1.Alexander
Thursday - August 29
Everyone is one good reason away from making a bad decision. Except Ialwaysseem to have a good reason. And those reasons always lead to a chain of bad decisions.
The latest reason on my list? Christopher Foster.
It’s been nine and a half weeks since I left him the voicemail. Sixty-six days since I poured my heart out and explained everything.
Why I left him in the hotel without saying goodbye.
Why I didn’t call him before the TV interview to explain how Connie and Paul were going to spin the leaked footage of us kissing.
Why I went along with their narrative that he was helping me prepare for this film role, rather than coming out and telling the world that he is, or should I saywas, my boyfriend.
Yet my voicemail and every subsequent call since has gone unanswered. Like I’m being punished for trying my best to navigate a scandal. For trying to save my career.
So, I’ve had one thousand five hundred and eighty-five hours to start making bad decisions.
Every unanswered call led to me having a drink. One drinkturned into two. That turned into one line of coke, followed by another, until the wagon I fell off of was so far out of sight I could barely remember the two years of sobriety I’d celebrated just a few months ago.
But they’re the only things keeping my mind off of Christopher. Well, that and Johnny, the runner on this movie set. He’s been sneaking alcohol and cocaine into my trailer and then staying to offer me a helping hand, helping hole, or helping pole to alleviate my stress. Like right now, just before we start shooting the next scene.
Rob’s banging on the door barely cuts through my pre-orgasm haze. Testosterone pulses through my veins as I desperately claw for the pillow resting beside Johnny and I on the couch, shoving it over my mouth to silence my moans. A tingling sensation from the cocaine runs like electricity all through my body as my hips thrust up and down. His thick throbbing cock batters my G-spot.
With one more thrust, my load shoots out, splattering across my face on the cover of theRolling Stonemagazine laying on the table in front of me. My iced coffee and three remaining lines of coke, barely visible on the white surface, sit next to it.
I slide off his dick, pull up my briefs, and button up my jeans. The familiar feelings that always follow my post nut clarity come up with them: shame and disappointment. Johnny may look eerily similar to Christopher. He has the same height, same brown hair, same hazel eyes and brooding look, but he’s not him. He’ll never be him.
“Same time again Saturday?” Johnny asks, redressing himself before snorting a line of coke.
“I’m not sure what’s on my agenda yet. I’ll get Lucy to let you know.” I turn my back to him and pick up my iced coffee from the table.
What I really want to say is,I don’t ever want to see you again. But I know this won’t be the last time. That invariably, I’ll see himseveral times over the next month for cocaine, alcohol, and to fuck.
“They’re ready for you on set.” Rob’s voice sounds louder this time as he bangs again on the trailer door.
My body stiffens, my grip loosens, and the iced coffee drops to the floor. The lid flies off, sending the ice cubes and coffee everywhere.
Great. Just what I need. Another mess to clean up.
I reach for the paper towels on the kitchen counter and bend down to start soaking up the coffee, shouting back to Rob that I’m nearly ready and I’ll be out in a minute.
The problem is I’m not sure if I am ready.
The scene we began shooting earlier, with my costar Brian, brought up everything from June that I’ve been trying to bury.
“Right, I’d better get going.” I get up from the floor and chuck the dirty paper towels in the trash. “Can you hang back for five, then leave once the coast is clear?”
“Sure, no problem,” Johnny says, picking up the plastic cup and lid.
I quickly wash my hands before grabbing the script from beside the microwave and then comb my fingers through my hair to put it back into place. I do the same for the beard I’ve grown out for the movie.
My pretty boy aesthetic is gone for now, replaced by this rough-and-ready look. My previously blond hair is now dyed black, and the transformation is so complete that my parents walked straight past me when they visited the set last month.
They’d come to complain to Paul about how quickly everything had moved forward with the film. But Paul had dismissed their concerns in his usualmanager-knows-bestway, telling them that we needed to strike while momentum was still with us after the scandal. He’d not only expedited theStolen Momentsmusic video to keep the track at number one, but had turned preproductionforDisposedaround in a matter of weeks, almost unheard of by Hollywood standards.
Thankfully, both Paul and Connie have been absent from set, bar the one trip out with my parents when shooting began four weeks ago. In other words, my ongoing anger at the two of them for how they handled the whole situation with Chris, and how they are responsible for the breakdown of our relationship, is reserved for video chats, phone calls, and emails.
