Whatever it is, I stay until the bar closes and the bartender calls me a cab. My head is foggy but my heart rate is doing a dance. I still feel this vague frustration and anger even though I don’t know why or what to do with it. The alcohol hasn’t masked it, it’s only encouraged it.
“Hey buddy,” someone says from behind me after I stumble out of the bar and onto the street. The cab isn’t here yet but I’m obviously not alone.
I turn around to see a rotund guy with a paunchy gut staring at me, phone aimed in my direction, a dick-ish smile on his fat face.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask him. I shouldn’t even open my mouth, especially when I’m drunk.
“Look, he thinks he’s the next De Niro,” the man laughs to his phone, obviously recording this exchange.
Take in a deep breath. Don’t engage. The world is full of people waiting to pull you down and that says more about them than about you.
I go over the things that my therapist has taught me.
But right now, none of that matters.
“Are you recording this?” I ask dick face, trying not to slur my words.
“Hey buddy, how does it feel to go from Cruiser McGill to Bruiser NoChill?” he asks snidely.
Bruiser NoChill.
My new nickname.
And I know exactly why he’s saying this. He’s trying to provoke my reputation. Trying to make me say something stupid, something he can capture on his phone and sell to fucking TMZ.
Somehow I manage to corral the instinct to give him what he wants. AKA, put my fist into his nose. Two weeks ago I did that to a bouncer at a bar downtown, probably where the fucking nickname Bruiser NoChill came from. Or maybe it was from the week before when I told a paparazzi who took a photo of me and a young actress leaving her house to go fuck himself and threatened to break his camera.
I’m not really Mr. Popular as of late.
I put my back to him, my fists balling, and wish the damn cab would show up. There’s nowhere else for me to go and this guy is still right fucking here.
“You’re, like, forty, dude,” the guy keeps talking at my back and he’s getting closer. “You really think playing Doctor Death is going to help your career? That was over when you left Degrassi, you Ryan Reynolds wannabe.”
I swear I don’t have anything against Ryan Reynolds.
But those words set off a bomb inside me.
I spin around and almost clock the fucker right in the face.
Lawsuit, lawsuit.
Those words, flashing in my head like a siren, are the only thing that saves me.
Instead, I grab his phone and throw it down to the pavement, then take the heel of my boot and slam it down on the case until I hear the glass crack.
“Holy fuck!” the guy exclaims and then I bring my eyes to his and I know I look drunk and crazy but it’s enough for him to back up while shaking his head. “You broke my phone! You fucking broke my phone!”
“You need a social media break,” I tell him dryly, something that Doctor Death would say.
Fucking hell, what’s wrong with me?
I need to get out of here.
Just then the cab pulls into the parking lot and I wave my arm frantically, jogging towards it.
I get in and give the driver my address. I can’t help but stare out the window at the guy trying to pick up the pieces of his phone.
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and lean back in my seat as the interior of the cab begins to spin.
What are the chances all of this will go unnoticed?
* * *
“Well, well, well if it isn’t Mr. Movie Star,” Ted Phillips says to me as I open the door to see him and Will standing on my stoop in tuxedos, squinting in the sunshine.
“TV star,” I correct him with a smile, always happy to see Ted. “And a pretty mediocre one at that.”
“Ah, false modesty,” Ted says, patting me on the back and strolling past me down the hall, looking around the open living area of my house. “But damn what false modesty can buy you.”
“You should try it sometime, Ted,” Will calls after him.
I let Will step in, looking him over. The man has always had an old school James Bond way about him, though more Roger Moore than Connery. He’s tall, dashing, with a jaw that needs its own postal code. Naturally, he looks extra dapper now that it’s his wedding day.
“I’m not sure if it’s the groomsman’s role to tell you that you look good, but you look good pal,” I tell him.
“Well, it’s sure as hell not the best man’s role, is it?” Will says, directing his words at Ted yet again as Ted slides open the glass doors of the living room and steps onto the patio that overlooks the bay.
“How are you doing? Are you nervous?” I ask Will, heading to the kitchen.
“Not one bit,” he says smoothly. He’s so damn unflappable. The opposite of me.
“Need a drink?”
“Why the hell do you think we’re here?” Ted asks with a grin, stepping back inside. “We can’t get properly boozed at the wedding without raising a few eyebrows.”
“You mean I can’t,” Will says. “If you don’t have a glass in your hand at all times, someone is going to check your pulse.”
“You seem you like you need a drink too,” Ted calls out to me. “Make it doubles all around.”
“Single, please.” Will is trying to be the responsible one here.
“Ah, not in a few hours,” Ted says, wagging his eyebrows.
“Why do I seem like I need a drink?” I ask Ted as I start pouring the Crown Royal. I did wake up with a hangover but after a shower and a quick run of the beard trimmer (I have it in my contract that I can’t fully shave–part of the doctor’s charm is having permanent stubble which is harder to maintain than you’d think), I cleaned up pretty well. My brain fog cleared on the cab ride back to North Vancouver where I had to pick up my car before they towed it. The last step to looking and feeling presentable is the tuxedo and no one can look lousy in a tux.
“Don’t pretend, I’ve seen the news,” Ted says. “TMZ, Perez, Just Jared. That asshole is pissed that you broke his phone. He deserved it, no doubt, but he’s livid.”
I close my eyes and groan. Ted is in his sixties with a shock of white hair but his charming smile makes him seem much younger and he keeps up-to-date with all the Hollywood gossip more than anyone I know, like he reads Variety and the Hollywood Reporter in his sleep. Being the owner, along with Will, of Mad Men Studios, which does animation and visual effects here in Vancouver and in their LA office, I guess he prides himself on being the first to know everything, even if it has no direct connection to his business.
“Maybe you should be my publicist,” I tell him, handing them both their drinks. “You take this sort of news a lot better than she does.” In fact, it’s kind of strange that Autumn hasn’t called me yet but then again she did say she was going hiking all weekend and I’m sure cell reception is scarce. Maybe the whole thing will blow over by the time she gets back. Maybe she won’t know at all.
Wishful fucking thinking.
“How bad was it?” I ask him with a wince.
Ted cocks a brow. “Well, it was on Instagram live.”
I groan.
“Which was actually a good thing because people were able to see what an asshole the guy was being. Like I said, he deserved it. People are on your side this time. Still think he’s going to raise a fuss and get you to pay for his phone though. Luckily if you can afford this house,” he notes, looking around him again, “you can afford a new phone.”
That doesn’t change the principle of the whole situation. Why should I have to buy him a phone when he was in the wrong? Why do the boundaries of being a decent human being fail to exist when you’re a celebrity? The moment you become a public figure you cease to have feelings, cease being able to express yourself without getting shit on. You cease to exist as a person, you’re just a pixelated image on a screen.
I exhale loudly and get myself my own glass before turning to face them. “Well, that’s enough about me, then. Today is Will’s day. Let’s focus on that.”
“Also, it’s my day since I’m the father of the bride,” Ted adds, raising his glass.