It’s even harder this time, though.
I’m dragged back to reality when Jazz says, “So, I read something scandalous the other day.”
“One of those kinky whips and chains books?”
She laughs. “Not this time. No, I picked up a copy of Hollywood Chronicles…”
I groan, closing my eyes and leaning my head back, covering my face with my hands when she says that. I’m fucking up whatever progress she’s made in making me look human again, but I’d rather rip my own balls off and juggle them like a trained monkey than even acknowledge that piece of shit tabloid exists. They’ve been the bane of my existence for far too long, insisting on putting my face on the cover all the time.
“Why do you hate me, Jazz?” I mutter. “Please tell me you didn’t give those assholes your money.”
“What? Pfft, of course not,” she says with a laugh, snatching my hands away from my face to get back to work. “I said I picked it up, not that I bought it. I was in the checkout line at the store.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it said, I don’t want to know…”
“It said you and Miss Markson got married.”
I groan again. “I just said I didn’t want to know.”
“Well, I told you anyway,” she says. “So, what do you think about that?”
“I think you shouldn’t waste your brain cells on trashy tabloids. You’re better off sticking to the kinky books.”
She shoots me a look but drops the subject. I know what she’s asking. She's hinting around, trying to get me to spill what's been happening in my life since we filmed the last movie. She wants to know if there’s any truth to that story, but I’m not in the mood to get into it.
Once the makeup is done, I switch over to hair, before I bid Jazz goodbye and head to the wardrobe trailer to get my costume on. My stunt-double is there, already rocking the slick light blue and white suit.
I slip mine on—or well, I get shoved into it like they’re stuffing fucking sausage into its casing, the material showing every goddamn ripple, so they poke and prod and tape down and tuck. Mesh, and chrome, and layers of foam, covered in tweaked flexible material made to look like simple spandex without, you know, being spandex.
It’s as uncomfortable as you’re imagining.
“Congratulations, buddy,” my stunt-double says, slapping me on the back. “Heard you got hitched! Lucky man.”
I cringe. “Who told you that?”
“Jasmine.”
Jazz.
I’m going to strangle that woman.
It takes damn near thirty minutes to get me situated in the suit, to get my junk looking right and my muscles padded up, since I’m nowhere near superhero strong. I walk out when I’m done, running right into Serena with her assistant at her heels.
“Well, well, well,” Serena says, grinning, as she looks me over. “It’s good to see you back in that suit.”
I glance down at myself, stretching to try to loosen up the material. “I look ridiculous.”
She laughs. “You do not. You should wear it all the time. I’m talking all day, every day—even at night.”
“Keep dreaming, Ser.”
“Oh, I will.”
She slips past me, biting down on her bottom lip as she ogles me from the backside. It’s fucking embarrassing. I damn near blush, as ridiculous as it is, watching as her assistant steers her to wardrobe so we're not late to start today.
“Hey," I call out. "You should know that Jazz is telling everyone—”
“That we’re married? I know.” Serena rolls her eyes and laughs it off. “Apparently, we made the cover of Chronicles again.”
“Yeah, apparently,” I say as she goes inside the trailer, heading onto set once she’s gone.
It’s a long day. Take after take after take. I’m sweaty from running and tired from standing, my head pounding from the loud bangs and booms, the pyrotechnics rocking the neighborhood. There's a breech of security around mid-afternoon, a woman slipping past the barrier after the shots move to the exterior, but they catch her.
I try to not think about it. Try to not think about any of them. I try to not think about her when I feel eyes watching me, but it's hard pushing her from my mind. We're filming a sequence where Maryanne, the love of Breezeo’s life, had been kidnapped. Serena's tied up with a bomb about to go off, and it's my job to save her from imminent death.
I do it, and I do it well, pouring my soul into every moment. It's nearing the end of the story, even though we're still at the beginning of filming. It takes everything out of me, because endings are hard. Endings are fucking impossible... especially endings that remind me of a girl I'm trying damn hard not to think about.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we wrap for the day, my shoulders slumping as I run a hand through my hair. I try to walk away when Serena throws herself at me. The sun is setting, darkness creeping in, but the shuttering flash of cameras lights up the area as she jumps into my arms.
“That was amazing!” she says. “Like... wow. You acted your ass off, Johnny! You made me believe every word!”
She kisses me before I can respond, more camera flashes going off. It’s just a peck, but I imagine some paparazzo will be making a pretty penny on those pictures tonight. I can see it now. Caption: Johnny fucks Serena in front of everyone!
She pulls away when Cliff approaches.
“Great job, you two,” he says, his voice devoid of excitement, his gaze fixed on his Blackberry as usual. “They're going to stick to the current schedule, so you'll be back here in the morning, Johnny.”
“You, too, Serena,” her assistant says.
“Sounds great to me.” Serena grins as she backs away, her gaze lingering on me. “Get changed, Johnny. We’re celebrating!”
“Don’t stay out too late,” Cliff calls out. “Car will pick you both up tomorrow at six sharp!”
Serena makes a face at him but doesn’t argue, heading for the lingering crowd to greet everyone again.
“You did good, moody prick,” Cliff jokes, smacking me on the back. “Go get out of the suit. I know it has to be uncomfortable.”
I do just that, changing into my jeans and plain white t-shirt, putting my hat on. With filming done for the night, security has gone lax, the crowd moving closer onto set… close enough that some of them surround me when I step out of the trailer. Shit.
Cameras flash, a barrage of questions pelting me. “Johnny, can I have a picture?” “An autograph, Johnny?” “Can I have a hug?” Those I don’t mind, and I would do it all damn day long if it weren’t for the others. The vultures.
“How long have you and Serena been together?” “Is it true you two got married?” “What’s your father up to these days?” “Have you forgiven him?” “Have you seen him?” “When was the last time you even went home to visit?”
I hate the personal questions and never answer them. I hate the prying. I hate the rumors. I hate it all and for good reason—there are too many skeletons in my closet, too many secrets I’ve been concealing. Too many things I can’t let them taint in a world so pure that I’m no longer welcome in it.
Serena appears at my side, ready to go. She smiles, playing it up for the cameras, charming everyone as she answers what she can, answering what I won’t.
We have dinner at some exclusive private club in the Upper Eastside. Serena, having started her career modeling here in Manhattan, always seems to know everybody everywhere she goes. Some of her friends are hanging out, laughing and chatting, socialites and trust-fund assholes, sharing bottles of vintage wine and doing a few lines.
Cocaine.
As soon as the white powder surfaces, I’m making my excuse to go. These people used to be my people, too. Friends. But Serena's the only one who seems to be concerned about my hasty exit. She grabs my hand, trying to stop me when I stand, her green eyes eerily dark. “Please? Stay! Celebrate! We never get to hang out anymore like this.”
“I would... you know I would… if I could,�
� I say, nudging her chin as she stares up at me. “Don’t party too hard, okay?”
I leave before she can try to stop me again, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact. Instead of taking the awaiting limo and heading straight back to the hotel, I stroll a few blocks, slipping into a small bar. It’s quiet, not very busy despite it being Friday night. I find an empty stool along the edge of the bar as the bartender approaches.
It doesn’t take long, just a few seconds, before recognition happens, his eyes widening, but he doesn’t announce my presence.
“What can I get for you?” he asks, not calling me by name.
“Whatever’s on tap.”
He pours me a beer. I don’t ask what it is. I sit in silence after he slides it in front of me, wrapping my hands around the cold glass. I can smell it. It’s cheap. Not the cheapest shit, but still… cheap. My mouth waters, and I can damn near taste the golden liquid, my tongue tingling from anticipation as I stare at it.
“Something wrong?” the bartender asks after a few minutes, motioning to the beer I’m not drinking. “Would you like something different instead?”
“No, it’s fine. I just… I haven’t had a drink in a while.”
“How long?”
“Twelve months.”
It’s been a long year—longer since I touched anything harder. I’m stuck between steps eight and nine of AA, between admitting I’ve wronged people and making up for what I’ve done. You see, there’s a catch to those steps, one nobody mentions until you get there. It isn’t so cut and dry. There’s a bit of fine print to making amends that says ‘except when doing so would cause further harm’.
“So, I know it’s none of my business,” the bartender says, “but twelve months is one hell of a streak. You sure you want to ruin that?”
“No,” I admit. “Not sure about much these days.”
He doesn’t wait for me to say anything else. The beer in my hand is snatched away and replaced with Coke.
The soda. Not the drug.
“Been a while since I’ve had one of these, too,” I tell him, but I don’t hesitate to sip this drink. It’s heaven in a plastic pint glass. Soda does hell on the body, though, with the empty calories, the bloating. Or well, at least that’s what the nutritionist says that the studio hired to make sure I stay in shape.
“You wanna talk about it?” the bartender asks.
“About what?”
“About whatever has you almost breaking a twelve-month streak of sobriety tonight.”
I shake my head. I would if I could. It’s been eating me up inside. But what’s bothering me isn’t something I can talk about, because unlike most of what Hollywood Chronicles peddles, this is a real scandal.
“I appreciate it,” I say, taking another sip of the soda before standing up. I toss a few dollars down out of gratitude and turn to leave before I’m tempted to spill my guts and tell the guy a story that could earn him retirement-level money.
Using my phone, I order a car and step out of the bar as it connects me with a driver. Three minutes away. The second the warm night air greets me, something else does, too—a small crowd. A couple girls, just teenagers. Nobody ever gives teenage girls enough credit. They’re smart. They probably aren’t even old enough to hang out at a bar, but they knew how to track me down. No paparazzi yet, but they won’t be far. They never are.
The requests fly at me. Autographs. Pictures. Hugs. This time I stop for them. I’ve got three minutes to spare. The least I can do is give back to a few of the fans that have probably been looking for me all day. Hell, I'd be nothing without them. I scribble my name in sharpie on whatever they shove my way—pictures, t-shirts, even an arm—and take a few photos, putting on a smile that would make Cliff proud.
“Can you sign this? Please?” a blonde girl asks, shoving a DVD of the first Breezeo movie at me. “And make it out to Bethany?”
“Bethany,” I mumble, jotting down her name, earning a squeal when I say it out loud. “How you doing tonight?”
“Amazing,” she says, sounding like she means it. “My friends and I drove the whole way down here to see you when we found out you were filming.”
“Yeah? How’d you find out?”
“It was all over the gossip blogs,” she says. “There was even a video of Serena talking about it.”
Serena. No matter how many times she’s warned, she always slips up and says shit she shouldn’t. “So you drove down here? From where?”
“Bennett Landing,” she says.
My stomach sinks. “You’re from Bennett Landing?”
“Yep.”
“Nice place,” I lie—or maybe I’m not lying, but as everything gets fuzzy, it sure as hell feels that way. “I’ve been through there a few times.”
“I know!” she says. “Or well, I mean, I’ve heard stories.”
“Stories, huh? What kind of stories?”
“I heard you got arrested once for running around naked in Landing Park.”
She blushes as she spits out those words, while I laugh—genuinely laughing. I haven’t done that in a while. “Damn, didn’t think anybody knew about that.”
“They do. They talk about it all the time. They say you got drunk and went streaking.”
“Not quite,” I say. “I wasn’t streaking. I was with a girl.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Really,” I say. “She was hiding when the police showed up. The charges were dropped the next morning, but it’s nice to know my moment of indecent exposure lives on in infamy.”
She laughs. I laugh. It’s a nice moment. I almost forget myself because of it, letting my thoughts slip back to that time, letting myself think about that world again. Guilt eats me up inside. I take a photo with Bethany and sign a few more autographs before my car shows up to whisk me away. Six o’clock will come early, without a doubt, and I have a feeling I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
A few minutes outside the Albany city limits sits an elite private high school.
Fulton Edge Academy.
Fulton Edge has the distinction of having taught more government officials than any other school in the nation, an honor they carry with pride, evident in the fact that it’s displayed everywhere. Seriously. Everywhere. There’s even an unsightly banner hanging in the main corridor. College preparatory, with an emphasize on political science, it’s the perfect place for a high-profile congressman to send his rebellious teenage son—a fact you know well, considering that’s how you ended up here, drowning in a cesspool of blue and white uniforms for your fourth year in a row.
Classes have already started, first day of your last year, but you’re wandering around, in no hurry to get where you’re going—American Politics. Not to be confused with Comparative Politics, of course, which you’ll have later in the afternoon, bookending the oh-so-exciting subjects of Literature (Political Literature Between the World Wars) and Math (Mathematical Methods in Political Science). The only thing in your schedule unscathed is P.E., likely because they haven’t figured out how to incorporate the government.
Fifteen minutes late, you open the classroom door and walk in, disrupting the teacher already invested in a lecture. Your footsteps stall for a fraction of a second, like your feet can’t bear to go on, before you shut the door and commit to being here. You’re a walking, talking dress code violation, with your tie hanging loose, your white button-down not tucked in, a bit of chaos in the midst of manufactured perfection, throwing off the whole political prep school aesthetic.
“Mr. Cunningham,” the teacher says, casting you a narrowed look. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence this morning.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you head to the back of the classroom, to the lone empty desk. “Would’ve shown up sooner, but well… I didn’t really care to be here.”
There’s an awkward stirring, a throat clearing, a long pause of nobody talking, as you settle into your seat. You don’t ju
st throw off the aesthetic—you alter their whole image. It makes them uncomfortable.
“As I was saying,” the teacher says. “The Founding Fathers…”
The man talks. He talks a lot. You rock your chair on its hind legs. Your gaze scans the classroom, surveying your classmates, faces you know well but not ones you care to look at, until you glance to your right, to the desk beside you, and see her.
A face you’ve never seen before.
She’s just a girl, nothing special about her. Brown hair falls halfway down her back, hanging loose. Her skin isn’t sun-kissed like the other girls here. There are only three of them in the entire twelfth grade—three out of a class of thirty. A mere tenth of the senior population is female.
Maybe that’s why you stare, why you can’t seem to tear your eyes away. Girls are like unicorns in this place, even the most common ones. They can’t all be royalty.
Or maybe there’s another reason.
Maybe it’s something else that sets her apart.
Your gaze, it’s not easy to ignore, although the girl tries. Her skin prickles as if you’re touching her. A shiver flows down her spine. She’s fidgeting, toying with a cheap black ink pen on top of a notebook that she hasn’t yet written in.
Nervous, she lets go of the pen and balls her hands into fists as she shoves them beneath the desk. Your gaze lifts, blue eyes meeting hers for a moment before she looks away, acting as if she’s paying close attention to the lesson, but nobody cares that much about the formation of the first cabinet.
The class drags on for forever and a day. The teacher starts asking questions, and nearly everyone raises their hands. She keeps hers hidden beneath the desk, while you continue to rock your chair without a care.
Despite not volunteering, the teacher calls on you. Over and over. Cunningham. You rattle off answers, rather bored with it all. The others stumble, but you don’t even have to pause. You know your stuff. It feels a bit like a circus act, like a lion jumping through hoops.
If they poke you too much, making you perform, might you start ripping heads off? Hmm…
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