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I had another month of filming and there was no way I was going to get through it sober. Not today, and not for the rest of it. No fucking way.
Leaning up, I glanced at my face in the mirror.
The ghost stared back at me, and I shook my head to dispel the image.
I looked like shit. Pasty, despite the layer of makeup, and my brown hair was almost black with sweat.
Splashing water on my face and over my head, I told myself it would all work out.
I could do this. Everything was under control.
By the time I’d dried off and downed a glass of water to get rid of the taste of bile, the vicious voice in my head was gone.
Bad memories? Bad decisions?
Vanished.
That the was the power of this drug. Even though I looked like crap on the outside, inside, I was burning bright again.
Nothing could stop me.
When I finally made my way back to the set, my shakiness was gone, and I was ready to go.
I didn’t care about other people or their judgements. Not even an angry director.
“I want to wrap this scene up today, so hurry the fuck up!” Neal yelled when he saw me walking back to set. Then he turned to the crew. “Makeup, fix Tate’s face, now!”
But I didn’t hear the yelling or notice the furious glare.
I was pumped and primed. I was Tate fucking Aduma. Ready to unleash the beast that Neal wanted.
When filming resumed, I was in the zone. I became the character I despised.
Neal got the scene he wanted, and by the end of the month, the movie he envisioned. And me? I proved my mettle as an up-and-coming A-lister.
But highs never last forever. Reality can never be fully eclipsed.
Pain eventually, always, breaks through.
CHAPTER 6
TATE
SIX YEARS AGO
Reed: I heard you collapsed on set today. Are you in hospital? What the fuck is going on? What happened?
Reed: Your agent won’t answer my calls. Are you all right?
Reed: If you don’t text me back, I’m coming over to your house and camping outside. I’m not joking. I’ll buy a fucking tent and live on your front lawn until you talk to me!
I laughed out loud at the last text and started to cry at the same time.
I paced my living room, my heart racing, and my mind along with it.
Christ, I needed a hit. And I needed it bad. But I had to wait one more hour for my dealer. Then it would be okay. Just one more score to give me that much needed courage to reply to my best friend.
Not that we were ‘best’ anymore. Or friends, even. Not after a year of silence.
