Lennox
Did I refrain from doing the happy dance when Jace accepted my invitation out tonight?
Yep, I sure did.
Am I controlling my smile as we sit in a VIP corner booth, just the two of us, bantering back and forth like we’re besties?
Nope, not in the least.
I’m not sure what it is about this broody, restrained movie star but when he has a few drinks in him, he’s wildly entertaining.
Plus the fact that he’s switched the topic to vent about his parents makes me feel like he’s starting to feel more comfortable with me or maybe he’s just really tipsy. Either way, I’m all here for it.
“She’s just so…uggggh,” he grunts, “frustrating. My dad…he’s quiet, super reserved.
He was a General Contractor pretty much his entire life.
He built a majority of the government county buildings in Los Angeles County.
He worked a lot so he just sort of lets her have her way all the time.
She pushed me to act and audition as a kid and he worked.
So, when it came to me he just gave her full reign.
Although, I’m not sure he’d have a choice anyway, really.
She’s always taken charge and controls everything,” he admits, as he downs the rest of his vodka cranberry.
“I don’t even have control over my own money. It’s fucking embarrassing.”
I pause, freezing with the glass rim of my drink at my lips.
“Are you bloody serious?”
His eyes widen as he looks back at me then down at his empty cup.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been rambling all night about this. What about you? Are your parents cool with your film choices?”
“Oh, um.” I don’t often talk about my childhood or share it with anyone. “I, uh—” I clear my throat. “they left when I was a kid. Well, technically I was taken away from them. They were drug addicts.” I give him a tight-lipped smile as I peer down at the faceplate of my beaten up Casio.
10:48 p.m.
Took him less than three hours to pull something out of me that I haven’t shared with anyone else and for some reason I can’t stop because telling him these things feels easy, natural.
“But, I guess they left me long before I was taken away from them, so…” I shrug, feigning indifference.
“Fuck.” He dips his face into his hands. “Here I am complaining about how horrible my parents are and you—”
“No, mate. Don’t worry. I’m not ashamed of my situation, and honestly, if they were still around I’m not sure they would be much better than yours.”
He nods, understanding, but his expression is still laced with concern.
“How old were you?” he asks.
“Twelve.” He listens intently with a look of acceptance and curiosity that eases me to continue.
“I went to a foster home straight away, then got placed in a group home—a pretty fucking dodgy one if I say so myself—then again in another foster home.” I visibly shiver at the thought of that one.
“That one…not my favorite,” I add, giving him a wink to make light of the topic.
“It went on like that for the next few years until I ran away from the last one at seventeen. Never looked back.”
“Wow…I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. I’m not. I took control of my life.
I found myself a few jobs, most of them all at the same time, to make enough to get by.
I’ve done pretty much everything under the sun.
I was a busboy, a checkout assistant—mostly bagging groceries—a professional car cleaner, a newspaper boy.
” I pretend to ride a bike and toss a newspaper in style.
“Oh, I was also a dog walker and professional pooper scooper.” Jace's eyes blow wide at that one. I nod quickly, smiling with no shame. “You’d be surprised at how many people would pay a lot of money to avoid picking up dog droppings.”
It might have been a little embarrassing back then, but it paid for me to eat and buy clothes good enough to wear for a proper interview when I applied for regular jobs.
“Finally, I got a job as a bartender at one of the bars in London that afforded me enough tips to rent a room and buy a phone. That’s when I started making videos.
Doing all the crazy, weird stuff that I was creating for socials, was just something fun for me to do to burn the time when I wasn’t working. ”
Jace’s expression remains passive, as if he’s absorbing everything I’m sharing with him. Picking up the vodka, he pours more into both of our glasses, then tops it with cranberry juice.
“To you,” he lifts the maroon filled cup in a Cheers, “for taking control of your life.”
Pinching my brows, I’m blanketed with a feeling of guilt. I didn’t tell him that to make him feel bad, and although his tone was genuine, it was also a tad somber.
I tap his glass but look him straight in the eye. “Not everyone has the ability to do that. You have people that rely on you, that count on you.”
He takes a sip then knocks back the entire drink in one big gulp.
“What’s with the watch?” he asks, ignoring my statement like a professional dodgeball player as he tips his chin at my wrist.
I look down at the ragged, beat up, stainless steel faceplate that’s lived with me through everything.
“My dad gave it to me when he was sober, before they took me away. He said, time will never heal the guilt in my heart for failing you.” That’s the thing about addiction. He loved me, he just loved drugs more.
“Wearing it helps keep me focused, working hard, and it’s a reminder to always do the right thing.”
Both of us sit in awkward silence, something I’ve never experienced with him, and I realize maybe I’ve shared too much.
Maybe the whole wear my heart on my sleeve thing—that he somehow pulls out of me effortlessly—has gone a bit too far tonight.
I down my drink and clear my throat, trying to think of a different topic to talk about.
“What are our plans tomorrow?” he asks before I can say anything and I perk up at the use of the word ‘our’ in his question.
I pour us both another drink, push his glass back toward him, then place my elbows on the table as I lean forward. “You know me. I’m up for anything.”