“I take it you’re feeling better?” I ask.
He was already mostly recovered last night, but we took it easy, ordering room service and playing pool in a games room we found on the second floor. Vin hates playing pool. He says his arms aren’t long enough. I still let him win half the time.
“Better, because I have proof that Hollywood has not forsaken you.” He holds out a telltale envelope. It’s weird to see it here out of its usual context. Normally, it comes with a guy in sunglasses who sits in my front hall, waiting for me to read it before he takes it back and disappears in an inconspicuous car.
“Is it the script forShadow League 5?” I ask, suddenly very awake and reaching for the envelope. I don’t care if it’s as bad as the last movie. It’s a sign that things are about to get better.
“I don’t know,” Vin says, sitting at the edge of the bed. “I got a call from the desk saying it had arrived. Oh, and there was a note.” He holds out another smaller envelope. On it, written in blue ink, are the wordsread me first.
Well, that can’t be good. When Roberta sends me scripts while I’m on location, they never come with a disclaimer.
Dread fills me as I hold my hand out, and Vin places the second envelope in it.
“Did she really fly this all the way out here?” I ask as tear it open.
“More like she emailed it to the hotel, they printed it off, and wrote the note by hand for authenticity.”
In fact, the handwriting on the note is not Roberta’s. And it’s short. All it says isJust think about it. They want you for Joe.
I have a bad feeling about this. I already have a role inShadow League, and his name’s not Joe.
I flip through the script. Joe is not on the first page, but sometimes they like me to make an entrance, so they gave it a scene or two before they introduce my character. I keep flipping. Not in the second scene. But there he is in the third. In fact, Joe is—
He is—
I drop the script. It hits the floor with a solid thunk.
“What?” Vin asks.
“This is a joke, right?”
“What is?”
“Have you read this?” I point at the paper on the ground.
“No. What is it?”
“It’s—it’s—” It’s insulting. No, it’s a dare, and that’s the worst part of it all. “Did you know she was sending this?”
“I don’t even know what it is.” Vin collects the dropped pages and glances down at the cover. “Beloved Cove. That’s a terrible title. Who wrote it? Anyone good?”
I might have glanced at the writer’s name, but I’ve already forgotten it because it doesn’t matter. I won’t be doing this film.
“Tell Roberta to go fuck herself.” She probably sees it as some kind of image rehabilitation, but sitting here in exile, it feels manipulative.
Vin makes a strangled noise. “I don’t think that’s in either of our best interests. I like being alive too much.”
“Then I’ll do it.” I grab my phone from the nightstand, but I only have enough time to see I still have no reception before Vin yanks it out of my hand.
“What are you doing? You can’t call her right now. Not like this.”
“Then you call her. Tell her I’m not taking it. What happened to the formula? I’ll stay up here for the rest of the year if I have to, but she can’t make me do this.”
“Why?” Vin flips quickly through the pages.
“Scene three.” I slump onto the sectional sofa around the fireplace.
Vin’s gaze flicks over the page. He reads a second, then a third, which is farther than I got.
