Chapter 10 #2
“Yes, sir,” he rasped, fighting for air and to hold back the tears that needed to come.
“Bash,” Walter began again, his voice kind but firm. “I just signed the principal female lead. The casting of Bram is the last piece of this puzzle.”
“I wish you the best of luck, sir.” Why the fuck won’t he wrap this call so I can cry like a baby and scream like a banshee already?
“I don’t need luck, Bash. I need you.”
“I’m sorry?” Bash’s twice-pierced eardrum was clearly malfunctioning.
“Bash, you’re my first choice for the role. No one else even comes close. I want you to play Bram.”
Bash gave a small shake to his head, confused, sucking in shaking breaths at the olive branch of hope that was being dangled.
When he could finally speak, he was gratified to hear a steadiness that in no way matched his current emotional state.
“I’m sorry, Walt. I’m not following. I’m going to need you to just say what you want. ”
“What I want, Bash, is for you to grow up. I want you to lean into who you truly are instead of playing a role in real life. I want you to give yourself the chance to live like the man I know you are rather than the happy-go-lucky playboy who, if he keeps this up, is doomed to end up alone like his grandfather.”
Ok. That fucking stung.
“I’m not my grandfather,” he responded through clenched teeth, his jaw popping. He resented the implication that his five-times divorced grandfather and he in any way resembled each other beyond some physical attributes.
Jud Wheatley had been a serial husband, on par with Elizabeth Taylor.
In the end, after his twenty-five-years-younger wife divorced him, Jud died alone at age fifty in an LA hospital.
Bash’s parents had been on their honeymoon in Kenya and learned about it from a member of their safari crew. Heartbreaking.
Bash would not repeat Jud’s mistakes. If anything, his paternal grandfather, though he was an amazing actor, was the compelling impetus for Bash’s strong aversion to marriage.
Hollywood was full of people like Poet Walsh, who traded marriage for status.
Just like four of his grandfather’s five wives.
Only Bash’s paternal grandmother had been a love match for Jud, and she’d died young.
Jud then spent the rest of life marrying for all the wrong reasons.
Bash would not do the same. Marriage wasn’t a trading card.
Unless he found the right person, he’d go it alone.
“I’m not my grandfather,” he said again, this time with heat.
“No, you aren’t. And I’m sorry if I overstepped.
It’s just that I’ve always thought it appeared you were only scratching the surface of life.
And you have so much to add—blowing past all the comparisons to Jud that have followed you for your entire career.
” Walter’s voice was matter of fact, with a hint of conciliation.
“You’re smarter than he was, a far finer actor than I believe you ever get credit for, and you have a better head on your shoulders and heart in your chest. I’ve got two months to make a decision before we head to Austin to film.
And I need some kind of rock-solid assurance that you won’t be engaging in frivolous flings and Poet-style public meltdowns that overshadow this film, Bash.
If you can do that,” Walt paused, clearly having absorbed by osmosis the impact of a dramatic beat, “the role is yours.”
Bash’s mind was running hundreds of miles per hour. A Formula 1 racer wouldn’t have been able to keep up with the speed of his mind.
Formula 1.
Inspiration struck, and Bash’s jaw dropped at its perfection.
No, no, no. That wouldn’t work. She’d never go for it. It was outlandish. She’d barely given him the time of day yesterday, her only glances at him indifferent at best and fully uninterested at worst.
And yet…
Bash had to try. This was his dream at stake. He had to go balls-to-the-wall on this. No influencers and young starlets. He needed a mature, smart, stable partner—and the one he had in mind also happened to be irresistible as hell.
So what if she’d written him off with casual disdain. He’d shoot his shot with Arabella Remington. And if she balked? He’d just make it worth her while somehow.
He was fucking doing this. Paradise and Bram McLaughlin, buckle in, because here comes Bash Wheatley.
Bash gave himself an internal high-five and supportive thumbs up before opening his mouth.
Here goes everything. “Well, Walt, I have some breaking news that I think will make you very happy, though I’d appreciate if you can keep this between us for now.
” After a very dramatic pause to build the slightest element of anticipation, Bash confided, “I’ve recently entered into a new relationship.
We’ve been keeping it quiet because she doesn’t like the spotlight. ”
Silence greeted him. Then, “You’re in a relationship with a woman who doesn’t like the spotlight?” Skepticism bled through Walt’s words.
You’re an actor. Sell it.
Emboldened by his pep talk, Bash leaned into the story.
“Yes. As you know, I’ve been here in Virginia just over a week to meet my new nephew.
I met a woman and she, well, she knocked my socks off at first sight.
” Remember the CIA guidance you learned as research for that spy film—keep any fabrication as close to the truth as possible.
“There was an instant connection.” Ok. True for him if not her.
Fifty percent—close enough. “And, well, she’s been with me nonstop.
” In my head, in my fantasies, and definitely in my spank bank.
“She’s professionally accomplished. Smart—so fucking smart.
She has this gorgeous dark hair that I want to touch all the time.
Her eyes….they’re like the finest Kashmir sapphires, only better.
And she commands respect and admiration wherever she goes.
I’m not worthy of her, but I’m going to try to be, every day. She’s magnificent.”
“Well I’ll be damned. Has the playboy been tamed?
” On the surface, the question was light-hearted, but Bash could hear the undercurrent of skepticism in Walt’s voice loud and clear.
“I’ll be honest. There’s a big part of me that thinks you’re just fabricating a convenient relationship.
” Bash’s heart plummeted, but then Walt’s voice softened, giving Bash new hope as he continued, “But as you spoke of her, I could hear the truth of it. You’re an amazing actor, Bash, but no one is that good. ”
Bash took a steadying breath, each of Walt’s words yanking back the veil of performative living that had been his shallow existence to reveal the crisp beauty of personal truth. Walt was right. Everything he’d said at the end was true.
He had a massive crush on Arabella Remington. And nestled within that crush and his insta-lust was more. A shimmer of possibility on the horizon. A soul-deep recognition of the person who could change his life.
“No, sir. I’m definitely not acting. I have the sense,” he struggled to say the right words, “she’s going to give me a run for my money. But I know what I want.” This fucking role. “And I know she’s the key to my future.”
“I’m sorry to have to say this, but I’ll be watching you carefully, Bash.
I don’t have to make a final decision for two months, though that’s cutting it close.
” Bash could almost see Walter pacing as his voice escalated in volume.
“You better not be yanking my chain, Bash. Because if I find out this has been some ruse on your part, I’ll rain holy hell on you.
Losing the role of Bram will be the least of your worries. ”
Bash pulled the phone away from his ear—to protect his abused eardrum from Walt’s resounding admonishment…
and to calm his haywire mind. He waited a steadying beat.
“Yes, sir. I understand. I respect you and your desire for the right attention on Paradise. When I tell you she’s something incredibly special, and that I think could be one of the most important people in my life, I’m one hundred percent serious.
She’s…different, Walter. You’ll see. She’s like no woman I’ve met before.
I’m—I’m going to marry her one day.” Marry her?
Oh, Jesus…fuck. Why did his mouth always insist on working in advance of his brain?
Walt chuckled. “Yes, when you find that person, it blows any other pre-conceived notions of relationships to smithereens. I know it’s early days in your relationship with her, but congratulations, Bash. What’s her name? What does she do?”
A grin spread across his face.
“She’s an orthopedic surgeon. Her name…is Arabella Remington. But I call her my Scrub Angel.”
“She sounds like a keeper.”
Let’s hope so.