Chapter 2
Dash Shows His Ass. Again.
Dash
Three Hours Earlier
The makeup artist takes in the evidence of last night’s debauchery as she turns my face from side to side, inspecting the bags under my eyes and my dehydrated skin.
While Luna mutters in disgust, I listen through the speakerphone to my manager Brody snort like the bull he is. “What is wrong with you?”
Even through the tinny speaker I can tell he’s biting the words out from between clenched teeth. Luna’s pierced right eyebrow jumps up at his tone.
“What’s wrong with me? I’m here in the frozen hinterlands. Where’s she?”
She’s the one he should be pissed at. Lia Campbell, America’s sweetheart, and the star of the upcoming Christmas rom-com Sugar Cookies and Spice was supposed to be here over an hour ago.
“She’s not coming.”
Disbelief lands like a punch to my sternum. “Not coming? Why not?”
“You can’t be surprised. Not after the stunt you pulled last night.” His anger gives way to a flatter emotion—resignation, maybe.
I scroll through my fuzzy, fragmented memories. Did I get into another bar fight? Swear at the paparazzi crowded around the club’s velvet rope? After a moment, I give up. It’s all a blur. A blinding, boozy blur.
Whatever the problem is, it’s his problem to manage. It’s right there in the name. He’s my manager.
I raise my chin, indignant. “Enlighten me anyway.”
“Don’t move,” Luna instructs, waving the concealer wand in warning.
I hold still so she can work her magic and watch the image of Brody on the video call drag one hand through his hair, leaving dozens of spikes in its wake.
”Lia’s out. Her agent took me out to breakfast to tell me in person.”
“She can’t be out, The whole point of me coming to Poinsettia Peak—”
“Mistletoe Mountain,” Luna and Brody correct me in unison.
“Wherever. You said I had to do this to redeem myself. You said a feel-good holiday photo spread, a whirlwind romance with America’s sweetheart—”
He cuts me off, pointing a finger at me through the screen. “I know what I said. And I’ll remind you that the entire team—your agent, the publicist, the studio, everybody—agreed that this is the right move, possibly the only move that might salvage your career.”
My indignation leaks out, my anger deflating like a balloon. “So what happened? I thought she was on board.”
“She was on board. Her holiday rom-com opened in previews yesterday. A whirlwind romance with a reformed rogue would polish your image and give her a little image a bit of spice while she promotes Sugar Cookies and Spice.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He sighs deeply and speaks to me in a voice that I imagine a disappointed father would use. I don’t know firsthand, having grown up with no father, disappointed or otherwise. But the heavy tone makes me think of a dad imparting wisdom and a life lesson to a wayward son.
“Well, Dash, you went on ‘Mornings with Molly’ and unleashed a tirade about—”
“Your ass,” Luna supplies.
“Remember that?”
“Of course I remember,” I sputter. “That’s why I’m doing this. For my redemption arc.”
This whole mess is the height of irony, which itself is pretty ironic.
The reason I filmed An Inheritance of Irony in the first place was to revamp my reputation.
After a solid decade as a child star on a series of forgettable sit-coms and one dramedy that will haunt me forever, like an undead bloodsucker, I wanted to shake off the mantle of Vlad, the vampire heartthrob, and sink my metaphorical fangs into a meatier roles.
An Inheritance of Irony, a serious work of cinema, was supposed to make the public forget about my teenage stunts, ill-advised shenanigans, and thoughtless social media posts.
And I’m not being vain when I say I did my best work ever as Cody, the orphaned ranch hand forced to relocate to Philadelphia, where he takes a job caring for a dying art forger.
Critics called my portrayal “thoughtful, complex, and layered” and predicted I’d end up with a glittery statuette.
I even moved from Los Angeles to New York and had my agent spread the word that I was interested in doing stage work.
But when I hit the PR circuit, all anybody wanted to talk about was my butt.
So, yes, fine, I didn’t handle it with a lot of grace when Molly asked how I felt about the nude scenes with a thick layer of innuendo. It didn’t help that my naked posterior was plastered on the screen behind the couch while the opening bars of a striptease song blared.
An Inheritance of Irony, far from changing my image to one of a respected thespian, seemed to cement my reputation as an empty-headed himbo. Like I said, ironic.
“A drunken tirade about your ass,” Brody clarifies.
“I wasn’t drunk,” I say weakly.
My manager and makeup artist exchange amused glances through my phone.
He snorts. “Did you forget we were in the green room with you?”
“Nobody gets drunk on a Bloody Mary.”
“Maybe not. But how about seven Bloody Marys?” Luna retorts.
“I hadn’t had breakfast,” I mumble. Then the burn of humiliation eases as righteous anger takes over. “Lia knew all this when she agreed. She has no right to back out now.”
“She wouldn’t have. But then you went clubbing in Brooklyn last night.”
“So?”
He exhales, flaring his nostrils. “So, when you stumbled out of one of the many nightclubs you visited, the photographer for Tinseltown Tattler called you Bubble Booty.“
I squint, as I try and fail to remember. Finally, I shake my head, lost.
He wastes no time filling me in. “In response, you turned around, dropped your jeans, and bared the booty in question right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I can’t believe you don’t remember mooning the press.”
I did what? My cheeks flame.
“How many Bloody Marys did you have last night?” Luna snickers.
I ignore her and cover my embarrassment by turning on Brody. “This is your job to fix it. Fix it.”
“I can’t fix it, Dash. Your naked butt is all over the internet now. Lia’s not coming. Her creative team is telling her it’s a bad idea. Frankly, they’re right. She shouldn’t tie herself to you. That’s what I’d tell her if she were my client.”
His disapproval stings. A lot. He’s been my manager since I was twelve. He’s like an uncle to me, but that doesn’t change the facts: he works for me. “Well, she’s not your client. I am.”
He’s silent for a long moment.
“And as your manager, I’m telling you you’re screwed.”
The words leave me reeling like a right hook to the jaw. Five . Five of clawing my way up the greased pole of respectability. Five of fighting to be taken seriously. And finally, right as I reach the top, I slide right back into the pit of disposable, interchangeable pretty boys where I started.
No, this is even worse. At least teenaged Dash was too stupid to know he was a punch line.
I blink at him. “That’s it? I’m screwed?”
“That’s it. Unless a miracle falls into our laps.”
Before I can tear him a new one thanks to the magic of cellular data, the call drops. I stare at the blank screen in disbelief.
Luna chuckles. “The coverage here sucks, but Brody’s timing, as always, is impeccable.”
I don’t laugh. “What am I gonna do?”
“Pray for a Christmas miracle.”
I spring from the chair and storm out of the room. I need some air.