Now Daxon
Now DAXON
“M ax, meet Daxon Avery. This kid’s gonna be huge.”
Max Perry is a head shorter than me and built like a tank. He was absolutely one of those high school football players that got jacked at seventeen and still carries that confidence. But there’s something poetic about his size; Max looks like someone who would crash through any wall for his clients. He feels safe. A sure thing.
“Daxon, tell me about yourself. What’ve you done?” Max asks after we’ve all clinked glasses of scotch.
I choke down the first sip of scotch. If this stuff wasn’t brewed by Count Dracula in a mossy basement cauldron, then fuck . But Max downs his in one go and I feel weirdly compelled— ha, get it? —to finish mine quickly, too.
I tell him about Son of a Gun. Then my role in Greg’s limited series, Kill Switch , an action-adventure based on a bestselling graphic novel.
“Very good,” says Max. His eyes slide to Katrina and he tips her a wink. “You’re getting out there. And this kinda thing is right where you wanna be next,” he says. “Romantic lead.”
The truth is that I have no idea what I want next. To the Stars is probably going to determine the course of the rest of my career. And it’s a solid script, sure. But do I want to do romance for the foreseeable future?
“What if I want to win an Oscar? That’s a bucket list thing for me.”
Max signals our server for another round of drinks and I suck down the rest of my glass, trying not to puke on the table as it goes down like lava.
“Then I’d say join the fucking club , kid.” He grins. “I’m kidding. Look, you wanna win something? I have the best scripts in the industry hitting my desk every day. Take this.” He hands me his card and I reach across the table to take it. “And call me when this wraps. We’ll set something up, have you come in, see what’s what.”
“Uh, wow, okay,” I splutter, grinning. The scotch is slipping down the curves and ridges of my brain like they’re waterslides. “I will. I absolutely will. Thank you so much.”
“I knew you’d be a fit,” says Katrina. Her eyes trace my face over the rim of her glass.
For two hours, we talk Hollywood. Directors, producers, people we love and admire, people who are probably overrated, and people who are coming up that excite us. Katrina apparently knows everything about anyone who’s ever had a SAG-AFTRA card, and gossips sloppily with Max about co-stars who know someone who knows someone, while downing martinis like water.
I am zonked halfway through my second scotch. I watch their lips move to keep myself from slumping forward onto my empty steak plate. Finally, Max is beat, and after he makes a show out of treating us to dinner, he offers to grab us a car, leaving Katrina and me alone at the table.
“What did I tell you?” she asks me, slipping out of her chair and settling down into Max’s, the one next to mine. “He’s the whole package. Anything you want, he’ll get you.”
My head starts nodding and I can’t stop it. I’m like a wind-up toy trying to stay conscious. “Yep,” I say heartily, still nodding, “yep, he’s the real deal.” Not that my agent isn’t. But Max is playing on an entirely different level.
She leans towards me with her elbow on the table, a cloud of booze radiating from her skin and off her teeth as she smiles. “Anything you want, Daxon,” she repeats. “Anything.”
“Yeah,” I say uneasily. My eyes dart around us as my feet try to remember how to move. I feel like human Jell-O, equal parts wobbling and immobile. The restaurant is dimly lit, with dark floors and walls. It’s exactly the kind of place you bring someone so that you can get close and fly under the radar. “Why don’t we, uh, let’s... Max. With the car. Let’s...” I scoot my chair back and stand up, the room spinning.
“Whoa, Daxon, let me help you.” Katrina locks her arm around mine, steering me towards the hostess stand and the exit. I blink hard, trying to get my bearings, trying not to trip over my feet in front of Max Perry. “First rule of this biz is never let them catch you wasted,” she whispers in my ear.
“Oh, I’m not,” I argue, as she pulls me out into the night, but I am.
The lights out here, warm and white, contrast so starkly with the ones inside that it’s like the sun has come up suddenly. Max is out there laughing with the valet, but Katrina keeps us back.
In my peripheral, a car pulls up and I twist towards it, ready to get in and get home.
“Daxon,” Katrina says, her fingers tight on my arm. I turn to her.
“Yeah?”
“Stick with me, and I’ll help you get where you want to go.”
“Uh,” I grunt, “that’s—”
And then she starts laughing, overly loud. “You are so funny ! I’m such a sucker for a funny guy.”
“ What the fuck? ”
It’s Wil’s voice, sharp and clear. She and the actress playing Lila’s sister Amy are dressed for a night out, walking to the door from the car that just pulled up. The look on Wil’s face is blind rage and the color in her cheeks changes like a traffic light, first drained of blood, then murderous scarlet.
“Wil,” I say quickly. My eyes are unfocused, especially in this light. My head swims. My stomach reels. “It’s not—”
But the look on her face cuts me off. Her hazel eyes narrow, her painted lips form a thin line.
Chumming up with Katrina is unforgiveable.
Wil charges past us into the restaurant.
“Oh, shoot. She looks mad,” Katrina says in a faux-sorry voice. “I’ll sort it out.”
“No—” I start, but a booming voice cuts me off.
“Daxon! Over here!” Max waves me forward from the car window. “I just thought of a role you’d be perfect for. Get in, I’ll give ya the pitch and we’ll get the ball rolling.”
I genuinely don’t know what to do.
In my boozy fog, I make a choice. Is it a good choice? Nope. But I try to rationalize it and come up with the fact that, anything Katrina says, I can defuse and explain to Wil later. This is one of those jump-now-or-miss-it moments. So I’m gonna jump.
I go to the car.