Chapter 3  

Grey

As soon as we get in the car, Adam’s on the phone with Brooks, his college buddy who’s also the director and co-producer of the film he’s funding. While Adam’s more of a high-tech and financial wizard, Brooks knows everything about the film business. He’s been working at the big studios for years, with the last two at Lionsgate. They’re a good team. A motivated person could learn a shit-ton about The Business by listening to them. That person’s not me.

As he drives and talks to Brooks, I pull the ski hat he forced me to wear down over my ears and recline the seat all the way back, trying to get some sleep.

At the Coffee Bean in the Country Mart, Adam parks and shoves a fifty-dollar bill into my chest, jarring me awake.

“Get something for Brooks too,” he says, pausing his conversation. “Triple latte.”

I hop out of the Bugatti and jog into the coffee shop. There’s a small line, so I settle in to wait, folding the bill in my hands. Half and then half again. Smaller and smaller until it won’t fold anymore. I grew up with money. Adam and I have the same entrepreneurial, restaurant- and bar-owning, deal-making dad. I have no desire to start a business, or open a restaurant or a bar, or make a film. Maybe I took after my mom. Who knows? All I know is that I want to sing. I want to make music, pure and simple. Every night, if I can.

I glance at Adam, idling in the parking spot right outside, drawing looks from everyone in the coffee shop. I also don’t want to be the guy who has to jump out for a coffee he can’t even afford to pay for. Maybe this job thing will be all right.

I’ll work in the mailroom or something. Keep making coffee runs for my brother. Earn a few bucks during the day, and sing at night.

I can live with that.

Adam stays on the phone with Brooks until we’re both walking into his fancy office at the new Blackwood Entertainment studio complex, where Brooks is waiting. They shut off their phones at the same time, preparing to continue their conversation face-to-face. Brooks rises from the leather chair in front of Adam’s desk, takes his coffee, and frowns at me.

Brooks works a sort of hobo-cool look: clothes a little baggy, hair a little shaggy. Everything is designer label, but slouchy. Adam’s opposite, basically. Though he’s a filmmaker, Brooks looks like he’d be comfortable with a paintbrush in his hand and a cigarette bobbing from the corner of his mouth.

“Gotta say I’m surprised to see you here,” he says, shooting a questioning look at Adam.

“He trashed my place,” my brother explains.

“I didn’t do it.”

“So he’s working for me now.”

“Only until I can pay it off.”

“Which is going to take months, you realize that.”

I shrug, knowing I’ll be able to pay him back faster. Welkin will have a record deal come April. A month, tops, and I’ll be out of here.

Brooks looks from me to Adam, his grin going wider. “This is going to be entertaining.” He narrows his eyes, peering at me. “What did you do to your head?”

I pull the cap off, showing him my Sharpied, shaved head.

“Nice.” Brooks lets out a boom of laughter. “Must’ve been some night.”

“Still nothing?” Adam slides behind his desk, slipping back in work mode.

In the elevator up here, while Brooks was apparently answering another call, Adam told me they have a crisis to solve. Some kind of audition or casting problem that he and Brooks needed to fix ASAP before he can get me set up. I sit and prepare to wait it out.

“His agent finally called. He’s not going to make it,” Brooks says, dropping into the other chair. “He was doing some intensive spa treatments. It’s his typical M.O. when he gets ready for a new project. I guess he tried a deep-tissue massage and got a crick in his neck.”

I cross my arms. “Is ‘crick’ an actual word? Like in the dictionary?”

“Yeah, it’s an actual word,” Brooks says. “And it’s also the reason we’re down a leading man for the day.”

Adam sighs. “That’s a hell of an expensive crick. We have a studio full of potential leading women in Studio B.”

I slide out of my chair, because I have got to see this.

“Grey,” Adam says.

I slide back.

“There’s only one option that I can see,” he continues. “We’ll burn too much money and time if we don’t go through with the audition. We need to find someone else to read his part for the day.”

“Agreed.” Brooks checks his watch. “And we have to do it fast.”

As they discuss trying to get a stand-in actor here within the next hour, I reach for the script on Adam’s desk and flip through it, looking for zombies or blood. The script, something called Bounce, disappoints.

“What’s this about?” I ask, waving it in the air.

Adam looks at me. “It’s a remake of a classic novel.”

“Jane Austen,” Brooks adds. “Emma’s one of the most beloved female protagonists of all time. We’ve beefed up the comedy aspects. Brought a dating service into the storyline to make it more contemporary and tie-in with the Blackwood brand.”

Sounds boring as hell, but what do they care what I think? “I hooked up with a girl named Emma a few weeks ago at a Foster the People concert. At least, I think that was her name. We didn’t talk much.”

Brooks shakes his head at me and Adam gets them back on track. There have to be half a billion actors in this town, but these two are acting like it’s a lost cause. I mean, shit. Just go to the nearest café. I guarantee a hundred percent of the baristas are actors. With nothing else to do, I pick up the script and flip through it some more.

“Why are there so many words if it’s a romance?” I say. “Isn’t it pretty simple? Boy meets girl. They get it on. End of story?”

I’m talking to myself, since I’m the only one listening to me. “I mean, why do you need all this?” Opening the script to a random page, I read, “ ‘Emma. Beautiful Emma. I’ve loved you forever. I was born to love you. I’ve been here all along. I was just waiting for you to see me.’ ” I scowl, reading her reply, and then laugh when I read a little further. “Seriously? They kiss after that?” I drop the script back on the desk. “Tripe, bro. Utter tripe. You need to get a better writer, because if that’s . . . ​if that’s . . . ​if this is . . .”

Adam and Brooks are both staring at me intently. I feel like a mouse in an open field under the eyes of a hawk. And another, slightly more disheveled hawk.

“No,” I say, dropping the script. “No freakin’ way. I’m not an actor, Adam.”

“You are today,” he says, rising from his chair.

“I can’t do it. I’ve got a crick—”

“No, you don’t.” He gives Brooks a slap on the shoulder. “Get everyone ready,” he says. Then he’s standing over me. “Let’s go, little brother. You’re needed over at Studio B.”