Method

Unable to speak around the lump in my throat, I nod, eyes cast down.

“Hey, you,” she says pointedly. I look up to where she stands. “I’ve been there. I’ve been exactly where you are, and hopefully that tells you something.”

“It does,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”

“I’ll just be inside if you need anything.”

“There’s probably no one who understands Method acting better academically than I do, or actually uses it more in his work. But it’s funny—nobody really sees that. It’s perception versus reality, I suppose.”

—Jack Nicholson

Lucas

THREE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO

Clasping my watch, I look over to where Mila sleeps naked on her stomach. Her subtle curves and sun-kissed skin have my cock swelling, and, I’m hard in seconds just from studying her parted lips. I finish dressing and kneel by the bed, pushing her silky dark hair away from her forehead. There was a time when I was unsure if I was enough for her, and even when I put the ring on her finger, I still wasn’t convinced. I married her anyway because I worshipped her for the woman she is, and because she’d convinced me thoroughly to believe in the love that reflected in her eyes. She was the easiest addiction I’d ever allowed myself to have, and now that I’ve let myself become accustomed to the fix, I couldn’t imagine living a second without her. Last night I was unfair to her in a way she didn’t deserve. She’d come through for both of us by helping Amanda pack Blake’s house, and I’d left her alone to deal with the ache it caused. She came home needing me, and I gave her nothing but my back while I strummed my guitar.

I’m such a fucking prick.

Guilt gnaws at me as she slowly opens her eyes and frowns when she sees I’m dressed. “Where are you going?”

“To the shooting range. I’m meeting with a weapons specialist. Come with me.”

“Really?” Her enthusiasm breaks my heart. I’ve done a shit job of meeting her needs, but I still can’t bring myself to get it together. I’m no longer comfortable in my skin. I don’t know how to relay that to her without worrying her further. I’ve never been at odds with my own mind before, and I’m out of my element. There’s more guilt and denial swimming between my ears than I could ever live comfortably with. I need answers.

“Give me ten minutes?”

I nod, and she bounds off the bed. I smack her bare ass and take satisfaction in the slight jiggle. I’m seconds from taking her, but I have plans for today. “Hurry up. I need my partner.”

“I’m all over it, baby,” she says, swaying her hips seductively.

“Keep that up, and I’ll be all over it, baby.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen,” she spouts sarcastically.

“Later.” It’s a promise and her eyes light up in understanding.

She grins at me over her shoulder and disappears into the bathroom. I glance around our bedroom. Mila did a beautiful job decorating our beach house. It’s too much house for two but feels like a real home because of her mix of soft plush furniture and her warm color choices. She’d insisted on doing it herself which was great because I was too cheap to hire a decorator. She’d taken her time pulling pieces from the various places we visited while I filmed getting it just right for us. Everywhere I look there’s a reminder of us, of where we’ve been and how far we’ve come. She loved the beach house just as much because collectively it was both our first home and investment in us. I’d gone with my gut my whole life, and it had never once led me wrong. The minute I set foot in this house with my bride, I knew.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I stare out the window at the view I’d never tire from. When I got to LA, I’d never seen the ocean, to me it was the ultimate sign of freedom. The stopping point of running because it was the farthest. I loved the symbolism of living so far from the world I came from.

“No man, no,” Blake says, pacing our stained carpet. “You’re sputtering through the lines like they don’t mean shit to you.

Frustrated, I run a hand down my face. We’ve been at it for hours. We’re set to start filming in a week, and I have yet to get a handle on my role. He takes a long pull on his beer, eyeing me before he speaks.

“Have you ever heard of Method?”

“Don’t think so.” I sink into the couch feeling out of my element. Reading my expression, he cups the back of his neck and nods before flipping through the open script on our table and pointing to a few of my lines.

“Okay, bro, Maddie did a pretty good job teaching you some of the fundamentals, but you need to start thinking outside of the box. You aren’t playing one of her tough guy roles. You’re playing a soft-spoken introvert who turns into the tough guy, right?”

“Right.”

“You have the asshole part nailed.” He gives me a sly grin, and I give him the finger.

“You’ve got to dig a little deeper and show the change happening during this scene. This confrontation is bringing it out of him. So here,” he points out, “you’re about to get your ass kicked, and you’re laughing maniacally as he pushes you up against the wall. He’s shaking the fucking monster front and center. Get up,” he says, nodding toward the wall. “Let’s say this here,” he scrutinizes the carpet, “shit-stain is the marker.”

I follow him over and eye the stain, “my bad, I think it’s Yooh—”