Lose Me: (New Adult Billionaire Romance) (Broken Idols)

by M. C. Frank

  “It’s okay, honey, when you’re serious about your career, give me a call.”

  I didn’t get mad at her—well, no more than expected. But she started me thinking.

  How serious was I about my career?

  Matt had called me two days before. I called him back, and accepted his offer of a job in England, trying not to overthink things or doubt myself.

  After that, everything happened so fast, it’s almost a blur. Only last week, I flew to Seattle with Coach for twenty-four hours, for an intensive training session, although Matt wasn’t there himself. But it was awesome, we did everything.

  And I do mean everything.

  Which brings us to now.

  ◊◊◊

  I walk into one of those fancy schools you only read about in glossy art magazines or hear mentioned as the school where some award winning actor got their start. From the outside, the Academy just looks like a normal building, squeezed between red and brown London brick-walled houses. But as soon as I walk in, awe mixed with dread grabs me.

  The space is large. Carpeted floors, high ceilings, bright lights, no-nonsense. I think it would be a bit less intimidating if it was avant-garde and pretentious. I ride the elevator to the fifth floor and enter one of the many stage rooms of the school, and that’s when I first hear the yelling. It’s obvious that the audition has started, and if I may take a wild guess, I’ll say it’s not going very well.

  The theatre is a big room, filled with soft, yellow lighting, and, apart from the yelling, there’s a general hush, as if there’s a play going on. On the other end of the room, there’s a wide wooden stage with small steps leading up to it from the sides.

  Rows and rows of bench-like seats reach all the way to the front, their backs to me, but they look really comfortable and modern, as they’re covered in black leather cushions. The theatre room is rounded back here, looking like the hull of a ship, and rows of seats run across the walls as well, in two separate balconies.

  Matt has assured me that this production is going to be nothing like First Sentences, which is fine by me. I want to start with something on a smaller scale, until I can feel sure of myself again. This shoot will be for a short film or films, which will be produced by a collaboration between students of different art schools. The Academy is one of these schools, and, having the biggest stage, it’s where the shoot will take place. The students will be the actors, the screenwriters, the directors, everything. They only needed a couple of stunt actors, and our pay will come out of their own pockets. The students’, that is. Which is either strange or alarming, but Matt said it’s okay, they’re all rich kids. That’s literally all he told me.

  And then we’d spent hours talking about the stunts I’ll be expected to do and having extended skype sessions about them, until Coach was satisfied I could do them pretty decently. That’s how it usually works, I’m only told my own part of the job. The rest is on a need-to-know basis.

  I walk down the aisle, a wooden floorboard crunching under my shoes. I shudder as cold seeps through my five layers of clothing—although I’m dressed warmly, this piercing cold is a long way from winter in Corfu. I think it might have started to snow out there as I was coming in.

  The yelling intensifies, then stops.

  A voice speaks calmly in a low baritone for a second, and everyone seems to relax. As I quietly head for the backstage door, Matt walks out in front of the stage. The theatre is dimly lit, only half of its lights on, but as he comes closer I can see that he looks exactly like he did four months ago, when I first met him, and I’m suddenly thrown. The mere sight of him almost transports me back to the set of First Sentences.

  I shake the feeling off with an effort, as I walk down to meet him. “Hey.”

  He just nods to me and frowns heavily, his long legs swallowing the distance between us.

  He looks mad. Why is Matt angry? If I had any time to think, I would be freaking out right now. Or rather, the Ari of a few months ago, who had just come out of the hospital, would be. This Ari, with her first paycheck already in the bank, and about to start a new job away from home, is an altogether different person.

  At least I hope she is.

  Matt places a hand lightly on my back and leads me wordlessly to a corner. The first three rows, right in front of the stage, are full of students.

  “Are you ready?” Matt asks, looking into my eyes.

  I nod.

  “We got started kind of early,” he says calmly. “So you haven’t had time to practice on this particular stage, but the equipment is exactly like the stuff you used in Seattle, so it won’t be a problem. Oh, one more thing. The filming will actually take place on this very stage, so be as precise as you can with your movements, that’s what they’re looking for.”

  He’s leaning towards me, his back turned towards the stage. Behind him, two tall guys around my age take their seats in the front row, where a white table has been placed in the wide aisle between the seats and the stage.

  “Are. . . are they doing the casting?” I ask, eyeing them incredulously.

  “Yep,” Matt says, giving no further explanation.

  I was hoping for a bit more information; all I know is that the plot of the film is something Shakespeare. That’s as far as my knowledge goes. Oh, and the title of course. Sweet Prince.

  “Is everyone except me a student?” I ask.

  “Yes, but not all of them are Academy students,” Matt replies, helping me change out of my coat as the remaining lights begin to go out one by one, plunging the auditorium into darkness. He opens the backstage door. Immediately, my ears fill with noise.

  A group of students are talking excitedly and nervously, most of them in whispers, waiting for their turn.

  “They’ve come from schools all over the world, apparently,” Matt says. “This collab project is going to be different. . . there’s someone involved which makes it an exception. A special someone.”

  The way he says ‘special’ makes me think spoiled, rich kids. Nice.

  “Gear in there?” He points at my bag.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on.”

  From what I can see from the wings, the stage is a miracle. It’s easily as big as the top floor of my flat in Corfu, and it must be about half as wide as the soccer field at the town centre. There’s a jungle of hidden lights, microphones and wiring hovering way above the auditioning actors’ heads. A scaffolding frame, loaded with more lights and scenery, is turning the ceiling into a sci-fi star-studded galaxy sky. One by one the students take the stage and recite poetry.

  At some point, even I can recognize the lines.

  ‘To be or not to be. . .’

  Ah. Hamlet. Of course. British people love Hamlet. A sudden thought passes like a flash through my brain: how Wes loved reading. How he loves reading—I try to think of him mostly in past tense, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t currently somewhere in the world, creating art, being brilliant. And the irony of it, me standing right here, in a place full of actors, in his homeland.

  Okay, dangerous territory, let’s steer away from it. Focus on the students standing all around you, waiting for their turn.

  Some of them are wearing really cool body suits, mostly made of black leather, closely fitted and body shaping, like uniforms. They look like some kind of alien creatures. Nobody is paying attention to me, they are all reciting lines or biting their nails nervously, so I change quickly into my leotard and leggings, slipping into the uniform they sent me. Then I start my warming up routine. I’m in the middle of my breathing exercises and stretching, when I hear a small, unsure voice next to me, whispering in my ear:

  “You look like you know what you’re doing?”

  I turn to find a heart-shaped face framed with blonde curls and rosy cheeks, looking up to me with a terrified expression. She looks about fifteen, and she’s so small her head barely reaches my shoulder.

  “You don’t go here, do you?” she adds, taking an appreciative look at my
wig—I still wear them—which happens to be an orange close-cropped bob that pops against my all black latex outfit. I wanted to be myself in the audition, at least, and then they can put whatever hair they want on me.

  A week ago, Matt had told me that the audition was just a technicality, since it was up to him to pick the stunt performers, but just now he’d sounded really concerned. I didn’t ask him what was going on, he seemed to be in a hurry, but my stomach starts cramping up. Deep breaths. You’ve got this. I’ve done this particular routine about a million times this past month alone. It’s almost gotten boring. Almost.

  “I’m Rosie,” the girl says. “First semester.” Her accent is so cool, it feels like she may have come straight out of one of those Pride and Prejudice films I watched for First Sentences.

  “Ari,” I reply, “stunt girl.” Her china blue eyes go round with surprise.

  “What are you auditioning for?” I ask her, as I approach the bar and stretch. Outside, the audience bursts into friendly, comfortable laughter as one of the dudes that was reading Hamlet’s lines tried one of the most precarious stunts—which I will be performing in a minute—and fell on his face.

  Then a sharp voice yells something and the laughter is cut short. Rosie turns scarlet.

  “I’m not an actor,” she says, looking horrified, and that’s when I notice her apron. It reaches to her knees, ending in pink frills, and it’s got all kinds of needles and scraps of fabric strapped to it, as well as two huge pockets filled with buttons and zippers. She’s also got a tape slung around her shoulders.

  “Costumes.” I smile, remembering that stick lady from First Sentences.

  She nods with enthusiasm. “Do you like them?” she gestures to a tall, thin girl wearing one of the alien costumes.

  “Well. . . ” I start. “They’re gorgeous, actually, but not. . . ”

  “Not what?” Her eyes go huge in panic.

  Okay, that was a mistake. “Not very medieval,” I say as calmly as I can, and drop to the ground for a few push-ups.

  She laughs, clapping her hands.

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” she says as she takes in my questioning look. “Haven’t you read the script? It’s Hamlet set in a post-apocalyptic universe, on the last day of the earth. Didn’t you kno—didn’t you realize? Yeah, it’s not exactly a school project, like other Academy Short Films, it has a producer and everything, proper directors from Hollywood and mad stuff like that, that’s why everyone is so crazy to get a part in it. There’s even a conductor from a New York college. The writer, this actor, he’s going here, and he decided to film it in a really artistic way, like a film but taking place on a theatre stage, as though it was the actual play. . . I think it’s quite brilliant, really, as ideas go. You’ll see.”

  Post-apocalyptic. . . Last day of the earth. . . I see.

  “So it’s not actually Hamlet.” Just checking.

  “But it is,” she insists. “That’s the brilliance of it. They recite only the original play’s words, see? The guy who is playing Hamlet, he’s just a stand-in so that he can interact with the actors who are auditioning. The actual actor who will play Hamlet, he’s over there. . . ”

  She starts pointing, but I interrupt her. Let’s not allow the anxiety levels rise to ‘post-apocalyptic’ levels, shall we?

  “Right,” I say, swallowing down a clot of nerves. “I think I’m next.”

  I’ll kill you, Matt. Dude never said anything about post-apocalyptic, I’ve never worked on a post-apocalyptic set before. Will there be a green screen? Will I have to wear special gear?

  Will I. . . ?

  There’s a teeny tiny bit of a possibility that I might be out of my depth.

  In about five seconds my name is called.

  I walk out into the blinding yellow lights. Way in the distance, the ‘casting directors’ or whatever look tiny in their seats. There’s four people sitting there, but I can only see the outline of their silhouettes against the bright spotlight’s beam, and I have to look away quickly, because my eyes hurt.

  “Ready when you are,” someone says in a really obnoxious voice, like I’m in X Factor.

  The stage manager, an intern, walks on stage. Behind him is a guy who’s wearing a utility belt. They hook my waist with the wire, testing that everything is okay. The intern pats me on the shoulder and he’s gone. I turn to look sideways at the DJ, a lanky guy with torn jeans and a black tee that says Death on it in letters dripping with blood. He winks at me and presses play.

  This is it. Go.

  As I’m lifted in the air, I reach out my hands to grab a bar that hopefully will be where I expect it to be, and cold metal meets my skin. Matt was right, so far the distances seem to work pretty much the way they did in Seattle.

  I bring my knees up and balance on the beam for a second, a few steps below the lights—it feels like a million degrees up here—and then I let myself fly. I tuck my feet in, legs straight like an arrow, and spread my hands out like a bird. I don’t land, though, the string allows me to float around the stage for a bit, until it’s time for me to push myself to the centre and slightly to the right of the stage. I flip over, coming full circle, and the movement propels me to land on a prop that looks like a rock and I hope it’s sturdy because it’s about ten meters from the ground and I wouldn’t like to discover it can’t support my weight too late.

  I land on it lightly and turn the cord sideways on my waist.

  I am going to dive for the ground, and it can’t be in my way. The music settles into a low, rhythmic beat that’s really simple, but has an infinite quality of sadness to it. This is the turning point. I take a deep breath and bring in my arms to hug my legs to my chest. I bend my body down low, and jump off. I do three quick somersaults in the air before the ground is staring me in the face, at spitting distance, and then the cord tightens around me, suspending me in the air and giving me just enough time to straighten my body so that I land on one knee, my leg bent at a perfect ninety degrees angle. I look up as though at the lens of a camera and the music fades to a stop.

  The blinding lights go off one by one and a lone ray of light remains, focused on my head like a spotlight, as I get to my feet and face the judges, blinking at the harsh light. I try to discern their faces, still blinded by the glare of the stage lights. And that’s when it happens.

  I stumble.

  I almost fall flat on my face, that’s how bad I stumble. I have to press my palms on the wooden floor to find my balance and stand up again. I’m shaking so badly, my teeth might be chattering. This can’t be happening.

  One of the four figures motions to me impatiently to approach, and I walk on trembling legs to the front of the stage and just stand there, shaking. The one who motioned to me is a lean guy in a pristine white Oxford shirt, collar sticking up almost to his ears, black hair falling over his widow’s peak, combed to perfection. He’s Asian. There’s an intelligent, keen look in his eyes as he looks me up and down quickly, and then he just looks away, bored. He looks pretty young and pretty arrogant, but the others seem to have let him be in charge for some weird reason.

  He opens his mouth and tells me something, and although I recognize his voice as the obnoxious one that told me ‘ready when you are’ right before I started, I don’t hear what he says.

  I run my eyes over the other two guys, a tall, muscular one with a tan and striking eyes, and Matt. And then there’s the last one.

  He’s sitting in his chair, back straight, looking slightly away from me. The first thing I notice about him is that he has a buzz cut. Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize him immediately. He looks tougher and younger at the same time. His cheekbones and jaw are more pronounced now that there are no blonde curls flopping over his ears, making his eyes look huge and haunted. There’s a steely look of determination in them that chills me to my bones. His face is all angles. He’s wearing a light gray sweater with a V-neck that ends right below his Adam’s apple, and his long fingers are clasped lightly i
n front of him.

  He has a glass of clear water in front of him and a notepad, as they all do, but he’s immobile, touching neither. His eyes are glued to a spot right above my right ear and he looks bored out of his mind.

  He turns to his left, where Matt is seated, and suddenly his voice fills the room.

  “Two days. Tops,” he says to him and Matt just nods with a pained look on his face. “Then she’s gone.”

  “Can’t we just. . . ” the muscled guy starts saying, and he sounds more amused than anything, but he’s cut off abruptly.

  “No. we can’t. Who’s next?” he asks, expecting the others to look at the list, because he doesn’t move a muscle.

  I stand there, frozen, hardly breathing. Straight-haired guy curses softly under his breath and nudges the immobile form next to him, then bends his head low to meet Matt’s gaze across his tall form. He nods in my direction, and Matt gets up with his long, measured stride to walk up the steps to the stage. He reaches me and takes my arm.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear softly and begins to lead me away. His voice barely registers. “Come on,” he nudges me. I hadn’t realized I wasn’t moving. “You did perfect.”

  Oh yes, the audition.

  Did I finish it? I must have. I don’t remember even getting here. Did I take a cab? Someone is dragging me by the waist and I try to put one foot in front of the other, but Matt has to almost lift me off my feet, because my body won’t obey me.

  Someone calls the name of the next person who will audition.

  My head snaps around of its own accord to look at the desk again. My brain is numb, my body is frozen.

  No. No, I’m hallucinating, it can’t be.

  This can’t be happening. Anything but this. It’s not him, it’s not. It’s not possible.

  “Get a move on,” an angry voice hisses at Matt and me—his voice.

  Wes’ voice. He’s the guy with the buzz cut, the V-neck and the glass of water. He’s the casting director. He’s here, in London, in the school I’m supposed to work.