Chasing Stars

by Cody Ryder

  Chasing Stars

  Cody Ryder

  Written by Cody Ryder

  Copyright© 2019 by Cody Ryder. All rights reserved.

  Adapted with permission from a story previously written as Celeste Lake.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Hello!

  SUMMARY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading!

  Also by Cody Ryder

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  SUMMARY

  Wrecked car, wrecked movie, wrecked image. That’s Christopher Lawton: Hollywood’s latest celebrity wreck. After decking Hollywood’s most powerful producer in the face for blacklisting his movie, he’s hidden himself away at a secluded mountain resort called the Constellation Lodge to avoid media attention until the whole thing blows over. He expected to be bored out of his mind. He didn’t expect to meet Jackson.

  Jackson Baker hates the film industry. His whole family is big in the business, but he wants nothing to do with the hollow, toxic world behind the glitz and glam. Self-exiled to the Constellation Lodge, he needs to finish his second novel and prove that he can succeed without the assistance of his well-connected family.

  Christopher loves that Jackson has no clue of who he is, but he can’t keep his celebrity a secret forever. Will the truth ruin a connection that seems to be written in the stars?

  One

  "Christ, Pamela," Christopher said into the phone to his agent. "I feel like I'm in a fucking prison camp here, or something. I can't do anything! What is there to do in a ski lodge in the summer? There's not a single flake of snow outside."

  He paced around the room, which was admittedly very nice, even though it'd been his prison cell for the past week and a half. It was the Constellation Lodge's presidential suite, and there were definitely worse places in California for him to be lying low. But he was Christopher Lawton. He was a city guy, not some secluded mountain type. He missed his house back in the Hollywood Hills. He missed hitting up all the spots downtown and pretending to be irritated at the paparazzi chasing him for photos. He missed his Porsche.

  Oh, the Porsche. He winced, remembering the crumpled hood and the lamp post, folded over like one of those flailing balloon men from the furniture ads. He’d buy a new one when he got back to Hollywood, or maybe two. He could get the new electric one—he’d be saving the environment. It'd be good PR. And he needed good PR. That was the reason why he was here, after all.

  "Oh Jesus, Christopher. Don't be so fucking dramatic. Watch TV, go hiking, I don't know. Just stay out of trouble."

  He opened the patio door and stepped outside, a blast of crisp mountain air and the chirping of birds greeting him. It smelled like rain was coming. "You know what really annoys me, Pamela? Knowing it’s not getting arrested that forced me out here, it's that piece of shit Gregory Wardlow. He was lucky he got away with his teeth intact."

  "I'm right there with you, Christopher. The guy is an asshole. Always has been. But let's be real here, that fuckin’ freezer bag of white powder the cops found in your car didn't help. People at the studios are throwing the words 'blacklist' and your name in the same sentence."

  "Friends of Wardlow, obviously. And that wasn't my coke. And it definitely wasn't a freezer bag. Now who's being dramatic?"

  It really hadn’t been his coke; it had belonged to his friend and former co-star Maddy Sloane. She must've left it in his car the last time they went out for a party at Leonardo DiCaprio's place in Malibu. Then there'd been that headline in the tabloids, "CHRISTOPHER AND MADDY, HOOKING UP?" accompanied by an embarrassing telephoto shot of the two of them walking arm in arm back to his place after a night out. It wasn't anything like that, though. He was drunk and had nearly rolled his ankle going down the mansion’s front stairs, so she’d just been giving him some support. There was no sleeping together involved. She’d passed out on the couch.

  Not that Maddy hadn't been into him. She’d tried to seduce him when they’d first met, but had gotten the picture pretty quickly that he wasn’t into women. For some reason, quite a few had refused to speak with him after learning he was gay. Maybe he had a problem with being a bit too playful, a bit too flirtatious, but Maddy was one of the rare few who’d stuck by him. She was surprisingly protective of him, and he appreciated that about her.

  And of course, now all the tabloids were filled with stories about him punching producer Gregory Wardlow in the face at an Oscars after party, and about how he’d crashed his car into a lamp post while drunk driving. The drunk driving thing should never have happened, but he was just so fucking angry about the Wardlow incident.

  "Anyway," Pamela said, "let me just get all this shit sorted out. You keep lying low. It'll be over before you know it, and you'll be back to work. I'll be in touch with more updates. Try to enjoy yourself, huh? Some people would call a couple weeks out in the mountains a vacation."

  After they hung up, he put the phone on the patio railing and looked out through the line of pine trees that stood against a backdrop of rolling mountains and a crystal blue lake. The room was on the fourth floor and was said to have the best view of Santos Mountain. It really was a wonderful view, and Pamela was right, he shouldn't be complaining, but this wasn't his environment. At least he’d been able to bring Lady, his German Shepherd. He would've absolutely refused to go if he couldn't bring her with him. He looked over his shoulder into the room and smiled. His little baby girl was curled up in her bed on the floor next to the couch, snoring.

  Out in the distance, Christopher saw thick grey clouds creeping their way over the tops of the mountains. Yup, definitely rain. Wasn't it late for rain? It was already early May. Climate change. He definitely would buy one of those new electric Porsches.

  A flash of lighting arced down from a cloud and struck one of the rocky faces of the distant mountain tops, and Christopher's jaw dropped. Shit! He couldn't remember the last time he’d actually seen real lightning in person. Was it going to rain that hard?

  BOOM.

  He jolted in surprise as the explosive sound of thunder rolled over him, causing his hand to sweep out across the railing, smacking his cell phone. Oh shit. He watched with horror as it went tumbling out into space, and a second later was greeted with a dulled smack as it hit the ground. He looked over the railing. There was a set of benches down below, and on one of them sat a young man with dark, wavy hair, who was clutching a laptop tightly on his thighs as he stared in surprise at the cell phone that had come frightfully close to knocking him straight on the head. The man turned around and craned his neck, squinting up towards the balcony at Christopher.

  "I'm so sorry!" Christopher shouted. "I'll be right down."

  God, if it had hit hi
m? "CHRISTOPHER LAWTON ASSAULTS MAN WITH CELL PHONE!"

  "Stay, baby girl," Christopher said to Lady, and hurried out of the room, hoping the man wouldn't make a big deal over it.

  There were two common responses to situations like this. They'd recognize who he was and nod and grin with that deer-in-the-headlights look. In that situation, it usually ended up with him taking a photo or signing an autograph. Sometimes, they'd even make it out to be their fault. Like when Lady had accidentally knocked over a woman on the sidewalk. As soon as she’d realized the dog belonged to Christopher she'd gotten all apologetic, like she shouldn’t have been so clumsy.

  Or, they'd recognize him and do everything they could to milk as much out of him as possible. It was far less common than response number one, but still common enough to be a worry. Especially at a time like this. Pamela would kill him. No, no, that was a gross overstatement. First, she'd lecture him like the overbearing mom that she was, and then she'd quickly and quietly take care of everything, because she was the best agent in town. Fucking love you, Pamela, he thought.

  The elevator reached the lobby, and Christopher strode quickly through. He was in his lazy clothes, just a dirty sweater and sweatpants, so he really didn't want to be seen. Good thing the lodge was so empty. It almost seemed as if he were one of the only guests staying. Every time he’d brought Lady out for a walk, he’d hardly seen anyone around except for the skeleton-crew staff manning the place. But that was the point, wasn't it? Pamela had chosen the place specifically for its solitude and discretion.

  God, the whole thing was ridiculous. He didn't need to be in hiding, for Christ's sake.

  The lodge was designed in the Craftsman architectural style with high vaulted ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, and a big fireplace that was always burning even during warm nights. It was almost evening, and one of the lodge employees was busy prepping the fireplace with wood. She looked over her shoulder and fumbled comically with the log in her hands when she saw him walking by. Christopher added it to his little mental list, chuckling quietly to himself. Over the time he’d been at the Constellation Lodge, he’d already seen the poor teenaged girl trip over her feet, stumble into a bush, nearly drop a stack of plates, and be reprimanded by her boss for gawking at him.

  Christopher could have that sort of effect on people, both men and women. He was what some might describe as achingly gorgeous. The first thing people seemed to notice were his eyes. He had these heavy eyelids that made him look like he was either tired or perpetually glowering. His figure was the type that could model sort of clothing and make it look striking. He was tall, and during his youth was teased for how skinny he was. It wasn’t until he became a teenager and discovered the wide world of the Internet and all the variety of people on it that he began to find power in his own body and how it looked. He became interested in fashion and exercise, and what was once awkward and gangly became powerful and poised. He took control, lifted himself up.

  But self-doubt and self-hate were still constant threats. That was the poison of the industry. Pamela had his back, but it was still a fight against producers like Gregory Wardlow who wanted his body to be a certain way and had no qualms with referring to him and others as pieces of meat. Too muscular, not muscular enough, too much belly fat, viewers want this, that and the other. It was the kind of environment that could drive people insane, and it did. He couldn't even be sure if he was still sane. And what was sane, anyway? All he knew was that he'd gone through one hell of a fight to be where he was now.

  And yet, he still wasn't actually in control, not really. His career was in the hands of people who would and could put their boot heel into a project simply because they were intolerant, hateful pricks more concerned with their bottom line than creating something worthwhile. And it seemed like he, no matter how hard he tried, had no control over his own wild impulses. His blessing and his curse. It was that energy that had been responsible for pushing him to this point, but it could also very well end up being his downfall. He could fearlessly throw himself headfirst into a role… And he could also punch one of the most powerful men in Hollywood straight in the face.

  Bastard deserved it, though.

  The problem was that only Wardlow’s side of the story was going to get told. Nobody would know the real reason why he’d clocked him, just that it was that wild Christopher Lawton. Let's see what other crazy shit he’ll get up to. Oh look, he got a DUI and wrecked his car. A real great role model for young people everywhere.

  He pushed open the heavy redwood front door and jogged around to the sitting area. The man was still there, looking down at his laptop. He looked to be around Christopher's age, twenty-five or twenty-six, maybe a bit younger. His face was framed by dark rimmed glasses that rested on cheeks lightly dusted with freckles, like a sprinkling of cinnamon on cream. He wore a puffy green jacket and a worn pair of light blue jeans. He reminded Christopher of himself, back when he was young. Somewhat awkward and a bit frumpy. Frumpy. He hated that term, it sounded like a dirty pair of underwear. No, not frumpy, just plain.

  God, he really needed to stop being so superficially judgmental, but it was just another one of those things that sort of crept into your personality after time in the industry—or just living in Los Angeles in general.

  The man looked up from his laptop and smiled, blinking at him. "Hi," he said. Christopher's cell phone sat on the bench beside him. It'd landed on the bare dirt, but he could see the screen was cracked with a spider web fracture going up from its bottom right corner. He cringed. He was gonna be stuck with that thing until he could get back home.

  "Hi, there," said Christopher. "I'm so sorry about that. Are you okay? It didn't hit you, did it?"

  "Oh, it's nothing," the man said. "It got my shoulder, but that's it."

  Jesus. Too close. Christopher rushed over to his side and touched his shoulder. "Shit. Is it okay?"

  "Really, I'm fine."

  "I should give you my contact information," he said. "Just in case."

  "No, no, really," the man said. "You don't need to. I have tough shoulders." He handed Christopher the cell phone and gave him an apologetic smile. "Maybe a little too tough. Is your phone okay?"

  Christopher tapped the button, and the screen lit up, but he could barely read anything behind the splintered glass. At least it was a reason to avoid going online and reading what all the websites were saying about him.

  "It's a new look," Christopher said, and the man laughed. He had a handsome smile, bright and toothy and one-hundred percent genuine. Christopher felt his guard drop, just a little. "You know what?" he said. "I bet if your shoulder wasn't there to soften the blow, there would've been nothing left of this thing to salvage. So, thank you for that."

  The man held out his hand. "Jackson," he said. "Nice to meet you."

  "Christopher." He shook Jackson's hand. He honestly couldn't tell if Jackson recognized him or not. Some people could be low-key like that, those who didn't get star struck or didn't really care about actors. Or maybe he didn't recognize him. Not that it bothered him or that he wanted him to recognize him in some narcissistic way. Christopher was just used to most people he met behaving how the girl inside had. "I was beginning to think I was the only person staying here. I've been here for a week and a half and it feels deserted."

  "I know what you mean," Jackson said. "I've been here for three weeks, and this is the first time I've ever seen you around. But, you know, that's the whole reason why you come to a place like this off season, right?"

  "I wouldn't have chosen to come here if I could help it," Christopher said. "It's too quiet for me. If I didn't have Lady with me, I probably wouldn't be able to sleep. I keep thinking of The Shining, or something."

  Jackson laughed. "Trust me, I've had the same thought." He gave his laptop a glance, in the way that someone might look in the direction of their spouse when gossiping with a friend about them out of earshot.

  Christopher realized he'd been absolutely dying for conversa
tion with someone, and the fact that Jackson didn't seem to know or care who he was only made him want to talk with him more. So many of his friends back home mysteriously were too busy to take his calls or even reply to text messages. Even Maddy seemed to be avoiding him. Curious. But not really. He knew the reason why, and as depressing as it was, he understood. All of his friends were actors, and he'd become an untouchable. Until all this got sorted out, anyone who associated with him could end up finding themselves being turned down for work. It was ridiculous. All of this, just because of one sensitive man who couldn't comprehend why the world needed another "picture about a couple of fags."

  Sure, maybe that hadn’t been a good excuse to punch him in the face. But it was guys like him who were responsible for the state of Hollywood. No, the state of the world, and he’d had enough.