Chapter 2 Jason （five days earlier）
Chapter 2
I still don’t know if there’s a llama farm in my future.
Jason (five days earlier)
I STRESS VAGUELY over the last text Margarita sent me as I push open the hotel doors, my red Nikes padding across the worn carpet on the way to the staging area for the Lost Star fundraising event.
Margarita: Matthew has been invited to a birthday party next weekend. You’ll need an appropriate gift for a four-year-old girl.
It’s the first time a birthday party has fallen on one of my weekends, but I guess I need to get used to this sort of thing. Will the whole family be expecting some big expensive gift because Mattie’s parents are actors? Do I need to look up a local pony farm? Or maybe llamas? I heard somewhere that llamas are the new ponies.
“Hurry up, Hard-On ,” Sean says out of the side of his mouth, staring up at the ceiling as a makeup artist paints black eyeliner around his eyes.
“ Hadron ,” I correct him for what feels like the thousandth time as I search the conference room turned hair and makeup studio. “Hey, what do four-year-old girls want for their birthdays?”
“Diamonds,” Sean replies, “in the shape of Elsa.”
I ignore him and make a beeline for the curtained-off dressing rooms. I run into Mount Ramirez on the way.
“Sup, Snack?” He slaps me on the back as I pass him.
I cough involuntarily. It always surprises me how huge the dude is, and I’m not a small guy. “Life’s good!” I call over my shoulder.
Slipping out of my jeans and T-shirt, I shuffle into my Hadron costume. It’s not the one we use for the show; it’s the media version, which is less sweaty and itchy, but just as shiny and purply brown. Eggplant is the official name for my color, I think. The long zipper makes a satisfying noise as I yank it from groin to neck and then add the pleather jacket. At least I don’t need two people to dress me in this costume. A man takes pride in being able to dress himself from time to time.
“What do four-year-old girls want for their birthdays these days?” I ask Kathy, my makeup artist, while she’s covering up my imperfections. All the ones you can see, anyway.
She shrugs. “Dolls?”
Not particularly helpful, but I thank her anyway.
When the final touches are done, we assemble in the hotel courtyard for go time. All six members of the Lost Star Dance Troupe are in costume and ready to sizzle the proverbial fajita, this particular fajita being an autograph party for sick kids. Sean as Captain Footwork is all slit-eyed in black, Jason “Mount” Ramirez as Diggit is larger-than-life in chartreuse and gray. Then there’s red-clad Andrew acting bored as Quasar, Amanda all green and fierce as Maelstrom, and little Kayla rocking the spunky purple thing as Ruby. Oh, and I’m here, too—Jason Connor as Hadron, the funny one. In eggplant.
The gates to the hotel courtyard open, and the kids and their parents surge toward us in a flood of primary colors and autograph books.
“Hey, buddy.” I accept a book from a skinny kid wearing a T-shirt with my face on it.
“Just like the meme,” his mom says, grinning ear to ear.
I give her the million-dollar smile, but inside I cringe. The photo from the “Hey, buddy” meme was taken during what was seriously my lowest point, but this lady doesn’t know that. How could she? Anyway, it’s not her fault. I assembled that shit sandwich all by myself.
I pose for their selfies and get ready for the next visitor. This time I’m attacked with a hug—from the mom, not the kid. “Whoa there!” I pat her back awkwardly and peel her off me when she won’t let go.
“You’re my favorite, Hadron,” says the daughter, who looks about ten years old. She’s wearing a scarf on her head and yellow, star-shaped glasses.
I ignore the mom’s mountain of exposed cleavage and give the little girl all my attention. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah.”
“You look beautiful today, Sarah.”
“Will you do the dance with me?”
I cock an eyebrow. There’s a lot of dancing in the four seasons of Lost Star Dance Troupe Saves the Universe , go figure. “Which one?”
“This one.” She shuffles her feet and thrusts out her arm.
I do it. The little girl squeals and claps. The mom leans her bleached-blond head right up to mine and whispers what she’d like to do to me to show her gratitude, punctuated by a squeeze on my butt cheek. Really, lady?
I can’t totally blame her. A few years ago, I would’ve been game for it—the touch, the sex, the invitation to feel something, anything. But I don’t do that stuff anymore. Not since Mattie was born. Besides, I have to figure out what’s going on between Margarita and me. I don’t know what you’d call what we’re doing. I’ve heard things like co-parenting and friends with benefits . It all sounds so pragmatic. But I don’t want to think about that right now. These kids are here, and they’re sick, and they deserve this little thing I can offer them—being present for them, showing them a fun time. Being Hadron, not Jason Connor.
“Hey,” I ask the little girl, “do you like llamas?”
But it’s too late. They get swallowed by the crowd.
I catch Sean’s eye over the heads of the mob, and he makes a quick motion like he’s hanging himself. Sean’s been in the business too long. Just to bust his chops, I burst into the theme song for Lost Star and start to dougie. Once I do this, the others are obligated to join in. I think it’s even in our contract. Sean’s eyes turn to daggers, and Mount Ramirez looks like a parent who’s given up. Kayla’s into it, though. She wiggles over in her space-age silver cornrows and bumps hips with me. The kids are laughing and joining in. I grab a little girl by the hand and twirl her. When it comes to the forearm bump, I pick a kid in a wheelchair. The song ends, and I get ready to launch into another one, but Amanda’s brown eyes flash under her Popsicle-red hair as she says, “Jason,” in that way that really means no .
A second later, Sean is beside me with my head pinned under his arm. “I think Hadron needs a little talkin’-to!” His operatic Captain Footwork voice rings across the courtyard.
I punch him a few times in the kidney (lightly, ’cause, hey, there are kids here) until he lets me out of the headlock. “The hair!” I complain, but I can feel the shit-eating smile on my face.
“Just sign the autographs,” Sean says in the same tone of voice he might use to say, I’m going to slit your throat in your sleep .
It’s all good. There’s love there.
As I’m adjusting my collar, I notice a family of three off to the side, huddled in the shade of one of the courtyard columns. The littlest one, pale with dark circles under her eyes and ragged strands of dark hair, is eyeing me, clutching a stuffed Orbit plushie. I lope over to them.
Crouching down to her level, I put on the serious face. “Do you have a proper alien handler’s license, miss? Those things are dangerous, you know.”
She hides her smile in the toy’s fur.
“Thanks for coming over,” her dad says. “She can’t handle too much heat and sun.”
I sign her branded eight-by-ten Lost Star photo and hand it back to her. “This counts as your license. If anyone gives you any trouble, you tell them Hadron authorized it.”
She throws her skinny arms around me, and I’m careful not to squeeze too hard. “Hey, what do you want for your next birthday?” I ask her a second before her father’s face falls. Suddenly, I realize what an ass I am. This kid might not see her next birthday. “Never mind,” I whisper, patting her bony back. “Who do you want to see next? I’ll send them over.”
An hour later, we’re all wiping the makeup off our faces in front of a long mirror, and I still don’t know if there’s a llama farm in my future.
“So, which one of you is it?” Andrew asks as he plunks his cowboy hat back on his head.
“I beg your pardon?” Sean smooths out his goatee and stuffs the blond streak under his jet-dark locks.
“That celebrity crush poll. For that romance book. It’s all over social media. Which one of the Lost Star troupe is the book based on?”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Sean’s palms are up as if the planet itself has offended him.
I pull out my phone. I’m not terribly active on social media. I find it overwhelming, not to mention a lot of people are jerks, but I swipe around until I find it. There’s a poll posted, and I’ve been tagged on it several times. Who is @authorEmmy’s #SecretCelebrityCrush? is accompanied by four photos: Andrew, Sean, Ramirez, and me. If I tap one of our names, it will take my vote.
“Here it is!” I announce.
“Oh, I’ve heard about this!” Amanda snatches the phone from my hand. “It’s fun. The book is a rom-com. You guys should read it. Find out if she based it on you.”
“I don’t read romance novels.” Sean throws his makeup-soiled cloth into the trash with more force than necessary and flexes.
“Don’t worry, it’s not you.” I grab my phone back from Amanda, tapping my name to place my vote. The percentages pop up. Mount Ramirez has 47 percent, which makes sense because he’s a demigod, and I’m in second place with 30 percent. Sean’s lagging at 15 percent. Andrew has 8.
“Hey, Sean, I’m ahead of you,” I crow. “I have double your score!”
“What the—” He snatches the phone from me and glares at it.
“The character must not be a total asshole.” I laugh.
Kayla digs out her own phone. “I’m voting for Everest.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ramirez grumbles.
Amanda has found it on her own device and taps the screen. “There! I voted for Connor.”
“You haven’t even read the book!” Sean protests. “It could be me. Why wouldn’t it be me?”
“Hey, can I have my phone back?” I chase it. “I need to screenshot the moment I beat Sean O’Sullivan at something.”
“Gloating is an ugly look on you, Snack. You’re supposed to be the nice one.” Sean slips his rings back on his fingers, making him look even more kingly. “Dinner anyone?”
“Nah, Margarita is dropping Mattie off tonight,” I say. “I gotta go.”
“How are things going between you two?” Amanda asks quietly while I check out of the conversation and stuff my things into my bag. “Still fighting?”
I rub the back of my neck and stand up. “It’s a never-ending battle.”
“You’re a good guy, Jason,” she says. “And you’re a good dad. You’ll figure it out.”
Her light pat on my shoulder is more comforting than it should be. Amanda and I started out together in LA doing commercials and bit roles. She’s always been a good friend to me. I give her a tight-lipped smile. “See you at the studio.”
On my way out, Miles, one of the Lost Star directors, stops me. “Got a minute, Connor?”
“Not really, Miles…”
“Let me rephrase that. I need to talk to you.”
I blow air out of my cheeks. This doesn’t sound good. “What’s up?”
Miles holds out his phone. He has the Celebrity Straight Talk gossip show paused on it. My heart sinks as he presses PLAY .
AMIL: Let’s start the show off today with one of my favorite things ever… Jason Connor’s butt! Hello, everyone, I’m Amil Nair, and this is my cohost, Isla Wallace.
ISLA: Hi-la, it’s Isla! A question, Amil. Is that a hand I spot on that very shapely rear end?
AMIL: It is, Isla! This is a photo of Jason Connor trolling for moms at an autograph party for sick children less than an hour ago!
ISLA: Wow, that’s… inappropriate.
AMIL: He could have chosen a better venue, I agree.
ISLA: I guess he’s at it again, isn’t he?
AMIL: His butt is, at least.
ISLA: Has it got a name? I feel like Jason Connor’s butt should have its own name. It’s practically sentient.
AMIL: We can call it Ronald. Anyway, Ronald is liable to get Jason Connor in big trouble, and he can’t afford that.
ISLA: I know, right? Jason’s on, like, strike seven with Lost Star ’s network. And I heard through the grapevine that they’ve already got Zachary Tay lined up to take his place if he screws up again.
AMIL: Oh no! The same Zachary Tay who beat Jason out for the voice of Prince Reese in Tower Diaries ?
ISLA: The same!
AMIL: Ouch, that would hurt.
ISLA: I’m sure it would. Those two appear to have a friendly rivalry going.
AMIL: I’d like to see it get less friendly. Maybe with Speedos in a mud pit. [ laughs ]
ISLA: [ laughs ]
AMIL: Speaking of Zachary, did you see that amazing video he posted earlier this week?
ISLA: The one where he was holding that koala and announcing that he’s launching his own personal campaign to save endangered species around the world? I sure did.
AMIL: Are koalas endangered?
ISLA: I don’t think so.
AMIL: Well, who cares, right? That video was adorable. And at least Zachary Tay knows how to get the world’s attention with something other than his Ronald!
ISLA: So true.
AMIL: You know, Isla, I’m going to come right out and say it. I kind of hope the old Jason is back. That sexy thang was game for anything. You just had to be in the right place at the right time to get your invitation.
ISLA: Remember when he got drunk and fell off the Santa Monica Pier?
AMIL: Yes! Someone photoshopped an orca into that picture.
ISLA: I saw that, too! Remember the tagline? He’s just as yummy as they say!
AMIL: I bet he is, too.
ISLA: [ laughs ]
AMIL: [ laughs ]
Miles pauses the video midcackle. I wipe my face with my hand. “‘Yummy’ is an exaggeration. I think ‘palatable’ is a more honest assessment.”
Miles does that thing where he presses his lips together so his mustache takes over his whole mouth. “It’s not funny, Jason.”
I know it’s not. I’m actually pissed because, out of all that time spent trying to make sick kids feel good, it’s a photo of a woman’s hand on my ass that makes the news. It’s been three years since I went off the rails, but I can’t seem to live it down. Yup, that’s me, Jason Connor. Everybody’s favorite train wreck.
“Look, Miles, I could understand if I did something wrong. But that’s her hand on my butt. I’m the victim here! I’ve been keeping my head down. I’ve been working hard. I can’t control what other people do.”
Miles sighs, and suddenly, I’m overcome with memories of my dad. My dad was the kind of dad who threw a baseball with you in the front yard and whose “talking-tos” left you feeling sheepish but still loved. Looking back, I wonder if there was some kind of magic to it. Like, how was it that the feeling of his hand on my shoulder was enough to give me the courage to swing a bat again after striking out six times in a row? How was it that when he said, Son… and followed it with anything, anything at all, I believed it—really believed it, down in my DNA?
I don’t play baseball anymore, and my dad doesn’t say, Son… to me anymore because he passed away right before Mattie was born. Now, when I screw up, there’s nobody to make me believe in myself again.
“You’ve got to be the cleanest guy on the block, Jason,” Miles says, and I’m already nodding. “I mean no screwups. Nothing that even looks like a screwup. If you don’t, you could lose your contract for next season, and as your director and your friend, I don’t want to see that happen.”
“Does the network really want to replace me with Zachary Tay?”
Miles’s mustache twitches. “They don’t want to do anything. But they like Zach because he’s not always being photographed with women’s hands all over him, and he doesn’t sucker punch random husbands and get thrown in jail while home on vacation. I practically had to donate my left nut to keep that quiet.”
I wince into my fingers. “That was a long time ago.”
“Funny, to my scrotum, it feels like yesterday.”
I shake off the image of Miles with only one cherry on his stem. “Fine. Look, Miles, I won’t let you down. I won’t touch another woman unless it’s in front of a camera for work purposes, I promise.”
“And the drinking?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
He nods. “Let’s get some more good PR shots and clips, preferably ones where your ass isn’t playing the starring role.”
“That’s gonna be hard. My ass auditions for everything.”
He laughs, and it’s one of those weak, almost-doesn’t-make-it-out-from-under-his-mustache laughs, but I grab on to that sucker, swing on up, and ride it into the sunset. “Don’t worry, Miles. I’ll be your poster boy for good behavior. Teacher’s pet. Sam Beckett. Boy Scout. All of it. I’m your Huckleberry.”
He frowns and nods. “I know you are, Jason. And don’t worry. I’m on the lookout for the kinds of projects that’ll help you turn things around. If I find one, I’ll send it to Cameron.”
I want to hug him, but instead I shake his hand and head for the exit. Truth is, I just made a promise I don’t know how to keep because, when I do something right, nobody notices, but if I trip up even the tiniest bit, the wolves are always there, dressed as grandmothers, ready to eat me alive.
Outside, aviator shades rescue me from the dazzling sun reflecting off the sidewalks and buildings. A couple of women with shopping bags stop me for selfies, and I oblige, hurrying away with a polite wave. I always park far away because walking feels good. My shiny black Alfa Romeo is there waiting for me on the curb in front of Starbucks. I love this car. It’s warm and comfortable and fast and nonjudgmental. Just falling into the driver’s seat makes me feel 30 percent less shitty.
I don’t want to blame my dad’s death for why I beat the crap out of that guy or why I did all the other awful things I’ve done, like missing Mattie’s birth. Especially that.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my social media feed until I find that celebrity crush poll again. Looks like I’m bravely hanging on to second place. At least some people out there don’t think I’m a total jerk. Maybe I should buy the book. I don’t have to actually read it, but I feel like I owe the author that much for giving me something to lord over Sean. I plan to draw every ounce of blood out of that unicorn.
I tap the link embedded in the post, and it takes me to a web store. Wow, I think I grew an ovary just looking at that cover art. I read the blurb:
When dolphin trainer Nora is hired to oversee the filming of animal actors in a major motion picture, she doesn’t know that her celebrity crush is playing the starring role. Then the leading lady suffers a shark attack, and Nora finds herself polishing up her acting (and flirting) skills…
“Geez.” I laugh but tap the link for one-click ordering anyway. Now the book is mine. It’ll arrive by mail tomorrow, but I can start reading it now on my phone if I want. Why not? I launch the e-book app.
Although it’s not my typical reading material, I find myself hooked a few paragraphs in. By the fourth page, I’m introduced to Mr. Celebrity Crush himself, a character by the name of Gage. It’s a romance novel, so of course he’s all muscled and chiseled and rugged.
Am I rugged? I like to hike, so I’m thinking that counts.
Then I get to the part about the memes. The girl character, Nora, is watching memes of the guy character, Gage, and whaddayaknow? They’re mine.
Okay, maybe that’s jumping to conclusions, because a bunch of us have memes where we’re saying okay and what? and nope and things like that. But she describes a couple of others in there that aren’t standard one-worders. Subtle things clue me in. There’s one especially that I can tell is based on a scene from a movie I did early on in my career, where I deliver the line Whoever cares most gets to win . It’s not one of my better-known performances, but I’m really proud of the work I did in that film. The meme isn’t exactly the same, but the way she describes it, there’s little doubt in my mind. I’m 90 percent sure it’s me.
I smile. I don’t know this person, but it sure feels good to be chosen for something other than Most Likely to Seduce Your Mom at a Wedding.
Out of curiosity, I click her personal link. It takes me to an author web page with links to her social media accounts. “Emmy Ellison,” I say out loud, studying the picture of her squinting out to sea. She’s pretty in a beachy sort of way. Her wavy, light brown hair is highlighted by the sun, and her hazel eyes have a golden clearness to them. Her bare shoulders are sun-kissed and glittering, as are the tops of her breasts rising sensually from her low-cut bikini top. The way she stares at the sea makes me think of mermaids and sailboats, buried treasure and longing.
My phone rings, snapping me back to reality. It’s a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”
“Hey, Jason.” The voice is perky and fun. It sounds terribly familiar.
“Yes?”
“It’s Terica. You know, Terica . Don’t you have me in your contacts? Never mind. I have a favor to ask. Have you heard of the book Hashtag Celebrity Crush ?”
Well, well, well, I was right! Immediately, I want to mentally celebrate, but my conversation with Miles floats back into my consciousness. While the media is adept at spinning things to my detriment, seriously, what could it hurt? I haven’t done anything wrong. She chose me . And this whole celebrity crush thing is just good, harmless fun. Maybe it could even help my image.
What would Dad say? I close my eyes and imagine it. Before he got sick. Before hospitals and tubes and fighting adjustable beds through narrow doorways in my childhood home. Son , he would say, you’ve got a good heart, and anyone that matters will see it . I hold my breath, letting the words sink in. Do their magic.
Yeah, I don’t buy it, either.
But with a little effort, maybe I can play this to my advantage, show the world that Jason Connor is really a good guy who just made a mistake. Or a few mistakes. Or one enormous mistake that kind of overshadows every other aspect of his life. The point is, this could be my path back to sweetheart status. Besides, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to meet this Emmy Ellison in person.
“Jason?”
A tiny chuckle escapes me like a scrappy underdog with a heart of gold who never gave up on his dreams. “Absolutely,” I say before she can even ask. “Count me in, Terica. Whatever it is, I’m there.”