“She did?”
“She had a terrible memory,” and did a lot of drugs, “but she always knew who Victoria Childs was at her core, so a lot of the time, she just started riffing, and they’d go along with it.”
“I’m not famous enough to do that,” Adam says humbly.
“Not yet. But if you really sink into the character, then the lines will come to you naturally, as will the facial expressions and mannerisms. You just have to really embody the assholery of Tristan Ramsey III, and you’ll do great.”
“Do you think I’m a good actor?”
I may be a sociopath, but I am also Heather Hunter’s son. Diplomacy is a learned skill, not an innate one. “You work hard, and you’re very teachable. What does Jean-Pierre always say?”
“The first person any actor has to convince is himself.”
“That’s right. So, I want you to go in that studio tomorrow and own that motherfucking read. They’re lucky to have you, Adam. Almost as lucky as I am to have you as my boyfriend.”
It’s a sappy line and totally out of character, but it’s true. And I’m willing to be nauseatingly sentimental if it will give him the confidence he so desperately needs. And impress big brother. Adam smiles dopily back at me, and I give him one of those sloppy, wet kisses that he likes. His brother groans like he’s disgusted, but I have to wonder if he might not also be a bit turned on.
Ah, the sacrifices we make for love.
* * *
I driveAdam to the studio the next morning at five a.m., an ungodly hour, then let myself into Lucia’s apartment to catch a few more hours of sleep before the rest of the world wakes. When we’re both up and ready, we grab breakfast at a bistro in the Hills, and I tell her about how I dropped baby off at his first day of school.
“And Elliot’s still living in your pool house?” Lucia asks.
“Squatting, yes. He’s been consumed by his art, probably still ejaculating onto Polaroids of Adam rather than doing any actual painting. Whatever his process entails, we haven’t seen much of him lately. I don’t know what he eats. Kibble and ramen, I suppose.”
“One big happy family,” Lucia remarks. “I’ve always thought you’d make an excellent cult leader.”
“It’s easier if there’s someone else around to fawn over Adam. His care and maintenance are rather taxing.”
“Sounds like classic codependency. And what are you going to do when he hits it big?”
“What do you mean?”
“When he gets noticed by some big movie producer and gets whisked away to some deserted island to do a remake ofCastawayor some other survival story where he can be shirtless the whole time? What are you going to do when he finally decides to spread his wings and fly?”
“There will be no flying. Adam prefers being on his hands and knees.”
Lucia shakes her head. “You can’t halt the trajectory of his career, Cassius. You’ve taught baby to walk and talk. Pretty soon, he’s going to want to play in the sandbox with the other kids.”
“Sandboxes are little more than repositories for cat feces. Cesspools of disease.”
“You’re missing the point,” she chides. “On purpose.”
“Maybe it’s your use of metaphor.”
“Cassius.”
“I don’t know, Lucia. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“I guess you’ll just have to cross that bridge when you come to it,” she says, trying to be clever, but I don’t appreciate her disaster scenarios, and as far as metaphorical bridges are concerned, I’m excellent at burning them.
Chapter16
Adam
The studio is one huge maze meant to trap me, and no one seems to know what the hell is going on, so I’m thirty minutes late to hair and makeup, which the casting director is not pleased about. I get a ten-minute lecture from her about the importance of being punctual so as not to cost the studio more time and money.
