“Are you ready?” Leah asks, coming into my home office in Hollywood Hills. She and I run Two Camps Production Company. She is going to be the executive producer on Queen of Clubs. She already has several producing credits to her name, but this will be her first as an EP. She’s looking forward to controlling the money. She’s the brains, and I’m the creativity. It’s why we work so well together on top of being twins.
“Very much so,” I admit, filing Evie’s contract in the filing cabinet next to my desk, locking it. It’s probably the least professional contract I’ve ever seen. Not only did she sign the damn thing in hot pink pen, but she also dotted the I in Evie with a heart. Unprofessional it may be, but it’s adorable as hell.
“Do you think it’ll work?” she asks. She knows how I feel about Evie. I told anyone that would listen that I was going to marry her one day. Everyone thought I was crazy since no one from Deacon ever did anything to make them famous, infamous maybe, but not famous.
“It has too,” I say, standing up. I grab my suitcase from by the door, and we walk out to the car. There is no plan b; this is it.
“What if you have nothing in common?” Leah asks. She’s always nay-saying this, and I can’t fucking stand it.
“I’ll get new interests,” I answer.
“What if she’s a mega bitch?”
“Not possible. That would be all over the press if she were.
“Fine, you’re right about that. What if she has a secret boyfriend or worse husband?”
“Leah, stop,” I demand, getting into the driver's seat of my Lamborghini.
“But…”
“It doesn’t matter if she does or not. She’s mine, and nothing will stand in the way of that. Nothing.”
“Alright, but don’t come crying to me when she breaks your fucking heart.”
“When was the last time I cried, Leah?” I ask, flooring it out of the driveway. She just laid out all the fears I’ve had but refused to acknowledge. I don’t know what I’ll do if she belongs to someone else, but I am not above taking her from him. Practically, I know that I don’t really know anything about her, but I know in my fucking soul that she’s meant to be mine. We have the rest of our lives to figure the rest of the shit out. Together.
The flight to Austin is about five hours because we flew commercial. We aren’t the private jet kind of people.
“Mom and Sam are meeting us here,” Leah says as we get off of the plane.
“Why? I rented a car.”
“You know how Mom is,” she says, rolling her eyes. That I do. Mom met and married Sam, a police officer who transferred from Dallas about four years ago. She had been so miserable after dad died. I’m just glad she met someone who treats her right and loves her more than life itself. “I’m staying at the house.”
“I booked you a room at the B & B.”
“Why would I waste money on that when I have a perfectly good room at home.”
“I guess, but I’m staying.”
“I know. You got the room next to Evie, didn’t you?”
“You know it,” I say, grabbing our bags off of the baggage carousel. Suddenly, photographers are in front of us. Leah steps out of the way as reporters and kids looking for autographs bombard me. I sign those but don’t give the reporters anything other than me being nice to some kids and hugging my mom.
“You shouldn't piss them off so much, Adam. You will need them for the press junkets when the movie is ready to premiere.”
“Not those vultures.”
“Maybe not them specifically, but there are only so many news and media outlets in the world. They all pretty much work for the same people, and they talk. Just because a paparazzi won’t be at the junket doesn’t mean his buddy from the water cooler at Lancaster Media won’t be there giving us shit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promise, never having thought about that before, but I think there is a huge difference between a man that digs through your trash or chases you through the streets and someone like Katie Couric. A huge difference no matter who they work for.
“My babies!” I hear shouts from clear across the room. I turn to see Mom standing there next to Sam, with her big hair and her big purse.
Thankfully, some things never change.
Chapter Two
My flight leaves in two hours, and I am so not ready. Why am I such a procrastinator? I dig through my dresser like a possessed person, looking for any and everything I might need for a six-week, maybe more, shoot. I have never been more excited about a role, and my mom is trying my patience with her thousand questions. The table read is first thing in the morning.