Chapter 3

Hayden

The script crumplingin my hand, I immediately hit Brady's name on my phone, putting it on speaker and leaving it on the coffee table in front of my plush couch. My decorator wanted to do sleek leather when I redecorated after my last breakup six months ago, but I always feel like I'm sliding off leather couches, and the kind she picked wasn't comfortable at all. I vetoed it in favor of a huge overstuffed couch with charcoal gray upholstery. Much more comfortable and much more me than the stain magnet that was the white minimalist couch Andrea chose when I made the mistake of letting her move in last year.

I wanted to make her happy, idiot that I am. Well, I wanted what we had to be real. I wanted a relationship, and I'd tricked myself into believing that she did too. So when she kept hinting that she should move in, I agreed, thinking it was the next step. When she asked if she could make the space more her own—"It needs a woman's touch," were her exact words, and I refrained from asking her why my decorator, who's a woman, didn't count—I gave her free rein, chomping down on any complaints about her choices because I wanted desperately to make it work. Until one day I couldn't hold back anymore, we had an enormous fight, and here I am on my own again.

It's better this way, though. I can pick my own couch that meets my desires.

Lesson learned. I can't think of anyone I know who has a relationship like they show in the movies—old married couples who bicker but still love each other or couples that live happily ever after. I guess watching my mom make all those films growing up distorted my view of reality into thinking that was possible, despite all evidence to the contrary.

And this film was supposed to be a change. A way to break out of being typecast all the time as the action hero and do something different. Something serious. But …

"Vampires, Brady? Seriously?" I ask as soon as he picks up.

"You got the script!" He sounds triumphant—and out of breath.

"Are you out for a run?"

He scoffs. "Not out. On my treadmill. So what's the problem? I told you it would be a unique take. Isn't it brilliant? These writers, man. They're so creative, don't you think?"

"I thought ‘unique' meant doing a steampunk version or setting it in the corporate world, you know like that version of Hamlet from a while back."

Another derisive noise. "Clearly the corporate setting's been done, so that wouldn't be unique. And steampunk? That sounds like something a high school production would do."

"And having vampires attacking Rome is somehow better?"

"People love this kind of mashup shit, man. It'll be brilliant. How far into the script are you? I'm guessing not far, since you just got it today. Did you just get to the first vampire attack and call?"

"Yes," I mutter grudgingly.

"Read the rest of the script. Just give it a chance."

When I grumble a nonresponse, I hear a couple of beeps, and when he speaks again, his voice is clearer. Still slightly out of breath, but I don't hear the rhythmic pounding of his footsteps in the background. "Seriously, Hayden," he says, a hint of pleading entering his voice. "I really believe in this project. You said yourself you've been looking for a change. It's still Shakespeare, it's still in iambic pentameter and all that shit. It's just slightly reimagined. But you still get to give Brutus's iconic speech."

"Yeah, I said I'm looking for something different, but vampires in Shakespeare? Didn't someone try to do something like that with Jane Austen and zombies? I remember that film being a flop."

"Promise me you'll finish the script at least. Give it serious consideration, like you would any other project, and …"

"And what, Brady?"

"And keep in mind that if you pull out, I'm sunk. I won't have your funding, I won't get a meeting with your dad at all, and while I have Julius Caesar and Marc Antony lined up, if you pull out, they will too. We'll hire extras on site for the bit parts, but we need big names for the main roles. And I can only keep those and get the rest if I have financing and …"

"Me," I finish for him.

"You," he agrees. "I need you. I've been wanting to work on something like this for a long time. It'll be fun." A sly note enters his voice. "And I seem to remember a certain actor I know telling me how he doesn't have fun anymore. I really think this is exactly what you need."

"I'm never calling you to get me drunk after a breakup again."

He scoffs. "We both know that's not true. Unless you don't plan on dating anyone long enough to precipitate a breakup, which I could kind of see happening. I'm surprised you and Andrea lasted as long as you did, and no one since then has lasted more than a few weeks, if that."

Grunting, I pick up the script from where I tossed it on the couch, smoothing the wrinkles out of the paper with a sigh. "I'll finish reading the script and keep what you said in mind. But I'm going to have notes. Promise me you'll listen to them."

He pauses for a long beat, then sighs. "Fine. I'll listen to them.

"And consider taking out the vampires if it's too ridiculous?"

Another heavy sigh. "Okay. I still think the western setting is good, though. I'll look more into the Austen film and see where it went wrong."

"And find a focus group for the vampire angle. Because based on this, I'm guessing you haven't.

This time his sigh is more aggravated. "You said you'd keep an open mind about the vampires."

"And I will. But you also need to consider that it's a terrible idea."

"Fine." The word is clipped, and I know he's getting mad, so I won't push anymore. "But remember that I also made very good points," he adds.

"Fine, yes, you made good points," I agree, chuckling. After ending the call, I get a snack and settle back in with the script. He's right that I am looking for something different. I should stay open minded, even if I think Julius Caesar and Vampires is likely worse than Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. It's definitely not what I'd imagined when he first approached me, but maybe it won't be so bad?

I hope not, at least.

"You're participating in this farce?" Dad demands when I show up at his house—more of a compound, really, surrounded by razor topped white walls hidden in greenery and hedgerows with a reinforced gate to let people in—for our weekly visit. At least when we're both in the same town.

It started after my parents' divorce when I was six. Mom kept primary custody, and I visited my dad on the weekends when he was around. Once he made the switch from acting to producing and occasionally directing, he tended to be home a lot more often. I'm not sure if his choice to not work directly on films that were done on location had more to do with wanting to see me or his own desire to stay holed up in his Malibu mansion. Either way, after visiting Dad every week for over a decade, I kept up the habit even after I turned eighteen, though I stopped staying overnight once I started working on my own films and bought a place for myself.

Now I come over for brunch on Sundays unless I'm traveling for work.

"Good to see you too, Dad," I mutter as I step inside, kicking off my shoes and following him into the kitchen.

He moves around the counter and holds up an empty champagne flute. "Mimosa?"

"Of course." He pours the champagne and orange juice and passes it to me before making one for himself and gesturing for me to have a seat at the breakfast bar on the opposite side of the big white marble island in the center of the kitchen. The cooktop is front and center, and there's a butcher block prep area next to it. The sink is in the counter right behind him, a window overlooking the pool in the backyard. Sometimes Dad hires someone to cook for us, but as often as not, he decides to do it himself.

"I was thinking eggs, French toast, and bacon," he says, pulling things out of his enormous Sub-Zero refrigerator faced with cabinetry that matches the rest of the kitchen. "How does that sound?"

"Sounds good."

He eyes me as he sets the ingredients on the counter and assembles everything he needs to make breakfast. "You won't be able to eat like this if you're going to be shirtless on film soon."

I shrug. "This isn't a new thing. Besides, I'm not sure how cut I need to be for Julius Caesar."

"Julius Caesar and Vampires," he corrects, holding up a finger.

I shake my head. "I think I can convince him to drop the vampires. I read it and it's too much, but no one's done Julius Caesar in decades, and I think an updated version would be worthwhile."

Sighing, he shakes his head. "Are you going to get him to set it in Rome like it's supposed to be?"

I arch an eyebrow. "Do you really think that's the best choice?"

He sets the carton of eggs down, braces his hands on the counter, and squints off into the distance as he thinks about my question. After another sigh, he shakes his head and opens the carton. "I don't know, to be honest. Part of me thinks yes, but the most recent Shakespeare adaptations that've done at all well have some kind of new angle. It seems risky either way. Why even get involved?"

I shrug. "It's Brady's passion project."

"And that means you need to tank your career?"

Somehow, even at thirty-six years old, discussing my career with my dad still makes me feel like a dumb teenager getting offered bit parts on movies my mom was in or that my dad was financing. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?" he'd say. "Because if it is, you need to take it more seriously and not expect your mother and I to hand your career to you. You need to study acting, get an agent, go to auditions, and quit trading on our connections. If it's not, then you need to figure out what else you want to do."

It was one of those lectures, in fact, that prompted me to enroll in public school. All I'd known was film sets and Hollywood. How could I even hope to figure out something else to do when I'd only seen portrayals of other professions in movies and TV shows by other actors? That's not real life.

Of course, that had ended in disaster, like every attempt I've made at a normal life. Even my relationship with Andrea was supposed to be me trying to settle down, have an adult relationship instead of the steady stream of starlets and models I'm constantly skewered for on social media. I'm rapidly approaching middle age and still dating twenty-somethings, and I don't want to earn the reputation of the creepy old guy who doesn't date anyone over twenty-two.

That's not who I am, it's just that the dating pool isn't exactly huge in Hollywood. Things get a little incestuous if you don't introduce new people now and then, and for better or worse, most of the new women are on the younger side.

And they all just want to be seen with me to increase their own standing, use my connections—both on my own and that of my parents—to help their careers.

Even Andrea was that way in the end. She wanted the easy money of being with a movie star and expected me to insist she work on movies with me, despite the fact that she's really not that good of an actor.

I sip my mimosa and shake my head. "I hardly think one film is going to tank my career. And anyway …"

Dad looks up from dipping slices of French bread in egg, his blue eyes sharp. He's in his mid-60s, but you wouldn't know it from looking at him. He's fit and tan, and while he's let his hair gray naturally—"I'm not in front of the camera much, so I don't have to dye my hair," he said when asked—he looks good with the streaks of silver in his medium brown hair. "And anyway, what?" he prompts.

Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly and shake my head again. "I'm tired, Dad. Tired of the whole …" I circle my glass, searching for words. "All of it. The action hero lifestyle. The diets, the workouts, the constant grind. I need a change."

He snorts. "This'll definitely be a change."

I grin. "Yes, it will."

We're quiet as he continues making our food and I sip my mimosa, but I know this conversation isn't over. "You realize I can't be a part of this," he says after several moments, making a pile of French toast on a plate before glancing at me. "I know your friend asked you to talk to me about it, but …" Bracing his hands on the counter, he shakes his head and blows out a breath before meeting my eyes. "I just don't see it." He holds up his hands. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it'll be a smash. But this kind of thing has been done before, and it didn't play well at the box office. You all might be better off seeing if you can get one of the streaming services to bankroll you. I feel like it's more up their alley than the more traditional route."

Swallowing, I nod, unsurprised. I warned Brady that Dad might not even agree to meet with him. "Thanks for at least thinking about it."

Chuckling, he gives me a rueful smile as he sets the French toast in the warmer and gets to work on the eggs and bacon. "I'm not sure how much thought I really gave it."

I shrug. "Enough to decide you're not interested. I'm not sure how much more thought it needs than that. You think the entire premise is ridiculous." I pause, and he nods. "And not ridiculous in a financially viable way."

He lets out another soft laugh. "I know you've always felt like acting was the most sensible choice for you, but you're a smart guy, Hayden. You could make a change, you know. If the grease paint is wearing thin and the lights don't hide the grime as well anymore."

The only response I give is a grunt, and we thankfully move on to other topics. But his words nag at me, constantly flitting at the edge of my mind. Could I do something else instead? What would that look like?