Chapter 4
Four
ALERIC
There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to combat an emotional hangover, but I was going to do my level best to kill all my remaining sense of feeling with massive amounts of caffeine. The first table read was in a few minutes, and I had just gotten done with my fifth interview for the week.
Therapy had prepped me for the questions I was going to get because there was no escaping the kid I’d been the last time the world of cinema had seen me.
And the soul-hungry paparazzi never forgot. Not ever. Not even when a decade and a half had passed and my face no longer adorned teeny-bopper magazine ads.
Not even when magazine ads had given way to the rise of the internet, and most kids didn’t know what a center spread even was.
But not even intensive therapy sessions and role-playing could prepare me for the onslaught of pain the questions caused. There was nowhere to run, and I couldn’t hide from the person I’d been. But I also couldn’t tell these doe-eyed, sharp-tongued opportunists what actually happened. The person in my past who’d hurt me the worst was still beloved. And now that they were dead, it was worse. No one believed me back then.
They made sure of that before I was escorted off the set and fired from my agency. I was the crazy one. The addict. The problem child. They had simply been an old soul working their fingers to the bone to give me a chance.
Now that they weren’t around to defend themselves? I would only look like the bitter, angry, washed-up actor trying to make excuses for what I’d done.
If I told the world what happened to me now, that would be it for me. I’d be branded a liar, and my entire career comeback would be canceled before I got the chance to speak a single word on camera. I couldn’t risk it. I wanted a chance to prove myself so badly I was willing to accept all the pain that came with this return to the screen.
I would grit my teeth, bear it, then deal with the aftermath of PTSD triggers and nightmares that made insomnia my new best friend.
And it might have been easier if I didn’t need to be face-to-face with Prince Camillo again, but that was my new punishment. A chance to make a comeback, but I had to have the world’s most fussy babysitter on set telling me what to do. I could only imagine the kind of advice he’d want to give me, and it made me angry just thinking about it.
What the fuck did he know about acting? Or any of this?
I’d never given much thought to the royal family, but it didn’t surprise me that he thought he knew enough to take a job as an acting coach. Sure, I could probably learn a thing or two about wheelchairs, and I was a man who loved bringing authenticity to anything I did.
But did it have to be him with his ridiculously gorgeous lips, and his sneer that kind of made me weak in the knees, and those eyes that felt like they could see right through me?
Christ, I was screwed.
Not to mention, if he remembered me from the other day, there was a good chance that would sour any possible working relationship we might have had despite everything else.
But maybe it was a losing battle from the start. He was firmly against me portraying him, and as much as I understood that he was picky—because who wouldn’t be when an entire show was about you—his reasons for opposing me were ridiculous.
This was acting. The role was meant to be dramatized. That was the whole point.
Get people interested. Get them invested. Give them those gut-wrenching, heart-pounding moments that made them want to watch more.
None of the roles I’d ever done were realistic, so I couldn’t begin to understand why he was throwing such a hissy fit.
But whatever. I was contracted, and all I had to do was play nice and nod and smile when he gave me notes. Then I’d head onto set and do what I did best because regardless of everything I’d been through, I was still an actor. I was good at this.
No. I wasn’t just good . I was amazing . I was born for it. And no fussy royal was going to make me doubt myself, goddamn it. Too many people had done that in my past, and I was through listening to those ugly, cruel voices their criticisms birthed inside my subconscious.
“Are you lost?”
I jumped half a foot when I realized I wasn’t alone, then spun to see a man leaning against the wall. He had a pretty face, sharp jawline, and tiny, arrogant smirk.
I realized I knew him. Well, I didn’t know him. I knew of him.
Eamon Beckett. The veteran actor who got his start a few years before I did. He was portraying the king, so the man would be my father. I was pretty sure he was only ten or fifteen years older than me, but the man had been sporting salt-and-pepper locks since he was in his twenties.
He looked amazing with them, of course.
If I knew I had a shot, I might invite him into a prop room later on, but that was just me trying to cope in the most unhealthy way possible, and I didn’t think my therapist would approve.
“Hello? Did you hear me? Do you need medical help?” His voice was patronizing but did have a nice rumble to it, which took some of the edge off the fact that he didn’t recognize me.
Clearing my throat, I tried my best to sound like I belonged. Because I did, damn it. “I’m here for the table read.”
His nose wrinkled. “Extras don’t attend table readings.” Extras? Did he seriously not know who I was? I couldn’t tell if he was fucking with me or not, and my ears flushed so hot I was worried they were steaming.
I cleared my throat and squared my shoulders. “Yeah, I know that. I’m not an extra. I’m Aleric King.”
His eyes went wide. “You?”
I felt the urge to wrap my arms around my body and sink into the floor. He looked at me with such disbelief and…fuck, disgust? Was I already the set pariah?
The curse?
“ You’re Aleric King?” he repeated.
“Last time I checked.” I tried for a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
His expression shifted from shocked to disdain. He looked me up and down. “You probably should wait until after we clock out to start hitting your vape. You really shouldn’t show up to a table read blazed out of your mind.”
“I’m not,” I started. I wasn’t high. I didn’t get high. I was so fucking tired of that assumption. My insides were flushed so hot it felt like I was about to spontaneously combust. I knew I wasn’t going to escape the addict reputation, but god damn . I wasn’t expecting this kind of judgment from my colleagues, who most definitely had shown up to work on a cocktail of whatever drugs were trending in the nineties. “I’m sober.”
He snorted. “Sure, man. Whatever. The reading’s through that door. Do you want some coffee before we start? You look like you could use it.” I could tell he wasn’t offering to be nice.
I shook my head anyway. If I had another milligram of caffeine, my heart was going to beat straight out of my chest. “I’m good. See you in a few.” I turned and didn’t look back as I pushed through the door he’d pointed at and came to the large room with six tables set up in a square.
It kind of looked like a college classroom, definitely different than other shoots I’d been on, but I hadn’t worked since before streaming took over. I was so out of my depth. It didn’t help that all eyes were on me either.
I scanned the room, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw the prince sitting at the end of the table next to an empty chair I assumed was mine. He was very obviously not meeting my gaze, and I was pretty sure everyone in the room noticed. Was he actually supposed to be here? I didn’t think he was meant to be at table reads.
“Uh. Morning, everyone.” I tried for friendly, but I was pretty sure it didn’t come out that way. I sounded like a strangled tree frog.
There was a collective murmur. I saw Amanza in the corner of the room, texting furiously. She looked up, her expression annoyed, and jutted her chin at the chair next to Prince Camillo. Right. I felt like the new kid in one of those back-to-school nightmares where you show up naked in the middle of a test you didn’t study for.
I ran my hand down the front of my shirt just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating clothes.
My shoes made an obnoxious click on the tiled floors, and the chair gave a vicious squeak as I pulled it back. Camillo winced and rolled his eyes, turning his body away from me.
Wonderful. This was a fantastic start.
I cleared my throat, pulled the script close to me, and scanned the title:
“Episode One: Love’s Labors Lost”
What a weird name. I’d been given the script several weeks ago, but I could already see a bunch of changes had been made since then. They’d photocopied them all with the writer’s editing notes in all the margins and lines crossed out.
“Did you get this version or the one before the edits?” I asked, leaning over toward the prince.
Camillo continued to pretend like I didn’t exist, but I wasn’t having that.
“Cool. I didn’t either. But hey, if you have any tips for me when?—”
“I don’t.” His voice was short, clipped, a carefully curated accent that most of the country attributed to the royal family. His was more muted than the rest of his family, like he’d been working on getting rid of it. That hadn’t surprised me with how little time he spent on royal duties.
“Okay, well, if you think of something?—”
“I won’t. Now, be quiet.” He gave me a pointed look, and in spite of myself, my jaw snapped shut. Fuck. I had never responded to someone’s glare like that before. I swallowed heavily as our gazes connected. His eyes bored into me, holding me almost like he had his hand around my throat.
My chest went hot.
“The only reason I’m here today,” he went on, “is because they asked me last minute so I could see what a table read is like. I’ll be on set telling you what a shitty job you’re doing once they begin filming.”
My throat went tight and burned as I swallowed. Why the fuck did I care what this man thought? Why did I suddenly want to cry and drop to my knees and beg him to teach me how to be good?
Something was seriously wrong with me. I cleared my throat loudly, then reached for the water bottle in front of my script and cracked the top, taking a long drink.
“I will say you shouldn’t show up to work high,” he added quietly.
My grip spasmed on the water, and I almost doused myself in it. “If one more fucking person says that to me, I swear to God?—”
“I’m here. Sorry.” Eamon strolled into the room, cutting off my words. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Camillo flush a little when Eamon winked at him.
Fuck. I mean, I didn’t blame Camillo for being thirsty, but his words had already cut me straight down to the core, and remembering Eamon thought the same thing—shit, maybe I should quit.
Maybe I should give up before I got started because this was going to be a mess.
No one was going to trust me, and I had a feeling no matter what I did, I’d never be good enough to prove I was anything other than some teenage junkie falling apart on set.
“Alright, now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.” That was the director, Christoph. He was young—a sort of up-and-coming with parents who had been in the business, but everything I knew about him said he was desperate to prove he wasn’t a nepo baby. Or, at least, he wasn’t only a nepo baby.
It was relatable.
He smiled at me, eyes crinkled behind his black-framed glasses, but it wasn’t really a friendly grin. I had no idea what to make of him, so I brushed it off and grabbed my script when he picked up his own.
“We open with Prince Camillo, played by the returning silver-screen heartthrob Aleric King. He’s sitting at a table in front of his date. He’s nervous. It’s risky. He hasn’t been seen with a man in public since his accident.”
I had no idea if he’d called me a heartthrob because he could tell I was about ready to jump ship or if he was being sarcastic and cruel. But it was just enough to fill me with a sort of spite to prove myself and keep my ass rooted firmly in my seat.
I could do this, damn it. I could earn this.
I picked up the script and cleared my throat, affecting the voice I’d been using for Camillo. It was odd doing it right there in front of him, but the muscle memory of becoming someone else hadn’t entirely atrophied, and it was too easy to fall into the role.
“Thank you for meeting me. And sorry I didn’t stand up when you got in, but there was something I needed to tell you, and it only felt fair that I say it in person. My name is Prince Camillo, and I didn’t get up because I can’t.”
As every table read went, there was applause at the end, and we all collected our scripts, which were now covered in notes. Surprisingly, I had very few, and Camillo had been silent through the entire thing. I caught him staring a few times, but his face was entirely unreadable, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I felt really annoyed that I couldn’t tell what his tiny little face journeys were about, but I hoped I could figure him out in time. He had taken several sharp breaths, and I was waiting on edge for him to give me some sort of correction.
But he never did.
The silence was worse. The silence always meant I did something wrong, and I would be punished for it later.
Except that wasn’t true. Not anymore. I wasn’t a child under the care of some heartless studio predator who existed to sell my face and body to the masses while collecting a fat paycheck in my name. I wasn’t going to be locked in my dressing room and then fed crushed pills in my food to keep me compliant.
This time, I was my own man. I’d have to own my own fuckups, but I was safe.
I was safe .
That was the quiet little mantra I repeated to myself as I collected my things and did my best to escape before running into anyone who wanted to talk. I needed a piss since I’d downed four water bottles during the read and neglected to go during the breaks.
The hallway was quiet, and the three-stall bathroom was empty when I got in. Or I thought it was. I skipped over the urinal for a stall so I could have a moment of privacy, but the moment I put my hand on the wall and started to let go, I heard a squeak in the one beside me.
Then, something small and hard hit the floor with a loud tap before a familiar voice began to curse under his breath.
“God fucking damn it. This is all I fucking needed right now.” It was the prince.
I glanced down to see a small blue thing that looked a bit like a pen cap rolling toward me.
“Fuck my life,” Camillo said. He took a breath, then said, “Sorry, is there any chance you could hand that to me?”
I stared at it for a beat. “What is it?”
“Oh God, of course it would be you.” He sounded so thrilled to hear my voice. “It’s my catheter cap. It’s not dirty, so could you please pass that over?”
If it wasn’t dirty before, it was now, I thought as I shook my dick, then tucked myself back into my boxers before bending down. The automatic toilet flushed, scaring the bejeezus out of me, and my attempt to awkwardly kneel was thwarted as both knees hit the tiles.
Hard.
“Mother fuck .”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Camillo said dryly.
I shoved my hand under the stall, the cap in my palm. “This is probably pretty nasty now.” I held my hand there, but nothing happened.
After a beat, Camillo sighed. “I can’t reach you.”
I groaned, then did the only thing I could do. I shoved half my body under the stall. I was met first with the wheels of his chair, then his body. He was facing the toilet with a tube hanging over the lip. “Uh. What’s happening here?”
“I’m taking a piss,” he said, snatching the cap from my hand, then shoving my head back under with the heel of his palm. I jumped up and suddenly felt disgusting. God knows what I’d been kneeling in.
“I didn’t know you used a catheter,” I blurted out, trying to fill the awkward silence. I knew immediately that was the wrong thing to say. The second my hip touched the sink, the disabled stall door opened, and he rolled out.
He looked like he wanted to shoot fire out of his eyes. “That’s why you shouldn’t be playing this role.”
I snorted as I started to wash my hands. “Right. For all those catheter scenes they’re going to be showing?”
“They fucking should,” he snapped. “And forgive me for assuming how you do your job, but I figured you’d at least try to know the ins and outs of someone with a spinal injury like mine since, you know, you’re going to be playing me.”
My throat felt all hot again. I grabbed a couple of paper towels, then turned to watch him wash his own hands. I couldn’t see the catheter now, but I could see a lump under the left leg of his jeans, and I had a feeling I knew what that was.
He met my gaze like he was about to challenge me to a duel. Did they do those anymore? The royals?
“You looked like you had a lot to say at the table read,” I finally said.
He blinked like he was shocked that was my response. I moved aside so he could reach the towel dispenser, and for a moment, I thought he was going to leave without another word. Instead, he turned his chair and stared at me, though still didn’t say a word.
“I don’t mind criticism,” I murmured. The silence was way too awkward for me. “I prefer it.”
“Do you? Because I just gave you some right now, and you acted like I was a moron for pointing out that you should know how your character’s body functions.”
He wasn’t wrong, as much as I wanted him to be. My defenses were so fucking high I’d come out the gate swinging like a drunk frat boy.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. Uh…does it hurt?”
He stared at me for a long beat. “Does what hurt?”
“Any of it? All of it? I actually did a bunch of reading, but it seems like every single person with your—ah?—”
“Disability,” he said slowly, like I was five.
My cheeks burned. “Right. Disability.” It was hard not to trip over a word that I’d been taught was the wrong thing to say up until I’d started doing research. “Everyone’s experiences are different. Some people have pain so badly they can hardly function. Some people only notice it on bad days. I read blogs and shit by people who walk with, uh…I forget what they’re called. These things strapped to their legs?”
“Mm.”
I didn’t know if I should have kept talking, but I also didn’t want this to be over. It was the first time all day he was giving me more than an annoyed glower. “Everything I looked up about you was always about the accident and what happened after. Nothing about how you, like, lived your daily life.”
“Did you read my book?”
“I have it,” I said. He blinked at me, and I felt like a chastised schoolboy. “I skimmed a few pages.”
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Read it. And I’m not saying that to be narcissistic. That was the first time I was willing to get graphic about the reality of my disability. In my words,” he added, “not some asshole reporter’s.”
I understood what he meant. It was his own story—raw and uncensored. It was something I’d always wanted to do with my own past, but I had no idea when I was ever going to be brave enough to tell the truth about what it was like growing up on set.
“I’ll read it,” I told him.
He regarded me for a few breaths, then gave a stiff nod, spun his chair, and left the bathroom before I could say another word.
All the air rushed from my lungs, and I sagged against the sink. It felt like I’d gone into battle with some absurdly hot warlord who knew exactly how to bring me to my knees.
I really didn’t like him.
And yet, if I was willing to face the most brutal honesty, being in his presence also made me feel safe. I had no idea what to do with that, so I let it go. What other choice did I have? I wasn’t as though Camillo was ever going to like me. He was barely tolerating me. I had to make do with what he was willing to give me, and if this was it, I’d take it.
I didn’t care how pathetic that made me feel.