1. Will
WILL
My stomach lurched as the elevator began the ninety-five-story climb to the penthouse. This was going to be mortifying. I had no business attending my brother’s star-studded bachelor party—even if I was the best man.
“Come on, cheer up. There’s going to be an open bar,” Miles said. “Plus, there are going to be a million self-absorbed, self-conscious celebrities there, and if I don’t get another high-profile client soon, we’re going to have to move to Staten Island.”
Right. This wasn’t just about me, and attending an industry party full of potential clients was the least I could do for Miles.
“Why does he have to do it in front of an audience?” I asked. “Can’t he just announce it in private?” An oxymoron, for sure, a private announcement, but tonight was supposed to be about celebrating my brother’s forthcoming marriage to a gorgeous supermodel, not my rumored comeback.
“Because your dad is a self-centered ass who can’t do anything without an audience. Trust me, this is going to be great. You served your time. You deserve this.”
I deserved prison time. Ten years ago, I’d gotten blackout drunk and almost killed my co-star. Now, my father—legendary actor Robert Chapman—wanted me to make a glorious comeback with a supporting role in his next film, claiming comeback narratives were Oscar gold.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave the safe bubble of my relative obscurity.
It had taken years to crawl out of the tabloids—years spent studying, working, and hiding in my apartment.
While my life was far from ideal these days—my students gave me hell on a regular basis, I constantly felt like a failure, and no one wanted to date or be seen with me—at least I no longer got regular death threats.
Of course, nothing was official yet. All my father’s assistant had told me was that I had to be at my brother’s bachelor party for some “big announcement.”
“We don’t even know if it’s going to happen,” I said.
“Of course it is. Your dad just wants to make a self-congratulatory spectacle out of it. Trust me, tonight’s going to be awesome. Just hold your head up high and show those assholes you’re back and taking names.”
I hoped Miles was right. Acting had been my dream for as long as I could remember. It was all I’d ever wanted to do and the only thing I was any good at.
“Jesus Christ, fine, but do I really have to wear this shirt?” It was light pink and skintight. “You can see my nipples.”
“You’ve got really cute nipples. Don’t you want to show them off?”
I wanted to be at home in sweats, my nipples hidden behind a book. Hell, I’d rather be filling out report cards.
“Come on, once everyone sees that tight little body of yours, they’re going to be like, ‘Who’s your trainer?
’ And you’ll be like, ‘Have you heard of Miles Greene? That man’s an artist. I mean, sure, those other guys are fine if you want a bit part on Days of Our Lives.
But if you want a Golden Globe, if you want a body that fits you like a costume, you have to see Miles Greene. ’”
“I want no part of your mission to perpetuate unrealistic body standards.”
“What do you mean, unrealistic? It’s not like I’m photoshopping you. That ass of yours is all real.”
I rolled my eyes. I knew what Miles was doing, and it wasn’t going to work. No amount of self-confidence was going to make this night okay.
“No one is even going to talk to me. I’m just going to stand there in the corner sipping vodka sodas, praying I don’t leave a watermark on the wall. Do you have any idea how sweaty my ass is right now?”
“Fine, but don’t get mad at me when we end up in a railroad apartment in Staten Island and every guy I bring home has to walk through your room to get to mine, and then back through your room again to get to the bathroom, and then back—”
“Maybe we should just go home. We can stop and get new batteries for the Bop-It.”
Miles planted his giant hands on my shoulders and started kneading the tight knots coiled under my skin.
“I knew you’d be like this. That’s why I saved the best news for last. Tonight, you get to drink all the beer you want.
Get a fucking twenty-ouncer even. Go all out.
When they see that beer in your hand and then look down at your flat stomach, they’re going to be like, ‘Damn, who’s that boy’s trainer? ’”
“You’re ridiculous and unethical and—”
“Adroit?”
“What?”
“I’m pretty sure the word you’re looking for is adroit.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s not. Stop skimming that word-a-day book. Either read it or don’t.”
Miles spit into the palm of his hand and started styling my unruly black hair. “No way. What if I land one of those British dames, you know, like Kate Winslet or Nicole Kidman? That’d be sick. Or should I say apropos?”
“No, you definitely shouldn’t say apropos. That’s not how you use that word. And Nicole isn’t even British. She’s Australian.”
“What, they don’t like words in Australia?”
The elevator started to slow, and I gripped Miles’s wrist. “Please don’t abandon me tonight.”
“Relax. I’ll be by your side the whole time. You’ve got this. Just smile and act like you belong—because you do. Now let me hear you say it. Stand in your superhero pose and say, ‘I belong.’”
I rolled my eyes, and the elevator doors slid open.
The crowded penthouse was all big windows, hardwood floors, and white walls. The only color in the room came from bright throw pillows and giant canvases of modern art. Well, that and the massive pink cock in the center of the room—one of those bucking-bronco rides you see in country-western bars.
Immediately, whispers of my arrival began to spread through the party like an infection. There were two types of people in attendance—those who couldn’t help but gape, as if I were a walking car crash, and those who pretended I didn’t exist.
“Holy shit, is that Jake Gyllenhaal?” Miles’s eyes locked on a man across the room. “Who’s he talking to? Is that Harry Styles? I have a dream that starts just like this, only we’re on a cold, stormy coastline in England looking for fossils.”
I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray and scanned the room for my brother and father. Andy was probably in a pool of Jell-O wrestling a kangaroo, and Dad probably wasn’t even here yet, likely waiting to make a grand entrance.
Miles ripped the glass from my hand. “Don’t drink that low-calorie shit.
We’ve been over this. Tonight’s a beer night.
” He set the glass back on the tray and grinned at the caterer, who, now that I got a good look at him, was absurdly hot.
He had bright green eyes, a lean, muscular build, and a rusty blond beard with tiny flecks of gray.
He looked like a professional soccer player on the cusp of retirement, like David Beckham circa 2013.
Jesus, leave it to me to enter a room full of gorgeous celebrities and immediately get hung up on one of the caterers.
“Any beer at this party?” Miles asked.
The man gave him an easy smile. “Yeah, of course.” Then he turned to me, and his smile vanished. I was used to being a pariah, but it still stung.
“No shit, like a keg?”
“Yeah, behind the bar.”
Miles turned to me, dead serious. “You think you can do ten handstand push-ups on a keg? If you can’t do at least ten, there’s no point.”
I should just leave. Andy will understand.
Before I could bolt, someone grabbed me from behind and shook me like a dog toy. “I knew you’d come, papi. Andy was sure you were going to bail, but I knew you’d come through. You always do.”
“Jesus Christ, Enrique, put me down.”
Enrique Navarro—the swanky penthouse owner, Andy’s co-star in the Hollow Point franchise, and the guy everyone thought should’ve been the best man—spun me around like Vanna White and held me at arm’s length. “Damn, papi, you’re looking good. Solid. Want a drink? Champagne’s flowing.”
According to Entertainment Weekly, my brother and Enrique shared an onscreen chemistry that rivaled the greats—Kate and Leo, Bogart and Bacall, Jay and Silent Bob—but I was pretty sure they just looked hot together.
I’d inherited Dad’s dark hair and Mom’s pale skin, making me look like I belonged in the Addams Family.
Andy, on the other hand, had inherited Mom’s ginger hair and Dad’s delicate bone structure, making him look like a Norse god, the perfect foil for Enrique’s chiseled dudebro charms.
Enrique clapped Miles on the back. “Dude, you’re looking even more ripped than the last time I saw you.”
Miles grinned. “I have one question for you, Enrique. Do you do your own ass work? And if not, do you want to?”
“Huh, what? Is this guy for real? That was two questions.”
“Will, show him your ass.”
Miles reached for my hips—no doubt to spin me around like a mannequin—but I jumped back just in time.
Unfortunately, I collided with something solid, and glass exploded against the hardwood floor, loud as a gunshot. The room went silent, and every head whipped toward me.
“Oh, my god. I’m so sorry,” I said, spinning around to find the hot caterer standing in a pool of frothing champagne, his pants and shoes soaked. “I’ll clean this up.”
His green eyes met mine, and he blinked several times in disbelief. “It’s fine, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
I was pushed aside as other caterers rushed in. Jesus, I’d barely been here two minutes.
“I’m so sorry, Enrique. I’m such a—”
“It’s all good, papi. Accidents happen, and there’s plenty more champagne where that came from. Now, it’s time to get fucked up.” He shot us with pistol fingers as he backed into the crowd. “Best man gets to be the first cock jockey.”
The second Enrique turned away, the whispers started to gather force. I needed somewhere to hide until Dad showed up.
“Let’s go out on the balcony,” I said.
We claimed a couple of seats at the outside bar, and I ordered a beer.
“Come on, man. You’re a Golden Globe–winning actor. Act like you’re having a good time.” Miles pushed the edges of my mouth into a smile.
A decade had passed since the release of The Beautiful, my one and only movie. At nineteen, I had basked in the glow of its success. Dudes wanted to date me. Directors wanted to cast me. Teenage fans plastered my face on their walls. Then I squandered it all for a hopeless crush on a straight guy.
“Wow, look at that hottie.” Miles nodded to a squat, furry man across the balcony who was so hirsute I couldn’t see his skin.
“Yeah, he’s perfect for you, but please don’t abandon me.” The last thing I needed was to be the guy in the skintight pink shirt drinking alone at his brother’s bachelor party.
“Stop worrying. I’m not going anywhere.”
It took all my discipline not to chug the rest of my beer and order another. I couldn’t get drunk tonight, though. It wasn’t safe.
“Hey, Will. You made it. Andy said you might not come.” Ryan Ashbury, one of the other groomsmen, sidled up to the bar.
He starred in Blood Brothers, a campy teenage vampire show.
It was total typecasting given his pointy incisors and supernaturally blue eyes, not to mention his voluminous blond curls.
“Do you have a sec?” he asked. “There’s something I need to discuss with you in private.”
Miles gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be right over there if you need me.” He nodded to the little bear cub on the other side of the balcony, then made his escape.
Once he was out of earshot, Ryan leaned close. “Uh, let’s go into one of the bedrooms.”
I picked up my beer, wondering if Ryan was about to ask me to leave. Then Andy burst through the balcony doors with his cover-boy smile turned up to maximum wattage.
“Holy shit, you’re here!” He threw his arms around me. “I don’t even care that I owe Enrique a lap dance. You came. Do you have any idea how happy this makes me? Bartender, three shots of Patrón, please.”
“I can’t do shots.” The only place I dared get drunk these days was alone in my apartment.
“Come on, it’s my bachelor party. One shot won’t kill you.” He stuck out his bottom lip and batted his eyelashes.
“Fine, one shot.”
A minute later, I held the little glass of clear liquid as if it were poison. My stomach already churned with nerves, and here I was about to pour gasoline on the fire.
“To Will’s big comeback,” Andy toasted.
I grimaced, then tossed back the shot. “So . . . any idea when Dad’s getting here?”
“He’s not coming. Says he’s not feeling well.”
My shoulders dropped in relief. So I wasn’t getting dragged back into the spotlight tonight, after all. But why the cryptic summons? Was Dad’s “big announcement” just a ploy to get me here? Was I even getting the role anymore?
“Let’s do body shots off the strippers,” Andy said, wrapping one arm around Ryan and the other around me.
“You two go,” I said, ducking out of Andy’s embrace. “I have to go find Miles and ask him something.”
Andy shot me a dubious look. “Fine, but don’t you dare run away. You’re not leaving here tonight until you ride that big pink cock. You hear me?”