2. Grey
Chapter 2
Grey
“ I ’ve seen better footwork from Gran.” My brother, Piers, laughs as he deftly swipes the soccer ball out from under me. God, I need to spend more time out of LA. I’m calling a football a soccer ball.
“From when she drop-kicked you as a baby?” I joke. The comment steals Piers’ focus for a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to regain control of the ball.
“She didn’t drop-kick me,” Piers growls, hot on my heels. But he’s too late. The ball has already left the ground, soaring toward the goal.
“Well, someone dropped you. What does that make it? 4-2?” I taunt. If my lifetime of knowing Piers has taught me anything, it’s that he’s one competitive bastard. It seems to run in the Aldridge family.
“You know damn well it’s 3-3,” Piers responds, grabbing the ball from where it rests against the netting and gearing up for another round.
“Can this be the tiebreaker so we can grab a drink together before your curfew?” I joke.
“I don’t have a curfew.” He rolls his eyes, walking toward the middle of the field—apparently, all of my soccer-football lingo has been Americanized at this point—with me to drop the ball for the last round. “But you’d want to get home early too if you had a smoking hot wife waiting on you.”
I stare at him, trying to come up with a quippy response but falling short. “Shit, probably yeah.”
“You all right?”
“Fine,” I say, shutting down the prospect of any talk about my lack of a love life.
The last time I dated anyone, it was my female costar in my first James Bond movie. Like a shooting star, the relationship burned brightly for almost a year before flickering out as swiftly as it had appeared. It wasn't anything serious, she just lost interest. But it’s probably the only time a woman was actually interested in me for me, and not for my looks. But I don’t want to think about it, and I certainly don’t want to talk about it.
Instead, I motion for Piers to drop the ball. “Come on, I’ll beat you quickly so you can run home to Julie.”
“You won’t win,” Piers says, dropping the ball.
“So,” I say, eager to change the subject while we battle it out for the ball. I gain control and start dribbling. “What can you tell me about Aspen Jordan?”
The only thing I know about my future costar is that she starred on Fairview Ridge . Coincidentally, Piers worked as a dialect coach with the Australian male lead of the show, meaning he was around the set a lot.
“What do you want to know?” Piers asks, blocking my progression down the field.
“I don’t know. What’s she like? I just want to know what I’m getting myself into with this new film.”
“She was really nice. I didn’t interact with her directly very often, but every time I passed her on set she’d smile and say hi or ask how my day was. And from what I’ve heard around town, it’s the same kind of stuff.”
“A good-girl type, huh? Sounds insufferable,” I comment, managing to break free of his defense.
Piers laughs. “I think your judgment is royally fucked. I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about her, and here you are calling her insufferable because of it.”
“Am I wrong?” I ask.
“Yes. Most people like nice people.”
“I like nice people,” I say defensively. “I just don’t like people-pleasers. I respect people with a personality, and by virtue of having a personality, you ruffle some feathers. That’s just how it is. I never trust anybody who everyone likes.”
“Just because people don’t like your personality doesn’t mean they don’t like everyone’s personality,” Piers preaches, accidentally giving up his control of the ball in the process.
I seize the opportunity, stealing the ball out from under him and shooting a goal. “Ha! That was the winning shot. Looks like you owe me a pint, Piersy-boy.”
Piers rolls his eyes and walks toward the bench with our bags. “How much was your latest James Bond salary, again?”
“It’s the principle,” I say, grabbing the ball before jogging to meet him.
“Fine, but you’re getting the warmest, cheapest beer they have.”
“Happily,” I agree.
We towel the sweat from our brows, down the rest of our waters, and sling our bags across our shoulders, heading toward the bar across the street from the park.
“God, I miss London,” Piers groans five minutes later as he takes the first sip of his craft beer. True to his word, he bought me a beer so dodgy I’ve never even heard of it before. He literally specially-requested the warmest, oldest one in the back of the storeroom.
“I think this is pretty good.” I shrug, forcing down a gulp of my beer.
“Liar. You don’t miss it?”
“I guess so. But when I’m there I miss the States. Does that happen to you?”
“A little, but only when I get a shit burger or it’s a hot day and I can’t find any air conditioning.”
“Or when you want a Pop-Tart,” I add.
“Fuck, I love Pop-Tarts,” he agrees. “But other than those few things in America’s favor, I miss England.”
“Why don’t you move back there?”
“Because Julie’s from here and I don’t want to make her move away for my sake.”
“They make movies in the UK. In case you forgot, the last Bond was filmed there. And as for Julie, therapists can find work anywhere. She could either find new clients in London, or still see her current clients through video chat.”
He shakes his head at me. “I think you’re the single worst person on the planet to rant to. All you do is try to fix my problems. It’s maddening.” He laughs, taking another swig of his beer.
“I meant, ‘Poor baby Piers, he has to live in America with his American wife when all he wants to do is move back to London! What an impossible, insurmountable challenge.’”
Piers thwacks me upside the head. “I’m doing you a favor by staying. If I left, who else would want to hang out with you, Bondie?”
“No one,” I agree, downing the rest of my beer. “It seems the only people who like me are my blood-relatives.”
“And we don’t really have a choice, now do we?”
“Shut up.”
“And anyway, how can you make fun of me for missing London, when you whine about how nobody likes you? You’re quite literally the Sexiest Man Alive. I mean, come on . Mum and Dad should have given me your looks; I would have actually appreciated them.”
“You have the same looks,” I defend.
“No, I don’t. Women used to go out with me to ask if you were single. It was fucking humiliating.”
“At least you don’t have to deal with that anymore.”
“I’m a lucky man.”
“For sure.”
“Maybe it’s time you put yourself back out there,” Piers suggests.
I chuckle sardonically. “I don’t think so.”
“Come on, you?—”
Not in the mood to hear Piers’ lecture on the great powers of love, I push my chair back from the table and rise, downing the rest of my shitty beer in a few sips. “I have to go. I have to prep some lines for my new film.”
Piers sighs and chugs the rest of his beer too, clearly recognizing my flimsy excuse for what it is, but graciously deciding not to call me out on it. “Fine. I should probably be going, too,” he says.