“They’re fun.”
I’ve been doing franchises for ten years. My big break came when I was cast as the lead in a dystopian trilogy at nineteen. It was a worldwide phenomenon, and I’ll never deny it, it put me on the A-list. Filming that took five years, and then I started on the current franchise, which revolves around an ensemble of superheroes. Getting a spin-off for my own character is the big ticket to cementing my status, making sure my career won’t fade into oblivion.
Most actors start turning up their noses at roles that made them famous, but I’m not one of them. I know I wouldn’t be where I am without it. And yeah, it’s grueling work, but I like playing the same character in multiple installments. It allows me to peel back layers, delve deeper. The spin-off will focus more on character development than flashy action scenes, which is right up my alley.
“I’ve talked to Mom and Dad, by the way,” Sophie says. “Sent them a few more house descriptions to look at, but they’re on the expensive side.”
“Money is not a problem.”
Our parents have been thinking about moving to San Francisco for a while to be closer to Sophie, but since housing here is exorbitant, I’m subsidizing the cost.
“You’re spoiling them too much.” Sophie presses her lips together, shaking her head. “And they’re not making much of an effort in return.”
Our parents haven’t adjusted to my fame too well. I can’t blame them, though. They’ve had paps pestering them, and on the one occasion they’ve visited me in LA, paps broke into my home. Gave them both a scare. Ever since, they’ve refused to visit me in LA and weren’t keen on me flying over to Portland either. Over the last couple of years, I was lucky if I saw them twice a year. Whenever I broached the subject, they insisted they felt unsafe when I was around. Here’s to hoping things will change now, even though they’re more hesitant to move since I’m living here too.
“They’re our parents, Soph. They’re going to get used to all of this eventually. It’ll be nice for all
of us to be in the same city again.”
This is exactly what lazy evenings should be for. Spending time with the family. After we finish all the food, Sophie says they’d better go, because Drew gets cranky if he stays up too long after his bedtime.
“Go out,” she says, kissing my cheek goodbye. “Don’t stay cooped up here all the time. This isn’t LA. You won’t have paps following your every move.”
“I do go out. I went fishing with Drew today.” I open her car door. She lowers herself in it.
“Smartass. I know that. I meant go out with people your own age.”
“Don’t you worry about me.” I shut the door, and a second later, the car lurches forward.
I head back inside the house and slump on the couch. An image of Summer pops up in my mind, sitting in the same spot, her skirt moving up when she crossed her legs. I have the image of her sweet, perky body bubbling with laughter branded in my memory. I also remember the way her skin reacted to my touch, how flustered she got when I complimented her and when I touched her while she helped me with the stunt. I won’t lie. I was tempted to touch her again, just to see her delicious reaction: the goose bumps, the blush.
I’m used to women reacting this way to me even if I’m not flirting. They see the on-screen character when they look at me and react accordingly. But I think Summer saw me last night, not any of the characters I’ve played. It was so easy to talk to her, to open up. I glance at my phone until I give in to the temptation of calling her.
“Hey! What are you up to?” I greet when she picks up.
“Alex?”
“Why so surprised? You told me to use your number.”
“I know. Didn’t expect you to do it... so soon.”
Something in her tone is off. “Anything wrong?”
“No, just a sleepy Friday evening.”
I pick up on the underlying sadness right away. “You sound down.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Acting school 101. Conveying feelings through tone of voice. Just putting it out there, but whatever you say on the phone... stays on the phone.” It’s a wordplay on what she told me yesterday, and it earns me a tiny laugh.
“No biggie, just got a brush-off from a guy I went out with last week. He texted me, and I quote: ‘Please delete my number. No interest in repeating last week. Not my type.’ I mean, wow.”
“Summer, it’s his loss. It’s not a reflection on you.”
“Actually, it might be. Not the first time this happened. At some point, I have to admit, it’s not everyone else... it’s me. I’m a lousy date, and I don’t even know why.”
“You’re not a lousy date.”