Page 153 of Reckless Hearts
I struggle to sit up, my head pounding. “Relax, I was just sleeping on the flight.”
“Bullshit!” Jake’s voice rises, his composure cracking. “You were barely breathing. If this got out?—”
“But it obviously didn’t,” I say wearily. “So what’s the problem?”
Jake runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “The problem is you’re playing Russian roulette with your career. With your life! One slip-up, one paparazzi photo, and it’s game over.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Game over? Please. You’d spin it into some sob story comeback narrative before I even hit rehab.”
“This isn’t a joke, Marcus,” Jake hisses, leaning in close. “You’re not just risking your reputation. You’re risking everything we’ve built.”
I slump back down in the bed.
“You think you’re going to get those Oscar-worthy roles you want if you’ve got a reputation as a washed-up junkie who can’t be trusted to show up on set without falling apart?” he continues.
“Seb broke up with me.” I say the words flatly, the pain behind them threatening to choke me. It’s like saying it aloud makes it real, final.
“That’s probably for the best,” Jake says.
I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can answer.
“For him,” I say. “It’s the best for him.”
“Christ, Marcus,” Jake mutters, running a hand over his face. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small orange bottle. “I’ve got some new stuff from Dr. Reeves. It’s supposed to help with anxiety without the…side effects. Might make things easier to handle. Take two, go have a shower. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
When Jake leaves the room, I stare at the bottle of pills.
How fucking ironic that Jake’s solution for me having a potential overdose is more pills.
But I don’t think I can handle the unfiltered version of my brain right now.
I swallow the pills and go jump into the shower.
When I walk into Jake’s kitchen, my hair damp, my face cleanly shaven, Jake has made me scrambled eggs.
He shoves the plate in front of me. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
I cautiously eat a forkful. My stomach recoils slightly, but I manage to keep it down.
“I got a call from Annie Harlow,” Jake says.
I raise my eyebrows. Annie Harlow is an up-and-coming indie film producer known for tackling controversial subjects with a raw, uncompromising style. She’s not afraid to push boundaries or ruffle feathers.
“She wants you to audition for her upcoming film,The Invisible Thread. It’s got Oscar bait written all over it.”
I run my hand through my damp hair. “I’ll take a look at it,” I say.
Jake fixes me with a calculating stare. “There’s a famous saying about heartbreak you should remember.”
“What’s that?”
“If your heart is broken, make art with the pieces.”
Over the next few days,I physically ache for Seb. I find myself staring at his contact in my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button, before I remember I can’t.
I desperately want to talk to him. I want to check he’s okay. The agony on his face during our last conversation haunts me.
