The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance

Without glancing in her direction, I continue toward the dressing room trailer. “Uh-huh.” My goal completely set on finding that bottle of vodka I tucked behind the makeup artist’s bag under the counter.

“They want another angle for the second sex scene and I feel like we owe them to make it as real as possible. What do you think?”

Her insinuation stops me dead in my tracks. I turn to look at Elena as I reach the door to the dressing room. Her exotic looks, ample curves, and glowing green eyes are the reasons she’s made the jump from model to actor. Her talent is what is making her an indie starlet.

It’s not unheard of in this industry for actors to commit fully to a love scene – especially those that aren’t in a relationship. And any man would be lucky for Elena to approach them with her request. She hasn’t asked outright, but I can sense her underlying meaning.

But my draw to the bottle right now is so much stronger than my need to consider her suggestion. I run through a list of letdowns in my head – words that won’t make our working relationship difficult or ruin the chances of her falling in my bed at some point. Never burn bridges, I always say.

Luckily, I’m saved from having to let Elena down because Tessa flings the dressing room door wide, staring at me in disdain. I imagine that if I had parents that actually cared about me, this is the look I would have received from them many times. Hard eyes, rigid body, flushed face, all the tell-tale signs of an underlying explosion waiting to happen.

“Elena, please let the director know that Devyn will be a few minutes late. He has an important call to make.”

Elena’s head turns back and forth between Tessa and me before realizing that she’d rather not interfere in whatever squabble is about to take place.

“Get. Inside. Now.” Tessa seethes each word as she directs me inside. I’d like to say that my desire for my precious bottle of vodka has subsided, but I’d be lying. If anything, I crave it more.

“Yes, Mom?” I jest as I stroll past Tessa’s angry stance, barely jerking when she slams the door behind her. The temperature in the room drops, its negative energy palpable in the space, sucking out what little hint of optimism may have remained.

“Sit.” I do as she commands even though I’d much rather dig behind the cabinet door first. Arguments with Tessa never work in my favor.

Settling in the chair across from the wall of mirrors, I spin to find Tessa holding up my coveted bottle of vodka, her grip on the neck clenched so tightly that I worry about her shattering the glass against her palm. Turning my attention back to her eyes, I’m slain. They convey such a mixture of emotions: anger, fear, nervousness, dread. She’s a Jack-in-the-box waiting for the trigger before she blasts.

“Explain.” She gestures toward the bottle by raising it slightly higher in the air.

Tessa hisses as I motion my shoulders up and down. “What do you want me to say? Filming is stressful and I need it.”

“No, you need rehab. You need help, Devyn.”

I bounce up from my chair and stalk toward her, my six foot two stance casting a shadow over her five foot one height. “I. Do. Not. Have. A. Problem.” I punctuate each word hoping that I convince her, and possibly myself, that I’m not addicted to alcohol.

I’ve been to rehab once and I refuse to go back. She knows this. She knows what the stay did to me. The therapist was determined to “fix” me, but I don’t need to be fixed when I believe that there is nothing wrong. However, the wounds she tried to reopen irritated me the most. Trying to have me rehash all that ruined my life, all that knocked me from my tower. The money, the exploitation, my parents – all topics I would rather ignore. She said that I was suppressing, I called her crazy.

It wasn’t rehab that fixed me, it was the three weeks in jail for driving down a major highway the wrong way while high on pills someone had given me at a party. The judge claimed that I was endangering hundreds of people’s lives. My lawyer argued that I was only endangering my own. That hearing didn’t work so well in my favor.

It was the jail stay that became the final straw to producers and directors in Hollywood. No one wants to work with someone teetering on the edge of stability. In three weeks, one hour, and forty-three minutes my name was tarnished in Hollywood. That pillar that once held me so high crumbled beneath my feet, sullying the hundreds of awards I received in its wake. I was a laughing stock.

It took years to get myself back into the indie scene – directors that were too young or naïve to remember my downfall. The pay isn’t good, but I have the royalties coming from syndication and movies that keep me afloat, at least the money my parents hadn’t squandered away when I was too young to know any better. It provides me a small house that I share with Tessa just beyond the Hollywood hills in the Sherman Oaks area of Los Angeles.

Her exhaustion hits her like a freight train. Fatigue that I caused. And as she leans against the wall of the trailer she appears to have a weight pressing down on her shoulders. “Devyn? An explanation? Why are you drinking on set? Don’t you know that they can fire you for this?”

“I’m aware, Tessa.”

She drops the bottle in the trashcan and my body jerks when I hear the glass shatter against the plastic. I have to fight the urge to lash out at my cousin. Fight the urge to reach into the disposal and salvage whatever liquid courage resides inside.

Maybe Tessa is right.

Falling into the closest chair, my back arches forward and I rest my elbows on my knees, unsure if my heart is pounding due to the realization that I’ve disappointed Tessa yet again or if it’s because my need to drown my emotions in alcohol is stronger than ever.

Running my hands through my hair, I look up at the same dark brown eyes as mine, the same tanned skin that looks as if we’ve been laying in the sun for days. Tessa and I look more like siblings than cousins. Her look of defeat mirrors my own.

“I came here with good news. Great news, actually.” My ears perk at her statement. “But I’m probably going to have to call them back after everything.”

“Tessa. What is it? I could use some good news.”

She looks at me skeptically, her eyes narrowing into the thinnest of slits as she rakes me over. I can tell she’s weighing her decision, her fingers tap out a melody against her forearms where they’re crossed against her chest. It’s been her tell since she was little. The song has changed over the years but not the motion.

“I’m only telling you this because I love you and I want what’s best for you – always.”