Chapter 6

Dylan

I’ll be honest, I had pretty much assumed that I’d used all my luck up. If not for actually making it big in Hollywood, then for getting away with sleeping with so many women, getting into so many fights, and offending so many people with my face relatively intact.

But Lady Luck seems to be a Dylan Marlowe fan, and her latest present is a good one. The girl who got away is now back, at my beck and call. Legally required by her work contract to be around me, with me, and watching me for every second that we’re shooting this movie. The deal couldn’t be any sweeter.

Oh, and the big comeback movie with a hotshot director that landed in my lap isn’t too bad, either.

The only thing that’s funny about the whole deal is how ‘professional’ Gemma’s being. I can almost believe that she thinks it’s not going to happen again – but only almost. I felt the way her lips curved to taste mine, I felt the way she softened under my hands, I noticed the shuddering tickle of her fingers pulling me to her. Though to be fair, I love a good chase, and I couldn’t think of a better target than her.

It’s going to be fun, which is just what I need right now.

I stride across the studio lot, shooting greetings and winks to the crew like it’s the red carpet. They seem pretty cool, and just as I’d expect from this director, extremely professional. I really should try this ‘professional’ thing some time, it seems to be becoming very popular.

The director’s supposed to be meeting me today. He’s set up an office in the studio building behind the set, and when I get to his door, it’s open.

“Hello?” I say, stepping into a room filled with papers, pictures, and equipment.

“Dylan!” a reedy voice says from somewhere amongst the piles. I look towards the source and see a geeky-looking short guy with a baseball cap and thick, black glasses smiling at me. He offers his hand, and I shake it. “Finally! We get to meet! I’m Christopher West.”

“Yeah, not a moment too soon, either.”

“Sorry about that,” he says, fidgeting with his papers and looking around him alertly like a kid that’s been drinking sodas all day. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

After a little searching, I find the chair amongst the boxes and piles and sit down.

“Lot of mess here,” I say, as Christopher continues touching papers and boxes on his way down to sitting a position.

“Yeah, I’m still setting this place up. I should have done it weeks ago, but I’ve had no time what with all the pre-production. I want this to be a quick shoot.”

“Why’s that?”

Christopher looks directly at me for the first time since I shook his hand. “It’ll be good for the vibrancy of the movie. A sense of urgency, of chaos. That’s what I’m going for here.”

I shrug. “I keep hearing that, but it seems like I’m expected to be as buttoned-up and punctual as I’ve ever been before.”

“Yeah. Well, I want your energy, Dylan. I want you to let loose on this movie. I want you to grab it in your fists and just ravage it.”

I cross my arms and try to make my voice sound reasonable, controlled. “Then why do I have a babysitter? Did you have anything to do with that?”

Christopher leans back and swivels his chair to the side so he can fiddle with some more papers.

“It was the studio’s idea, but yes, I signed off on it.”

I narrow my eyes as I study the guy. He looks like a mad genius, and has a quick, sharp voice that makes you feel like he’s already two steps ahead of you. But at least he’s honest.

“I don’t understand,” I say, as he swivels back to face me and strains to keep his hands in one place. “If you want this shoot to be all about ‘urgency’ and genuine emotions, why have me under lock and key like a wild animal?”

“Because, Dylan, if you’re going away and blowing off steam at some wild party, or getting into fights, or whatever it is you do, then you won’t have anything left for the movie.”

Shit. Checkmate. The guy’s got me there.

“It’s still a little much, don’t you think?”

Christopher pops a stick of gum in his mouth and smiles.

“Look at you now. You’re on edge. You came into this meeting already riled up about this. You’re feeling trapped, restrained. I understand it. But think about what’s going to happen when you get in front of the camera? It’s all going to come out. That’s what I want.”

“Why do I feel like I’m a guinea pig?”

Christopher laughs.

“I like you, Dylan. I don’t think anybody was wrong when they said you were one of the greatest actors of our generation. But you know what your problem is?”

“People who think I have a problem are my problem.”

He barks out a laugh. “You’re misdirecting your energy! I look at the movies you’ve done over the past few years and I don’t see a bad actor. I don’t see an actor who’s out of his depth, or who doesn’t give a shit. I see an actor who’s doing a half-assed job so that he can get back to his full-on life.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad state of things to me.”

“Maybe. But for the duration of this movie, I want you to do a full-on job and live a half-assed life. And I think you do too, in a way.”

I rub my face and look out the window. Why is it that all the smart guys in Hollywood try to psychoanalyze me?

“Frankly, I don’t even know why you hired me if you were watching the movies I’ve been doing lately.”

“I didn’t.”

My face drops for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t hire you based on those movies, God no! You were fucking awful in most of them! Anything pre-five years ago is a stinker. You were sleepwalking through those roles.”

“Christ. Well break it to me gently, why don’t you?”

“Dylan, I hired you because of the stuff you were doing away from the movies.”

I raise an eyebrow, wondering where he’s going with this.

“That interview you did, for that comedy with the redhead,” he continues, leaning forward as his voice gets even more excited, “where that guy was asking you dumb questions, and you just get more and more prickly, this deadly quality coming into your eyes. Until eventually your face is just killing this poor guy, it’s just a face, not moving at all, but it’s so powerful, so projected, it just pops off the screen.”

“Well he had it coming to him.”

“Then there was that clip online, where the photographer is following you, and you just snap,” Christopher clicks his fingers, a big smile on his face, “turn around, and it’s like you’re twice the size, every muscle in your body poised and ready to knock this guy’s lights out, but instead you talk calmly, with this pitch in your voice that’s just so menacing. That’s something no actor I can think of right now can manage.”

“It wasn’t acting.”

“Of course. And neither is what you’ll be doing on this set, if we keep you in check.”

I look at this guy for a few moments, studying the childish excitement in his eyes. Combined with the intelligence of what he’s saying, there’s no doubt that this guy has something about him – a touch of genius, or madness. I find myself smiling a little, partly because I’m more than a little impressed, and partly because there’s something in that deal which kind of throws his plan off – Gemma. If Christopher is worried I’ll blow off a lot of steam without her, then he has no idea how much I intend to blow with her.

We sit and chat for a while longer, getting into the details of the script and the plot. Christopher can barely say anything without offering some new perspective on it, without presenting a handful of new ways to approach things. Once we’ve both had enough, I make an excuse and leave, stepping out of the office and onto the lot.

“He’s in there with Christopher now. Probably asking for time off already.”

“I’m telling you man, record everything. This will be one of those movie flops so big they make documentaries about it.”

I freeze mid-step, feeling my blood boil. But something keeps me standing there listening, like when you see a nasty car wreck on the side of the freeway and you can’t tear your eyes away from it.

“Dude, Christopher is really playing with fire. He can have any actor on the planet, any single one, and instead he wants the one guy that can ruin a movie before it’s even wrapped.”

“Can, dude, it’s just a matter of time. We’ve got a pool going with a few of the guys on what’s gonna happen first. Fighting on the lot and getting fired for being late are on top, but my money’s on him just getting drunk and improvising all the scenes. Guy’s a fucking notorious alcoholic. A real fucking mess. Ever since—”

I’ve heard enough. I step around the corner, fists tight at my sides, and look to where the voices are coming from, but there’s just a mass of random crewmembers moving around doing their jobs with laser focus. I suppose they heard me, assumed I was about to explode, and hid. It’s probably for the best, or else that gambling pool would be over already.

All of the good feeling I had from talking with Christopher dissipates into the air like so much smoke. My blood is still running hot, and I march over to my trailer, desperate to get away from all these fucking assholes that I’ve spent most of my life trying to get away from.

When I get inside I slam the door and start pacing up and down so hard the trailer is rocking slightly.

Do these people really think I need them? Do they really think I give a shit about their boring-ass movies enough to put up with this shit?

What do these people know about me? About my past? These boring fucks with their tiny lives untainted by sorrow and darkness. These idiotic, simple-minded morons who just tick over day after day hoping that nobody notices them, hoping that they’ll survive just long enough to find another rock they can hide under. The closest they ever come to greatness is pointing at someone like me, someone who aimed for the top and made it, and trying to bring them down.

I may be a fucking actor, and I may have more money than a decent person would know what to do with, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what loss is. It doesn’t mean I don’t deal with pain every single day.

Memories start flooding back. I try to suppress them, to blur the images, to soften the sharp hurt they cause in my chest, but it’s impossible. It’s stronger than I am – the only thing that I can’t fight. Too real to ignore, too emotional to reason with, too much a part of me to run away from.

My eyes cloud over with tears and a red mist of anger. My fists clench, the muscles in my back tighten. I search for something to help me release the searing, wound-like pain, and grab at an empty bottle of beer. I throw it against the wall of my trailer, gaining a split-second of respite from the memories that are trying to drag me back into the torment and depression. I stop pacing, staring at the tiny shards of glass that glitter on the floor of my trailer, then I grab my keys, yank the door open, and step outside.

“Hey, Dylan?” an assistant director calls out, a walkie talkie in one hand, a clipboard in the other, and an expression on his face that says ‘we need you now.’

“Fuck off,” I snarl as I stalk away.

My bike is at the other end of the lot, parked by the storage carts loaded with props, pieces of the set, and random junk that could prove useful in a scene. I march towards the motorcycle with my eyes down, lest anybody sees the twisted hatred and anger in my face. My hand grips the keys so hard they feel like they’re piercing my flesh, the cutting sensation giving me something to focus on that doesn’t hurt as much as the ghosts that are parading on the edge of my thoughts.

I don’t need to block out the shouts and calls from the crewmembers as I walk, as the rapid thumping of my blood fills my ears, punctuated only by my heavy breathing as I try to regain some sense of peace and calm.

I’m within a few yards of my bike, sitting there poised and beautiful like a ticket away from all this shit, when Gemma jumps in front of me.

She looks as beautiful as the last time I saw her, and for a brief moment I let the perfect lines of her face take me away from the darkness inside of me. The elegant curve of her neck as it sweeps into those amazing breasts balming my thoughts with all the sexual promises they make of pleasure.

But it’s only for a moment, and then the demons are back. I walk past her easily and take a few more steps toward my bike, but she jumps in front of me again a second later.

“Where the fuck are you going, Dylan?!”

“Away.”

“Oh no you’re not! The assistant director needs you to—”

I sweep her aside again and step over my bike, settling into the seat that fits me as warmly and invitingly as a good pussy.

“Stop it!” Gemma says, standing in front of the bike, her hands gripping the handlebars. “You’re not going anywhere, Dylan!”

“This is not the time to play your games, Gemma. Step aside.”

“This is not a fucking game!”

“No, this isn’t a game. I’m the fucking star. The lead actor of this movie. I’ll go where the fuck I want. You’re the babysitter who has to report to a boss at the end of the day. Now is not the time.”

I put the keys in the ignition and fire up the satisfying roar of the engine.

“Just the babysitter?” she says, her pert face doing anger as easily as it does pleasure. “Well in case you hadn’t noticed, ‘Mr. Star,’ you’re the fucking baby. And the way you’re acting right now is pretty fucking childish!”

I rev the engine suddenly, causing it to reach a deafening thunder. It’s usually enough to make most people jump, but not Gemma. She doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m the only reason you got hired for this movie, Dylan. Nobody trusts you to stay out of trouble, and if I hadn’t told people I could keep you in check then you’d be jerking off at home still while I do my actual job.”

“I’m sick of hearing this shit, Gemma. I’m getting out of here.”

Gemma’s eyes harden. We glare at each other like it’s high noon and we’re waiting for the first draw.

“Not without me you’re not,” she says, darting over quickly to the prop cart where she pulls out a black helmet. Within seconds she’s pulled it over her head and is easing herself behind me. Her hands grip me tightly, angrily, fearfully. Fingers pressing against my ribs.

Ok. If she wants a ride, then she’ll get one.