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He elbowed me again. “It shouldn’t be a problem getting you in. You look older than I do.”
I should’ve been insulted but he was smiling so hard I couldn’t.
“And relax,” Reed added. “Everyone in the neighborhood goes there, not just gays. Like I said, cheap drinks. Besides, no one knows who you are.”
“Not yet.”
CHAPTER 2
REED
NINE YEARS AGO
Climbing the Hollywood hills was easy.
Climbing the Hollywood acting scene was nearly impossible.
I’d secured guest spots on popular TV shows over the past year and combined with modeling shoots, it paid the bills. But it was not the success that I’d anticipated a year ago, the one everyone back home in New York was rooting for.
A lead role. Movie offers. Film premiers.
I was still gearing up for my first big break.
And funny enough, my competition for many of the roles I wanted always came in the form of my roommate, Tate.
Not that he’d hit the big time, either. Not yet. Like me, he’d had steady work but nothing that catapulted him to stardom.
We made an odd couple—as roommates and friends.
He was intense, moody, and so focused on his future that he didn’t see what was standing right in front of him. I admired his tenacity, his drive. Fuck, he had at least five to six auditions lined up every week, without fail. He was busting his ass to get ahead. To get noticed.
But I also recognized that he was running from something.
He’d only mentioned his hometown a few times, and only to say it was crap. I was sure that it was much more than that. Whenever we’d get into an argument, which could spark from something as simple as how loud the TV was, his anger exploded. And if you were nearby, look out, because the backdraft would knock you flat on your ass.
Not that he scared me or anything. His temper was vocal, not physical.
But I was the son of a therapist and I recognized trauma when I saw it.
My take? Acting was Tate’s form of therapy, whether he knew it or not.
No one who met me, at first glance, assumed that I knew of such things. That was fine.
Sure, I was blond, and people often made quips about my matching sunny personality. Like being a positive person in this town was a bad thing. Or that my easy jokes and laid-back manner meant I wasn’t as smart, or driven, or as adept at reading a room. Or a scene.
I didn’t bother to correct anyone.
It was always better to be underestimated.
Not that Tate did that to me. Not since he moved into my place a month after we first met.
He learned right quick that I was not the himbo he’d assumed at first glance. And I had a temper at times too. Slower to burn.
Except with Tate. Then it was like striking a match.
But it was over as quick as it lit.
We joked, and fought, and the circle went on.
