Warner Park (Warner Park Collection #1)

Prologue

City of Angels

Andrew

I sit up straight in my chair, neatly stacking my script on the desk in front of me. The papers clack against the wooden surface, in perfect sequence, in a way that soothes me. Why is it soothing?

Because I'm a neurotic wreck of a man, honestly.

I move my shoulders back, rolling my neck in circular motions to loosen up.

It doesn't work, but I do it again anyway out of pure stubborn nerve, scratching the back of my blonde head.

My knee bounces up and down as I sit in my chair.

I'm sitting at a long table with nothing but two chairs, two stacks of scripts, and a green screen behind me.

I try not to look in front of me at the cameras, lights, and film crew waiting to do my screen test. I know any clips we record will likely never see the light of day, but it doesn't matter.

I'm not an actor, by the way, just a former high school theater nerd who ended up with a worthless Art History degree and a completely uncanny obsession with home fitness and yoga, of all things.

I was born and raised in a small town no one had ever heard of outside of Fairbanks, Alaska, and I spent a lot of time bored and snowed in.

I've built my sanity on a foundation of obsessions.

The price tag? A complete liquidation of my serotonin stock and a serious devaluation of my social skills.

That's just how things were living up there.

I primarily make a living off of instructing yoga courses, but after moving here to Los Angeles I had to pick up extra work to get by.

It's the sacrifice of deciding to move somewhere that everyone else also wanted to be.

So here I am, sitting in this chair, wondering how my life led to this moment.

I need this gig. Not because I want it, but because I need those few months of pay to keep scraping by in this city that eats money for breakfast. I've never done anything remotely like this before, and my current nerves are screaming at me that I'm an imposter who doesn't belong here.

The cameras rolling make it feel too real.

Real means pressure. Pressure to perfect my delivery, to not sound like an idiot when I speak these lines that feel foreign in my mouth.

Pressure means I have to admit I'm worried about what others think of me.

I try to push that thought away, but it's like trying to hold back the tide with my bare hands. It paralyzes me.

This place is supposedly called the City of Angels, but everyone I've encountered in this town so far has been anything but angelic.

Los Angeles natives seem laid back, but uninterested; happy, but resentful.

Everyone I meet has ultimately no concern greater than the one they carry for their own wellbeing.

I feel like my experience so far has been a fluke.

Is it just me? There has to be more to this city.

I can't read people here, not really. I know this for a fact, because I'm not exactly fitting in.

I watch them move through life with a kind of practiced indifference that feels foreign to me, like they're all speaking a language I never learned.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who's broken, the one who can't quite figure out how to navigate this world of beautiful, detached people.

It's probably just me. The thought circles in my mind like a vulture, picking at the last shreds of my confidence.

My date two weeks ago was dinner with a guy named Eddy, a professor of neuroscience at a local university. We talked for two hours about yoga practice and the latest true crime documentary streaming on Netflix.

I couldn't believe how much we had in common.

Every time our eyes locked, my heart jolted.

He was practically finishing my sentences.

We had a connection I had never felt before.

I replay that night over and over in my mind for days, obsessing over why he hasn't texted me back to meet up again.

I can't shake the constant daydreaming of what his body would feel like against mine, the smell of his cologne that night, the sound of his voice laughing at my desperate jokes.

When I accidentally ran into him at the grocery store the following week, he'd forgotten my name or where he'd remembered me from.

I realize how skewed my reality has become.

It's Alaska's fault, really. All those years spent snowed in, three months at a stretch without seeing anyone but my own reflection in the frost-covered windows.

That's not normal, is it? Here in Los Angeles, people like Eddy probably have connections like our dinner every other night.

He's already moved on, I'm sure of it. He's probably laughing with someone else right now, finishing their sentences, making their heart jolt.

Meanwhile, I'm here, clinging desperately to the first person who showed me any warmth in this city of beautiful, detached strangers.

City of Angels... Maybe the city's name is meant to be ironic?

"Alright, Parker, here's the deal."

The voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts like a knife through butter.

A tall figure approaches the table, all angles and confidence against the backdrop of green.

His name is Gary, the man responsible for this whole ordeal.

He's dressed in black from head to toe, as if mourning the death of his own optimism.

Gary's probably in his early forties, with hair that's graying at the temples in a way that's almost sophisticated.

His dark blue eyes sweep over me, taking in everything at once—my rigid posture, the twitch in my knee, the way my hands are probably clenched into fists beneath the table.

He doesn't seem to notice or care that my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.

He doesn't wait for me to respond, his eyes darting around like he's watching an invisible tennis match. "We're looking for a second announcer, and it's crucial that you can play off of Vince once he gets here. Honestly, that's all you have to do to land the role. That's all they want."

There's a moment of silence, and I can feel the shift in the air. Gary's preparing to say something he thinks will offend me.

Gary's fingers tap against the table, a nervous rhythm that does nothing to calm my own racing pulse. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries more weight than a shout.

"Just to be clear, Parker," he says, and I flinch at the use of my last name, "we're looking for a secondary character here.

You're not the leading role." The words land like punches, each one finding its mark with sickening accuracy.

He doesn't seem to notice the way my shoulders slump or how my hands go limp in my lap.

He continues, his eyes darting toward the green screen behind me as if expecting Vince to materialize from it.

"Read your lines, play off of Vince's dumb improv, and just focus on making an imaginary audience laugh.

" I can almost hear the unspoken words: Don't be yourself.

Don't be the anxious mess you clearly are.

Gary's gaze returns to me, sharp and assessing. "We want someone who can stick to the script but still bounce off of Vince to get laughs... just don't go too off script, okay?" His final words hang in the air, a clear warning disguised as casual advice.

My mind races, trying to process this new information.

I'm not just an imposter; I'm an imposter who's been explicitly told he's secondary, a prop for someone else's comedy.

The pressure in my chest intensifies, making it hard to breathe.

I wonder if Gary can see the panic in my eyes, the way my throat constricts.

Probably not. In this city, I'm learning that most people don't look close enough to see anything beyond their own reflection.

Gary's eyes continue their frantic dance, darting around the room like he's tracking some invisible tennis ball I can't see.

His mouth moves, words spilling out, but I'm not entirely convinced his brain is actually connected to it.

The disconnect is almost comical, really.

Here's this man in charge of my potential future, and he's looking like a malfunctioning robot whose circuits are shorting out one by one.

I watch him, wondering if he even hears himself speak, if the words registering in his ears are the same ones tumbling out of his mouth.

His hands gesture erratically, emphasizing points that aren't there, punctuating air with fingers that seem to have forgotten their purpose.

It's like watching a poorly coordinated puppet show, and for a brief moment, I almost laugh. Almost.

"Andrew. Parker. Did I lose you?! Are you getting any of this?"

I nod my head up and down, faster than I can actually process the question.

"Secondary. Character. You get that? Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Mr. Parker? Can you do this?"

My head bobs up and down like one of those dashboard dogs, the motion automatic and meaningless.

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite myself.

There's something about Gary's frantic energy, his wide-eyed intensity that reminds me of my mother back in Fairbanks, her hands on her hips as she lectures me about leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor.

Gary's face tightens, not amused by the smirk that's somehow found its way onto my lips.

The absurdity of it all has actually helped calm my nerves.

Laughter really is the best medicine, but Gary probably doesn't give a damn about my feelings.

He just wants to get this over with so he can go home to his empty apartment and stare at his own reflection, wondering why he chose this life.

The vinyl of the chair sticks to my bare forearms, the makeup caking my skin feeling thick as clay.

Each minute ticks by with excruciating clarity, the sound of the wall clock echoing like a drum in my ears.

They've left me sitting here alone for nearly an hour now, the buzz of the film crew's conversations growing more agitated as time stretches on.

This delay with Vince, it doesn't feel like some clever Hollywood ploy to test my patience.

It feels like something has gone genuinely wrong, like the production is fraying at the edges.

My fingers trace patterns on the wooden table, the grooves and imperfections becoming familiar territory in this unfamiliar world.

The anxiety that had momentarily subsided under Gary's bizarre antics begins to creep back in, wrapping around my chest.

I try to focus on the script in front of me, the words blurring together into meaningless black squiggles on white paper. The green screen behind me glows with an eerie light, casting my shadow long and distorted across the floor.

In this moment, I'm painfully aware of how out of place I am. I'm a yoga instructor turned potential game show announcer, sitting alone in a studio that feels like it's slowly coming apart at the seams.

My eyes dart toward the studio entrance for the hundredth time, expecting to see some sign of Vince, but there's nothing. Just the same crew members exchanging worried glances, the same cameras sitting idle like dormant giants.

I can't shake the feeling that this delay is more than just an inconvenience—it's a bad omen, a sign that I should have never come here in the first place.