Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
How many actors does it take to change a lightbulb?
One—the actor holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
Bash listened to the idle chatter and laughter around him, envious of the relaxed normalcy of this tableau, so opposite the candy-coated fakery and masked venom of Hollywood.
His motto—‘to thine own self be true’—revealed the harsh reality that he was beyond jealous of the love and companionship each couple seemed to exude.
At least Lila Somerville was in the same boat—an odd person out.
He took a moment to subtly examine her, wishing she did it for him.
Lila was adorable—though she likely hated it when people used that word.
But, she was. Blonde curly hair fell to the middle of her back.
Her hazel eyes were expressive and framed in gorgeous thick lashes his practiced eye could tell were real.
She wasn’t rail thin, but her ass was spectacular.
Bash was a connoisseur of spectacular asses, so he knew what he was talking about.
She was also witty and emanated a warmth that made him want to beg her to be one of his best friends.
In a perfect world, she’d rev his engines and he’d take her back to her place and bring them both some sexual bliss.
But…she didn’t. Oh, she was definitely attractive. It was just that a certain brunette who wore her icy reserve like a queen’s mantle was preoccupying his mind non-fucking-stop. It was like his brain was dedicated to two things and two things only—Arabella Remington and this fucking elusive role.
As Bash reached for his whiskey—Xander had finally come through with that—his phone buzzed in his pocket. Glancing at it, the blood drained from his head.
Walter Pennyrose.
“I need to take this,” Bash called out to no one in particular. His sister frowned after him, clearly reading the stress on his face.
“You ok?” she mouthed.
He nodded, striding from the barn to seek privacy.
Please. Please, God. I know I only seem to pray when I want something. Like when Honor was sick. But if You help me here, I promise I’ll do better. I’ll donate more to charity. I’ll do shifts at the food pantry. Whatever You want. Just…please.
Bash interrupted his mental bargaining with whatever supreme being he hoped was listening to tap the green button with shaking fingers, accepting the call he hoped would change his life.
“Bash Wheatley.” His hand shook, but thankfully his voice remained steady.
“Bash!” Walter’s deep voice boomed through the speaker.
Wincing, he pulled the phone away and rubbed his ear with one finger. Did no one respect eardrums anymore? He was already feeling old. The last thing he needed was hearing loss and those aids he’d have to stick in his ear canal.
Bash shivered at the thought and returned his focus to the call. “Walter. Good to hear from you.”
Well done. You sound relaxed, casual. Project confidence, Bash. After months of vague noncommittal back and forth between Walter and Slash, perhaps this was the door finally opening.
“I’m calling to speak with you about the lead role in Paradise.”
Walter’s tone was maddeningly neutral and Bash’s heartrate ticked up as he tried to discern whether this would be good news or not.
He clenched his free hand, willing his legs to stop trembling.
Please be good news. Please be good news.
Don’t sound like a human golden retriever.
Dial it down. “Yes, I’ve been looking forward to hearing from you.
” Good, good, good. You didn’t speak with an exclamation point. Nicely done.
“Yes,” Walter paused. “Well, your agent hasn’t made it easy lately. I ended up getting your cell from your sister’s agent when Slash wasn’t returning my calls.”
What the fucking fuck? Bash frowned. He knew Slash wasn’t supportive of this role—lobbying instead for the lead in a new action movie franchise that promised to make Bash hundreds of millions—but if Slash did anything to block it, Bash would fire his friend-turned-agent in the span of a breath.
Speaking of breathing, Bash took a deep one, fighting to calm both his temper and his racing heart.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your difficulty reaching me, Walter.
That’s not an accurate reflection of my sincere interest in the role.
As I shared with you before over our lunch in January, I’m one hundred percent committed to this film.
I know I can do you and the script justice.
It feels like I was born to play Bram McLaughlin.
” Simmer down. Don’t push. Don’t sell it too hard.
“I don’t disagree with your assessment, Bash. Something in my gut tells me you’d bring this character to life far beyond our expectations.”
Chills broke out on Bash’s arms and legs. Yep. His chills had chills, and those chills also had chills. His chills had grand-chills. He was smiling like a loon. “Yes, sir. Yes. I’ve already been studying the script—thank you for sending that, by the way. I’m digging into Bram and his motivations.”
“Excellent, Bash. We’re hearing great feedback on the script from the potential actors for the role. But here’s the thing,” Walter continued, his tone less genial and now sounding…concerned.
Bash’s smile slipped. “Is there a problem?”
Fuck. There was definitely a problem. Walt had even sent the script to other actors. Fucking hell.
A long pause, and Bash’s heart stalled in his chest. If Walter didn’t speak soon, his brother-in-law was going to have to perform CPR, and the very last thing he wanted was Brinder’s mouth on his. Bash shuddered at the thought.
“Walter?” he prodded after about ten hours of radio silence on the other end. Ok. He was being dramatic. It was max four seconds, but it landed like a fucking eternity when his dream role, and therefore his future happiness, were on the line.
“Son,” Walter began again.
Despite his anxiety, a smile of fondness slipped through.
Walter was around his father’s age. In fact, the two men had grown up near each other in LA.
While his father gravitated to stage and screen, Walter had built a prolific and successful career as a producer, typically taking on soul-spearing, thoughtful, brilliant indie films.
In other words, the exact opposite of the movies typically offered to Bash.
“Yes, sir?” Suddenly, Bash couldn’t call the producer by his first name, not when he wasn’t on sure footing and seemed to have reverted to age six inside.
“Bash,” he sighed. “I like you a lot. You are a talented actor.”
“But…” Bash led.
“But I’m not going to mince words. As I’ve indicated to your team, your reputation as a, well, a playboy deeply concerns me. I’ve given you time to sort yourself out. But, I can see you haven’t changed. I really love this script, Bash. But I can’t have extraneous drama drowning it out.”
“Extraneous drama,” Bash repeated woodenly, his lips numb.
“Every picture I see of you online and in the magazines, a different woman is on your arm. You cavort with women young enough to be your daughter—”
“That’s not fair—”
“There’s nothing wrong with an age gap. Hell, my own mother was fifteen years younger than my father. Women mature faster than us, that’s for sure. But I want my cast members in committed relationships.”
Bash’s jaw dropped. That was…discrimination. Wasn’t it?
“I don’t need rumors and drama and a whole media circus. We have a small budget for this film and we want it to stand for itself. I won’t allow chaos swirling around anyone in my cast to detract from this movie, Bash.” Walter’s tone was as stern as Bash had ever heard from anyone.
“I—I don’t create drama, Walt. I show up on time, even early. I work hard. I treat the cast and crew well.”
“I’ve got two words for you, Bash: Poet. Walsh.”
“But—but that wasn’t my drama, Walt,” he sputtered, indignant, gripping the back of his neck so hard with his free hand he was sure to leave fingerprint bruises.
“That was hers. She’s—she’s a parasite. She took advantage of my celebrity to raise her influencer profile, cheated on me, and when I broke up with her, she leveraged that and created a spectacle to increase her followers. ”
“Bash. Are you even listening to yourself? Poet wouldn’t have been able to do any of that if you hadn’t entered into yet another surface-level, camera-ready, shallow situation-thing, or whatever it is you all call it these days.”
“Situationship,” Bash supplied, closing his eyes in defeat.
“Exactly. Your picker is broken. You have bad taste in women and, quite frankly, I don’t trust you and the negative shadows your loverboy shenanigans could cast over my movie.”
Preoccupied with the conversation from hell, Bash had wandered over to a large tree, numbly noting the most epic treehouse he’d ever seen. Slowly he slid down the enormous, gnarled trunk, uncaring that the bark was scratching his back and likely ruining his Armani shirt.
He coughed, then coughed again and cleared his throat. It was as if a fist had clenched around his windpipe and he inhaled shakily to force air into his lungs. “So that’s it. I’m not getting the part.”
In his entire life, even when his sister was critically ill twice, Bash wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced this sensation of deadness in his chest. At least with Honor’s illness, there had been hope, support.
Now, sadness suffused his veins. Oppressive pressure weighted his body to the ground as if his limbs were made of lead, and telltale prickling behind his eyes signaled an oncoming rush of tears.
“Ok, then. Well, thank you for the opportunity to be considered, Walter,” he managed.
“Wait just a moment, please.”
Bash closed his eyes and shook his head. This was probably where Walt would tell him no hard feelings, he was still the dominant actor of his generation. Blah blah blah. He’d heard it all before. Empty fucking words when you’ve just seen your dream disintegrate.
“You still there, Bash?”