Page 4 of Burn the Script

“Tell me where he lives,” I demand.

Her sigh is long and loud. She shouldn’t be disappointed when she saw this coming. “I can’t do that, G.”

My knees hit the linoleum as I clutch her jacket. “Help me, Maisy. I know he shares his location with you.”

“I don’t check anyone’s location unless it’s an emergency.”

“This is an emergency!”

Her eyebrows dart up, like she’s daring me to raise my voice again. I’m smart enough not to test her limits.

Softening my plea, I say, “Do it for me. Just this once.”

Kristen, my assistant director, pokes her head through the door. She looks from me to Maisy, taking in our precarious position, and glances away. “I’ll come back in five to go over tomorrow’s schedule,” she says.

The door closes, and Maisy groans. “Great. Now they’ll spread rumors about us on set.”

“Kristen’s not like that.” I climb to my feet, giving her my saddest puppy-dog eyes and a set of prayer hands. “Won’t you help me repair my broken heart?”

Maisy rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m an actor.”

“Not anymore.”

Touché.

From the moment I rolled into Hollywood at eighteen, I hustled, peddling my looks, charisma, and mediocre dance moves at every open casting call. My efforts paid off, but acting had been a steppingstone toward my ultimate goal of directing movies by age thirty. I’m a year behind schedule, but better late than never.

Every cell in my body thrums with impatience as Maisy thinks through her decision. She draws out the suspense, running the bristles of the brush along her fingertips. “You’ll go about it the right way. No bulldozing him or trying any of your off-the-wall antics.”

“I only want to talk to him. If he says he’s done with me, I’ll walk.”

She rubs the space between her eyebrows. “Fuck, he’s gonna hate me for this.”

“No, he won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Fine. I’ll send you the name of the street where he works. That’s the best I can do.” Her shoulders slump as she scoots off the bench, and I hug her the second she stands.

“Thank you. I love you, and I’m forever in your debt.”

“Get off me, weirdo.” She shoves me away while trying not to smile. “I should check on Seraphine and make sure she hasn’t ruined all my hard work.”

“Sarabeth.” The correction earns me a scathing glare. And because it’s so much fun to rile her up, I play my boss card. “Please send Kristen in when you leave.”

“I know where you sleep,” she whispers, aiming the spiky end of her wand at me.

We’re renting a house together in Austin during filming. I sleep down the hall from her, which is why I keep my mouth shut as she exits the trailer, grumbling about spoiled celebrities always getting their way.

One can only hope. If things go my way, I’ll have the man and the career of my dreams. Life would be perfect again.

Sunday, January 1st

I drape my suit jacket over the chair by the bedroom window and unbutton my shirt, glad to be done with ringing in the new year. The pool lights cast a blue glow on my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass, but my gaze is lost to the shadowy hills beyond.

My house in Hollywood Hills is where I remove my armor and hand over the reins to the introvert I keep tucked away. Everywhere else, I’m the assertive guy who tackles things head on. But in the privacy of my home—my metaphorical shell—I retreat and go quiet.

The things I hated most about being an only child, I’m greedy for in adulthood. I’d rather lounge on the couch and watch movies than walk the red carpet at a premiere. I prefer eating in to dining out, and savor solo activities like hiking and yoga.