25 #2
even if he wasn’t a lead. The hostage at a bank robbery with a medical condition that would kill him if he didn’t get treatment
soon. The plumber in a small town, quietly romancing the shy librarian in the background of so many scenes as the main couple
found their own happily-ever-after.
Each of those roles had stretched him in a different way. Tested his skills and made him better. He’d come home to his little
apartment at the end of a workday and feel—satisfied. Not necessarily happy, because he was so goddamn alone. Fulfilled professionally,
though?
Yes. Without a doubt.
In a bid to appeal to the masses, main characters in tentpole productions were often required to be so damn bland .
Character actors and leads in indie films, though—they could be anything , because another season or a possible sequel or hundreds of millions of dollars of production costs didn’t depend on their
relatability. On his relatability.
But if he signed the now-finalized contract with FTI...
Well, there would be subplots, of course, but Maria had nailed the essential dynamic. In less than a month, he’d be just another
interchangeable white guy in a white coat peering into a microscope, enhancing computer images of license plates, and becoming
an inadvertent target of murderers. If he was lucky, maybe he’d have a marriage falling apart behind the scenes, which the
show would indicate via a total of four minutes of footage and two fleeting indications of open grief during the entire season.
Frankly, the serial killer role he’d originally auditioned for would be more interesting to play. By far.
Why hadn’t that even occurred to him before?
Uneasy, he stared sightlessly at the screen for another clip or two.
And then... there she was.
He’d known this part of the video was coming. There was no way in hell they wouldn’t request a clip from Maria, and no way in hell she’d refuse them. She’d probably shot the segment weeks ago but intended to
keep it a surprise until the actual event.
Somehow, though, it didn’t matter what he’d known or how well he’d thought he prepared himself. When her beloved face appeared,
her beaming smile, her warm brown eyes sparkling with confidence and vivacity...
If one of those fucking enormous cows on the island sat on his chest?
Yeah. It felt like that.
He stared at her dumbly.
Her mouth was moving as she said whatever she was saying, her lips rosy and tipped up at the corners. He’d slipped his tongue
between those lips. Slid a thumb across them. Opened them wide for his cock. Covered them with his palm as she came.
He’d kissed them softly, marveling at how well they fit his. How well she fit him.
Six years. Six years they’d spent together, lovers turned friends turned lovers once more. During those six years, he’d earned
widespread critical recognition, won several golden statuettes, raised his professional profile to lofty new heights, scored
legions of new fans, and deposited unprecedented amounts of money in his bank account.
It was success. Undeniable, profound success.
He’d tilted at a windmill and... won.
For those six years, that enormous stretch of his professional and personal life, he’d been happy. Startlingly, terrifyingly, consistently happy, in a way he’d never experienced before and might never experience again.
And he’d spent most of those years on a tiny fucking island off the coast of Ireland, where all the perks and trappings of
his success couldn’t find him or change his daily life.
On the island, as long as he had enough money to live comfortably—to buy souvenirs or pub meals or ferry rides to the coast—the
excess didn’t matter. There was nowhere and no need to spend it. His new ability to score lead roles didn’t make much difference
either, since he had little time to film said lead roles. If he had more followers on social media, that didn’t change how
he posted: infrequently and curtly. Which, bizarrely, had become a source of much hilarity among his fans and brought him
even more social media followers. His golden statuettes sat on the mantel above his fireplace in LA, right below his mother’s drawing.
They might have kept her company, but they didn’t do a thing for him from across the Atlantic. Neither did the house itself,
no matter how perfectly it sat perched on some the most exclusive real estate available.
So if his long-awaited success had made him happy all those years on the island, he wasn’t quite sure how.
Was it the mere knowledge of his success that did the trick? The prospect of how that success would, in fact, demonstrably change his life during his
next filming break, between seasons, and after the show ended?
Or did he just fucking love being around Maria and their friends whenever he wasn’t filming scenes for a role he found both
challenging and interesting?
She was still talking on-screen, and suddenly he could hear her.
More than that. He could listen .
“—thing I adore about Peter is that he puts as much effort and emotion into a small role as he does into a role like Cyprian,” she said, leaning forward in emphasis.
“Because he’s a master of his craft and committed to giving his colleagues and audience his absolute best, every time.
So in those movies and television shows where he remains in the background, or plays the friend or coworker, or nearly drowns in a creek in front of the world’s most dramatic lifeguard-slash-vigilante—hi, Marcus—if you pay attention, his acting is .
. . brilliant. Just as brilliant as his performance as Cyprian. Every time.”
Her brown eyes were soft and sincere, her gaze direct. After so long together, he could recognize her lies, and he could reckon
with her truths. If he paid enough attention.
He was paying attention now.
This was the truth, as she saw it.
“Peter Reedton’s work ethic is unparalleled, anyone who truly gets to know him adores him, and he’s an absurdly gifted actor,”
she declared firmly. Almost aggressively, as if daring the audience to argue with her. As if she’d gladly take on every single
one of them if they dismissed his worth, and she’d win. Of course she’d win. “He deserves all the praise he’s gotten and more,
and that would be true with or without Gods of the Gates . Our show was merely the means by which the world finally noticed what he was doing all along. In every project, big or small.”
She fucking meant what she was saying. If he only played bit roles for the rest of his career, she wouldn’t give a shit. She
wouldn’t think less of him. She’d still consider him a success, because he cared about his coworkers and worked hard and was
good at his job.
Her love and appreciation for him didn’t depend on accomplishments or money.
They depended on him. Just... him.
Motherfucker. He was a goddamn kn?ppgok .
On-screen, she flicked her wrist dismissively. “Still, he’s a skitstovel . A fact is a fact.”
He hung his head. Yes. Also that.
But he couldn’t help but smile, despite the acid churning in his gut, because her comic timing was impeccable. The audience
was laughing too, which meant they apparently knew her pet name for him, as well as its English translation.
Correction: That was his pet name.
Now she didn’t call him anything at all.
Cupping a hand around her mouth, she pretended to whisper to the unseen audience. “Also, Jeanine is right about those thighs.
Don’t tell him I said so.”
Someone off camera wolf-whistled—it sounded like Carah—and Maria grinned at whoever it was, even as the theater audience laughed
again.
Then her face faded to black on the screen. She was gone.
His breath shook as he dragged it into his lungs. When he closed his eyes, her afterimage flickered to life, burned irrevocably
onto his retinas.
From the sound of it, the video presentation had moved on to clips of Cyprian’s scenes with Cassia, and normally he loved
to watch Maria’s work. But—
Ramón’s lean, strong hand clasped his and squeezed.
Maybe Peter should be embarrassed by how tightly he clung to his friend’s hand in response, but he wasn’t. He needed that
support, that reassurance, as his world upended itself.
All his certainties had rattled and heaved and cracked down the middle, and there he was, standing in their rubble. Shell-shocked. Helpless to do anything but piece those certainties back together, but this time in a different way, in the right way, so they wouldn’t collapse around him ever again.
He had to question everything, everything , he’d thought he understood about himself and Maria. And he knew exactly where to begin.
Why had he been so goddamn determined to take a role that didn’t even fucking interest him, when he knew it would make Maria unhappy?
Yes, retirement and health insurance and living expenses required savings, but he wasn’t hurting, and neither was she, and
both of them had long careers still ahead, with a lot more options open to them after having starred in Gates . Those Gates residuals weren’t insignificant either. And even before landing the role of Cyprian, he’d managed to support himself with
his acting. He’d made a decent, if not luxurious, living. So had she.
Hell, if they got married and worse came to worst, they could always move to Sweden and let the fruits of socialism feed them
for a while. For all his teasing about the Swedish system, the prospect of a guaranteed comfortable retirement and health
care... well, higher taxes didn’t actually seem that terrible a price to pay. Literally.
What happened to his mother wouldn’t happen to him. To them. It couldn’t.
And if he didn’t need to take the role for money, why else would he accept? If he meant to show other casting directors that
he could handle a leading role on television, hadn’t he already done that with Gods of the Gates ?