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His phone vibrated in his pocket and his gut sank. His brother wouldn't be texting unless there was bad news about the audition. Something had happened. He pulled out his phone and tapped the notification then took off his glasses so the face recognition would work.
BYRON: The gig is up.
Sliding his glasses back on, he looked around at the rest of the people out on the deck waiting for the safety briefing to start.
CARTER: What are you talking about?
BYRON: Your fav stalker Insta busted you on the cruise. That chick has fucking spies everywhere.
The Admiral Super Fan account had gone viral as soon as it had popped up. There were half a million subscribers and Carter's team was constantly battling it out about whether to find a way to shut it down or to just embrace the sorta-creepy but mostly-cheeky-and-funny vibe of it. For him, it was just one more reminder that for some people his life wasn't really his own so much as pre-packaged for their enjoyment. Mostly it was harmless. A few times—like after he'd come home to a fan swimming naked in his pool—it crossed the line. The ASF, as his team called it, wasn't one of the scary ones but they were a pain in the ass anyway. He couldn't take a trip to the gas station without it showing up on that feed. And now she knew he was here? Fuck him.
CARTER: No way.
A message alerting him of an incoming photo came in instead of a response from his brother. The downloading icon turned and turned and turned taking long enough that Carter had to check the urge to scream out a curse. He wasn't exactly known for his patience and this was fucking testing him.
Finally, the image loaded. It was a shot of him from the second The Admiral movie, an outtake scene where he'd been doing what one of his co-stars called the ass walk while still in costume for a scene in which The Admiral had been undercover. The caption didn't name which ship he was on but there was enough information included—singles cruise, Bahamas—to have everyone on board doing double takes at likely suspects.
CARTER: Fuck
BYRON: Want me to send a rescue helicopter? The ship has a landing pad.
If only his brother was joking. He wasn't. Growing up like they did, they learned the importance—and the rarity—of actual loyalty.
CARTER: I'm not giving up. If that pain in my ass actually had a pic of me, she would have posted it. This could still happen. This could actually help.
BYRON: How's that?
CARTER: Shows I have skills.
It's one thing to hide in plain sight when no one was looking, but when someone was? That was even better.
BYRON: More like shows you have big dum-dum energy.
CAR
TER: I have one chance to get this part, to move beyond being The A. I'm not going down without a fight.
BYRON: Fine. I'll work my magic on this end. I'll get her to take it down, give you some more space.
CARTER: We've been trying to figure out who's behind the account for the past six months. You got a lead?
So far all they had was that the account was headed by a woman, because that's what she called herself, and that she had used every burner email and phone account known to man to set up her account. The whole thing was very clandestine and over the top.
BYRON: Twice you doubt me in one day. If I had actual feelings, I'd be hurt.
CARTER: Good thing we're safe.
BYRON: For now anyway.
Yeah. His brother may be a paranoid agent, but he wasn't wrong. Carter was only golden for as long as he could keep the Carter from Iowa cover in place. Stuffing his phone back in his pocket, he glanced around, trying to gauge if anyone was staring a little too hard at him, pretending to take a selfie while actually taking a pic of him, or getting a little too close—the basic annoyances of being a celebrity in public. Sure, he loved his fans. They were amazing and the reason why he got to do the job he loved. However, some days it would be nice to just be Carter the dude in the weird wiener-dogs-wearing-grass-skirts shirt.
"Oh my God, your shirt is just amazing," one of the women behind him said, her words coming out slow enough to let on how hard she was having to work to make herself not slur. "How do you make the dogs dance like that?"
Carter turned around while looking down at his shirt, trying to figure out what in the hell was going on. "Huh?"
"The sweetie little dachshunds." She giggled. "They move on your shirt." Then she looked up at him and lowered her oversized neon sunglasses. "Wait, you look familiar. Do we know each other?" She paused, screwing up her mouth and cocking her head to the side. "Have we banged?"
And yeah, this was not the kind of attention he needed to keep his cover. Still, he wasn't an actor for nothing. Figuring bad flirting would go over better than coldly shutting her down, he faked a nervous laugh. "No such luck on my part."
