The Fame Game

She sits up straight, her eyes on me. “Why do you drink?”

“Because it tastes good.”

She shakes her head. “No, the truth.”

“To numb the pain of reality,” I confess. “Sometimes, out of boredom and habit.”

“Starting today, you’re as sober as a monk. Think you can handle it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in the middle of reading scripts with fantasy and superhero elements, some thrillers, and others action. It would help if I knew where you want to start.”

“I’d love to be part of a superhero franchise.”

“Baby steps,” she countered. “We have a better chance of getting a meeting with a smaller studio. Sony, Disney, and the big names are out of the question for now. They wouldn’t even talk to Vinnie about you.”

“What are my options?”

“The meeting with Firehouse was a good start. If someone like Doug Cavanaugh will take a meeting with you, other studio execs will follow suit.”

“You’re that confident?”

“Nico,” she groans. “I know you’re used to hearing no. But you have to put the past behind you. We’re building something new together. Forget about how much money you made from previous movies. Ignore the media, the paparazzi, and all the assholes online.” She leans forward, moving her hand back and forth between us. “You and me, Nico. We’re both starting from scratch.”

“Okay.” I sigh. “Everything is changing so fast. It’s fucking freaking me out.”

“I can see that. This transition won’t be easy for either of us. But I want you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When you go to that sombre place, where you tell yourself that you’re not good enough or unworthy, I need you to remember that I got you. We can do this together. But I need you to have my back.”

“How?”

“No drinking or partying. Go back to your acting group and get back into the groove while I handle the business side of things.”

“Anything else?”

“It would help if you read some scripts.”

“I can do that.”

My previous agent either read the scripts for me or had his assistant do it. Not until we’d had a firm meeting with a studio did I ever bother to read a screenplay. Back then, I only cared about the money because I tied the dollar figure to my ego. I was lazy in the past, too self-absorbed, and arrogant to see the error in my ways.

“I pulled all the indie scripts.” She points her finger at the dining room, where she stacked the screenplays on the table. “You only have to nail one role, but we have to pick the right one. Remember, this is a slow climb, not a race to the finish line.”

The doorbell rings. I push myself up from the couch, moving past Willow toward the front door. She’s at my side, two twenty-dollar bills clutched between her fingers. Beating her to the punch, I remove cash from my back pocket and box her out of the way as I open the front door.

The delivery man’s eyes widen as he looks at me. I hand him the money and take the pizza boxes, thanking him as I close the door.

“I wanted to pay,” Willow says.

“Not while I live here.”

“But,” she protests. “This is our first client dinner.”

She’s so cute that it brings a smile to my lips. “I’ve milked Vinnie for plenty of dinners over the years. We’re doing things differently this time, right?”

She bobs her head.

“We can make our own rules.”

Willow flips open the pizza box, smiling as she raises the slice to her mouth. “Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

Chapter Sixteen

Nico

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I roll on to my back. A sliver of light creeps through the blinds, the sun getting ready to set. I tossed and turned all night, lucky to get a few hours of sleep. I slide my legs off the mattress, my head foggy as I open the door and walk down the hall to the bathroom. An alarm blares from the last door on the right—Willow’s bedroom. She starts work at seven o’clock. I don’t miss the early mornings on the set, but I miss acting regularly.

I close the bathroom door and do my business before standing in front of the mirror and splashing water on my face. The skin beneath my eyes is dark and bruised, as if someone punched me in the face. When was the last time I had a good night’s sleep? Too long.

A loud bang on the door snaps me out of my self-loathing. I dry my face and hands with a towel and swing the door open. Willow stands in the hallway, dressed in a knee-length terrycloth robe with no makeup on her face, and her hair slung over her shoulder.

“Morning. How did you sleep?”

I roll my shoulders. “As expected, I guess.”

“I need to shower.”

I’m not used to sharing bathrooms. The house I rented in Beverly Hills had ten bedrooms and seven bathrooms.