Chapter 48 #2
“The week of Honor’s first movie release, I was offered two lead roles.
Both were rock solid. Potentially powerhouse.
One was a drama. The other a romcom. That was a seminal moment in my career.
You have to realize that, at that point, there was so much acting hardware between my parents, it was bonkers.
” He chuckled. “My dad arranges them all in funny little tableaus for my mom.” Bash’s affection for his parents was a blessing.
Yes, his upbringing had been unconventional.
But at least it was anchored by two loving—albeit very dramatic—parents.
“The buzz about Honor was off the charts. Dad and Mom had just pulled in his-and-her Tony awards for their adaptation of The Scottish Play—”
“Macbeth?” Arabella clarified.
“Sssh!” he whispered dramatically. “It’s bad luck to say the name. You’ll invite disaster.”
“Really?” She folded her arms, assuming the Arabella Pose, one eyebrow arched high.
“Eh, technically only inside a theater. But why chance it, I always say.”
“May we get back on topic and finish the story please?” Arabella’s sweet ask in no way camouflaged her snark.
Damn. As he’d thought innumerable times in the last weeks, she was magnificent.
“I didn’t want to compete with the three of them. Knew I couldn’t. So I picked the comedy. Embraced the clown. It made for a big box office. And I rode that wave for a lot of years, shifting into action-thrillers as well. But always avoiding more serious roles.”
“Until Paradise.”
He nodded, toying with the hem of his shirt.
“When I was a little kid, I had this inflatable Fred Flintstone punching bag with a bright red nose. I think it was a hand-me-down from one of my cousins who’d outgrown it.
But I loved that thing. You’d punch it and it would go down and bounce back up.
” Bash pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“That’s how I’ve felt almost my entire career.
I take so many knocks in the media. Weak branch of the acting tree, the clown, not a serious actor, blahdideeblah.
And, like good old Fred, I just bounce back.
“Here’s the thing, though, Arabella. If you punched Fred too hard, he’d break.” He stared at the clown figurine. “I’m terrified of taking this role, tanking it, and being trashed by critics and fans alike. I’m not sure I can pop back up after that,” he whispered, sharing his deepest fear.
What if he fought for this role…and then blew it? What if he really was the weak branch?
Arabella leaned forward and squeezed his hand, her eyes soft and knowing.
“Thank you for trusting me to be on this journey with you, Sebastian. It’s all still so surreal to me, but I’m proud to be at your side, doing what I can to support you.
I’ll be cheering the loudest for you when you prove what I already know—that you’re a phenomenal, gifted actor.
And I better get a big ol’ shout out in your acceptance speech.
Start practicing it now.” She gently pushed his legs off her—he instantly mourned the loss of contact—and headed into the kitchen. “I need a dash of afternoon caffeine.”
“Shall I say in my speech that I dedicate this role to Darth Vadress?” he called out, anticipating her reaction and sensing some well-timed humor wouldn’t be amiss.
“Hey!” she hollered from the kitchen, all fake umbrage. “How do you know about that?”
Bingo. Bash snickered. It was fun to push Arabella’s buttons. Especially a certain one between her legs.
His dick hardened in agreement, and he gave it a little push to quiet the fuck down. Time and place—and this wasn’t it. He suspected that, despite their lighthearted joking, Arabella needed some time to settle the deep emotions she’d stirred up before he jumped her bones again.
Which he would. Soon.
He strolled into the kitchen and smirked at his queen, who was practically kneeling in veneration at the espresso machine.
“I overheard it on my first visit to Evangelist. You, apparently, strike fear in the hearts of many. No one wants to cross you or mess up, for fear of facing your wrath.” He began humming “The Imperial March.”
“Want to hear an Arabella fun fact? I dressed up as Darth Vader for Halloween of my senior year. Etta went as Princess Leia,” Arabella mused with a faraway look, her lips tilted up at the corners.
“Foreshadowing, my queen?” he teased gently.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I just always felt sorry for him. So misunderstood.”
“Like the clowns.”
She nodded, then frowned. “I remember one racist asswipe told Etta to her face that she had to pick a different costume because Leia wasn’t Black.”
“Asswipe is a good one. May I also suggest ‘dickcrud’? It’s my new favorite varietal of insult.”
Arabella nodded her head regally—he suspected he wasn’t the only performer in the room.
“Etta, who was all of five-feet-five, stood tall and told dickcrud he had Wookie breath and to go brush his teeth before he addressed a princess. From that point on, people called him Wookie. Then she felt bad and apologized to him, because that was the type of person she was. She was just so damn nice.”
“You should’ve done that Force choke on him, like Darth did to the admiral in A New Hope.” He sighed with nostalgia. “Outstanding movie. Star Wars is definitely the best movie series of all time, followed by the Avengers. Though the Star Wars prequels were hot steaming shit.”
“No argument here. Although, I did appreciate the Anakin backstory.”
“Such a Darth Apologist, my queen is.” He tutted like a schoolmarm and was rewarded with a small laugh from behind her Americano, which was poised at her lips.
Lips he longed to kiss.
She shrugged her shoulders elegantly. “I like to see beyond the surface. Everyone has a story they bury, right? Even Darth.”
He chose not to pursue that comment, recognizing— despite her comment—she was emotionally worn out. “Which one is your favorite? The Rise of Skywalker was mine.”
Her jaw dropped. “How in the hell is The Force Awakens not your favorite? It’s a masterpiece.
A blend of sentimental genius with great new characters.
The best.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m beginning to regret my part of this bargain.
Your—your utter failure to understand, accept, and champion the best of the Star Wars saga really has me questioning your character. ”
Her lips twitched as he slow-clapped. “Brava, my queen!” he boomed in his best Shakespearean voice, which he probably absorbed by osmosis in the cradle. “That was a fine, noble performance.” Then he cleared his throat, coming back to his natural delivery. “How the hell did we get on that tangent?”
Arabella threw her head back and laughed, the beautiful, free sound bringing a large smile to his face. “It was a Sebastian Special. Sometimes a conversation with you is more serpentine than the Nile.” She grinned at him.
“I am a complex man,” he rejoined haughtily. “Now, my queen, may I be so bold as to suggest some Star Wars binge-watching, after which we will see who has the better taste in preferred movies? Though we’re skipping the prequels.”
Arabella tilted her head, considering. “How about this? I’ll do my laps, since I missed them this morning. And then we can binge away.”
“Done.”
She placed her mug carefully in the dishwasher, along with his abandoned mixing bowl of cereal and spoon, a scolding look on her face.
He tipped his head sheepishly. My bad, he mouthed, knowing he’d broken a Queen Neatnik rule.
She strode out of the kitchen, and he could almost picture a velvet robe flowing behind her. “And have a bottle of red decanted for me please, dear,” Arabella added over her shoulder.
“Why, dear?” he parroted with a smile.
“Because I want to toast my superior taste in movies.”
Bash released a deep, healing laugh—something he desperately needed after the heart slices of Arabella’s story.
And he knew she hadn’t even shared all of it.