Chapter 13
Corey
Bex: how are you feeling?
Corey: Sore as hell. I’m too old for this shit.
Corey: (sweaty gym selfie)
Bex: well you look hot as fuck
Bex: gonna use that picture later (wink emoji)
Corey: bad girl
Corey: …
Corey: where’s mine?
Bex: clocking in. I’ll text you later, babe!
Corey: (angry devil emoji)
Corey: how is vegas?
Bex: loud, bright, busy… lonely
Corey: lonely?
Bex: without you
Corey: sugar, do you miss me?
Bex: yes sir, I do
Corey: (hot emoji) (fire emoji)
Corey: what did I tell you about calling me that?!
Bex: (grinning devil emoji)
Bex: Did you send me a book?
Corey: (side eye emoji)
Bex: (picture of a book called The Pocket Photographer)
Corey: maybe… you don’t already have that, do you?
Bex: NO! This book is amazing. (crying emoji)
Corey: Why are you crying?
Bex: Because you’re the best. Because I’m insanely happy.
Bex: Thank you, babe
It’s been two weeks since the first time we video chatted, and the physical time apart from Bex has been agonizing. Okay, I’m being dramatic, but missing her–paired with ramped up workouts with Trevor–has me edging closer to dramatics every day.
I swipe open my phone and look at her last text. Insanely happy . That’s how Bex makes me feel, too, though she’s probably just referring to the new book. Even the sponsored ads on my browsing seem to know about Bex, because I keep getting ads for photography related classes and equipment. When I saw this book, specifically for the type of photography she teaches at the youth center, I couldn’t resist.
Bridget pops her head into my office. “You need to leave in five minutes or you’ll be late for Trevor.”
I groan and shut my laptop. She’s not wrong—if I don’t get on the highway before 3 p.m., the traffic will easily add an extra thirty minutes to the drive to Trevor’s gym.
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up, hoping it’s a text from Bex, but it’s the group chat with my friends.
Christian: Friday night, last Vipers game of the season
Aaron: no playoffs again?
Drew: we all knew that already. This season has been shit
Christian: open invite for the box, come keep me company
Drew: open bar?
Corey: cheap ass
Drew: what? It’s a valid question
Christian: can you break free for a night and grace us with your presence cor?
Aaron: yeah and bring Bex
Corey: i’ll see what I can do
Aaron: and her friends
Corey: ok…
Christian: let me know by tomorrow
Drew: what about the bar?
“Bridget!” I call out as I stand, shoving my laptop into my work bag and grabbing my gym bag from under my desk.
She pops her head back in the office, strands of gray hair falling out of her bun. “You have two minutes now. What?”
“I need to cash in a favor.”
Bridget stares at me sternly. “You don’t have any of those to cash in. What do you want?”
“I need a weekend in Vegas. Leaving this Friday—”
“That’s tomorrow. And not a full weekend. You have too much to do before filming starts next week. ”
“Friday and Saturday night. I’ll be back first thing Sunday morning, home in time for my morning workout with Trevor.” I am five seconds away from getting on my knees and begging this woman.
“Please, Bridget,” I say, amping up the desperation in my tone. “I need to see my girl.”
Bridget rolls her eyes. “Your girl, psh. You didn’t have to pull that card, Corey,” she says. She tilts her head at me before smiling. “You better stick to your diet—”
“Thank you!” I exclaim, grabbing her by the shoulders and placing a kiss on her cheek.
“No alcohol—”
“I promise! I’ll be a good boy!” I start to rush down the hall, because every second I stand here adds at least a minute to this drive.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Bridget mutters. She says something else, but I don’t catch it—I’m already out the door and rushing to my ride.
I set my phone in the console as it connects to Bluetooth. Today, I’m in my Range Rover, which, while not kind on the gas mileage, draws far less attention out in LA than the Aston Martin. I tap the center display, eager to call Bex and tell her the good news, but I have an incoming call from a studio line.
Tapping accept, I say, “This is Corey, who is this?”
“Corey! Glad I could catch you. Is now a good time?” Mark Savage’s voice booms through my audio system.
No, Mark, this is not a good time. I was about to call my girlfriend. Wait, girlfriend?! Look at my subconscious go—Bex and I haven’t defined us as anything, so where did that come from? I glance at the GPS and see I’m beating a decent amount of traffic, so I can keep this call with Mark short and sweet.
“I’m on the road. Headed to the gym, actually,” I say, merging onto the freeway. “So, you’ve got me for about twenty minutes.”
“Avoiding that shitty afternoon traffic snarl, nice,” he comments.
I nod, not like he can see me. “So, what’s up?”
“Trevor sent me your latest progress pics. Nice work. I really appreciate your effort for this film, man.”
“Once I commit to something, I’m all in. You know me, Mark,” I say, laughing. “Although, it hurts a hell of a lot more at this age, I can tell you that much.”
Mark laughs, but when he speaks again, he’s sharp and serious. “Is this it, Corey?”
Frowning, I ask, “Is what it?”
“‘Edgelord.’ Your last acting role?”
I feel a pang in my chest at his words. Sure, I had considered this, and Bridget even alluded to it a few weeks ago. A guy my age only gets so many roles in this industry, and most of those roles are for “old men” seducing young, virginal women. Part of the reason I had jumped at “Edgelord” was because it had a decent storyline and I wasn’t pairing up with anyone younger than thirty.
It made sense for this to be my last starring role. But fuck, was it a tough pill to swallow. Who is Corey Brooks without Frank Moro?
After a beat of silence, Mark says, “You’re a legend, man. No one would fault you for calling it at this point.”
“You’re just saying that because that kind of press will—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mark cuts me off. “It’ll make for great press buzz, but that’s not why I’m saying it.”
I sigh. “Then why are you saying it? ”
“Corey, I’ve been in this industry a long time. Even longer than you. And trust me when I say, if you can go out on top… go out on the fucking top. That’s all.”
Once again, I find myself nodding as if Mark can see me.
“Anyway,” he continues, “the real reason I’m calling is because Lola had to back out.”
“Shit, really?” Lola is an industry friend of mine. We’ve been in movies together before, and she’s incredibly easy to work with—willing to be flexible—figuratively, but also literally, sometimes—and brings a positive attitude to the entire cast and crew.
“Yeah, she’s got some sort of virus. I don’t know. Anyway, we found the perfect replacement but—”
“But what? This is why you called, right?”
It’s Mark’s turn to sigh heavily and be silent. I’m weaving through traffic, as well as my mind. Who would be that bad to warrant calling me about it? And suddenly the pieces connect.
“Mark, it better not be—”
“It’s Sabrina Ryder. I’m sorry, Corey, I am. We tried every other possible option before we came to this decision.”
Now I laugh. It’s almost comical. This can’t be happening. In no universe will I be filming my last adult film with my ex-wife. “You sure she doesn’t have a clause in her contract or something? Might want to have legal triple check that.”
“She removed the clause about ‘no penetration by an ex-husband’ a few years ago,” Mark says, dismissing me. “Listen, I wasn’t calling you to ask for your permission. She’s already signed on, you’re already signed on, so let’s just get through this. Okay?”
I slam on my brakes as the car in front of me does the same. As expected, I’ve hit a sea of red brake lights just five minutes from the gym. Fucking perfect.
“Yeah, Mark, okay.” What else is there to say?
“Can you keep the drama off the set?”
I bite my tongue; drama wasn’t my thing—it was hers. Always hers.
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Don’t be a piece of shit,” Mark says, laughing. “I’ll see you Monday at the fittings.”
He hangs up and I shoot a quick text off to Trevor, letting him know I’ll be a few minutes late. I just need to get to Friday.