“We agreed you’d moved on from Christopher. That you wouldn’t see him again.” Paul shakes his head.
“No!” My fist slams down on the counter. “Youdemanded, Paul. And I didn’t have the energy to fight it.” My tone is stern, and anger bubbles up in my throat. “No Christopher, no deal.”
I slam the laptop shut before another word can be said and reach for the rolled up note to do the last line of coke.
How fucking dare he. I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for Paul. It’s about time he remembers who works for whom and starts playing ball, or it’s game over.
Paul will have no choice but to concede. It’s a million-dollar payday for him, after WME takes their ten percent cut on the one-year global advertising agreement. And Paul isn’t going to walk away from that kind of money. Especially since I’m off-cycle on the music side of my career.
Heat rises in my body, trapped inside by this all-in-one, dark-grey janitor’s outfit, at the thought of seeing Christopher again. The padding in my crotch, put there to protect me during the scene I’m about to shoot, stifles any other response.
Finally. We’ll be in the same room again. There will be a chance to reconnect.
I head to the door of the trailer and take a quick look in the mirror. There’s a small amount of residue under my left nostril. I wipe it clean and take a number of deep breaths. If the Brian scene was hard to get through, this next scene is going to be brutal.
I close my eyes and say goodbye to myself, like a snake shedding its old skin, trying to embrace the character I’m playing as Alfonso shouts action.
The pitch-black hallway, lit only by low-level lightingemanating from behind, immediately sends my heart rate soaring. I use the mop handle I’m holding to steady my walk, the wheels on the bucket creaking every time they go over a kink in the floor.
At the end of the hall waits a dark wooden door. The frosted glass window is etched withMayor’s Officein the center, withMichael Emersonin smaller letters underneath. As I reach for the lockpick in my pocket and bend down to unlock the door, I feel the material from the jumpsuit tighten around my ass. My hand shakes when the memory of my pants ripping at the O2 arena floods my mind.
Focus. You’re not Alexander now. You’re Matthew Chadwick.
I force the memory to the back of my mind.
The camera man comes round and zooms in on my black gloves. The pressure to not fuck up mounts. Alfonso wants this scene to be shot in one continuous take—and I’ve already failed twice—so there’s no room for error here.
The clicking sound of the lock is my cue to open the door, and I use my shoulder to itch at my beard, wiping away the sweat. Moving into the room, I close the door behind me, leave the mop and bucket by a trash can, and make my way past the grand wooden desk in the center of the room toward the filing cabinet in the far-right corner. The moonlight, recreated by the lighting crew outside the building, shines through the window to my left and casts my shadow up against the wall.
“Where would it be?” I say out loud. I start methodically working my way through the drawers of the filing cabinet. The paperwork that proves Michael Emerson illegally stole my father’s land after he had him killed is stored in the third drawer I open.
The deep breaths I take do nothing to slow my racing heart as I hear the door open behind me, and I try to keep my focus, knowing that postproduction will edit out the creaking sound of the door that would normally cue a person to look up.
The camera man moves away once I pull out the correct file,allowing Michael Emerson’s full weight to slam into me. He spins me around and pins me to the wall. The contents of the folder scatter across the floor.
“I knew it was you!” he shouts in my face. His spit hits my cheeks.
My pupils dilate and my heart rate is now at a fever pitch. The sight of his face evokes a primitive fear response in me.
This is where Alfonso has had to cut the last two times. Michael Emerson, aka Aiden Matthews, has a strong resemblance to the tutor who accompanied me on tour during the first few years of my career so I could complete my education. Aiden has the same grey thinning hair, chubby cheeks, and wire-framed glasses.
It’s not David Rishton.
It’s not David Rishton.
I’m completely out of character now as I repeat the lines that I said to myself in the mirror ten minutes ago, trying to convince my brain that I’m no longer the fourteen-year-old boy who was groomed and molested by his tutor. That I am safe. That I can push through this scene.
It takes everything within me to send Aiden flying backward onto the desk and to the floor. The strength in my arms all but disappears as I do. Thankfully, Aiden had already offered to fling himself across the room, believing that the reason I didn’t want to push him was because of what happened with Brian. If only thatwerethe reason.
I make my way around the desk and tower above him, somehow managing to recall my lines.
“You think you can get away with killing my father? Stealing his land and having me shipped off to a foster home?” I fuse the terror inside with anger and imbue it into my tone.
“You’ve got it all wrong.” He looks round the room frantically.
I barely manage to grab the paperweight from the edge of the table when he kicks me straight in the balls. The padding at mycrotch slightly softens the blow, and a scuffle ensues as I drop to my knees. Between the choreographed blows, Aiden works his way behind me. On top of me. His groin brushes up against my ass.
It’s not David Rishton.
