Chapter 24
Freddie
I grab a coffee in the lobby while I wait.
Some of the team are hanging out on the lounge chairs surrounding a fireplace—LeBlanc, H?kk?nen, and Bell, and they’re laughing at something on Thompson’s phone.
A few of them glance towards me, their smiles fading just a little.
I try my best to ignore them as I brew a cappucino, telling myself it doesn’t matter what they think of me, even if somewhere, deep down, something inside me aches.
“—ask her,” Bell pushes.
“Unless you’re afraid,” comes H?kk?nen’s deep, resonant voice.
“Fine. Hey, Freddie!” Thompson calls my name. What could he possibly want? I stiffen, but force myself to turn around. They’re all looking at me.
“What?”
“Come tell us what’s wrong with Thompson’s dating profile,” LeBlanc says. His dark hair’s slicked back like he’s just taken a shower, his tan skin flushed like he’s recently showered, and there’s a ruthless gleam in his coal-colored eyes. The cotton tee he’s wearing clings to his biceps.
I blink.
“Please, Freddie,” Thompson says, all boyish and innocent, like he hasn’t spent the last two months being a total dick to me. He, too, looks freshly showered, manspreading on the sofa like the world belongs to him.
“You don’t have to listen to anything they say.” Bell takes a sip of his coffee. I never see him without his headphones or helmet, and with them missing I can see he has two racing stripes buzzed into the sides of his close-shorn fade.
It feels like they’re setting me up, like Carrie at prom, but I’m not afraid of spilling a little blood. I approach them and to my surprise, Thompson makes room for me next to him on the sofa. I sit down, a little jarred by his proximity.
“Here. Be nice, Hearst.” Thompson places his phone in my hand.
His first picture is a mirror selfie at the gym.
“Well here’s your first issue,” I say. “Gym pics signal vanity and a lack of intelligent interests or hobbies.”
Bell whistles, making a finger gun with his hand and a popping sound. Thompson’s brows knit together.
“There has been a murder,” H?kk?nen says.
“Tell us more.” LeBlanc moves over to lean over my shoulder like we’re pals or something.
“Here you say ‘No drama.’ That’s another red flag.
Between the lines that tells me you don’t want women to express their emotions or hold you accountable for your bad behavior, so you brush their feelings off as drama.
” I don’t bother hiding the way my upper lip curls.
This profile is abysmal. “And you’re doing yourself no favors referring to women as females.
That’s weird. It’s dehumanizing, like you view us as the Fourth Kind, not people. ”
“Well, shit.” Thompson looks disheartened. There’s even a tinge of embarrassment to his cheeks. “I should just give up now.”
It’s almost endearing, but a little suffering would serve him well. I clap him on the shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”
“How about you? Let’s see yours,” LeBlanc muses.
“Sure, but you won’t like it.” I pull out my phone. I don’t care if they see it. They think I’m a freak anyway. I open the app, revealing my first photo—me as Leatherface from last year’s Halloween. I was proud of how well my make-up looked like stitches.
“What the fuck?” Thompson balks.
I shrug. “Might as well scare away the boring ones before they try to match.”
“That’s so sick, actually,” LeBlanc laughs. Just then, Falkenberg comes downstairs, looking ridiculous wearing sunglasses inside and the brim of his hat so low it covers his eyebrows. He’s wearing a navy wool coat over a gray hoodie. I swiftly close my phone and pocket it.
He pauses when he sees us all sitting there. “Am I interrupting something?”
LeBlanc and Thompson roll their eyes at his formality.
“Not at all.” I stand, my hands landing on my camera. “Well, it’s been a pleasure pointing out your failures as a man, Thompson, but Falkenberg and I have some things to discuss.”
“Like what? It’s eight in the morning,” Thompson says.
“Documentary stuff.” I glance at Falkenberg, all bundled up.
My thoughts flicker back to his half-naked body, his mouth crooked downward—his bare chest all smooth skin and hard lines and thick bands of muscle.
I know I’ll be thinking about the way his trousers hugged his hip bones for days.
Then there was that gnarly scar, extending from the top of his sternum to his shoulder, following his collar bone.
It looked faded, like whatever happened was years ago, but I could still see the divots where his skin was stitched back together.
I’m dying to ask him about it, but I do have some sense of tact.
Not enough, apparently, since he absolutely caught me bold-faced checking him out.
He didn’t seem to mind it though, beyond his mouth flattening into a line, probably out of pity.
“That sounds very important,” H?kk?nen drones, sinking back into the sofa. He’s almost feline, like a big cat watching me lazily with those green, perceptive eyes.
“See you all later,” I brush them off, eager to be on our way. Still, I feel them watching our exit like the Hill People in The Hills Have Eyes.
Falkenberg has a brief exchange with the front desk and they give him an umbrella. I glance outside, frowning, but then he’s walking over to me before I can check my weather app.
“You’re going to be cold.”
“It’s barely October. It’s not that cold. And the forecast doesn’t say rain.”
“Suit yourself.” He strides past me, through the revolving doors and I have no choice but to follow.
“Where to first?”
I can’t see his eyes, but I’m certain he’s giving me a patronizing look as he says, “You tell me what you need for your film roll.”
“It’s called b-roll. It’s secondary footage for ambiance and environment, it doesn’t actually propel the story forward, so I don’t know. What’s there to see in Stockholm?”
“A bunch of pretentious bullshit,” he drawls.
“Perfect, you’ll fit right in. You won’t even need the disguise.”
“I do,” he says with a grimace.
“More than LA?”
“In LA, I can go for a run without anyone asking for a photo.”
“God forbid the Monarchs do well and people start recognizing you in the grocery store.”
His mouth twists, like it’s the worst possible scenario. “Let’s get this over with. I have recaps to watch.”
With that, he shoves his hands into his coat pockets and starts off down the cobblestones, the cool breeze ruffling his hair. I trot after him, having to work to keep up with his long stride.
Fall is in full swing in Stockholm. When developing scripts, I’ve always found it difficult to imagine the foreboding chill of Halloween in the air, or the ominous crunch of a leaf underfoot when I’ve only ever lived in Southern California.
Fall in Stockholm is beautiful. The trees are golden brown and the air is brisk, so much that I end up shivering, but I’m not going to give Falkenberg the satisfaction of being right about my wardrobe.
It reminds me of LA in the way that everyone looks too well-dressed and attractive for their own good, except instead of drowning in Main Character Syndrome, everyone seems like they’re doing their best to avoid human interaction.
Walking around Stockholm with Falkenberg is oddly peaceful.
Here, I have no desire to think about my failing career and my joke of a director’s reel, the dagger of rejection still sitting at the top of my inbox because I can’t bring myself to archive it yet.
I don’t think about doors closing in LA.
For once, I don’t want to think about the future at all.
Right now, I’m just a person in a city, snapping flicks of things I like.
I’ve missed using a camera. I’m so used to directing now, I’ve almost forgotten what it felt like to operate a lens.
“What’s this place called?” I say when we come to a copse of well-kept trees, surrounded by cafes and restaurant terraces.
“Kungstr?dg?rden. It’s a tourist trap. Every restaurant you see is committing legalized robbery.” With that, he takes a seat on a bench under a tree, crossing his arms over his chest to wait. I’m not sure what crawled up his ass today.
“Literally or figuratively?” I say.
“This is Sweden, Hearst. Figuratively,” he says.
I take a seat on the bench next to him. To my surprise, he doesn’t scoot away from me. “You really never go out in LA?” I uncap my camera lens and begin rolling, pretending to be transfixed by filming, but I’m unjustifiably interested in his response.
“I avoid it at all costs.”
“God, you really hate having fun. It’s like you’re an eighty-year-old man trapped in a twenty-something’s body.”
“Yes, you’re well acquainted with my body now, aren’t you, Hearst?”
My mouth falls open. I can’t believe he just said that. He doesn’t look at me at first, but when he does, it’s accusatory.
“Shut up. I didn’t ask for you to answer the door shirtless.”
“But you didn’t complain when I did.”
“I save my complaints for HR,” I say.
“I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
“Good,” I say, hoping he hasn’t noticed my blush.
He nods.
I’m going to have to take extra care to edit the audio out of the footage I’ve just captured before it ever gets into the hands of an editor.
I’m pretty sure whatever the hell just passed between us was some kind of flirting.
My father hearing about me flirting with his players would make my head combust, Cronenberg-style.
There’s a coffee stand nearby, and Falkenberg orders us two cups in Swedish.
It’s a pretty, musical language—effeminate, even.
Everybody sounds oddly cheerful when they speak it, including Falkenberg, which I find entertaining—especially when he returns to our bench with a grouchy expression, passing one of the cups to me.
When his fingers brush against mine, a jolt of electricity skitters over my skin.
“Now, I owe you a beer and two coffees,” I say.
“I know. I’m keeping track,” he replies with a smirk.