Chapter 9 #3
“Yes, I noticed. And had I not been able to deliver my thoughts in person, I planned to write you a strongly worded email about you naming him after our father and grandfather instead of your dearly devoted BashBash.” He feigned umbrage.
“He has your middle name, too, you whiner. Now give me my kid back before you corrupt him.” Honor laughed, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug before gently tucking her son into her arms. “Love you, big brother.”
“Love you too, baby sister.”
Affection washed through him as she walked away, nuzzling her baby. His sister had her life together. Maybe it was time for him to do the same.
But the one woman who captured his attention, who provided the sheer impetus to actually pull his shit together, displayed zero reciprocity.
Swirling his whiskey, Bash couldn’t help but release a big sigh of frustration.
He was an idiot to be pining after a woman who clearly wasn’t interested in giving him the time of day.
His DMs were filled with willing women. And men, to be honest—not that he was interested in that form of a relationship, but it was still flattering.
Now he was sitting in his own thoughts once again, preoccupied with his Scrub Angel when what he really needed to do was figure out a plan to convince a certain producer, one Walter Pennyrose, that despite Bash’s status as a notorious bachelor, he was the best person for the male lead in his upcoming film. Bash’s dream role.
The harsh truth was he had slim-to-no chance of convincing Walter to sign him for the role.
Why? It was depressingly common industry knowledge—and Bash’s own lived experience—that he wasn’t seen as a ‘serious’ actor.
From his first film role at twenty-two, fresh out of the NYU Tisch School of the Arts, he’d been typecast in one of two roles—the charming romcom boyfriend or the action hero.
The more dramatic roles always slipped through his fingers.
His friend and longtime agent, Guinn Nelson Randell—or Slash, as he was commonly known because of his GNR initials—had encouraged him over and over to stick with his wheelhouse.
And in the beginning of his career, that advice suited him just fine.
The roles were fun and easy to come by. Plus, they quickly landed him on the highest-paid actors list, funding a lifestyle that appealed to him, and resulting in the women of his choice in his bed. Sometimes a few at a time.
But in the last year, something had shifted in him.
Maybe it was seeing his baby sister win her second Oscar—accepting her gold statue while massively pregnant with Jude.
Or his mother’s Tony for her lead role in an adaptation of The Lion in Winter.
Or maybe his dad’s sixth BAFTA. Or the Razzie Bash himself ‘won’ for an embarrassment of a role in the worst, cheesiest movie he’d ever been associated with.
Oh, Slash had loved it. Had browbeaten Bash until he’d finally accepted the part, hoping his own acting skills would elevate the cringe-worthy screenplay.
His earnings, even though the movie bombed at the box office, were enormous.
Meaning Slash’s ten percent commission was more money than the average person made in a decade.
Or…maybe he was just fucking sick of being a punchline. The ‘Weak Branch of the Illustrious Wheatley Family Acting Tree’ was how Variety had phrased it recently.
He had to get this part. He needed it. Not for the money. He had more than he could ever spend in twenty lifetimes. Not even for the prestige.
No, what he really wanted was to rediscover the joy in acting that had suffused his veins since he made his first appearance at his parents’ theatre in Twelfth Night.
The heady sensation of the script between his fingers as he memorized his lines.
Stepping boldly out onto the stage like a homecoming.
The warmth of the klieg lights bathing his face.
The laughter of the audience. The beaming approval of his parents.
When truth settles into your veins, it’s undeniable.
And the truth was, Bash Wheatley had always loved acting.
Loved the art of it. Loved the long, sometimes grueling days on set.
The rush of a premiere, fans screaming his name as he traversed the red carpet, his blood humming in anticipation.
Even loved—most of the time—the press junkets, when he answered the same questions over and over.
If he never made another penny for a role, he knew in his bones he’d always be an actor. It was what he was born to do. Bring characters to life. Provide his audience the gift of blissful escapism for a couple hours.
Lately, however, everything had fallen flat.
Much to Slash’s ire, he’d turned down action flick after action flick.
Romcom after romcom. A part of him felt disingenuous playing the love interest to women half his age—even if that did mirror his personal life.
He was weary of fluffy romcoms and plot-thin action-adventures.
He wanted more. He was finally ready for more.
He just needed Walter Pennyrose to believe in him.