He had gone to New York to record his latest album and I had the entire house to myself, until now.
“You working?” he finally asked as he sobered up.
“Yes, you’re interrupting.”
Why was he here? Yes, he owned the house. I wanted the house and be able to kick Christian out in order to start my life, but I still didn’t have the money to pay for the place.
The house had everything. Plenty of rooms, a gym, pools, and the ocean view. It was removed from town, set back in the hills next to the crystal blue sea and had a beach house feeling with only a twenty-minute drive to town.
If only Perdition—the indie movie—made it big and soon, I would be able to pay cash and have the place to myself.
“At least confess that you missed me and my music.” He plunked himself on the couch, then placed his head on one arm of the couch and his feet on the other.
“No, I didn’t,” I said, but I did miss his music.
Truthfully, his old music had grown on me—I tolerated it. And I enjoyed the new stuff that he played on a daily basis.
“How’s the album, did you finish it?”
“Shitty. It’s a fucked up record that I’ll hate for the rest of my life.” He slid off of the couch and walked to the window. As he stared outside, he talked, “I can read the reviews already. ‘They couldn’t transcend.’ But do you know why? Because my band wants to keep playing the same stuff with different lyrics. The hair bands are dying slowly and guess what; I’m no longer wearing the fucking wig. Dreadful Souls are seriously dreading this moment. I bet my ass that we’ll be done after this album. After I fulfill my tour dates, I’m out. If they want to replace me, I don’t give a shit. The music is mine and they’ll have to pay me to play it. What’s with you?”
I handed him the script I worked on before he stormed into the room and let him read it.
“Well, chicks eat this shit like honey,” he handed it back. “Who’s playing Eloise?”
“Abigail Ritz.”
He snapped his fingers, cocked his head from one side to the other and then nodded with a wicked smile.
“Mile-high club. Yes, I approve. You should give her a try, she’s not great but… wait, wait, wasn’t she the runner-up to be Mrs. Colthurst?”
“Mrs. Colt.” I corrected him as I planned soon to legally change my name.
“Gabriel, Gabriel,” he shook his head and went back to the couch. “If you marry-no, when you marry, make sure to keep your life separate. You shouldn’t change your name. Keep the Colthurst name and keep your children and personal life out of the spotlight. Remember my past, everyone can read a tabloid while waiting in line to pay for their groceries. They know who I fucked, what I snorted, and the brand of rum I drank during my wild days. The headlines of who would be the next Mrs. Decker and all that shit is still being published. Even when no one knows how, who, and where I do things. If I had been smart, I’d have changed my name. Something like, Christobal Alonsito Deckerritto.”
“You really need to stop pretending that you speak Spanish,” I laughed at him.
“Then I’ll have to go back to drinking myself to sleep because my life will be boring,” he joked. “Let’s get down to business. You mentioned you went to college and have a finance degree.”
Chris rose from his seat and headed to the only set of drawers in this room. He handed me a folder and then sat at the piano where he fidgeted with the keys.
“I want you to be my investment guru. As I said, the band is sinking. Though I’ll sink with my ship, I don’t want to be poor and featured on one of those shows where they narrate my sobbing story about how I snorted my money away, and now I’m broke.”
I opened the thick folder, read his statements, and went through his assets. For a guy who didn’t give a shit, he had his information well-organized. He owned all of his properties and cars outright and had no debt. His credit card statements were paid in full every month. I laughed and he joined.
“You poor little rock star,” I finally said. “I agree, if I don’t take over your finances, you’d be broke within days.”
He began to cough, went pale, and then his uneven breathing scared me shitless.
“Bro, I’m joking.” I stood up and patted him on the back. “You’ll have enough money to live comfortably for the next three centuries.”
He stared at me, his eyes hardened, and his jaw twitched.
“I trusted you,” his voice was loud. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I am. You play pranks on me all the time, we joke.”
“Yes,” the hardness on his face didn’t change, “but shit like that is different. Gabe, I had no money when I started. I know what it is to go without food for weeks. That shit is serious to me. If my band doesn’t make it and I can’t play again, I want to have a roof over my head and be able to buy food for the rest of my life.”
That night I learned about real friendships, I had friends before, but not one who would trust me with his fears.
Handing me his financial future was a big deal to him, one I took seriously.
I planned to use his money to play with the stocks at large and win more money back. Not that I told him that, he wouldn’t understand that the stock market was like gambling and sometimes you could lose big too. Those words would only freak him out.
“We’re going to divide your money into several various investments,” I explained, and he stared at the papers. “We’re diversifying, which means putting your money into different baskets.”
“I want to open a music label company, produce for other artists,” he added. “Can you set money aside for that shit?”
We headed to the kitchen while discussing the pros and cons, and we set up a plan based on his vision.
“I want to discover new artists.” He poured himself some water from the sink and sat to eat the sandwich I prepared for him. “The industry is changing; Seattle is the crib for a new movement. Grunge. It will grow strong.”
Christian believed in it, his hands gestured as if he was strumming his air guitar while explaining how the distorted electric guitars, growling vocals, and angsty lyrics combined to create it—Grunge.
“It’s like the bastard child of hard punk and heavy metal,” he concluded.
“I’m curious to hear what that sounds like,” I honestly wanted to head to my room and play The Beatles to erase the bastard child from my head.
“I like that shit,” he bobbed his head. “You’re going to dig it.”
“If you let me,” I proposed, ignoring that I’d dig that music. “I’d like to be a silent partner in that venture too.”
It became clear that I might not be able to play with the big guys on Wall Street. By then my life had shifted, but I found these different investments as enjoyable and diverse from what I had planned at the age of eighteen.
2015
“Yay, we’re about to get to the good parts,” AJ claps excitedly.
“You’re not going to tell us the juicy parts are you, Dad?” MJ’s eyes widen.
“Yes, please, keep the detail to a minimum about the hotness,” JC interrupts. “Seriously, we don’t need to know how hot and heavy it got with you and your movie partner.”
“Don’t worry,” AJ smirks, “remember, in this story everyone watches movies during their encounters.”
“No, I won’t tell you when and if I ever watched movies.” I exhale heavily. “Now may I continue? On second thought, my head is fine. I could stop this if you want to take over, AJ? Tell us your story.”
“AJ’s telling a story?” JC’s evil face brightens. That kid loves to torture his sister as much as he loves to play guitar. “Do tell, little sister.”
“Dad, can you explain to your two Neanderthals that I’m not the little sister, please?”
“Out of my jurisdiction. You three ar
e old enough to behave like adults, or so I think.”
“Well, AJ, tell the story.” JC prompts her. “What are we talking about here?”
“Nothing,” she huffs glaring at JC. “Dad wants to hear some stupid story about my childhood I’d rather not rehash at the moment.”
Something passes through her eyes that makes JC stop badgering her. He likes to harass her, but also protects her like the big brother he thinks he is.
“Okay, daddy-o, keep going,” MJ says. “The great Gabriel Colthurst wearing a pair of white pants, a pastel color polo shirt, and a pair of Topsider loafers used his Trans Am to pick up chicks while wining and dining them at the trendiest restaurants in LA”
“I doubt Dad would copy Don Johnson,” JC corrects MJ, “but I like the way this is going. Did you wear a mullet?”
“No, he didn’t,” AJ explains as she parts my hair and combs it with her hand. “He’s always worn the same boring hair, maybe that’s why the marriage really went belly up.”
“May I?”
1988
A month before I started shooting The Price of Love—the romcom movie, Perdition premiered. There wasn’t a big party, nor a red carpet walk or huge coverage about the event. The first weekend it only made it to the top ten. Not bad for an indie film with little publicity and low budget. Two weeks later, the movie had made it to second place, and by the fourth it was number one. Not only that, it made the same impact internationally.
The low-budget indie movie made me more money than I had ambition. Rumors of Oscars and Golden Globes had several film studios calling my agent.
From that, other numerous rumors followed, like the one where Abby and Christian Decker had a torrid romance during the movie. Another where Decker and I fought several times about Abby… all part of getting more revenue. None true. Decker and I remained friends, and I bought his house when I received my first check but I let him stay with me while he was on tour.
One night, Christian called me from the road.
“Did you hear the rumor that I fathered Abby’s child?” he inquired. “I didn’t know she has a child.”
“She doesn’t,” I read the newspaper my agent had sent me, next to a magazine where Abby denied every rumor. “‘They both are lovely,’ Abby mentioned as we interviewed her. ‘However, none of us had the time to get acquainted. About the child, that’s silly, I don’t have any children at the moment.’ There, better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Christian’s voice sounded normal after letting a breath out. I didn’t realize that his concern about the kid was genuine. “Two things I’ll never do are: have a serious relationship or children. What kind of example would I be to any minor?”
We both laugh at his question. Yes, I couldn’t imagine Christian fathering a child. The children would have such a poor vocabulary.
“How’s the tour going?” I restrained my laugh.
The Dreadful Souls tour kicked earlier in the year and he had been gone for about seven weeks.
“In my personal opinion, bad, but I’m not saying a peep about it,” he responded. “We sold out, but the reviews I’ve heard about the album and concerts suck. A few more months and I should flip my life. No more headlines, crazy fucked up rumors or other shit. I want to continue with my music, but this time, I’m going solo and without partying every night.”
We ended the conversation with my film schedule. Abby and I wouldn’t have as much interaction as I thought in the beginning. Our relationship during the movie was a series of letters, brief calls, and the most heartbreaking ending. While my character lived in California, her character had moved to Florida to help her terminally ill mother. At the end, when her mother dies and my character drives to the East Coast to meet Abby, I crash and die. I had it all wrong; it was a drama and not a romantic comedy.
Yet, my publicist and agent mentioned several times that we would benefit the most if Abby and I gave the public a hint that we were in a relationship. The production company was behind that idea too. That’s why tomorrow we would have a meet and greet or as the tabloid called it, a hot date.
My agent decided picking Abby up in a limousine added to the Hollywood power couple status. Instead of meeting at her condo, we met at one of her friend’s places. Some starlet who owned a mansion.
The photographers our publicists hired would snap shots of us from the moment I picked her up until our date was over. Abby wanted to reflect a larger than life status.
She wore a blue short cocktail dress with a flouncy skirt and laced sleeves. Her blonde hair was up in a hair band the same color as the dress with her bangs reaching up about two inches and then falling down to her face. She looked ho—great. Instead of waiting for me to ring the bell, she waited outside the house and walked to the car swinging her hips like a model on the runway. I got out of the car and helped her in.
“You look great,” I said after we settled in, and the driver pulled away.
“Thank you, I thought you’d be driving a Ferrari or something… decent. Not a limo.”
“This is what Jerry—my agent suggested,” I explained and ignored her scrunched up face.
“Where are we going?” her valley accent came out more like an annoyed brat.
“Hakata Grill.” Our agents had scored a reservation at the hibachi tables. A whole different experience, where they’ll cook the food right in front of us. ‘Dinner and a show,’ my agent said. “I think we’re going to have a good time, did you hear that Perdition is doing great?”
“Yes, my lawyers and I are revising the contract,” she responded. “Tara is earning a lot more than what she’s paying us. The contract says that we’ll get a cut of the revenue. One percent is nothing compared to what she’s making.”
“That’s what the contract says, Abby,” I remembered it perfectly. By investing, I was getting thirty-one percent of the revenue. “Christian is only getting half of a percent. He gave up his other half to the crew. There’s nothing to fight legally.”
I couldn’t believe that our date began with a discussion about work.
“A matter of legalities that my lawyers will make sure to walk around.” She smiled at me as she smoothed her skirt. “You look good tonight, but I hope that for our next date, you wear something… different. I’ll have my people pay you a visit to renew your closet. You’re a star and about to become even bigger.”
The night continued with a big dinner she didn’t touch, and the conversation centering on work. Not once did we discuss our personal lives or agree on going out again. It had been all business, and I wondered if that was why not many of my friends in showbiz had long lasting relationships. After one of these, I didn’t want to do it again. I paid the bill, we headed to the limo and she gave me a peck on the lips and smiled at the cameras.
“Look,” Abby started as we entered the car and headed back to her place. “You’re cute, but you’re a dickweed. A flawless, lame, wuss with the personality of a log.”
1988
I was speechless.
“Excuse me?”
“There’s no chemistry and they want us to date, at least fake something. I can’t.” She fanned her face with her hand.
“Clearly, we’re in different sequences from the beginning,” I scratched my head as I spoke. She was hot but not worth my time. “This was a fix between our agents, not my idea.”
She didn’t acknowledge me for the rest of the ride and though my pride was hurt—I’m human—her dismissal didn’t bother my feelings. You lose some women, you win others and life goes on.
The next morning Jerry Williams called me.
“I heard the date went bad,” his gruff voice came from the other side. “Look, the director likes you but the producer and Abby’s agent agreed that you might want to let the role go to another actor.”
I rubbed my eyes as I was only waking up at that moment.
&n
bsp; “What the hell are you talking about, Jerry?”
“How do I put this in a way that won’t sound… stupid?” There was no way; he already accomplished that. “They strongly suggested that you back out of the contract because you’re not the right fit. The producers want someone who will bring chemistry to the screen, and you’re not what they want. They worry about what this will do to your reputation.”
“Then I quit, Jerry. Just get me something else.” I refrained from saying that they could fuck themselves.
There wasn’t a rush to find a job; I had enough money stashed away to live comfortably. But my goal to make it big was being held back by a brat.
That Saturday, I went to a dinner celebrating Perdition’s success.
“I have a few things for you, handsome,” Tara stopped me on my way in and dragged me to the corner where she had a pile of scripts. “I heard about the shitty thing they did with The Price of Love. That movie is going to flunk.”
Tara had been in the business for more than twenty years, she knew her shit and if she predicted that The Price of Love wouldn’t make it, I was glad I had quit.
“I placed notes on each script,” she handed me about seven of them. “Some are for you to act and others… I think you should produce them. They were sent to me, but I’m retiring from this business.”
“Thank you,” I side hugged her while holding the pile she had handed me, “for everything. I have a career because you believed in me.”
“Keep in touch, Gabriel. I see big things happening in your future.”
I smile at her comment as it sounded close to what she said the first time we met.
Instead of staying for the entire dinner, I headed home with the stack of scripts she had handed me with assorted post-it notes on top. Each script had a recommendation to produce, to act, or to direct. She had the crazy idea that I could do all of those things.
When I arrived home, all the lights were off, as usual, with the exception of the library light. I heard Christian’s music from the foyer, headed to the room and found him playing a few chords, switching from the guitar to writing on paper.
Unlike Any Other (Unexpected Book 1) Page 8