Chapter 15 Dylan
DYLAN
It took fifty minutes to get from my place to this beachside bungalow lounge, and I don’t even want to be here.
I want to be at home with my kitty cat, and I’m not going to pretend to be happy to see anyone.
Fuck the westside of Los Angeles. Fuck all of my family and friends who live out here.
Fuck LA traffic. Fuck you, guy from that show that I don’t watch who’s wearing his sunglasses at night—nobody cares that you’re here.
Definitely fuck you, random dude in the straw Panama hat, because you’re an idiot.
Everyone I pass is doing that thing where they recognize me, but they’re acting all cool, like they don’t really care, but then they hold their phone up and pretend they’re scrolling through IG when really they’re taking pics of me.
Fuck you, people who think you’re too cool to freak out about me.
Sir Patrick Stewart wasn’t too cool to tell me he’s a fan of my work. You can all kiss my ass.
This place is all Baja-casual in the way that only a Los Angeles designer with a six-figure budget would interpret Baja-casual.
Sexy Moroccan-style mood lighting, overstuffed leather sofas with exotic designer throw pillows, fireplaces, and oh, okay—a couple of vintage surfboard props.
Very authentic. Sure, it would be a nice place to hang out during the day when it isn’t so crowded, I guess.
But it’s not fifty minutes in Friday night traffic when I could be at home with my kitten nice.
I’m gonna say hi to my asshole brother and his asshole friends and have one overpriced, mediocre drink and then get back into that shitty westside weekend traffic so I can get back in bed with my cat where I belong.
Where the fuck are those fuckers, anyway?
“Hey, mate!” A very tan, stupidly handsome man in a pale blue linen suit and loafers with no socks approaches me.
He’s holding an unlit cigar in one hand and holding out his other hand to shake mine.
My brother’s manager, Martin Hancock. It’s autumn and there’s no smoking in public places in Santa Monica, but somehow this guy can get away with anything because he looks and sounds like a middle-aged pre-Thor Chris Hemsworth. “How’s it goin’? Long time no see.”
I shake his hand. “Hi, Martin. Good to see you. You here with Owen?” Fuck. I was going to be a dick to everyone tonight.
“Yeah, we’re right over there.” He gestures toward one of the five thousand seating areas. “I was just in the dunny, and some guy who wants me to sign him gave me this cigar. She’s a beaut. Get a whiff of that.” He holds the cigar up under my nose. “Ace, right?”
“Yeah, that smells ace.” Fuck. I’m being nice again. “You having a good night?” Shit. Why can’t I be a dick?
He leads me through the main bar area. “Aww, heaps good. Think I’m in love with my niece’s best friend. Never thought I’d see the day I’d wanna settle down with one girl, I tell ya.”
“Fuckin’ A. Good for you.”
“How ’bout you, mate?”
I pretend I didn’t hear his question because I don’t want to discuss this subject anymore with anyone except my therapist, and also fuck everyone who falls in love with people they’re allowed to be in love with.
I see Owen holding court, surrounded by about half a dozen people including Frankie, who’s giving him shit but looking at him all googly-eyed.
He puts his arm around her and brings her in closer while continuing to tell his story.
They’re all casually affectionate and so in love. Disgusting.
Martin claps his hand on my shoulder before walking off. “Good on ya. Catch you later, mate.”
“There he is!” Shane Miller, the man who will forever be known to most of the TV-viewing public as my older brother, stands with his arms outstretched. “Get over here and give me a hug, you little turd.”
Despite my sharply honed yet shamefully underrated acting skills, I am not able to prevent myself from smiling at this guy.
Unlike the brothers I’m related to by blood, my Disney Channel brother has never been an asshole to me.
I don’t even know how long it’s been since I’ve seen him, but we always fall right back into our old dynamic.
“Why does your hair always look better than mine?” I try to mess up his hair, but it looks even better now.
“It’s in my contract. Why are you taller than me now? That ain’t right.”
“I’ve been taller than you for a decade.”
“I don’t think so. You just missed Willa and Kat, but this asshole’s still here.” He points over at Nico Todd, who’s sprawled out on a sofa like a ridiculously good-looking sexy asshole musician.
“’Sup, kid. We were just talking about you.” Nico shifts around and pats the empty spot next to him. “Get over here.”
“Well, if it isn’t Greyson Manning’s little brother, all grown up.
” Barry Weiner saunters over to give me a Hollywood bro-hug.
He’s the producer of That’s So Wizard!, and he’s now producing Owen’s new family sitcom, Funny Business.
He’s holding a glass of champagne. Every time I see him now, he’s holding a glass of champagne.
“Good to see you, Little Brodie—you need a drink. What can I get you? Champagne? Old fashioned? You gonna do a cameo on our show or what?”
“I’ll just have a Corona, thanks.” I’ve been dodging that question about doing a cameo on Owen’s show for months.
I’d be pissed if they didn’t ask, but I also don’t want to be stunt-cast in a family sitcom when I’m hoping to be nominated for a Tony Award.
Or maybe I’m still trying to get out of all my older brothers’ shadows.
Maybe I should talk to Scarlett about that next week.
Shit, now I’m thinking about Scarlett again.
Barry rests his hand on my shoulder. “So that’s a yes re: the cameo, right?
We’re finishing up the script for episode seven now.
I think we can squeeze you into episode eight.
Nico’s going to be in episode five. Shane’s directing the first three episodes.
Vega just agreed to direct a couple of episodes once he’s wrapped the movie he’s shooting in the desert.
Whaddya say? I don’t want you to be the only Wizard alum to be left out in the cold. ”
God dammit, I want in. “Yeah, call my manager. We can probably work it into my schedule.”
“Atta boy.” He pats me on the back. “Be right back with that Jack and Coke.”
“Corona.”
“Right.”
I take a seat on the sofa, in between Shane and Nico.
“FYI,” Nico leans in to tell me, “Barry got me to say yes to a cameo by telling me that you had already agreed to do one. And it’s turned into a lot more than a cameo.”
“That fucker.”
“Just doin’ his job,” Shane says. “How’ve you been, buddy?”
“You look miserable. Doesn’t he look miserable to you, Shane?” Nico pinches my cheek. “Heard you got dumped by that girl you were seeing in New York.”
“Sounds like a job for the Lazy Wingmen.” Shane gives Nico an exaggerated wink.
“I will punch you both in the balls if you Lazy Wingmen me right now.”
“I hear ya.” Nico glances over at the woman in a crop top that Barry Weiner stopped to talk to, raises a tumbler to his lips, and mumbles, “Hey. You recognize this guy sitting next to me? No, he’s not the guy from The Vampire Diaries—if he was that guy, he wouldn’t be this lonely.
You want his number? He’ll probably call you. ”
“Hang on, I see someone I think you’d like,” Shane mutters.
He nods over at a group of three women, probably from the Funny Business crew, who are having an in-depth discussion and not paying attention to us at all.
“Hey,” he says, barely loud enough for me to hear.
“You interested in this guy over here? He’s sad.
He’s grumpy. He’s unemployed at the moment, I think.
But he does have a penis. Give him a chance. ”
“I hate both of you so much.” I start to get up, but they both pull me back down.
Nico pretends to cough into his hand. “This guy needs to get laid.”
“Okay, well, that really was just lazy.”
“I got it, I got it.” Shane lifts a finger at a woman who has her back to us. “This is my friend. He’s an actor. He’s got pretty eyelashes, and he takes himself very seriously. If you run lines with him, he will probably fall in love with you. You in?”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
Nico laughs. “He said, but then he got another acting job and fell in love again.”
“You know what? I’m already tired of talking to you smug married people. Why don’t you go home to your beautiful wives or something?”
Shane and Nico look at each other and nod.
“Okay,” Shane says.
“Yeah, let’s go home to our beautiful wives and children who love us.”
“Have a great fucking night.” I pat them both on their smug, married knees and then get up to head over to the bar because Barry Weiner is clearly never going to bring me a drink.
I don’t see one woman in here who I want to have a meaningful conversation with.
Except maybe Owen’s girlfriend, Frankie, who’s headed in my direction and trying so hard to walk straight that she must be really, really tipsy.
“Dylan! There you are, my good man. Hear hear, I daresay you look like you could use a good stiff drink, old boy.”
Yeah, she’s definitely tipsy if she’s using a fake accent. “Good evening, my dear lady. I daresay, you look as though you’ve enjoyed a few stiff ones already, eh what?”
“Quite right, quite right.” She grips my shoulder with one hand as if in greeting, but really she’s trying to steady herself.
“Can I buy you a drink? I am an employed professional Hollywood asshole now, you know?” She’s lost her fake accent and found her balance.
“Also, I’m so in love with your brother I want to chokeslam him. ”
“That sounds like something you should do in private. And thanks for the offer, but I would like to buy you a coffee.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not done being a tipsy employed professional Hollywood asshole yet.
Oh, hey! Mia’s here!” She looks around for Mia, spots the happiest-looking person in the room, and waves her over.
“Mia Mia Mia!” Frankie lets go of me and grabs Mia’s hand.
“Have you met Mia? My friend Mia! Mia—this is Dylan!”
I hear Mia, and all I can think of is Dr. Shepard. “Hello, Mia.”
“Oh, hi! It’s so nice to finally meet you!”
“Oh shit.” Frankie pokes me in the chest. “Wait. Do not ask her about the therapist.” She grabs Mia’s face and says, “Mia, do not tell him anything about the therapist.”
Mia’s pretty face lights up between Frankie’s palms. “Oh, that’s right! You’re seeing Dr. Shepard too! Isn’t she amazing? Did you see her out there?” Mia calmly removes Frankie’s hands from her head.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s here. On the patio. With a friend. It’s so weird seeing your therapist out in the wild, but she was so gracious about it. She’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen her with her hair up like that before.”
I haven’t had a drop of alcohol today, but I have the cognitive function of a Neanderthal all of a sudden. “Dr. Shepard? Here? On patio? With female friend?” She better be with a female friend.
“Yeah, I mean, she was. About half an hour ago. She may have left by now.”
Martin Hancock appears out of nowhere and puts his arm around Mia while staring me down. “Ahhh, there you are, Mia. How ya goin’, mate?”
“Nope.” Frankie lifts his arm off of her friend’s shoulder. “No, Uncle Marty. Gross.”
“What do I always tell you, kid? Nevah, evah call me Mahty.”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest of that conversation because I need to get to the patio to find the only living soul in LA I want to talk to right now who isn’t Mr. Noodles.
This patio is huge. Lit by hanging lanterns and candles and the nearby streetlamps along Ocean Avenue. There are so many seating areas to scan and people who don’t interest me. And yet this bar and Santa Monica and this night is suddenly filled with possibility.
The potential sighting of a woman who has the power to crush me has brought me to life again.
And there she is.
Sitting on a sofa under a tree, wearing a white dress and jean jacket with her hair piled up on top of her head.
I can see her red lips from here—not bright red painted-on lipstick but subtly scarlet and achingly kissable.
She doesn’t look happy, exactly, and that pleases me.
But she’s so beautiful I want to chokeslam the guy who’s sitting next to her trying to chat her up.