Chapter 30 Justin
Justin
Nearly a week had passed since I sent my mom the text.
I talked to Mia, who told me our mom would have to hire one hell of a private investigator to find her in Seattle.
And even if she succeeded, Mia assured me she’d be fine.
But I’ve heard that from her before, and it’s hard to believe.
It takes a few days until I let go of the fear of my mom doing something terrible to Mia and resume my daily routine – refusing to believe Doc is gone.
This past week, we swapped dozens of texts.
There’s something about learning a new side of a person strictly through digital.
Doc is way funnier and more devilishly sarcastic than I’d known, and I eat it up.
It feels like this is a portal that she only shares with those closest to her.
And she’s sharing it with me. This probably does not help my delusion that she’s coming back, but right now, each message is a Band-Aid holding me together.
I settle back into the bed. For the amount of dopamine I receive from these messages, I could bottle and sell it and make as much as my salary.
Justin: I need your help.
Doc: are you ok?
Justin: yeah, but I’m struggling tonight. Fast Times at Ridgemont High Dazed and Confused?
Doc: You’re an ass. I thought you were hurt.
Justin: my heart is hurt because I can’t choose.
Justin: Debauchery in high school. Do we go Matthew McConaughey or Sean Penn?
Doc: well, there’s that famous Phoebe Cates scene … I mean, can we just say bi-awakening time?
Oh damn. Her message taps into something primal and I’m immediately transported to a horny teen. I shift on my bed.
Justin: True. But there’s the original ‘all right, all right, all right’ from McConaughey.
I head into the bathroom to brush and floss and stare at my phone. When a notification pops up, I spit in the sink and lean against the counter.
Doc: Here’s a question. Who would you rather? Sean Penn or Matthew McConaughey.
Justin: Are you seriously asking me who I’d rather sleep with?
Doc: yep. If you had to. Choose one.
Justin: Hmmm. Can you add George Clooney to the mix, who is universally fuckable?
Doc: Ha ha. That’s totally fair.
Justin: You leave me no choice. Same question back to you.
Doc: Hmmm. Add Lady Gaga, Jodie Foster and Kristen Stewart to the mix, please.
Justin: I have so many questions about your type. Remind me to ask you a ton of super invasive personal questions the next time I see you.
I slip this in to see if she’ll bite. I’ve asked her a few times to meet for coffee or lunch, and she turns me down.
Sometimes I’ll ask her if she misses my cooking and jokingly remind her to never ever cook on high, even if the recipe says it.
But so far, she’s avoided the conversation.
Just like now, when she responds with nothing but a laugh crying emoji.
Doc is easily spooked. I need to respect that and back off. A little.
Justin: Saving Private Ryan. The best war movie of all time.
Doc: True. That cast. *swoon*. Best Matt Damon movie. Go!
Justin: Ugh, that’s tough. I mean, there’s Good Will Hunting.
Doc: And The Departed.
Justin: So good. But really, the Bourne movies. You can’t beat them.
Doc: Maybe you’ll step into that franchise someday.
Justin: Ha. Maybe. But I doubt it.
Doc: You’d be great at it. Your range of emotion on screen is incredible, and your fight scenes are badass.
Justin: Holy shit. Did you watch another one of my films?
Doc: It came up as a suggestion on Netflix. It’s not like I put your name in there.
Doc: I’m never going to live this down, am I?
Justin: I seriously want to give you so much shit for this, but I won’t.
Justin: What are you doing now that you’re no longer babysitting me?
Doc: I’m actually in Minnesota visiting my parents. Coming home tomorrow. They just went to bed and I’m lying in my old room that’s now filled with some weird dolls my mom decided to collect. I’m for sure going to have nightmares.
Justin: Ha. Are your parents happy to have you home?
Doc: They are. But Christ, all I’ve done is eat rhubarb pie, hotdish and baked bread since being here. Oh, and played my dad in basketball. The old guy still has it. Kicked my ass at HORSE this morning.
The next afternoon, I ignore the new bodyguard in the den – I know, I’m an asshole – and move to the kitchen. Zane’s already there, grabbing peanut butter from a cabinet.
‘Seriously, dude. It’s been over a week.’ They twist open the jar and stick in a butter knife. ‘We need to talk about locking in Doc’s replacement.’
‘Good morning to you too,’ I say and start slicing a cucumber. ‘I hate them all.’
‘Stop. You don’t hate them all.’
None of them are Doc. No one else can compare, so what’s the point? I whisk soy and chili flakes into a bowl and dip in a cucumber slice. ‘I thought the whole point was to have a daytime female guard. You’re showing me all men.’
‘I know, but the other women are still on assignments.’ Zane spreads a dollop of peanut butter on a banana slice. ‘He said it’ll take some time.’
Maybe I’m being unreasonable, maybe, but I don’t give a shit. The studio’s being ridiculous about these threats. It might even just be one of their stupid PR stunts. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the director that this is some sort of misguided method acting exercise for my new thriller.
‘Please, please, please, take a look at the resumes,’ Zane says. ‘Don’t force me to pick one. You’re gonna hate them, and I’m going to have to hear every day until I die that I chose the wrong one.’
I pop another cucumber in my mouth. ‘You’re going to hear about it regardless, so does it really matter?
’ Zane is not amused. ‘Give me a few more days to think of something, okay? After that, I promise I’ll give you the satisfaction of showing you that your nagging skills worked, and you’ve thoroughly destroyed my will to make independent decisions. ’
‘Awww … a dream come true.’ Zane glances at their watch. ‘We have to head out. Don’t forget tomorrow you’re going directly to the studio post trainer workout, but I have a dentist appointment and will be late. I already packed for you this morning.’
‘I didn’t forget.’ I one hundred percent forgot. I stuff my phone into my pocket and follow Zane to the car.
On the way to the studio, I pull out my phone and glance at today’s itinerary.
One of the secondary character actors had to drop out, and the producer needs a few reads with me to gauge chemistry.
But as I sift through the agenda, my brain itches to do something else.
I swipe open the text app and hover my thumbs.
Justin: I gotta be honest. I’m not feeling the new guy at all.
Doc: you’ll get used to him.
Justin: He wears sunglasses. Indoors. Indoors, Doc! I can’t handle it.
Doc: Between us, he does that at work, too. It’s annoying. But remember, he’s temporary.
Doc: Listen. The only thing anyone wants to do is keep you safe. OK?
At the studio, I push through the office glass doors with Zane and the temporary bodyguard at my heels.
I haven’t been to this wing of the corporate office since I chatted with Ivy at the club.
Two days ago, even though I felt like a total dick, I pulled one of my A-list cards and told Zane that Ivy needs to be removed from the front desk when I’m there.
I know, I know. I already said I felt like a total dick, but she was damn near relentless at the club, and it makes for a hell of an awkward situation.
When Zane put in the call, the studio told them Ivy had been fired for inappropriate behavior.
Before the guilt could sweep me away, thinking it was because of me, Zane said Ivy had shown up uninvited at a director’s house after getting his address from a form.
Inside the brightly lit lobby, two security guards approach Zane and my temporary bodyguard and ask for a private word. It doesn’t take a CIA interrogator to read the stern, flatlined lips of the guards.
‘Sir, please take a seat on the couches,’ guard number one says.
The serious voice prickles my neck. ‘What’s the hell’s going on?’
‘Just do what they say.’ Zane puts their hand on my chest. ‘I’ll find out and let you know.’
In the corner, the studio security speaks in hushed tones. Zane’s eyes grow wide and dart from the security to the bodyguard and back to me. A few moments pass when Zane closes their eyes with a deep frown, and worry lines crease their forehead.
What the hell? With Zane’s collapsed smile and abnormally rigid posture, whatever the security team is telling them is not good.
I scratch the side of my arm. This is bullshit.
Clearly, they’re talking about me. I leap up to find out what happened when the assistant, Amanda, from behind the desk rushes me.
‘Hi, Mr Greenwood—’
‘Just Justin, please.’
‘Of course, Justin.’ Amanda nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Please follow me to the prep room.’
Amanda’s smile is bright, cheery and definitely should be used as a disarming mechanism. I throw my hands up at Zane before following Amanda down the hall. A second security guard follows so closely behind me that I catch a whiff of his aftershave.
Once Amanda makes sure I’m sorted with refreshments and leaves, a security guard stands outside the room, and I slump into the couch.
My bouncing leg forces me up. I pace, check my watch, try to read the news.
What the hell is taking so long? My body fires on all cylinders.
Prep rooms are normally a quiet, cozy space to relax before a meeting. Today it’s a prison.
Finally, Zane opens the door.
‘What the hell is going on? If I hear that an exec preyed on these women coming in today …’ This happened nine years ago with one of my films. I had no idea the producer of my film victimized the women I read with at the auditions and was sick about it for months.
‘No, no. Not that.’ Zane sits on the couch with heavy shoulders. ‘A package was delivered here for you.’
So? I get packages all the time. Costumes, scripts, pictures I autograph for auctions, books, gifts … ‘Okay?’
‘It’s fine, and the studio security handled it.’ Zane tugs their lower lip between their teeth. ‘It was just, well, disturbing.’
The dark tone is completely out of character from Zane’s normal chipper, sarcastic self. My chest turns hot. ‘What was it?’
Zane sucks in the side of their cheek. ‘They thought it was a jar of blood with two severed fingers.’
The fuck?
‘But it wasn’t! It was a prop.’ Zane sucks in a breath and releases. ‘There’ve been more incidents than you know. And Anthony will probably kill me for telling you this, but we have to stop hiding this from you.’
More incidents? ‘Are you guys keeping things from me?’
‘Yes.’
Zane’s answer is so quick that my stomach flips.
Other incidents? Wait … what the hell? Am I actually in danger?
I thought everyone was being overzealous.
No one told me, at least not really. They said some fan is being creepy, but that’s all.
A ringing starts in my ears, low and disorientating.
I can’t believe Doc withheld all of this. What else are people not telling me?
Zane grabs the script off the vanity and hands it to me.
‘I’m sorry, but we have to talk about this later.
We didn’t want you to freak out. People are crazy sometimes, right?
So, let’s try and let it go. You’re gonna get through these auditions today, they’ll cast your new co-star soon, and we’ll get in line with the production schedule. ’
A jar of blood with fucking fingers? Prop blood or not, fake fingers or not, that is freaky as hell. Not ‘man jumping out of the bushes wielding a machete freaky’, but still unnerving. On the way home, I’m grilling Zane about every other incident they’ve kept from me.
A knock sounds on the door, and I flinch. The hair on my arms stands up when I tiptoe from the room. As I walk down the hall, I slap the script against my palms and check twice that no one but the security guard is following me.
The co-star readings, dinner and drive home are a blur. Zane’s words haze in the SUV, and mindless scrolling through social media does nothing to ease the fire in my gut. It’s after eleven when I get an idea. I call an emergency meeting with Zane and Anthony.
Enough is enough. The threat has escalated, and I’m in control. If the studio wants to keep me on this project, and my staff want to keep me safe, then it’s my rules from here on out.