Chapter 7
Seven
ALERIC
“It’s hard being totally friendless.”
“I know it is.” Callie’s voice was always soothing, and though I preferred being face-to-face with her, that wasn’t going to happen for the next little while. Filming was beginning, and I was going to eat, sleep, and breathe set and script for the next six weeks before our first break. It meant everything got put on hold, and therapy became a phone call or, if I was very lucky, a quick video chat.
“And I know what you’re going to say,” I told her as I rocked back in my chair. I was in my trailer with my feet up on the little table they’d provided. It was not as posh as the ones I’d had when I was younger, but I was a star back then. Right now, I was a liability, and no one trusted which way the tides would turn on that, no matter what I said.
“What am I going to say?”
“That it’s my fault I’m friendless.”
“Aleric. Have those words ever come out of my mouth?”
I laughed. “Subtext, Callie. It’s all about the subtext.”
She sighed, but I could tell she was smiling. “Only you get to decide when you feel comfortable letting people in.”
She’d been saying that one for years, and I supposed she was right, but it felt like every time I let myself get vulnerable, it was thrown in my face. I knew Camillo was angry about my being hired for the role of him, but I didn’t realize how cutting he could be.
I didn’t know he’d seen my most tender scars, and I didn’t realize how sharp his tongue was.
Lesson learned.
“I know I shouldn’t let what he said bother me.”
“Oh, you know I’m never going to say that. Being insulted is always going to sting. Let yourself feel your emotions. But don’t?—”
“Let someone else’s opinions define how I see myself. I am smart. I’m good at my job.”
“And?”
“And I’m allowed to have a trauma response when someone triggers me. PTSD doesn’t define my self-worth.” I’d memorized her little booklet of sayings, and sometimes they worked. Today was not that day. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of Camillo watching me on set. Of him judging me. Critiquing me. Waiting for his moment to tell me what shit-ass job I was doing.
“Can you say it like you mean it?”
I snorted. “Not today.”
“Fair enough. Let’s make a goal for next Wednesday. What do you think you can realistically accomplish?”
I hated weekly goals. I had to come up with some way to show her I was taking care of myself, which was not one of my strong suits. I rubbed at my eyes and groaned as I grasped at something—anything—that would satisfy her. “Uh…five things I like about myself,” I said, tapping my chin. “And five things I did to make someone else feel good about themselves.”
“How about three,” she amended, taking pity on me. “It’s going to be a rough week for you.”
I hated that she was right, but I decided to embrace it. “Let’s say two to start and three if I can manage it?”
“I’m proud of you, Aleric.”
Those words hit where it hurt, but in the best way. People didn’t say that often. Shit, who was I kidding. People said that never . And I knew it was kind of her job, but she managed it in a way that felt so genuine I couldn’t help but believe her.
My whole body went warm.
Not nearly as warm as when Camillio had praised me, but that was something else. That was something I was refusing to address right then.
Or ever.
My phone began to buzz, and I knew I was being summoned for hair and makeup. “I have to go.”
“Goo—uh, wait. Sorry. What do you say when you want to wish someone well? On set.”
I wasn’t a superstitious man. I had been known to whisper Macbeth a time or two, just to test the theory that it was all bullshit. It was. No one ever heard me, so maybe the curse was just one of those self-fulfilling prophecies.
But I wasn’t messing with the universe today.
“Just tell me to have an average day. I’m scared if you mention my leg, the universe will take you seriously.”
“Have an average day, and you know you can call me if you need me.”
I hummed an acknowledgment and hung up, not bothering to check my phone as I stood up and headed out the door. The first real part of my day was beginning, and the only thing I could do was run from the shadowy, ugly memories from when I was young and chase the hopeful light at the end of this tunnel.
“ Cut !”
I dropped my arms into my lap, my biceps throbbing from being overworked. How the fuck did Camillo do this all the time? I was barely moving around the set, but my arms were burning like I’d spent the last two hours at the gym. I tried not to show that I was exhausted, but I could see him sitting in a dark corner of the set watching me, and I could tell he was reading me like an open book.
I’d mostly been able to ignore him today, but every now and again, I caught his eye. Every single time I flubbed a line, it was because I could see him there watching me. He didn’t know everything about my past. He couldn’t, because no one did. No one knew about the little room, and the big man towering over me, and the quiet words he’d whispered as I trembled beneath his touch.
But that didn’t change the fact that when Camillo had whispered the same words he did when I was crying, it had fucked me up more than I wanted to think about.
You’re too sensitive.
The sentence rattled around my brain, keeping me in a chokehold. And with Camillo, it meant he thought I was weak. He thought I was disappointing, and somehow, that was just as bad as the trauma of remembering the few things in my childhood I hadn’t blocked out.
I had an intense urge to prove myself—to show him I wasn’t the mess the world thought I was—but I didn’t know how. Not when I fucked up every time I realized he was watching me.
And I still couldn’t figure out why I cared so fucking much.
“Water?”
I looked up to see a young, terrified-looking PA holding a bottle out for me. I took it and stood up, and she let out a small gasp of surprise. “You’re standing .”
“Yeah, hon. I’m just acting,” I reminded her.
“R-right. Right. You were doing such a good job that I forgot.”
“I guess that means I’m doing something right,” I said with a wink. I felt a tiny bit better but not as good as I should have.
She flushed, but the moment was interrupted by a soft voice speaking to my left. “Except you’re not doing any of that right.”
I swallowed thickly and squared my shoulders. His opinion of me does not define me. His opinion of me does not define me. I definitely do not want to be good for him. At all. Not even a little.
Rolling my eyes as I turned toward Camillo, I let out a sigh. “Which means?”
“Your arms are hurting, aren’t they?”
I shook my hands out. Was the shaking obvious? “No. I’m fine.”
“You’re not. I know you’re not because you’re using the chair wrong. You’re not going to last for the rest of the day if you keep fucking this up so badly.”
I held my breath, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t, I felt a sudden rush of anger. “You know your job is to consult, right? Not to stand there and call me a fucking idiot and then walk away.”
He reared back. “I didn’t call you an idiot.”
“So you’re telling me it wasn’t supposed to be implied,” I snapped.
His cheeks went slightly pink, and he opened his mouth, then shut it with a hard snap. “My job is to tell you when you’ve got it wrong. If you want to take it that way, it’s on you.”
My jaw tensed so hard it gave me an instant headache. Why was he like this? “I’m not taking it any way you don’t mean, so don’t play like you’re a fool. You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
He blinked at me, and the corners of his lips twitched, though I very much doubted he wanted to smile. His gaze moved up and down my body, and then he sighed. “So you want pointers, then?”
“Unless you prefer I look like an ass so we get canceled before the first season is done filming.” I stopped abruptly because that was a very real possibility.
However, that would also be pointless of him since the show was picked up for two full seasons already, and with the hype, the studio was already talking to the writers about season three.
But it was obvious Camillo didn’t know that.
“You should address me properly” was what he said instead.
I flushed again. Fuck, why did that make my toes tingle? “Your Highness.”
He smirked. “Thank you. Now, watch how I do this, then tell me what I’m doing right and you’re doing wrong.”
“That’s not what I meant?—”
He turned his back on me, cutting me off. Giving his wheels a hard push forward, he rolled across the floor before grabbing them to stop. He pushed one to spin around, then did the same thing back toward me. The chair rolled to a stop an inch away from my foot.
“Well?”
I didn’t know. It was like being asked a question in a foreign language.
Rolling his eyes, he sighed and shook his head. “You’re pushing like this.” He began to mimic me—small pushes to move half a foot at a time. I could feel the lingering ache in my arms just watching him.
But I also didn’t understand what he was trying to show me.
“Are you just trying to make me feel like a moron?” I could hear my tone—it wasn’t polite. I’d been shit-scared literally all day that I was going to make an ass of myself in front of him, and he was telling me now that was exactly what I’d done. He just wasn’t telling me how. Or why. “Also, do you think people are really going to notice or care if I’m not doing…whatever you think I should be doing?”
He blinked at me. “People like me will.”
“Princes.”
“Don’t be obtuse,” he snapped.
He was right. I was just trying to avoid saying disabled. It still felt…wrong. Like the dirty word I’d grown up believing it was. His entire book was a treatise on how it needed to be normalized, but it still felt like I wasn’t allowed to say it.
“I mean, how many wheelchair-bound?—”
“Don’t,” he bit out angrily, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t use that phrase. It’s wheelchair users.”
I swallowed heavily, taking the critique without complaint. “ Those people are actually going to watch? I mean, what’s the percentage here?”
He looked like he wanted to set me on fire with his eyes. “Are you trying to say that if it’s a small percentage, those people don’t matter?”
“No. They matter. But in terms of criticism and episode reviews, people are definitely going to give a bigger shit about the drama than they are about whether or not I can push a chair correctly.”
“Which is why you should be fucking fired,” he said.
“I—”
“I’m done. If you’re going to be just like every other shit-stain ableist out there, I’m not going to bother with you. You’re not worth it.”
Christ. I was fucking up like that was my job instead of all this. I felt small, and I deserved to. The reality of my words hit me as the door slammed behind him, and my stomach lurched like it wanted to heave all over my shoes.
What the fuck was wrong with me? I knew what it was like to scream into a void full of people who refused to listen. I knew what it was like being a person that no one ever believed. That no one respected.
So why was I acting like everyone else who made me feel small and pathetic?
Turning on my heel, I started toward the door, but a strong hand caught my arm. My heart fell to my feet, and panic raced up my spine before I reminded myself that I was safe. No one on this set was going to hurt me.
I turned to see the photography director whose name I could never remember holding my elbow. It felt like he was towering over me in spite of the fact that he barely had an inch on me, and I wanted to shove him off.
“You need to get into wardrobe.”
“What? No, I?—”
“We’re setting up for the throne room scene.”
Christ on a fucking cracker. I peered out through the small window that led to the corridor, but there was no sign of Camillo anywhere. I turned and found the wide-eyed PA who had gotten me water.
“You. Hey ! Hi.”
The young woman paled.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t catch your name before.”
She cleared her throat as she stepped closer. “Mellie.”
“Pretty name. I’m sorry for being kind of an ass earlier.”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. You weren’t.”
That was a lie, but if she was willing to forgive me for it, I’d take it. “Can you do me a huge favor?”
“That’s kind of my job,” she pointed out.
I couldn’t help a small laugh. “Right. Well, can you see if you can run and catch Prince Camillo before he leaves? I doubt he wants to come back, but ask him if he’ll meet me in my trailer—” I cut myself off. “Shit. Well, yes. Ask him if he will, then go find someone in props and see if they can fix a ramp up into my trailer for him.”
“Um…okay,” she said slowly.
“If he doesn’t want to, it’s fine. Just tell him that—actually, never mind, you don’t need to be my messenger.”
She quickly shook her head. “No, really. You’re all good. This is not the weirdest thing someone’s asked me to do.”
“Do I want to know?”
She laughed, looking a little less nervous now. “Probably not.”
I didn’t want to think about what that might imply. Luckily, she didn’t look traumatized, so it was probably buying giant bags of mixed Trolli sour worms and picking out only the blue and pink ones or some shit. “Just tell him that I was being a festering asshole, and I’d like a chance to apologize.”
She paled again. “I don’t think I can say festering asshole to the prince.”
“He’ll appreciate it if it’s directed at me,” I promised. “And I really appreciate you. Remind me to make sure you get a bonus.”
“No, no, really, it’s fine. I don’t need?—”
“Trust me, I know you need any sort of raise you can get. I’ve been in this business too long.”
“ Aleric !”
Someone shouting my name in that tone was never a good sign.
“I’m so sorry, I have to run. Thank you for helping, and I swear I won’t be angry if he tells you to tell me to go fuck myself with a pitchfork.” I turned on my heel before she could say anything else and ran toward wardrobe like my inner demons had manifested and were now nipping at my heels.