Page 15 of Script
“It’s my agent, Atlas. I have to take it. He might have heard back about reading for Grierson.” I nodded as he placed the phone to his ear. Trying to be polite, I slid out to the ice in my sneakers, grabbed the skating aide, and carried it back to the storage room while Finn had a chat with his agent. When I returned to the ice, he had his feet dressed and was coming down the chute to find me. “Hey, Atlas has set up a meeting with River, so I have to go do that.”
The flair of disappointment in my chest was stupid. Since when did I care about a cancelled lunch date? Hell, I barely did lunch dates. My grandmother did all the time, but she was in her seventies and went to bed at nine o’clock.
“No hey, go for it.” I grinned as if I didn’t give two shits because I didn’t. Not really.
“Maybe next time? I like hot dogs a lot. I used to be able to eat one in two bites when I was a teenager.”
My mind went to a very naughty place. A place where Finn was kneeling in front of me with my cock between those pillow-plump lips of his.
“Cool. Yep, for sure tomorrow. Are you still good for the same bat channel shit?”
“Yeah, totally. I’ll be here tomorrow to learn how to stand better.”
We high-fived, and I let him get along with his day. And his lunch date with a director who would probably want Finn to suck his dick for a role in the hockey movie. What a jerk that casting director was taking advantage of Finn like that. Maybe I should keep an eye on him in case he—
I ran right into the glass door at the rear exit, my nose crunching into my face as I shook off the impact as well as my train of thought. What kind of moronic bullshit had I been mulling over just now? I exploded out into the warmth of a June LA day, the sun high in the sky, the sound of traffic and a Rasta band performing on the corner floating by. There would be no trailing anyone. That was stupid. I was being stupid. It was clear that I needed to get laid pronto. A good fuck followed by a rich meal and a cigar would clear my head of Finn Kerrigan’s summer-sweet eyes and poor sore ass. Ass poundings.Yeah man…
Shit. I reached down to adjust myself on the sly then dove into my car. My phone was in my hand in a flash. Maybe the redhead from the club was free. I began scrolling through my contacts, windows up, heat building inside my Mercedes to the point sweat droplets were running down my temples. I cranked the engine over, cold air blasting me in the face, as I flicked past person after person. I wasn’t in the mood for a woman, or a redhead burlesque performer, or the Latino singer at the cabaret. I wanted someone blond and lanky with a killer smile and freckles. No one in my rather long list of past lovers quite fit. Knowing what my dick wanted was Finn but also knowing that was not going to happen, I chucked my phone to the passenger seat, blew out a breath, and cruised to the hot dog stand to buy a Buffalo dog then eat it alone at my place. Music of some sort was echoing from the mansion down the hill, but I couldn’t make out much beyond the drum line.
I sat on my patio, feet bared to the gusty Santa Ana winds, as my neighbor Rottie Blade, a heavy metal maven who sang lead in a rock band, tried his best to annoy me with what appeared to be real lifeMario Kartraces around his acreage. What a jackass. I whipped the butt end of my bun in the direction of Rottie’s place. It boggled the mind that the homeowner’s association had allowed him to move into this quiet and exclusive neighborhood. Money talked, as they say. Money did a lot of things. One thing that money could not do was make a dude like dick.
Looking out over Mandeville Canyon, I sighed out loud. Knowing it wasn’t at all what I wanted but seeing no way to get what I desired—or more preciselywho—I fired off a text to the ginger cabaret performer who was very happy to be free for the night. Thirty minutes later I buzzed him through the ivy-covered adobe fencing that surrounded my two acres.
Sometimes life did not give you what you wanted, be it the championship trophy, or the quirky freckled movie star. Sometimes we had to settle. I did not like settling. Not at all. Which was why I sent the redhead home before he even got through the front door.
Fuck settling. Somehow I would get my hands on the CupandFinn Kerrigan’s luscious ass. The trophy I knew how to get. Work harder, train harder, play harder. The man… well, that was a trickier nut to crack.
Howdidone convince a heterosexual macho man to try the peen?
Chapter5
Finn
River Grierson was shorterin person, and all around smaller. He reminded me of a meerkat, constantly staring off in different directions, then glancing back at me as if he were guarding something important.
Which he was.
The script forThe Cupwas in his hands and he clutched it to his chest. He was hyper focused as he absorbed the view from the window. He was a private person, no one knew much about him, and some called him weird, others called him eccentric. I called him the answer to all my prayers. Oscar-worthy material in a sports film was hard to come by, but it was unique enough that I could get people talking about me in ways that didn’t involve words like beefcake, dumb, or wooden.
The last one hurt—a critic had called my acting inRapid Recallwooden, and it freaking bit me in the neck and wouldn’t leave me.
Even if the reviewer was right.
The script had been shit—a rehash ofRapid1—the entire thing was made for money. Boy did it make money. Only there were only so many ways I could say things like “Get down! Get down!” or “who the fuck is shooting at us”? or “I promise if we take that ancient cursed artifact, ghosts won’t chase us.”. I mean, it hadn’t been an inspiring script at all, and I was committed to improving my art, I have an acting coach who followed me up from my soap years, but the reviews had reflected my lack of dialogue and the lazy use of special effects and random jump scares involving skeletons falling on the leads, to further the plot.
In fact, Frankie Culpo the sidekick got way better lines, the serious nerd in touch with the afterlife, who spent the entire first third ofRapid Recallencouraging my character not to wake the ghosts.
Which of course my character did, without listening to said psychic sidekick—and try saying that three times in a row—and because, that was how shit the story was.
I should say something to River Grierson director-extraordinaire, right? Maybe he was doing the meerkat thing because he was waiting for me to speak.
“So, umm, you called me to attend a meeting about the part?
His gaze snapped back at me so fast it startled me. “Yep,” he offered, but the grip on the script didn’t ease, and he didn’t expand on the answer.
I was about to suggest he let go of the script and let me read a few lines, but the words died in my throat when he glared at me.
“I don’t like theRapidfilms,” he blurted.
