Chapter 1
DYLAN
I hurried through the crowded New York airport in my usual disguise—a battered baseball cap pulled down low, sporting a pair of Wayfarers.
In the past, I only flew private, and I didn’t have to deal with the inconvenience of crowded terminals.
But now…now I could barely scrape together enough money for an economy ticket from California.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Not that I gave a shit if anyone recognized me.
Hell, troublesome Hollywood actors were everywhere, usually repurposed on the latest reality TV shows like bad leftovers.
No, what bothered me was the pitying stares once recognition dawned.
And it was all thanks to my last alcohol-fuelled bender, just shy of two years ago.
One of my fellow addicts had been sober enough to document the whole thing on social media.
The tabloids had feasted on my broken soul, and I was left a shattered carcass in the desert.
But I crawled back to life on my hands and knees—inch by inch, hour by hour, day by day.
Now here I was, in the frenetic city that always gave me a headache, about to embark on a trip to France to resurrect my career.
I’d received an acting role in Field of Blood , a movie directed by Jared Elwood, one of Hollywood’s most in-demand creatives.
I’d worked with him years ago and he’d given me another chance, for which I would forever be grateful.
Shooting began in Marseilles in a week’s time, so my nerves were flying high.
Then there was my book deal.
I still had a hard time believing that a publishing house contracted my autobiography.
But I’d been too long without acting gigs to turn them down.
A sizeable cash advance and the opportunity to tell my story, in my way, was a temptation I couldn’t afford to resist. It’s not something I ever planned on, but my dwindling bank account and ever-present alimony payments had me panicking.
If this got me through until my career reignited, so be it.
And I was depending on the publisher’s ghostwriter to help me light the fuse.
My stomach clenched painfully at the thought of revealing intimate details of my life with a total stranger.
It made my urge to reach for a drink that much stronger.
Fuck, I hadn’t had a need this intense for almost two years.
I pulled out my phone with a shaky hand and slowly texted my sponsor. A call today was as vital as breathing.
My phone pinged, and when I glanced at my most recent message, some of my anxiety turned to relief.
My best friend, Rowan Carter, was determined to help me despite my repeated deflections of both his money and his resources.
You see, Rowan’s a real estate billionaire.
Wealthy beyond comprehension. But to me, he’s just Ro, my sarcastic British friend from college.
Rowan had recently been bitten by the love bug, and his husband Andrew had quickly become one of my closest friends to boot.
Unlike my silver-spooned best bud, Andrew and I shared a common middle-class background—I was from Texas, and he was from Georgia.
We bonded over our love of football (American), all things country music, and teasing Ro about his fancy billionaire ways.
Andrew also tended to chafe when Rowan tried to push his considerable financial weight around.
I was glad that Ro had found a partner who valued him for his real worth—his kind heart.
Rowan: The jet is ready for you. Once you pass security, you can use the first-class lounge in the boarding area. Safe travels.
Okay, I overdramatized a touch. I didn’t need to worry about paying for an economy airplane ticket when my best friend has a private jet on standby…
Dylan: Thanks Ro. I’m going to find a way to pay you back.
Rowan: Just enjoy your trip. get your book done and your movie. No talk of money.
Dylan: I don’t need to talk, it’s all I think about.
Rowan: I have every faith that you’ll turn your life around. Let me worry about the money for now and you focus on you.
Dylan: Thanks bud. Give Andrew a hug for me.
After a long security check, I quickly made my way over to the first-class lounge.
“Flight details and ID, please,” asked the young guy standing at the kiosk.
He was tapping away on his computer and looked up at me with a bored as fuck expression on his lean face.
I handed over my passport and itinerary, taking my sunglasses off for a moment so he could have a good look at my face.
When he finally glanced up, his brown eyes widened, and I heard a small gasp.
Shit. So much for flying under the radar.
“It’s a pleasure to welcome you to New York, Mr. Aylmer. Please go right on in,” he commented with a smile as he picked up his phone with one hand and waved me in with the other.
“Thank you,” I replied and walked into the lounge.
Sensing that I was still under the man’s scrutiny, I looked over my shoulder to find his phone aimed in my direction.
I quickly turned, hoping he’d missed a clear shot.
Otherwise, in about thirty seconds, news of my arrival would be dumped on social media.
I’d forgotten what a goddamn pain in the ass it was to be in the public eye, but this was a good reminder.
I shoved my sunglasses back on and shook my head as I entered the lounge.
Glancing around, I spotted a familiar figure and gave a reluctant wave.
My agent, Warren Quinton, was sitting on a couch by the window, and returned my gesture.
He quickly put his head down, fingers flying on his phone.
Despite preparing myself for this meeting, my stomach dipped.
The truth was, he was ready to dump my sorry ass.
This book deal and movie role had been a last-ditch effort to help me out and let me go gently.
But the breakup was coming. I could feel it in my travel-weary bones.
Sort of like what happened with my two ex-wives, but a lot more painful.
And I couldn’t really blame him. Despite the book deal and my first acting gig in years, he was worried I’d fuck this up too.
Ain’t it nice when people’s expectations of you are less than you can imagine?
The urge to numb myself grew but I took a deep breath and remembered that if I had even the tiniest bit of hope, I had something.
“Warren, it’s good to see you. How’s it going?” I asked as I drew near, and he stood up. Warren was my age, thirty-eight, but he looked ten years older in a charcoal gray suit with hair to match. A lot of celebrity agents tended to age prematurely thanks to stressful clients like yours truly.
“Business is good, Dylan. It’s great to see you in person for a change.” He gave me a firm handshake and pointed to the back of the room. “Let’s grab a booth. Max will meet us shortly.”
My stomach flipped over again at the mention of my ghostwriter.
“Sounds great,” I replied, even though I was far from it.
No, I wasn’t keen to finally meet Max aka Maxwell Lowell, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., English professor, fiction author, and ghostwriter. No way he’d fit all that on a business card.
We’d exchanged introductory emails, but something about Max’s formal tone set my anxiety on edge. I was probably overreacting, letting my insecurities about my background cloud my judgement. Another reason I used to drink without limits.
I knew a full-on reckoning was coming with this book.
“While we’re waiting,” Warren added as he checked his phone.
“A reminder that the publisher expects the first draft in two months, and that’s a hard deadline, so you and Max need to work quickly.
Just make sure that it doesn’t interfere with the film.
Promise me you’ll say something if you start to feel overwhelmed.
And remember to keep a low profile as per your contracts. ”
“That’s why we’re staying on Rowan’s yacht.
Far away from prying eyes,” I replied as a dull throbbing in my temple started up.
“Going back to the book, I really wish I could’ve had a hand in choosing the ghostwriter.
Max’s credentials are impressive, but I still have concerns about us working together. ”
“You may be two different personalities, but Max has experience writing high profile autobiographies. He’s ready to write, and you need to do everything in your power to help him.”
“You know best,” I replied, even though doubts raced through my mind.
“I do. Trust me.”
Anytime an agent said “trust me” it gave me the chills. I don’t think there was anyone in show biz that I truly trusted. Me included.
“All right. I’m excited about filming with Jared again, but I don’t know what kind of welcome I’m going to get from the rest of the crew. Or how I’ll react to being on set. What if I screw up? What if I never get offered another role again?”
Warren shook his head and smiled at me in return. “You’ll be fine. You’ve worked hard on yourself over the past two years, and I see the change. That’s given me hope. Let’s keep the momentum going with the book and the movie. Then we’ll talk about next steps.”
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves as silence descended.
My gaze caught on the tarmac and the dramatic New York City skyline.
It was chaotic and congested like L.A. where I’d lived for years, but unlike Palms Springs, where I now resided.
My life in the desert oasis was serene for the most part.
But if I wanted to work as a full-time actor again, I had to jump back into the madness.
Since the lounge was only a quarter full, and no one was paying us any mind, I took off my hat and sunglasses.
Glancing at the food station to the right, I noticed a group of sharp suits standing in line to grab a last-minute snack.
I looked down at my ripped jeans, wrinkled t-shirt, and running shoes and reckoned I was underdressed.
Fuck it, in California this outfit was the norm.
My eyes continued to scan over the crowd until they caught on a man who was dressed casually like me, in navy shorts and a yellow polo.
He had dark hair that curled over his ears and thick-rimmed glasses.
When he turned my way, I admired his big brown eyes and heart-shaped lips.
There was no denying he was attractive. No, it was more than that. He had presence.
A familiar wave of heat washed over me, but I ruthlessly ignored it. This was the secret that I’d wrestled with for a long time, and something I’d hidden from my Hollywood wives, colleagues, and lovers.
Hell, even Warren didn’t know that I was bisexual.
Rowan suspected when I dropped a few hints the last time I saw him, but he didn’t push me to talk. That’s not his way. But I’d need to have that conversation with him and soon, before the book came out and me along with it.
My time in therapy had me realizing that my secrets—not just ones about my sexuality—were eating away at me, and the more I held on and pretended them away, the longer I’d suffer.
Once I’d started to unburden myself, the questions as to why I kept drinking and relapsing were answered.
Being honest and unleashing my long-held truths in this book would be the first step to a new chapter in my life.
Warren stood up and waved and I followed his line of vision. The man in the yellow shirt waved back and started towards us.
Ah, shit.