The Fame Game

Chapter Seventeen

Willow

Nico grips the steering wheel, biting his cheek as he pulls into the parking lot attached to the playhouse. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the house.

He shifts the car into park and turns to me. “I’m nervous. Why the fuck am I nervous? I feel like I will crawl out of my skin.”

“Because you’re worried about what people will think of you.”

He sighs, his eyes downcast. “Yeah, I guess. It’s been over a year since I showed my face here. What if everyone hates me?”

“You don’t know what you don’t know,” I say with a smile.

Nico bobs his head.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m here for you.” I cup his shoulder with my hand, and our eyes meet. “Starting over is hard for everyone.”

“I’m acting like a pussy.” He groans, opening his car door. “Just ignore me.”

I get out of the car, my laughter shaking through me. “Dramatic much?”

Nico rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

“Creative people are insecure by nature. You put so much of yourself out into the world for public consumption. It goes with the territory to think you’re not good enough. But you know what? You’re not the only one. Every actor, writer, musician, and painter struggles with the same issues.”

“Shay never answered my email,” he says in his defense. “She probably doesn’t want me showing up uninvited. I haven’t spoken to her in years.”

Shay Marshall is an iconic coach who has shaped the careers of dozens of famous actors.

“Don’t jump to conclusions.” I push my hand into his back, forcing him to move toward the brick building. “She’s a busy woman.”

Nico opens the door for me, stepping to the side to allow me to pass. We walk down a long hallway, the walls and floors lined with red carpet, which reminds me of a movie theater. A concession stand is on my right, where a few people are chatting. Heads turn, their eyes wide as they stare at Nico, who attracts more attention with each step we take.

Once inside the theater, we stroll down a long aisle set between two rows of seats. Shay Marshall, a woman in her late sixties with short white hair and sharpness to her tone, stands in front of the stage. She gives orders to the men moving armchairs across the floor, organizing them to look like a makeshift living room.

Nico shoots me a pained look, though I think he’s worried over nothing. He’s made a lot of mistakes in the past few years, but nothing he can’t overcome with a little patience and a lot of hard work.

A woman whispers, “Is that Nico Chase?”

Another woman says, “Oh, my God. What is he doing here?”

“You can’t miss a face like that,” someone adds.

“He’s so fucking hot,” says another woman.

“He doesn’t look like a drunk,” says a young man sitting in a row to my left with the women.

Nico visibly shudders at my side, his face twisted with emotions, but he keeps his eyes on the front of the room. I would hate to have people talk about me like I’m not a real person. Like my feelings don’t matter, and my life is open for comment.

I hook my arm through Nico’s as we pass them. “Don’t listen to them,” I say under my breath. “They don’t know you. Their opinion doesn’t matter.”

Nico taps Shay on the shoulder, leaning into her ear to whisper something I can’t hear. She spins around and wraps her arms around him. He hugs her back, his face buried in her neck as he lifts the petite woman off the floor. They look more like a mother and son engaged in a warm embrace than old friends.

I thought it would help if Nico went back to basics, back to the woman who first believed in him. He’d mentioned her in previous interviews, even brought her to a few red carpets earlier in his career. Shay had more to do with Nico’s success than Vinnie Sax.

My insides turn to mush when he smacks a kiss on her cheek. If only people could see this side of Nico Chase. He’s not the asshole drunk everyone makes him out to be. After a few days of living together, I have seen a side of him I wish the world could know firsthand.

“Nico, my boy,” Shay says as he releases her. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you get my emails?”

She gives him a confused look. “No. I only check my Gmail account when my daughter sends me pictures of my grandkids.”

“I tried calling, even sent you a few text messages.”

“I got rid of that gadget, couldn’t stand it. Next time you want to get a hold of me, leave a message with someone at the playhouse. Or call the house.”

“You still have a landline?”