A knot forms in my chest. It’s suffocating. I can feel the anger and sadness bitterly brewing inside of me, growing stronger as the years go on. My eyes burn with tears, and I don’t want to cry, but the sight of him takes me back.
“All done!”
My gaze darts to the doorway as the small cheery voice echoes through the bedroom. I grip the picture tightly, holding it behind my back. She’s dressed in a pair of red pajamas, her hair drenched on the ends, a few bubbles around her ears. Mud still streaks her right cheek.
“All done?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Did you even wash your hair?”
“Nope.”
Of course she didn’t. She can’t.
“And what about your face?” I ask. “I’m starting to think you only played in the bubbles.”
“So? I’m gonna get more dirty later!”
“So?” I gasp, acting horrified. “You can’t stay dirty. You have school tomorrow!”
She looks about as thrilled about school as I was as a child. Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, as if to say, ‘why does that matter?’
Before I can say anything else, her attention shifts to the mess scattered along the floor, her eyes widening as she gasps. “Breezeo!”
She dodges forward, snatching up the old comic book encased in a plastic protective sleeve. I freeze. I wouldn’t call it vintage, nor is it worth more than a few bucks, but I couldn’t ever bring myself to part with that comic.
To me, it meant too much.
“Mommy, it’s Breezeo,” she says, her face lit up with excitement. “Look!”
“I see,” I say when she holds it up to show me.
“Can we read it? Please?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, moving one hand from behind my back to take the comic book from her. “But first, back into the bathtub.”
She groans, making a face.
“Go on.” I nod my head toward the doorway. “I’ll be there in a minute to wash your hair.”
Turning, she trudges back to the bathroom. I wait until she’s gone to set the comic book down and pull the picture out from behind my back. I stare at it for a second, letting myself feel those things once again, before crumbling it up into a ball and discarding it on the floor with all of the other memories.
Pulling out my cell phone, I scroll through it, dialing a number as I stroll down the hall, hearing it ring a few times before voicemail clicks on.
‘It’s Andrew. Can’t make it to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call.’
Beep.
“Hey, Drew. It’s, uh… Kennedy. Look, I’m going to have to take a rain check on tomorrow night. Something came up, and well, you know how it is.”
Chapter 2
JONATHAN
The limo slows as it nears Eighth Avenue, the traffic thick at seven o’clock in the morning, just south of sunrise as the world heads to work. Friday. I’m sure the detours don’t help people get where they’re going, but it’s New York—they ought to be used to it. Never a day goes by that something isn’t going on here. They’re some of the most adaptable people on the planet—New Yorkers—but they’re also some of the most no-nonsense. They don’t have time for bullshit.
And this morning, it feels like we’re all knee-deep in it.
People line the streets as we near the metal barricades. Out-of-towners, I’m assuming, because locals aren’t usually the type to give a shit when filming happens in their territory. We’re more of a nuisance than anything, blocking off streets and shutting down neighborhoods, disrupting lives. I have nothing to do with any of that—I don’t pick the place, I just show up when they tell me to—but more than once I’ve had the blame thrown my way. Smug bastard, who does he think he is, shutting down part of Midtown during rush hour?
“Word must’ve leaked,” the flippant voice says from the seat in front of me, unfazed as usual. Clifford Caldwell, powerhouse talent manager. Nothing ever seems to bother him. Believe me, I’ve tested his limits, so I know. No PR is bad PR. He’s typing away on his beloved Blackberry, attention glued to the screen, but I know he’s talking about the crowd packing the streets.
“You think?” I mutter, glancing out the window as we crawl past at a snail's pace. Despite the fact that the tinting is pitch black, making it impossible for anyone to see inside, I keep my head lowered, an old black ball cap pulled down low, the battered brim shielding my eyes.
Production is running under a fake name to keep people away, so prying eyes won’t spoil things they might see on the set, but somebody must’ve already leaked that information for so many people to show up here this morning.
“I’ll talk to them about tightening security around you,” Cliff says. “See if we can work with the location department to shake up your schedule.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “They’ll always be a few steps ahead.”
Cliff laughs under his breath. “Your optimism is astounding.”
“Tell me about it,” a lithe voice chimes in from the seat beside me. “Something about this movie turns him into a moody prick.”
I cut my eyes at Serena as she musses her freshly dyed hair—deep brown now, instead of her usual blonde. Gotta get in character. I can sense her gaze, even though she’s wearing sunglasses. It’s a damn harsh glare. She isn’t happy with me this morning. Or any morning.
Not a morning person.
Across from her sits her long-time assistant, Amanda, ignoring us all as she busies herself filtering Serena's email, like every morning, weeding out anything that might trigger a tantrum.
“That true, Johnny?” Cliff asks. “Because as your manager, I want you to be happy, and as her manager, it’s my job to make sure her co-stars aren’t being moody pricks.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just been a long week.”
The metal barrier is moved out of the way as the limo approaches it, and we drive into the quartered off area, past a wall of security. There’s a slight commotion outside, a few fans screaming, as the limo slips past into a small alley and comes to a stop just out of view. Cliff helps Serena out, taking her hand, while I let Amanda go before stepping out of the limo.
Serena doesn’t hesitate, waltzing out of the alley and straight to the crowd, a smile suddenly plastered to her face. There are a few more screams, some shrieks as the fans freak out.
No hiding now.
I leave her to it. She loves that part and eats it right up. The limelight does her wonders—the adoring fans, the camera. Serena was always destined to be a star.
Me? I wanted to be an actor.
I head straight for the row of trailers set up along the backside of the alley, fanning out into the lot of a massive warehouse. Mostly interior shots today, with some filming in the street as they coordinated a mock explosion, according to the call sheet that Cliff shoves at me before disappearing… somewhere.
Sets are always chaos.
I’m greeted with a genuine smile as soon as I step into the first trailer. Hair & Makeup. Jazz, with her warm brown skin and bright red lips, is a welcoming sight. It’s not always easy finding a friendly face at this hour, everyone so focused on business. This trailer is the busiest, one of the biggest, half a dozen makeup artists scattered around at brightly lit stations, but I go straight to Jazz.
“Hey, superstar,” she says, patting the seat of a chair in front of a big mirror, motioning for me to sit down. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
“You always do,” I say, dropping down in the chair and taking my hat off, setting it aside before running my hands through my thick hair. It’s Jazz’s job to make me look good, and that isn’t always easy—especially when I’ve been sleeping like shit for over a week, dark bags under my bloodshot eyes.
She gets to work, doing what she does, babbling away about something. I’m vaguely listening, my mind drifting to some damn dangerous thoughts I keep having. Thoughts of a life I could’ve had but threw away like a fucking idiot. It always happens when I find myself back in New York, a magnetic pull that’s hard to ignore, but I do whatever I can to resist it.