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Chapter Twenty-Two
Seventy-two. Seventy-three. Seventy-four. Seventy—
The chime of an incoming call interrupted Nate’s brutal workout. He’d been at it for hours in his backyard, hoping to work off his frustration. A part of him acknowledged his punishing exercises had entered unhealthy territory, but he needed something to keep his mind off the shitstorm that was his personal life.
Sweat poured from his forehead and into his eyes, and he wiped away the perspiration before answering the call with a grunt. “Yeah?”
“Which Nate is this?” His agent and second cousin Marty sounded unimpressed by his caveman greeting. “Because I’m looking for Nate Reynolds, future movie star. Not Nate the Neanderthal.”
“What do you want, Marty?”
Nate had long given up hope that Marty would come through with The Big Gig. His cousin had a dubious list of industry contacts, and his only other client was a former child actor whose last job was a B horror movie so bad it was almost good. Nate had only hired Marty because he was family, and he figured having a shitty agent was better than no agent at all.
In smaller markets, Nate could get away with self-submitting for roles, but in cities like L.A. and New York, talent needed professional representation if they hoped to land major studio and network projects.
Marty tsked. “I thought you’d be happier to hear from me, considering I’m about to change your life.”
“Let me guess: you landed me a Marvel audition?” Nate asked wryly.
“No, but close.” The other man’s smugness leaked over the phone. “Lead role in a new Scott West action film. Word on the street is the studio wants to turn it into a franchise if the first movie does well. Of course, West wants an unknown for the role. You know how he is about the A-list types.”
Nate sank onto the ground, stunned. “You’re shitting me.”
Scott West was one of the most revered directors in Hollywood, a force of nature and film with a solid record of both box office success and critical acclaim. However, the eccentric director only put out one or two movies a decade, if that. His last film,Aquarius Rising,released twelve years ago, and he’d never done a franchise. He was also notorious for casting unknowns as leads in his movies because “stars are a goddamned pain in the ass,” according to anEntertainment Weeklyinterview.
Ironically, every single then-unknown he’d cast had become A-list stars.
“I shit you not.” Marty sounded more gleeful than Kurt Hummel belting out show tunes. “This is all hush-hush for now, so don’t go running your mouth to anyone about this. Lucky for you, your favorite agent happened to go home with West’s assistant the other night. Had no idea about her ties until after the fact. Couldn’t get a script—they’re passing those out on the spot. But auditions are Wednesday, so brush up on your skills and headshots, pretty boy. This could be your big break.”
Nate wasn’t surprised that Marty had landed news of the role of a lifetime not through professional networking but through his unofficial side gig as L.A.’s premier Casanova. Nate had hooked up with his fair share of girls in the past, but Marty was on another, Wilt Chamberlain-esque level.
They talked business for another twenty minutes before Nate hung up. Adrenaline pumped in his veins, thick and hot. Auditions didn’t mean he was guaranteed the role, not by a long shot, and competition for a Scott West lead would be fierce. Nate also had no clue what the movie was about or what type of character he was auditioning for, but he could study up on West—every film, every interview, every actor he’d cast in the past. Directors usually had a type of actor or actress they liked to work with, and Nate was going to figure out what made Scott West tick beyond the whole no-A-lister hang-up.
Casting directors oversaw auditions, but West was known to review tapes of all the auditions himself. He was a Type A micromanager to a fault.
Nate’s skin buzzed with energy. For the first time since he broke up with Kris, he felt something other than soul-searing grief and pain.
Aaaaand there went the pain again. It happened every time he thought about her, or heard her name, or saw something that reminded him of their time together. Basically, all the fucking time.
The image of Kris’s face when he told her he wasn’t interested in anything long-term…seeing her and fucking Teague at Skylar’s game…
Nate’s hands involuntarily bunched into fists. God, he wanted to punch that smug blond male in the face. He’d thought Teague might be okay after their flight day, but nope. The bastard had had his hands all over Kris the other night. Yeah, he said he didn’t have a thing for Kris—and Nate was the Queen of England.
Loud banging on the front door sliced through Nate’s possessive anger.
Michael reached the door before Nate could move. From this angle, Nate couldn’t see who was making such a ruckus on a Saturday morning, but judging by how Michael widened the door and stepped aside to let the person in, it probably wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness doing the whole door-to-door preaching song and dance.
Then Michael moved, giving Nate an unobstructed view of the newcomer.
His wounded heart went berserk as joy and dread suffused him in equal measure.
What was she doing here?
His father walked over and slid open the glass door separating the living room from the backyard. “Nate, you have a guest,” he said quietly.
Michael’s withdrawal symptoms had improved, and he no longer resembled a wax figure of himself. The symptoms should’ve eased a while ago, but they’d dragged on because Michael hadn’t sought treatment. He wouldn’t have been able to afford a proper medical detox.
Luckily, Michael’s symptoms were relatively mild, given the length and history of his alcohol abuse.
