets who think they can ‘put a hurt on me.’”

  Put a hurt on? Oh fuck. That called for a drawl.

  “Fuck you. I made a promise,” Falkner answered, sounding desperate.

  “So?” Jeremy asked, not really caring what came out his mouth at this point. He’d so blown this. “I’ll let you keep it.”

  “You’ll apologize?” Falkner sounded hopeful.

  “No.” Jeremy let the word draw out and smirked at the camera. “I’ll let you take the first swing.”

  A hiss sounded from Falkner before he answered, “By the end of the night, you’ll be doin’ drills for me.”

  Jeremy skimmed the next line and widened his smirk. “I’ll be drilling something—that’s for damned sure…but it’s gonna be your ass.”

  “Cut,” Vance said.

  Letting the script fall to his side, Jeremy faced Falkner. The man steepled his fingers to his lips, considering. For the briefest moment, something passed between them—a mutual recognition—and hope surged.

  “That’s good. Thanks,” Vance said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Heat infused Jeremy’s cheeks at the dismissal. Yeah. He’d blown it all right.

  “Thanks. It was great to meet you, Mr. Falkner, Mr. Stone,” he said.

  Vance, already engrossed in something on his laptop, grunted in response.

  Gritti
ng his teeth against a sarcastic comment, Jeremy handed back the script and left. God, how he wanted to slam the door behind him. Fuckers. He hated them. He hated himself. Maybe he’d go across the street and get a beer with the rest of the rejects. So far, nobody questioned his fake ID. When he stepped outside a few straggling hopefuls remained.

  “How was it?” one asked.

  Jeremy shook his head and felt his shoulders fall another inch. Maybe he should go to night school? Get a real job. Black tar, bleached from the sun, wobbled under his gaze as he crossed the road.

  Inside, the dim bar smelled of stale vodka and sweat. Two bikers played pool while a group of actors from the call sat on barstools bitching loudly about how unfairly Hollywood treated newcomers. Sidling up to the bar, Jeremy dug in his pocket.

  The heavily tattooed bartender eyed him in the mirror over the liquor shelf. “ID?”

  “Sure.” Annoyed, Jeremy slapped the license down with his cash. “Can I get a Guinness?”

  The man settled his elbows onto the bar’s polished surface and picked up the ID. Jeremy stared at him steadily, refusing to look away when their gazes met. The bartender pushed away from the bar, and Jeremy breathed an inward sigh of relief. A minute later, a fizzy, clear drink clunked down in front of him.

  “I asked—” he began.

  The bartender arched a brow at him. He knew the ID had been a fake. Jeremy turned on his heel and pushed open the door to the street a little too hard, almost bowling over two customers. He wanted to go home and forget this day ever happened.

  “Jeremy! Mr. Ash!” Cindy hailed him.

  He saw the dim-witted receptionist waving a piece of paper and calling to him from the sidewalk. Irritated, he crossed the street. “What?”

  She beamed up at him, and he instantly felt bad for being surly.

  “They want you back.”

  “What?” This woman couldn’t order a tuna sandwich with a menu and a teacher’s aide. Why should he trust her? “Who wants me back?”

  “Mr. Falkner.” Cindy rolled her eyes and snapped her gum. “C’mon. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Jeremy trailed after her, wondering if he’d stumbled into a dream without remembering the part where he went home and pulled the covers over his head. This time when he entered the room, the receptionist cracked open a bottle of water and handed it to him. Curling his fingers around the cool plastic, he gave her a bewildered look.

  “You’re gonna need it,” she said, cryptic.

  He frowned at her, and she grinned.

  “They’ll be ready in a minute,” she said. “Sit.”

  Jeremy sat and noticed the other two actors were no longer in the room. “Where’d the other guys go?”

  “Mr. Falkner sent ’em home.”

  “Whoa.” Jeremy fell back against the chair. “I thought I fucked it up.”

  Earbuds already plugging the holes in her head, the receptionist didn’t answer, and Jeremy amused himself with peeling the label from the water bottle. The clock on the wall ticked away minutes that turned into an hour. Still, he sat. Rumor had it the more important you were in Hollywood, the longer you made people wait. If so, whoever Jeremy waited for commanded more power than some Third World dictators.

  The outside door swung open, and a blond in frayed jeans and a black Ducati T-shirt strode into the room like he owned it. Wide shouldered, slim hipped, with a loping confidence to his walk, he exuded an air only seasoned performers could affect. Jeremy’d seen it before in glimpses of famous personalities. Something about them screamed, Look at me. Worship me.

  Wraparound sunglasses mirrored Jeremy’s reflection back at him when the guy turned his way. After a brief sweep, he felt himself cataloged under I for Inconsequential and dismissed.

  “Hi, Kit,” the receptionist breathed, leaning forward to give maximum cleavage.

  “Hey, Cindy. Where’s everyone?” Kit leaned his elbows on the shelf above her desk.

  Flirt, Jeremy thought, feeling a spike of jealousy he chalked up to the charisma Kit exuded from his pores. More potent than any drug, that kind of magnetism virtually guaranteed a star A-list status.

  “Waiting for you. You never called back.” Cindy pouted up at him, and Jeremy fought back a gag. “They were about to leave.”

  “Sorry. Traffic.” Kit gave the answer to every snafu in Hollywood with a rake of his fingers through the fall of his shoulder-length hair.

  “Go on in.” Cindy nodded at the conference room door. “They’re expecting you.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Kit peeled off his sunglasses and bestowed Cindy with a sparkling smile.

  She stared after him as he left. Jeremy followed her gaze where it lingered on the guy’s perfectly cut ass.

  “Who’s that?” Jeremy asked, still staring at the closed door.

  Chair squeaking, jaw dropping, Cindy swiveled to face him. “Oh. My. God.”

  “What?” Jeremy asked, defensive. “Sorry, but I don’t know everyone in Hollywood yet.”

  “That’s only, like, Kit Harris.”

  The name rang a bell. “Was he on that sitcom?”

  “That sitcom.” Cindy snorted. “Yeah. And on just about every cover of every teen gossip mag from the time he was twelve.”

  Jeremy resisted an eye roll. Then it hit him. “Do they want me to read opposite him?”

  “Yup.” An eye waggle accompanied Cindy’s reply. “You lucky bastard.”

  “Why am I—”

  Vance poked his head out the door and frowned until his eyes alighted on Jeremy ensconced in the far corner. “Come on in.”

  Standing, he willed himself not to fuck up this time. He didn’t know why they’d asked him back, but he vowed not to ruin his second chance. Vance left on an errand, and Jeremy tried to calm his nerves.

  Kit sat in front of the camera opposite an empty chair. Script curled lazily in his hands, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and conversed in a low voice with Falkner who loomed over him, arms folded.

  “Can you play it like that?” Falkner asked Kit.

  Kit nodded and dug an elastic out of his pocket. He pulled back his hair, showcasing remarkably high cheekbones and the snapping blue of his eyes. Jeremy felt a tug in his abdomen and blinked away thoughts of nibbling the actor’s lush lower lip and sucking it into his mouth.

  “Jeremy, have a seat.” Falkner gestured to the empty chair.

  Keeping his eyes on the screenwriter, Jeremy sat opposite Kit and tucked his water bottle under the chair. Falkner handed him a thicker sheaf of papers this time and crouched between himself and Kit.

  “Okay, here’s how it goes,” Falkner said to both actors. “You’re attracted to one another, but you’ve always been on opposite sides of the popularity spectrum. Kit here is the golden boy. You”—he pointed a finger at Jeremy—“are the troublemaker.”

  Riveted, Jeremy hung on to every word of the stage direction Falkner gave him. The film, set in a military high school, told the story of two enemies, turned friends, then lovers.

  “Lovers?” Jeremy’s voice squeaked.

  “Is there going to be a problem with that?” Falkner asked, voice deadly calm.

  “No! No way.” Jeremy scrambled to cover his gaffe. He held Falkner’s gaze, willing him to believe his words. “I just didn’t expect that in a Hollywood project.”

  “Homosexuality?” Falkner intoned the question.

  The curl of the man’s lip said three seconds stood between Jeremy and the door. He had to do something to salvage this. To come so close and lose it because of a misunderstanding? No way. Passing a palm over his face, Jeremy breathed through his nostrils and did something he’d never done in his life—came out.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m gay, okay? I have no problem whatsoever with this project if it’s not gonna bash anyone.”

  Well, that rocked Falkner back on his heels. Literally.

  “If you’re fucking with me…” The growl made the hairs on the back of Jeremy’s neck stand on
end.

  “I’m not! I swear.” Frustrated, he felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. Goddamn. He’d waited years to say those words out loud, and that was the reaction he got?

  Falkner pushed to standing and crossed out of the camera’s sight line. “Just play the scene.”

  “Can I have a minute to read?” Jeremy asked, not daring to look at Kit, who’d remained silent and unmoving throughout the exchange.

  “Yes.” The answer came from Vance who’d reentered the room with a couple of brown bags. The scent of pastrami hung in the air as he tossed one Falkner’s way.

  Keeping his finger in the pages Falkner had pointed out, Jeremy flipped to some earlier scenes to get the gist of the story. As he read, he got a better feel for the characters and their circumstances. Turning back to the audition scene, he read through the dialogue and sparse stage direction. When he got to the last line, his eyes widened, and he looked up at Kit, who’d slung one arm over the back of his chair and slouched lazily, unconcerned.

  Dude must already have the part, Jeremy guessed. Either that or the confidence fairy had gifted him with an extra measure of chutzpah, because otherwise—if he knew what Jeremy knew—there was no way he’d be this nonchalant.

  “Um…Mr. Stone?” Jeremy asked.

  “Yeah?” Vance spoke around a mouthful of sauerkraut and rye.

  “Do you want us to actually do everything in this scene?”

  Falkner leveled his gaze at Jeremy, and he found himself wishing he hadn’t asked the question.

  Vance’s “No” and Falkner’s “Yes” tangled.

  Kit straightened and looked between Falkner and Vance, confusion written in the V at the bridge of his nose.

  “Falkner’s show,” Vance answered, deferring to the screenwriter.

  “Okay, then.” Kit cast Jeremy a dubious glance before echoing Cindy’s words. “Your lucky day, I guess.”

  Biting back a sarcastic retort, Jeremy moved his chair to face Kit’s head-on. Their eyes met. The world receded, and the universe expanded. Furniture, camera, and room ceased to exist. Light and molecules of air brushed Jeremy’s skin, sending little electrical thrills along his arms, standing the hairs on end. He licked his lips and began.