Off Script (Crossed Lines #1)

Chapter 1

Jacob

Jacob Wolfe hated auditions.

He didn’t need them—not anymore. He hadn’t needed them in a decade.

His agent liked to call it “respecting the process,” but Jacob knew it was bullshit.

Power plays disguised as professionalism.

Producers loved reminding you who held the strings, who could make you sweat, no matter how many Golden Globes you had sitting on your mantel.

He walked into the casting room anyway, not because he craved their approval, but because beneath all the games and masks, the work was still the only thing that kept the emptiness at bay.

The room was nothing special—small, washed in harsh fluorescent light, and reeking faintly of stale coffee.

A camera blinked from the back wall as half a dozen people lounged in their chairs, feigning indifference.

But he could feel it, the quiet hunger in the air.

They were here to dissect him, to dig through whatever they could find.

He didn’t waste a smile on them or bother with charm.

He wasn’t here to make friends—he was here to work.

They handed him the script: two scenes, raw with subtext. One was quiet and aching, while the other was explosive and jagged. Both intimate and deliberately uncomfortable.

He was halfway through the first scene when he felt it—that click. That quiet shift when the words stopped being words and started becoming something more. He sank into the role like it was familiar, like he’d been carrying the character around in his chest for months without realizing it.

By the second scene, he surrendered fully. The precision was still there, but now it burned at the edges, raw emotion bleeding through his control, just enough to sting. He didn’t flinch when it hurt—that was the point.

When the final line left his lips, no one moved. For a beat, the room felt still before a producer cleared her throat. “That was… exceptional.”

Jacob inclined his head, nothing more. “You’ve got my number,” he said, already turning.

“Jacob—” Ellen, the director, started, but the door was open before her words could follow him out.

He didn’t wait for their approval. He didn’t need their applause. Deep down, he already knew: the role was his.

* * *

Hours later, Jacob stood shirtless on his back deck, a glass of scotch balanced in his hand while he stared at the horizon, as if the ocean might give back something he’d lost.

Forty million dollars had bought him a kingdom of silence: stone archways, an infinity pool spilling into the Malibu cliffs, and manicured grounds that looked curated for a glossy spread. It was the kind of place designed to impress. The kind of place that should have felt like winning.

Inside, the house was quiet. His children slept and Caroline was at her Pilates class.

On paper, his life was flawless, everything a man could want.

Yet Jacob stood at the edge of all that perfection, staring into the restless sprawl of the Pacific—the waves carrying the same unrest that lived inside his chest.

The audition had gone exactly the way he knew it would. He had walked in, delivered, and left them stunned. Like always.

So why the hell did it still feel hollow?

He had a stunning wife, Caroline, who was all blue eyes and blonde allure, her beauty carrying the timeless glamour of Old Hollywood. She’d been by his side for almost ten years—seven of them as his wife. A marriage polished into something steady and safe, never messy or explosive.

They had two children who undid him with ease: Asher, his fierce, curious six-year-old boy who asked impossible questions, and Rose, his sweet little four-year-old girl who’d already mastered manipulating her dad with a single look.

It was the safe kind of family he’d never known, but had managed to find for himself.

Still, he was bored out of his fucking mind. The question gnawed at him, sharp and merciless: why wasn’t it enough?

He sipped his scotch and let the burn steady him.

He hadn’t always lived this way. Once, there had been a run-down apartment in Stockton, with a mother drowning in her addictions, and a father who had vanished without looking back. The smell of beer and smoke clung to the carpet, and broken promises pressed into every wall.

By sixteen, he was on his own, taking whatever work would keep the lights on. Until the day someone looked at him and asked if he’d ever thought about modeling.

Of course he had. He knew what he looked like—tall, dark hair, sharp jaw, those ice-blue eyes people never failed to mention.

He’d used it and turned it into a career.

Modeling came first, then commercials, then acting classes.

One breakout role and the machine swallowed him whole, chewed him up, and spat him out as something larger than life.

Fifteen years had gone by in a blur of nonstop successes: the underdog turned Hollywood star. He’d played the part well: the women, the bad-boy reputation, the silence that let the world make its own assumptions. Brooding, dangerous—whatever label fit the fantasy.

Until one day it stopped being a way to cash in, and started being the only thing that actually mattered.

The roles grew darker, harder, and he matched them step by step.

It wasn’t the fame he craved anymore, but the challenge, the respect, the brief reprieve from the emptiness always gnawing at his chest.

The audition for Wingspan lingered in his mind, impossible to shake.

The series had carved into him from the very first page—the silences, the pain, the want buried so deep it ached to touch.

It was a love story, but not the kind wrapped in soft music and sweeping strings.

This one moved with a slower pulse—visceral, honest, even ugly at times.

It was also gay. Not subtext gay. Not blink-and-you’ll-miss-it ambiguous. It was openly, achingly, undeniably queer. Erotic and tender and infuriatingly human.

So why this story? Why this role? Why did it feel like he couldn’t walk away?

He drained the glass and set it against the railing.

Maybe because, for once, it felt real—stripped of gloss, free of pretense, nothing he could hide behind. For the first time in years, Jacob wanted. Not the shallow wanting of reputation or money or acclaim, but the kind that gnawed at his ribs. The kind that felt like a need.

* * *

Not even a full day had passed and the role was already his. They’d called first thing that morning, Ellen’s voice brimming, calling it the best audition she’d ever seen. Jacob hadn’t celebrated, but instead he had come here.

The gym sat at the far end of the house, past the glass hallway and behind a set of soundproof doors. Inside, there was no music, only the rhythm of breath and the scrape of iron.

Jacob racked the barbell with a sharp exhale, sat up slowly, and dragged the towel across his shoulders. Muscles ached in the way he craved—the good kind of pain, the kind that proved he was still in control, still capable of pushing past limits.

Discipline was the only constant he trusted, the thing that steadied him when everything else threatened to hollow him out.

At forty-three, he looked damn good for his age—broad shoulders, lean muscle, nothing soft to betray him. Every inch earned, and every line a testament to his control.

He moved to the cable machine. Pulled. Released. Pulled again. The repetition steadied his body, but not his thoughts. He should have felt good; he’d nailed the audition and landed the part, but instead of satisfaction there was static.

His phone buzzed on the bench beside him. Mason—one of the first real friends he’d made in LA, and one of the few people who knew him without his armor. They’d met through mutual friends, and somehow the bond had lasted.

Mason worked at a high-profile rehab facility where half of Hollywood seemed to cycle through, which meant he always knew the gossip before it hit the trades.

Jacob almost let it ring, then sighed and picked up.

“Tell me it’s true,” Mason said, no greeting, his voice half laugh, half disbelief.

Jacob rolled his shoulders, staring at his reflection. “What’s true?”

“That you took Wingspan. That role in the gay romance series?”

Jacob’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I took it.”

There was silence on the other end, then a long exhale. “Damn, man. Didn’t think you’d actually go for it.”

“Why not?” His tone cut sharper than he meant it to, the question landing more like a challenge than curiosity.

“You’ve built a whole brand on a certain kind of leading man. This… is a different kind of bold.”

“It’s a good script.” His answer came low, final, as if that was all that mattered.

“I’m sure it is,” Mason said quickly. “I’m not saying it’s bad. I just—” He hesitated. “You know you’re gonna catch heat for this, right?”

“I can handle it.”

Mason gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. You probably can. I’m not so sure about everyone around you.”

Jacob let the towel hang around his neck, eyes fixed on the mirror.

His PR team was probably flipping out by now, running damage control before the headlines even dropped.

Caroline had told him she supported him, but there had been hesitation in her eyes, not disapproval, not doubt, just that quiet caution that said be careful.

He couldn’t blame her. This wasn’t the kind of role you walked into without setting a few fires.

He watched his chest rise and fall. “You think I’m making a mistake?”

“I think you’re making a choice most actors wouldn’t have the balls for. And I respect that. But I also know how fast people can turn when something doesn’t fit their idea of you.”

Jacob twisted the cap off his water bottle, taking a slow drink before answering. “I’m doing what I’ve always done—chasing the best work. I’m not here to fit anything.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’ve always liked about you.” Mason’s voice dropped, edged with something between admiration and worry. “But, shit… this is big.”

Jacob didn’t answer right away, and Mason didn’t press further or offer advice he knew Jacob wouldn’t take. He only said, “Alright.”

Jacob closed his eyes. “Talk soon.”

He ended the call before Mason could say more, put the phone aside, and forced his body back into motion. Could he do it—kiss a man and make it believable?

He wasn’t attracted to men. Never had been. He liked women; the softness under his palms, the curve of hips, the trace of perfume at her throat. No confusion there. He didn’t want a man, not physically or emotionally.

That wasn’t the point though. Acting had never been about playing what came easy.

It was about stepping into someone else’s hunger until it felt like your own.

He didn’t have to want it himself, only to convince the audience he did.

He’d built his career on roles that cut deep; this one would be no different.