Chapter 1 Monty
It was half past noon on a Monday and Montgomery Kincaid was plastered.
When people thought of movie stars, they imagined glamorous lives: dwelling in gorgeous mansions, sipping cocktails at any hour, and traveling around the world.
Monty had recently returned home from a tour.
But it hadn’t been a jetsetting adventure—just a press circuit to promote his newest film, Broadway, Ahoy!
—and it had been as exhausting as it had been exciting.
He did live in what many would consider a stately residence, but it was sprawling and way too big for him.
Despite having gilded banisters, velvet curtains, marble columns, and gleaming floors, it felt empty.
Monty hoped someday he’d be important and popular enough to throw the types of lavish parties that stars like Edith Haywood threw, the kind everyone wanted to be invited to.
He’d fill his house with music and laughter. Then maybe it would feel like a home.
And he wasn’t exactly sipping a cocktail; he was grieving.
He had just downed two large servings of rye and was working on a third.
With his feet propped on the coffee table in front of his low velvet sofa, he raised his glass.
“To lost opportunities and broken dreams.” He took a pull of his drink.
“And to fucking Cal Campbell. Taking movies he doesn’t need and doesn’t even want. ”
It had been a disappointing morning, to say the least.
Beside his feet, a script taunted him. It was an innocent looking script, but it was the wrong one.
It wasn’t the one he wanted and needed, the one that would finally pull him out of B musicals and into high-production films. It wasn’t the script that was going to make him a true movie star.
No, that script had been given to Cal Campbell, a high ranking actor at Powell Productions and a box office darling—someone who didn’t need a big break like Monty did.
The script on the coffee table was titled Together on Parade and it was a holiday flick, a comedy.
Monty had never made a comedy. He was a musical actor with a talent for dancing and singing, a pretty face, and—best of all—the kind of magic that made him instantly charming.
It was a perfect type of magic to have for a musical film.
He could give a dazzling smile as he danced or sang while his charm clicked on and his magic blazed bright.
He used his magic in all his pictures. He used it so much, in fact, that he barely had to consciously turn it on anymore.
Everyone had their own particular brand of magic, and Monty was convinced that his was tailor-made to his needs and ambitions.
Back home, most folks used their magic for the kind of mundane, everyday tasks that he hated.
His mom used magic in her sewing to make every piece she patched look brand new.
His ma worked as an accountant, using her magic to keep the numbers in check.
There was magic used in baking bread, growing a garden, or adding warmth to a home. It was all so awfully boring.
Monty had left Wisconsin three years ago with a small suitcase and a big dream.
In Hollywood, magic was used to make a tuxedo fit perfectly, to capture the attention of an audience, or add depth to a singing voice so listeners wept at the beauty of it.
It was the sort of place where Monty and his magic felt right at home.
He snagged a five year contract with Powell Productions and had steadily plugged along in light, fluffy pictures with low budgets and low quality.
They were a stepping stone toward what he wanted, a means to an end.
Only now, that end had drifted farther from his grasp than he could have imagined. He took another pull of his drink, feeling sulky.
Nothing he did was enough. He spent three years being a consistent employee who worked hard on his assignments. He was never late to set, always knew his lines, and hadn’t once spilled coffee on a costume.
He’d gone on tour with one of the biggest producers at Powell, Ezra Allen, and tried to charm them as much as he could.
He’d found the perfect co-star for the big splashy musical he so desperately wanted.
The kid had even been signed on after Monty’s recommendation.
He was in the musical. But Monty wasn’t.
Despite everything, he hadn’t done enough—or been enough—for his big break.
Memories from that morning blurred in his mind as he idly swirled his drink: the casting office giving him the wrong script, Ezra stating that the change would do him good when Monty had confronted them in their office, and, finally, Cal fucking Campbell—Powell’s golden boy—using his magic to calm Monty down. That had been the salt in the wound.
Cal admitted he didn’t want to be in the musical, and even invited Monty to join him and his new co-star at the Pink Peacock for dinner. He couldn’t have been more insulting if he tried.
Monty finished his drink and sank deeper into the couch cushions, cradling the glass in his lap.
He wanted another but didn’t feel like drumming up the energy to make it.
Instead, he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the alcohol snaking its way through his anger and numbing it, just enough.
He felt like crying, but that seemed a little too pathetic, crying alone in his big empty house.
The emotional rollercoaster of the past couple of hours began to take its toll and he allowed himself to drift into the fatigue. Maybe if he napped he’d have enough energy to make another drink. Maybe a fourth drink would be what it took to ease the pain of disappointment.
* * *
Monty woke to fingers combing through his hair and he blinked his eyes open. Hilliard Burke was perched on the arm of the sofa, leaning over him.
“Looks like you started having fun without me,” he teased, his thick Southern accent honeying Monty’s senses.
Monty was more surprised by the early evening light in the windows than he was by Hilliard’s presence. His friend was the only one who had a spare key to the house.
“Guess you heard the news.”
“Sure did.” Hilliard reached across him and plucked the glass from where it still rested in Monty’s hand. He sniffed it and set it aside. “We’re cast in a movie together. Won’t that be a treat?”
“It’s not what I wanted,” Monty said mulishly, avoiding answering Hilliard’s question.
“I know, sugar,” Hilliard said gently.
“It was going to be my big chance,” Monty whispered. Now that Hilliard was there, he could feel the tears threatening to fall.
Hilliard slid off his perch and onto the couch cushion next to him, pulling him close.
Monty wrapped his arms around the other man’s chest and gave in, crying into Hilliard’s shoulder.
The other man didn’t rush him, merely brushing his fingers lightly through Monty’s dark hair and murmuring words of comfort.
Hilliard didn’t have Campbell’s magical calm and Monty was immensely grateful for it.
His magic came from his heart. It was the type of magic that meant he always knew when Monty needed him; always knew how to provide comfort and encouragement.
Everyone he met was his friend. Monty didn’t know a single person at Powell who didn’t adore Hilliard Burke.
He finally pulled away. “I haven’t even looked at the script,” he admitted.
“It’s a good one,” Hilliard said. “A comedy.”
“Campbell said it would show my range.”
“He’s right. I’m not sure if you’re ready to look on the bright side yet, but I’m pleased by the turn of events.”
Monty rubbed his eyes. “Not yet.”
“Figured. Let’s get you something to eat.” Hilliard slid a hand under Monty’s arm and helped him up, then guided him to the kitchen.
Monty couldn’t yet afford the staff to take care of his elegant house. He hired a few maids to come in and dust it once a week, just to keep everything in good condition. But the gleaming kitchen was empty as they walked into it and Hilliard switched the light on.
When he first moved in, Monty had tried eating in the huge dining room, but it had felt too lonely, so he’d switched to eating in the kitchen.
It was still lonely, but it felt homier.
As he sat at the large kitchen table in the center of the room, Hilliard’s presence continued to settle him even more.
He’d repeatedly invited his friend to move into one of the many spare rooms, but his offers had been rejected every time.
Nevertheless, whenever Hilliard visited, he moved about the space as if he belonged in it.
As he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs and a bottle of milk, it almost felt as though he lived there too.
Monty felt the warmth in his chest he always felt when Hilliard was around.
“I’m going to get another drink.”
“How many have you had?”
“Do you want one?”
“Sure. Horse’s Neck.”
Monty went back to the bar and fixed two drinks. He made Hilliard’s a little less strong, as he knew his friend’s preferences in that regard. When he returned to the kitchen, Hilliard was at the stove, grating a block of cheese that Monty didn’t even know he’d had. He passed the drink over.
“Thanks, darlin’,” Hilliard said with a grin before taking a sip. “Mm. You always make them just how I like ‘em.”
“Heavy on the ginger ale, light on the cognac.”
Hilliard winked. “And a healthy dash of Angostura bitters. They’re good for you, you know.”
Monty snorted as he sat back down at the table. He sipped his own drink. It tasted a damn sight better than his earlier one. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned his cheek against his palm.
“What am I gonna do?”
Hilliard glanced at him over his shoulder. “Besides starring in a film with yours truly?”
“It’s not going to make me a star. That’s what I really want.”
“How do you know?”
Monty frowned at the question. “How do I know what I want?”
The toaster dinged, and Hilliard smoothly plucked the toast out and buttered it. The pillowy eggs were still steaming with the cheese melting invitingly on top when Hilliard placed their plates on the table. Monty dug in without hesitation.
“How do you know this movie won’t make you a star?” Hilliard asked, clarifying his previous question as he claimed his usual chair.
Monty chewed his food as he considered the question. “Because I’m a musical actor.”
“And Cal Campbell’s a dramatic one. That didn’t seem to stop Ezra.”
“I think I might have gotten under their skin on the tour,” Monty admitted.
Hilliard chuckled. “You just don’t know when to turn off the charm.”
Monty frowned. “Don’t you mean—?”
“Nope.” Hilliard sipped his drink, one pinky curled elegantly up.
Monty finally took in his friend’s clothes: a white suit with a yellow and pink neckerchief. He’d been so distracted by his troubles, he hadn’t even noticed before. Hilliard was always impossibly stylish. “Nice outfit. Plans tonight?”
“Thank you. And yes. I’m enjoying them right now.”
“We shouldn’t waste that outfit on my kitchen.”
“You’ve had a long and hard day, Montgomery,” Hilliard chided. “Relax. Besides, I haven’t seen you in weeks. I’d prefer spending time with just you than a whole bunch of people.”
Monty couldn’t help the smile that took over his face at Hilliard’s words. “I missed you, too.”
Hilliard reached across the table and rubbed his thumb over Monty’s cheek affectionately. “Tell me how the tour went.”
Monty did as they ate dinner. And when they moved back out of the kitchen, Monty made himself another drink—Hilliard politely turned down a refill—and they talked about how Hilliard’s latest picture had gone. It’d been a gritty detective flick, with Hilliard playing a villain’s henchman.
“What I don’t understand,” Monty said as he downed the rest of his cocktail, “is why you’re always playing these side characters.” He decided to pour another splash of whiskey out since he was already standing there.
“It’s what I do best.”
“Yeah, but you’re really good. You could be in a leading role if you wanted to.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Don't you want top billing someday?”
“Not particularly.”
Monty sat down, noticing dimly that he was clumsier than usual. “Well, take this movie, for instance. Are you the main character in it?”
“In our movie, you mean? No, I’m not. I’m the best friend. You’re the main character.”
“But that isn’t fair! I’m horning in on your…” He floundered for the right word. “Lane.”
Hilliard chuckled as he brushed hair off of Monty’s forehead. “And I’m gonna welcome you with open arms, and we’ll make this the best picture either of us has ever made.”
Monty shook his head. “It isn’t fair.”
“That’s Hollywood, doll. You done with that drink? Good. Let’s get you to bed.”
Hilliard eased him back up and guided him to the bedroom. He helped him out of his shoes, and his coat, and Monty was so tired he sank onto the bed with the rest of his clothes on. Hilliard tsked his disapproval. “You’ll ruin them.”
“Don’t care. Too tired,” Monty mumbled.
Hilliard pulled the blankets over him. “Sleep tight.”
Monty closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness about the whole situation.
It wasn’t fair that he’d been pulled from a project that would have been perfect for him.
It wasn’t fair that he’d discovered Jesse Morgan’s talent and wouldn’t even get to reap the benefits of the discovery.
It wasn’t fair that Cal Campbell was getting the starring role in a picture that Monty needed and he didn’t, especially when the man couldn’t dance or sing worth beans.
It wasn’t fair that Hilliard—sweet, talented Hilliard—could do so many movies and so many roles, and barely anyone knew his name.
The house was quiet, but Monty’s mind was too noisy for sleep.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he got.
Finally, he threw the covers off and sat up groggily.
It took him some time to struggle back into his shoes and coat.
But it took no time at all to call for a cab and pour himself a drink as he waited for it to arrive.