Page 24 of Late Harvest

What the fucking fuck? Bash frowned. He knew Slash wasn’t supportive of this role—lobbying instead for the lead in a new action movie franchise that promised to make Bash hundreds of millions—but if Slash did anything to block it, Bash would fire his friend-turned-agent in the span of a breath.

Speaking of breathing, Bash took a deep one, fighting to calm both his temper and his racing heart. “I’m very sorry to hear about your difficulty reaching me, Walter. That’s not an accurate reflection of my sincere interest in the role. As I shared with you before over our lunch in January, I’m one hundred percent committed to this film. I know I can do you and the script justice. It feels like I was born to play Bram McLaughlin.” Simmer down. Don’t push. Don’t sell it too hard.

“I don’t disagree with your assessment, Bash. Something in my gut tells me you’d bring this character to life far beyond our expectations.”

Chills broke out on Bash’s arms and legs. Yep. His chills had chills, and those chills also had chills. His chills had grand-chills. He was smiling like a loon. “Yes, sir. Yes. I’ve already been studying the script—thank you for sending that, by the way. I’m digging into Bram and his motivations.”

“Excellent, Bash. We’re hearing great feedback on the script from the potential actors for the role. But here’s the thing,” Walter continued, his tone less genial and now sounding…concerned.

Bash’s smile slipped. “Is there a problem?”

Fuck. There was definitely a problem. Walt had even sent the script to other actors. Fucking hell.

A long pause, and Bash’s heart stalled in his chest. If Walter didn’t speak soon, his brother-in-law was going to have to perform CPR, and the very last thing he wanted was Brinder’s mouth on his. Bash shuddered at the thought.

“Walter?” he prodded after about ten hours of radio silence on the other end. Ok. He was being dramatic. It was max four seconds, but it landed like a fucking eternity when his dream role, and therefore his future happiness, were on the line.

“Son,” Walter began again.

Despite his anxiety, a smile of fondness slipped through. Walter was around his father’s age. In fact, the two men had grown up near each other in LA. While his father gravitated to stage and screen, Walter had built a prolific and successful career as a producer, typically taking on soul-spearing, thoughtful, brilliant indie films.

In other words, the exact opposite of the movies typically offered to Bash.

“Yes, sir?” Suddenly, Bash couldn’t call the producer by his first name, not when he wasn’t on sure footing and seemed to have reverted to age six inside.

“Bash,” he sighed. “I like you a lot. You are a talented actor.”

“But…” Bash led.

“But I’m not going to mince words. As I’ve indicated to your team, your reputation as a, well, a playboy deeply concerns me. I’ve given you time to sort yourself out. But, I can see you haven’t changed. I really love this script, Bash. But I can’t have extraneous drama drowning it out.”

“Extraneous drama,” Bash repeated woodenly, his lips numb.

“Every picture I see of you online and in the magazines, a different woman is on your arm. You cavort with women young enough to be your daughter⁠—”

“That’s not fair⁠—”

“There’s nothing wrong with an age gap. Hell, my own mother was fifteen years younger than my father. Women mature faster than us, that’s for sure. But I want my cast members in committed relationships.”

Bash’s jaw dropped. That was…discrimination. Wasn’t it?

“I don’t need rumors and drama and a whole media circus. We have a small budget for this film and we want it to stand for itself. I won’t allow chaos swirling around anyone in my cast to detract from this movie, Bash.” Walter’s tone was as stern as Bash had ever heard from anyone.

“I—I don’t create drama, Walt. I show up on time, even early. I work hard. I treat the cast and crew well.”

“I’ve got two words for you, Bash: Poet. Walsh.”

“But—but that wasn’t my drama, Walt,” he sputtered, indignant, gripping the back of his neck so hard with his free hand he was sure to leave fingerprint bruises. “That was hers. She’s—she’s a parasite. She took advantage of my celebrity to raise her influencer profile, cheated on me, and when I broke up with her, she leveraged that and created a spectacle to increase her followers.”

“Bash. Are you even listening to yourself? Poet wouldn’t have been able to do any of that if you hadn’t entered into yet another surface-level, camera-ready, shallow situation-thing, or whatever it is you all call it these days.”

“Situationship,” Bash supplied, closing his eyes in defeat.

“Exactly. Your picker is broken. You have bad taste in women and, quite frankly, I don’t trust you and the negative shadows your loverboy shenanigans could cast over my movie.”

Preoccupied with the conversation from hell, Bash had wandered over to a large tree, numbly noting the most epic treehouse he’d ever seen. Slowly he slid down the enormous, gnarled trunk, uncaring that the bark was scratching his back and likely ruining his Armani shirt.

He coughed, then coughed again and cleared his throat. It was as if a fist had clenched around his windpipe and he inhaled shakily to force air into his lungs. “So that’s it. I’m not getting the part.”