2. How To Ruin Your Life In One Easy Step

HOW TO RUIN YOUR LIFE IN ONE EASY STEP

T he LA skyline extends 180 degrees around me, but I see nothing. Behind me, Jackson, my lawyer, bickers with Melissa, my soon-to-be ex-wife's lawyer.

They've been bickering for an hour about precise percentages of how much of my money I'm going to have to fork over to Vivian, said soon-to-be ex-wife. Yeah, I was that guy, that brainless moron who thought with his little head and made decisions with his reckless, feckless heart.

No prenup.

"Considering the fact that your client has fought us at every turn," Melissa says, "necessarily resulting in ever-mounting legal fees for my client, not to mention the constant stress of the publicity of this very high-profile divorce necessitating therapy and wellness retreats to restore her mental and emotional equilibrium, I hardly think sixty percent is unfair."

I whirl, unable to hold my tongue another moment. I stomp over to the table opposite Melissa, brace both hands on the table, and glare at her. She quakes and blanches but holds her ground. Considering my size and reputation, I'm honestly impressed.

"I'm through with this bullshit," I growl. "All of it. You two have been squabbling over my fucking money worse than Viv and I ever did.”

"Reece," Jackson murmurs. "Stay calm."

"Fuck you, Jackson— you stay calm," I snarl at him, and then go back to Melissa, otherwise ignoring the selfish, manipulative, greedy, gold-digging viper beside her. "I made a good faith offer to your client eighteen goddamned months ago! If she had accepted that offer, we'd all have been able to move on. Do you remember the offer, Melissa?" My voice drips with sarcastic condescension.

"Mr. Morgan, I don't appreciate your tone," Melissa says.

"And I don't appreciate you helping that gold-digging bitch next to you try to fleece me!" I shout.

"Reece, take a breath," Jackson says, standing up and pulling me backward.

For context, Jackson Allman-French is a prototypical pencil-necked geek. Barely above five-seven, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds in his bespoke Armani suit and patent Italian leather loafers, I could toss him through the window with one hand.

I, on the other hand, was an All-American defensive tackle in high school and led the NCAA in sacks and pass rushes during my four years as a starter for the Tennessee Volunteers. Only a gnarly knee injury kept me from going pro. And I'm meaner, stronger, and faster now than I was when I played ball. I stand six-five in my socks and weigh two-thirty at eighteen percent body fat. I could crush Jackson like a fucking bug.

Which is why it amuses me that he thinks he could do jack-shit about it if I were to lose my temper right now.

But his interference does pull me back from the edge. I gently nudge him away. "I'm good."

"Reece, you hired me to—" he starts.

“I said enough .” I hold up a hand, silencing him. "I've sat by and watched you get walked all over by this…this…” I gesture at Melissa, hunting for the least offensive word to use for her, “ barracuda …for two and a half years . I've spent almost as much paying you as I'm gonna end up forking over to her !” I stab a finger at my ex. "So now, it's my turn."

"Reece," a soft, delicate voice says—Vivian. "Maybe we should reschedule this."

I pretend I didn't hear her.

I turn back to the window, gathering my thoughts. No one speaks. Good plan—I'm in no mood to be fucked with.

I turn back to Melissa, squaring my shoulders. "Here's the deal. I'm completely and totally fucking done . I'm done. What follows is my final offer. I have a buyer for the Malibu property for eight million and a buyer for the Beverly Hills property for six. I've sold off the bulk of my car collection. I have a ten percent stake in the tequila company, but I'm hanging on to that—Vivian is sober anyway. Or she's supposed to be, at least."

"I am," she says, in that delicate, childish little voice that duped me for so long into missing her heart of darkness.

Once again, I utterly ignore her.

"All told, I'll end up with about fifteen million in assets." I don't miss the way Vivian's eyes spark with greed at the number. The joke's on her. Watch this, bitch. “There are two choices. Either you accept my offer, or you don't. There will be no negotiation. Zero. No discussion. It will be yes or no, immediately. This fucking bullshit ends now .”

Melissa opens her mouth. "Mr. Morgan—"

"Shut the fuck up. I'm talking." Her mouth clicks closed, and I continue. "Five million, cash. No more. She keeps everything I bought her. The condo. The Ferrari. The closet full of Birkins. The Paris apartment. The safe full of jewelry. Fuck it, she can have the dog, too. I don't give a single, solitary flying fuck. I will write you a check for five million dollars right here, right now. Take the offer. Sign the goddamn papers." For the first time, I fix my gaze on Vivian's. "Listen to me very fucking well, woman. Take the money and get the fuck out of my life. I have taken your shit for five years—two and a half of which have been this shit." I swing a hand at Melissa and Jackson.

I scrape my hands through my hair. Try the breathing exercises my anger management therapist taught me.

I grip the edge of the table and seethe at Vivian. Let her see the depths of my fury.

“I loved you,” I say. “I never laid a finger on you. I never once raised my voice to you. I never once behaved aggressively towards you. I gave you everything you ever wanted. I hooked you up with my agent. I fought to get you parts in my projects when you had zero experience and less talent. I dealt with your alcoholism and your pill addiction. I put you through rehab four times . I supported you publicly and privately during your struggle to get sober. I gave you every fucking thing I had, and it wasn't enough for you. You still want more. Well, Viv, I'm tapped out."

"Mr. Morgan—" Melissa says.

I glare at her. "Speak again. I fucking dare you."

She quails, physically shrinking in her chair.

Back to Vivian. "In a moment, I'm going to give you— you , not your lawyer, you —one singular opportunity to accept my offer. Five million dollars. Keep everything, including my fucking dog, if you want him. But be warned, if any word other than 'yes' comes out of your mouth, I will donate every last penny to charity. I will liquidate every last asset I have, and I will donate every goddamn penny until I'm as skint as I was the day I moved to LA. I worked my ass out of that hole once, and I can do it again. You can sue me, but you won’t get shit. Because if you do sue me, I'll go back to swinging a sledgehammer and living in a van down by the river before I let a single cent go to you ." I lean closer, swallowing the literal bile in my throat when I look at her beautiful brown eyes. "You know me, Vivian. So before you answer, think really fucking hard about whether you want to test me on this."

"I don't," she whispers.

"Good." I straighten. Lift my chin. Stare down at her with all the disgust I feel. "Jackson, the papers."

Jackson presses all ten fingertips on the stack of divorce papers and slides them across the table to Vivian, rotates them to face her, and puts a pen on top of the stack.

"What say you, Vivian? Yes? Or no?" I resist the urge to curl my lip at her.

"Yes," she whispers, and scribbles her signature as Melissa flips the papers to the required locations. "Reece, I—"

"The one word is more than plenty. I have nothing else to say to you, ever again." I pull my checkbook out of the inside pocket of my leather jacket. Bend over the table and write the check. Rip it free and slide it to her. "Cash it today. After this, you're a ghost to me. You hear me? Dead and buried."

I write another check, this one for a quarter million, to Jackson. I tear it off and toss it in front of him. "That should cover it. If it doesn't, too damn bad. I'm not giving you another red cent." I stuff the checkbook back in my jacket pocket and grab my helmet off the table. "Melissa, you're vicious and heartless and evil. I hope you all rot in hell. Happy fucking Thanksgiving."

I shove out of the conference room, accidentally pushing the door so hard it slams against the wall and puts a hole in it. Fuck it, I don't give a shit.

God, I'm so fucked.

I self-financed my last project, leveraging my equity on both properties. The Labors of Hercules was a critical and box office bomb. It cost ten million to make, seven of which came from me, and it made barely three. It's got a decent audience score on Rotten Tomatoes, but I'm still four million in the hole.

I just wrote a check for five million—everything I have.

I mean, almost. I could, and may have to, cash out of the tequila company.

Yeah, I was bluffing. Good thing I'm a damn good poker player.

I'm shaking by the time I get to the parking garage and my bike—the adrenaline and rage is boiling out of me. I swing a leg over the saddle and do some more deep breathing. After a minute or two, I'm calmed enough to ride.

I kick the vintage Triumph bobber to life, slam my helmet on over my shoulder-length black hair, barking the rear tire on the way out.

Everything is swimming. I have not a single clue which bar I'm in—I lost track after the sixth one.

I toss back another shot of tequila— my tequila. The whole brand was my fucking idea, my face is on it, and I went to fucking Mexico to research agave farms and distilleries. But then my business partners fucked me over and left me with a paltry ten fucking percent. Assholes.

I mean, yeah, I'm the asshole. I trusted them. I signed the contract without having a lawyer look it over.

Just like I married Vivian Fucking St. Michael without a prenup.

Just like I self-funded a project my agent told me wouldn't work in this climate. No one wanted an epic myth action flick, he said. And he was right.

I pour another shot from the bottle and toss it back.

"Uh, sir?" The bartender is slender, blond, and good-looking.

"What?" I snarl.

"Maybe you should slow down. Can I get you some food? On the house." He's genuinely concerned, the adorable little fella.

I hold his eyes with a baleful stare. Put the bottle to my lips, tilt, and chug, all without breaking eye contact. Three big pulls and I slam the bottle down. "That answer your fucking question?"

"I just don't want any trouble, sir." He pours a glass of ice water, none too subtly putting it in front of me.

He's not out of line. I don't exactly have the best reputation in this town. I don't have a drinking problem; I have an anger problem. The booze just sets the demon free.

Maybe I do have a drinking problem. I don't fucking know. Nor do I care right now.

I'm free, finally.

Divorced.

Done. It's over. No more lawyers, ever. No more Vivian draining my bank account and my fucking soul.

I cap the bottle, chug the ice water, and shoot a look at the bartender. "Leave the bottle and bring food. I don't care what."

I shuffle blearily for the bathroom, swaying. It sucks having a tolerance as high as mine—I've had so much fucking booze in the last few hours that I should be unconscious, at least. Most mere mortals would be dead. But I'm Reece Morgan, motherfuckers.

I stumble into the bathroom and piss for an age. I'm shaking off when someone slams into me, smashing my forehead against the metal plumbing. My hand splashes into my own piss.

And, just like that, the demon is free.

A red haze fills my vision, rage bubbling in my veins. Hot blood trickles down my face from a deep, throbbing gash on my forehead. I lumber to my feet, pivoting.

Some drunk asshole.

He peers blearily up at me, eyes crossing and uncrossing; he's drunker than I am. Unfortunately, my body is now in the grip of my rage. I shove him backward through the bathroom door and into the hallway; incidentally, the door opens inward, not outward.

I don't remember much, then. I have flashes of awareness. My fist bludgeoning a face. Hands yanking at me. Red and blue lights flashing. Voices shouting. Tasers crackling as the prongs bite into my skin.

Concrete swimming up to smash into my face.

"Get this monster cuffed, boys," a gruff voice says.

This monster.

Accurate.

That's the last thing I remember—thinking how accurate that statement is.

This monster.

I'm a goddamned monster.

Blackness swallows me.

I come to gradually and painfully.

When I can get my eyes open, I have to squint against the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting. I throw an arm over my eyes and groan.

"Ah shit, he's wakin' up," someone says. "Least you ain't dead, my guy, damn."

I roll my head to one side. The speaker is a scruffy, dirty homeless guy wearing everything he owns.

"Where 'm I?" I mumble.

"L-A county lock up, son. Drunk tank."

"Fuck." Vague, hazy memories filter through my brain.

I fucked up. Big time.

I glance at the homeless dude. "Don't suppose you know what happened?"

He shakes his head, matted blond dreadlocks swaying. "I's already in here. Four of LA's finest hauled your big ass in here. You was out for the count, man. Bleedin', pukin', all sorts'a mess. I rec'nize you, though. You an actor. You was the bad guy in them movies. That badass spy and the hot chick."

"Yeah, that's me." Nausea rattles my guts. “Or it was."

I pass out again. When I wake up, the homeless guy is gone. The smell remains, which means he must have smelled better than me.

My head pounds. I roll off the concrete bench, hit my hands and knees on the floor, and barely make it to the nasty silver toilet before my guts explode out of my mouth.

Crawl back to the bench.

Pass out.

"Morgan." A voice echoes, rings, muffled. "Morgan. Wake up. Someone posted bail."

I crack an eye open and peer at the cop in the doorway. He has a bag containing my stuff: wallet, phone, divorce papers, keys.

I fight to my feet, wobble, and find my balance. Follow the officer to the exit, take my bag of stuff, and stumble, squinting, into the blinding light of an LA afternoon.

Kyle Forester, my agent, is waiting for me, arms crossed and looking pissed. Once I'm down the steps, he turns without a word and leads the way to his Range Rover.

"Bike is still at whatever shithole dive bar you were in," he says, not looking at me as he starts the engine. "I'm dropping you off at home. Get the bike your goddamn self."

"Kyle—"

He shakes his head. "No. Just…no."

"Thanks for bailing me out," I mumble.

"Yeah, well, I'm not doing it again." He drives in silence for a while, and I know he's just building up a head of steam before he unleashes.

I deserve it, so I wait for it.

"You need help, brother," he says.

"I'm starting to see that."

He looks at me. "Are you?"

I nod, pinching the bridge of my nose against the pounding. “Yeah, I am."

"Do you even know what the fuck you did?"

"Vaguely," I mumble. He looks at me with a sarcastic eyebrow lift. "Okay, fine. No. I don't remember shit."

"You threw a guy through a door. Several bystanders tried to help, and you punched them out. Thankfully for you, you didn’t punch the pregnant lady."

"Pregnant lady? At a dive bar?"

"Not your fucking problem, Reece." He stabs a finger at me. "That's not all. Cops got called. You fought the cops. It took eight of them to subdue you. Four tasers. You broke three noses and several ribs and blackened a bunch of eyes. You puked in the squad car. You puked all over the jail cell."

"Fuck," I groan. "Fuck. And I suppose it's all over TMZ?"

"Oh yeah. And not just there—it’s everywhere. You made the evening news, my friend.” Kyle glances at me. “But that’s not really your problem. The charges against you are drunk and disorderly, assault and battery, assaulting a police officer—several counts of that—aggravated assault, resisting arrest, public intoxication…I think that's it, although there were so many charges against you I might be forgetting one or two."

"Jesus."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure even he can help you now, man. I know I can't."

Half an hour later, he pulls up to the gates of my house and puts it in park. Looks at me. "Reece, I'm gonna need time. I'm not dropping you because you're my friend. We’ve been through a fucking lot together over the last few years. You're a damn good actor, and no one in the game does stunts and fight scenes as well as you. But Reece, buddy, you have got to figure some shit out. I can't help you. I don't know what you need, honestly. Rehab? Maybe. You can stop drinking when you want to. I’ve seen you do it. I watched you take care of Vivian through her struggle with sobriety."

"Kyle, I'll only say this once." My voice is low and careful. "Do not ever say that name to me again."

He holds up his hands. "Got it." He turns in his seat and looks at me. "But you need to hear me, too. I don't know if your career can survive Hercules bombing and now this, not after last year's blowup."

Last year's blowup: Viv and I met for lunch to discuss our divorce. It was supposed to be a mature, adult conversation in which we resolved things on our own, without six-figure lawyers in the mix.

Only, she reverted to making demands and refused to take accountability for her shit, acting like I was the problem—the only problem, at least. I sort of…lost my temper. Threw a table into the street, totaling a car and injuring the driver.

I went on a whole Hollywood-standard apology tour. Funding for Hercules got pulled halfway through principal filming. A script I'd been offered got yanked. A Gatorade endorsement got yanked.

And here I am again, but worse.

"Fuck me." I rested my head against the headrest. "What the hell do I do, Kyle?"

He didn't answer for a while. "I don't know, Reece. Take your lumps, legally. Plead guilty and do what you gotta do. After that? I'm not a spin doctor, but if it were me, I'd disappear for a while."

"To be honest, disappearing sounds good right about now." I get out of his Range Rover, punch in the code to my gate, and make the long walk up the stupid driveway to the stupid, oversized mansion I let Vivian talk me into buying.

The mansion I'm gonna take a loss of a million and a half on after I sell it.

I pop some Tylenol, grab a bottle of water, and head for my room. Strip off my filthy clothes, throw them away, and take a long, hot shower.

Brush my teeth.

Collapse in bed and try to hide from my shame, depression, and despair.

Two weeks later, my lawyer—a new one specializing in this kind of case—got me pled down to two weeks in jail and hefty fines. I spent the preceding two weeks serving the time while I waited for arraignment so that when I got sentenced, it was for time served. I visited the officers I assaulted at their homes and apologized. Found the guy I tossed through a door and apologized.

I did not do the public apology tour.

I will not.

I'm done with that. If I have a career left, great. If not, whatever. Right now, I'm just so embarrassed and ashamed and sick to my stomach at my behavior that I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.

The first thing I do when I’m released is make an appointment with my therapist.

The second thing is throw out all my booze and commit to being sober, at least until I know I’m in control of my anger and my life. Maybe forever, I don't know.

The third thing I do is sell my shares of the tequila company.

Fourth, I finalize the sales of both of my houses, furnishings included, and put the bulk of my personal effects in storage. Boomer, my highly trained Belgian Malinois guard dog, I drop off with Vivian's assistant. That was hard—I love that dog.

Thus unencumbered by just about everything that once formed the substance of my life—including my career as an actor—I rent a hotel room and try to figure out what to do with my life.

I'm all but broke.

Divorced.

I have a record.

If I ever get another script again, it'll be a miracle.

Kyle isn't taking my calls.

I scroll through my contacts and slowly realize that of the hundreds of entries in my phonebook—some of which are recognizable names—there's not one that I trust. Except Kyle, and he's pissed off. Rightly so.

The upshot for me is that I've got exactly fucking no one.

I'm thoroughly depressed and disgusted with myself by the time I get to the Ns in my contacts.

Nat McCandless—sweet girl, terrible actress, good in bed, and now married to a producer.

Nate Fredrick—occasional stunt double, raging cokehead. No help there.

Natalie Benefield—dancer and choreographer who taught me how to quickstep for my role in Times Like These . She’s a total harridan and an excellent teacher, but unless I want to learn how to foxtrot, no help from that quarter.

Nathan Fischer—set builder, master carpenter, and an all-around good dude. He lost his wife… what? Ten years ago, now? He fell apart, dropped off the face of the earth. Resurfaced recently, came to LA to sell some woodworking pieces to a director or something, and we connected for a few beers.

He's living north of Atlanta, married with a baby daughter, and using his insane talent with wood creatively. I guess his new wife is a doctor.

I scroll to the next entry: Nicky Wild, lead singer for a metal band who got a bit part in an HBO fantasy series I starred in for a few episodes. He's a crazy fuck. A damn good time, but the last person I need to hang out with at this stage of my life.

I go back up to Nathan's contact card. The last thing he said to me was to not be a stranger and that if I ever wanted to get away from the Hollywood bullshit, I could stay in his workshop.

Fuck.

Swallowing the last vestiges of my pride, I dial his number and head out onto the balcony.

It rings a few times and then he answers. "Reece Morgan, what's up, buddy?"

"Hey, man. How are you?"

"Ehh, you know. Pretty damn good. About to head to the airport for my first vacation in I don't know how long. What's up with you?"

I snort. "You must not watch the news."

"Not really, no."

I sigh. "Do me a favor and google me real quick."

“Uh-oh," he mutters. Goes silent.

The voice of a newscaster fills the line. “B-list celebrity Reece Morgan was arrested late last night after a violent, drunken outburst that resulted in several minor injuries, including to the responding officers. Morgan, who most recently starred in the critical flop The Labors of Hercules , which Morgan funded himself, has been in the headlines more than once in recent years for outbursts like this one. Witnesses say he was completely out of control and that it took no fewer than eight police officers to subdue him—" the reports cuts off.

"Well…shit." Nathan pauses. "Goin' through it, are you?"

"Yeah, you could say that." I sigh. "I'm fuckin' lost, brother."

"I know the feeling. After Lisa died, I took my anger out on everyone around me. That shit will eat you alive, man."

"It is. It has been." I sigh disgustedly. "Not why I'm calling, though."

"Alright, well, I'll bite. Why are you calling?"

"Not to hold up your vacation, that's for damn sure. I just…" I swallow hard. "I sold pretty much everything I own, including my houses, and I need to get out of LA. I dunno if I'm done done with Hollywood, or more accurately, if Hollywood is done with me, but I got to get out of this place. Last time we talked, you said you had a futon in your office. I, uh…is that still available?"

"Hmmm," he sighed. "You know what, it is, but…look, let me call you back in a minute, can I?"

"Nah, it's good. Nevermind. Forget I asked. Sorry to bother you, man. Have a good trip."

"Reece, hold up, hold up. Just give me five minutes, okay?"

"I don't wanna be any trouble, Nathan."

"You're not. It's just—it's complicated, and I need to make one call before I say yes. I'll call you back and explain, okay? Five minutes."

"Sure, no problem. But if it's too complicated, just say so. I'm good."

"You're not, and I can tell. Just let me make this call real fast and I'll hit you back."

"Alright." I set the phone on the railing and went in to get another cup of coffee.

By the time the Keurig was done brewing, my phone was ringing.

I hustled out and answered it. "Hey, Nathan. So, what's the word?"

"You're good to go, buddy. My workshop is all yours. The only thing is, my sister-in-law…well, um…I mean, Lisa's sister, Lilith Thompson, is housesitting for us in the main cabin."

“Oh."

"She's gone through some shit lately, too, so I've got a feeling she's gonna wanna keep to herself. She won’t bother you," he said.

"Meaning, don't bother her, either."

"Right. I just had to call her to make sure she was okay with the situation. A strange man next door, you know? I didn't tell her who you are, just that a friend will be staying in the shop."

I took a sip of piping hot coffee. "And she's okay with it? I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable."

"She's okay with it as long as you are."

"Nathan, listen. The whole reason I'm going away is to get a grip on…well, everything. I just finalized my divorce, which is what prompted my little, um…situation. But I guess I've been angry for a long time. I'm just…I'm gonna be cool, okay? Your sister-in-law or whatever, she doesn’t need to worry. I won’t have any tantrums."

Nathan sighed. "I wasn’t worried about that, Reece."

"Maybe you should be."

"Maybe. But I've been out drinking with you, man. The booze was the trigger, not the cause—I can say that without knowing a damn thing. I also know you'd never put a hand on a woman."

" Fuck no. No matter how awful things got with my ex, I never got physical with her. Even when she was falling apart and throwing shit at my face. I'd never-fucking- ever hurt a woman."

"I know, Reece. I fuckin' know , okay? You're good. You'll be okay." A woman's voice filled the background, muffled and faint. "Look, I gotta go. I hate to cut this short, but our flight leaves in a few hours and we have a long drive to get there. I'll shoot you the address. The shop is unlocked. Lilith is arriving today, so she should be there whenever you get here. The shop has a full bathroom, a little kitchenette, and the office bedroom. There are a few staples like coffee and such, but you'll have to bring your own groceries. You're good for at least a month, okay? We can talk more when we get back."

"You're sure it’s okay? With Lisa's sister, I mean."

"She said it was, and I'm taking her at her word. As I said, I didn't tell her your name or who you are because that's your business and shouldn't matter anyway." He muffles the phone and says something, then returns to me. "Alright, well, we gotta go. You'll be okay, Reece. You're in a shitty situation, but you'll figure it out. Keep your chin up, yeah?"

"Trying. Thanks, Nathan. I seriously appreciate you."

"Hey, what are friends for? Take care."

"Will do. You too. Be safe and have a good trip."

A few seconds after we hang up, Nathan texts me the address and I start booking a flight. Right before I confirm the seat, though, I cancel it.

Maybe a road trip will do me good.

So, instead of flying, I pack a bunch of clothes, my laptop, my six heaviest kettlebells, and my toiletries. Load it all up in my blacked-out Ram TRX and head for Georgia.

Soul-searching, here we come.