I head back home, mind spinning, completely torn on what to think.
17
Jackson
I knew this shit with Holly was going to be a problem.
“Get me out of it,” I say into the phone.
“You know I can’t,” Mickey replies. “Listen, Jackson, it’s just a short-term thing. Just a few months. And plus, Holly Hart? Come on, man.”
I sigh. I’m sick of hearing that I should be happy about this relationship with Holly just because she’s fucking attractive. Frankly, I’m not that into her, and it’s goddamn insulting. Like all I do is think with my fucking cock, and I should be so lucky to have some fake Hollywood shit with a half attractive psycho starlet.
“Holly is fucking unhinged,” I say to Mickey. “She’s giving Tara shit now, and how the hell are we supposed to work together like this?”
“Tara?” Mickey asks. “Who’s that, some girl you’re fucking?”
I hesitate for a second, because I genuinely don’t know how to describe her. “She’s the reason I don’t want to be in this shit in the first place,” I decide to say.
“Tara? Who the fuck is Tara? This is your career, dummy. You have to suck it up and get through it. Tara will understand.”
I clench my jaw. “No, Tara will not understand. She won’t understand when Holly makes her fucking life a living hell.”
“Who the hell is Tara anyway?”
“She’s the script girl on this movie. It doesn’t matter. All that matter’s is you get me out of this.”
Mickey sighs and I can tell he’s really frustrated, but I don’t care. I know I’m not his usual Hollywood client. Most of those pretty-boy asshole actors would be fucking thrilled to be in my position. I’m not like them, though. My life is fucking real, and it’s not just some big game and act for my fucking career.
“I’ll try,” he says finally. “I don’t think it’s going to happen though, Jackson. If you want to stay on this movie, you gotta get through it.”
“What if I just dump her in a few weeks? They won’t be able to fire me then.”
“Do that and they’ll fucking blacklist you from every single major studio and you’ll be on the street sucking cocks for dimes,” Mickey says with a little fire. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Just fix this,” I say to him. “You want your big fat paycheck? Do your goddamn job. I don’t care about this as much as you do.”
I hang my phone up and throw it across the room, annoyed as hell.
It’s around midnight, and I’m a little surprised Mickey is even still awake. He has a wife and kids, although he does work pretty much all day and all night. He’s one of those type-A crazy guys, but he gets the job done. I know this isn’t his fault, but I need him to get me out of this garbage, or else I’m fucked.
I sigh and sit down on the couch. I grab my glass of whisky from the table and sip it, staring at the television blankly. It’s on mute and playing some old French movie that looks like it’s pretty goddamn dramatic. I’m sick of living out of hotels, but I know I have nowhere else to go.
This is the life of an actor. You go to these fancy fucking hotels, and that’s pretty cool at first. The studio picks up the tab, as long as you’re not insane about what you’re buying, they’ll pay for it. I can get all the food and drinks I want, pretty much anything I need really, and it’s all on them.
Except that wears off really fast, and soon you find yourself in the same bland, lifeless room night after night, away from anything you call home, trying to get through the shit because it’s your job. There are sacrifices that come along with fame, and a lot of people don’t mind them.
But I’m not like most people in this industry. Every new movie I do proves that more and more. The longer I’m around these people, the more I don’t want to be like them. It’s clear that a lot of people assimilate to this fake ass garbage, but I don’t want to be one of those.
A knock at the door pulls me from my self-loathing reverie. I sip my whisky, assuming it’s the room service I ordered. Sometimes I like to fucking binge on good alcohol, especially when I’m in a shit mood. I don’t let it affect my work, and I don’t do it often, but once in a while it’s good to get nice and drunk. Unfortunately, I’m out of whisky, and nowhere near drunk enough yet.
I get up and walk to the door. Without looking through the fucking peephole, which I should always do, I pull it open.
And standing there, wearing a long, low-cut dress is Holly Hart. She smiles at me, her blonde hair messy and down around her shoulders as she leans toward me.