CHAPTER ONE Jude

CHAPTER ONE

Jude

"You're a Rafferty, dammit. You tell them you don't want your dressing room filled with flowers. That's how you fix it."

"It's stupid to complain about flowers, Jasper. I don't want to come off as a diva." Like you. "I'm trying to break onto the scene, not burn bridges in it."

I run a hand through my dirty-blond hair, realizing too late that I shouldn't have touched it. It was perfect, and I'm 90 percent sure that if the hair-and-makeup team saw me do that, they'd beat me with their brushes.

Rising from the couch that's giving me a backache, I tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder and rush over to the mirror to ensure I didn't screw up my hair. I feel every bit like the diva I swore I wasn't as I listen to my brother ramble on the other end of the line.

"Trust me, I've made much more demanding ... well, demands. Like when I had a splitting headache—I made them change all the bulbs in the room to green ones because I read an article that said they reduce photophobia. It isn't bad to ask them not to leave those awful-smelling things out of your room. Nobody will bat an eye."

My older brother is probably right, but I know I am too. I don't want to be the jerk who has the outlandish rider everyone in the industry talks about behind his back. I'm just now starting to make a career that's not clinging to the coattails of my family name, and I don't need that reputation.

I rub my temples, pacing the room's length and counting every step I take.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

I spin on my heel, then do it again in the other direction.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

I haven't even gone on air for the first interview of my new movie's press junket, and I'm already about to vomit.

Fucking hell. Being Jude Rafferty is exhausting.

I guess it comes with the territory of being the son of the one and only Joel Rafferty, a four-time Oscar-winning actor who married two-time Oscar-winning Camilla Owens. With both my grandfathers receiving countless awards and lists of credits that are miles long, my parents' marriage combined two of the most prominent Hollywood families, creating a legacy I now carry around like a ten-thousand-pound weight on my shoulders.

It's safe to say that nearly everything I do is watched and scrutinized, including this interview. I have to nail this, or I'm toast.

"Just do it. Nobody is going to think you're a diva," my brother says.

"I highly doubt that. Remember when Hugh Reynolds asked for whiskey in his mug instead of water or coffee, and now nobody wants him on their show? He was branded a diva."

Jasper snorts. "He was branded a liability."

"Fine. A liability and a diva."

My brother sighs. "You're being dramatic, Jude."

"I'm being honest, and you know it. You've been in this industry long enough to know what it's like."

"I've also been your brother long enough to know when you're being dramatic—and you're being fucking dramatic."

"I called for moral support. Not whatever this is."

"Honesty?"

"Jasper . . ."

He laughs. "You'll be fine. Look, I have to go. I'm on a date."

Of course he's on a date. All he does is date. I swear he's worse than DiCaprio some days, always with a new woman on his arm or being photographed on boats with bikini-clad ladies. They aren't nearly as young, however. Jasper would never.

How he has time for all that, I'll never know. I'm nowhere near as well known as he is, and my schedule is packed.

"Am I—your favorite younger brother—not more important than some date whose name you won't remember tomorrow?"

"Who said you were my favorite?" he asks, avoiding my dig. It's true, though. He hardly ever remembers the women he dates, and I highly doubt this one is any different.

"Well, I am your only brother, so ..."

"I'm not letting you win by default. The Rafferty family doesn't let anyone win anything. You have to earn it."

Ah, there it is—the family motto.

While I'm thankful my family isn't one of those Hollywood institutions that leans into nepotism, I think it would sometimes make my life easier. Like maybe I could have landed a leading movie role years ago instead of at twenty-six. I'd hoped that after my tenure on that god-awful tween show was over, I'd be able to make some sort of career for myself. But that wasn't the case. I had one big offer after Lakedale ended. I thought for sure Eternity was going to be the next big hit, but I guess we missed the vampire craze by a few years, because it was canceled after one season.

Even with the failed ventures, I know I'll be happy when I finally accept my Oscar and can say I did it alone. Well, mostly.

"Besides, if I had a favorite sibling, it would be Cait."

"Cait? What the hell for?"

"I'm sorry, but have you tried her peanut butter fudge?"

Of the three Rafferty kids, Cait is the only one who didn't go into acting. Instead, she opened a bakery here in New York City, and business is booming. When I attempted to stop by last week, the line was wrapped around the corner. While I love my sister something fierce, there's no way I'm subjecting myself to a wait like that when I can get free goodies on the holidays.

"I haven't."

"What? You live like ten minutes from the shop!"

"I've been a little busy lately, Jasper."

He scoffs. "I just wrapped filming on not one but two movies. Go visit your damn sister, Jude."

"I kind of have a movie to promote right now."

"I'm aware since we're basically on the same schedule. Look, I'll be back in the city next week. We can go together."

"Together?"

All three Rafferty siblings in one building? Cait's small bakery would be swarming with paparazzi. No way that'd go over well for any of us.

But, being swarmed by photographers or not, it sure would beat waiting in this tiny room with these awful flowers.

"Yes, together. Just trying to drum up business for my favorite sibling."

"First off, fuck you."

"That's right, little brother. Get all your cussing out now so you don't do it on live TV."

I groan. "Ugh. Why'd you have to remind me it's live?"

"Because I'm a good brother."

"No, you're not. In fact, you're officially my least favorite brother."

"I'm going to wear that badge with pride." I can practically hear him grinning, and I don't doubt it's true. That's Jasper for you. He thrives off being annoying.

"Whatever."

"Goodbye, Jude—and good luck."

"Bye, Jas. Love you."

I get the all-too-familiar grunt back before the line goes dead, leaving me with a smile. That's good because I need it there. I'm five minutes away from walking out onstage for a live Good Morning, New York segment. I hate live television. It's the part of this gig I despise the most. They always ask the same questions, and I always give the same answers. It's tiresome, and it all feels so ... fake. Like the interviewer doesn't truly care about what we're discussing. It's painful. If I could act and never have to deal with all the other crap that comes with it—interviews, premieres, or the press—life would be perfect.

But people who do that don't have long careers, and that's what I want. I want to act—and I want the world to know that Jude Rafferty isn't just another Rafferty. He's something special. I'm something special.

"I'm special," I mutter, trying to believe the words.

"Um, that's nice and all, but you're also on in five."

I whip my head around to find the door to my dressing room wide open—When did that happen?—and an intern or someone staring at me, wearing a grin that tells me this whole moment is going to end up on some gossip site.

Great. Just what I need.

I toss myself back onto the couch, groaning as the woman practically runs away from the dude talking to himself.

My eyes wander around the horribly decorated dressing room. Why they paired an ugly, uncomfortable burnt-orange couch with dark-green walls is beyond me. It reminds me of peas and carrots, a combination I was never fond of growing up. Then they had to go and add a massive bouquet of chrysanthemums—a flower I happen to be allergic to—on the coffee table and vanity.

I scratch my nose. It's already feeling itchy from the flowers. Or maybe it's me being "dramatic" again.

I roll my eyes, and the minute I do, I sneeze.

"Crap," I mutter, pushing myself up from the couch and heading for the small vanity in the corner. I tug open the drawer and am unsurprised to find a slew of last-minute necessities, such as breath mints, gum, candies, face wipes, deodorant, aspirin, and some allergy meds.

Another sneeze races through before I can even reach for the travel-size box.

"Thank god," I mutter, pulling it open and plucking free two pink pills. I toss them into my mouth and grab a water bottle from the mini fridge, then douse my hands in sanitizer before sitting back on the couch.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the offensive decor and the throbbing in my head that's already set in, and take a deep breath.

Inhale, exhale.

Inhale, exhale.

I do it over and over, sucking in and blowing out slow, steady breaths to calm the nerves racing through me.

Why in the hell does live television freak me out so much? It's a camera. I'm used to being in front of cameras. Hell, I make a living being in front of them. This shouldn't be any different.

But it's because if I mess this up, I'm screwed. Sure, most shows aren't recorded live, but Good Morning, New York? It's live live. You can't get any more live than this show. Everyone knows it—meaning if you mess up here, there's no fixing it. No telling them to cut and no editing out all the bad stuff. It's out there, forever, on the internet. If that's not panic inducing, I don't know what is.

It would be so much easier if Jasper were with me like we originally planned, but his damn agent had to move things around at the last minute, so I'm here alone. I don't want to be here alone.

"I'm going to puke."

"Oh, great. You're talking to yourself again."

I sit up, almost too fast, and see the intern is back.

"We're ready for you." She curls her finger, beckoning me to follow her before adjusting her headset.

I rise from the couch, trying my best to ignore how shaky my legs are—Is this from nerves or the medication?—and follow her out of the room. She's at least six inches shorter than me, but she's practically running down the hall, going so fast that my six-foot-two frame struggles to keep up. I run a hand down my shirt, ensuring my clothes aren't in too much disarray as I trail behind her. I want to tuck my tail and return to my terrible dressing room. Hell, I want to run out of the building. I'd rather be anywhere other than here.

But I can't be.

I have a movie to promote. Obligations. I have a door I want to knock down, rooms I want to be in, and people I want to rub elbows with. I can handle one live interview. What's the worst that can really happen?

I follow her down a darkened hallway, nodding and smiling at the people running—literally—around the cavernous studio, all of them with headsets and frowns plastered on their faces. I swear I see someone crying. It does nothing to calm the panic racing through me.

A guy with his head down rushes by, slamming into my shoulder as he passes.

"Sorry," I mutter to him, but he either doesn't hear me or doesn't care. He's too busy staring at the clipboard in his hands and yelling at someone in his mic.

If I thought a movie set was full of mayhem, it's nothing compared to this madness. The studio could easily double as a warehouse, especially given its size. The only things saving me from feeling like I'm inside some alternate-universe version of a Costco are the thin walls blocking the audience from seeing the chaos of what's happening. Sure, they make seeing where you're going hard, but who cares when you're about to be on TV, right?

Another sneeze hits me, and I cover my mouth and nose with my arm. The PA comes to an abrupt halt near a small, round bar table situated at the entrance of a short hallway that leads to the main stage. It's tucked away from sight and, luckily, has a box of tissues and bottle of water atop it. I take a few tissues, wipe my nose, and then face the intern with what I know is a shaky smile.

"You good?" she asks, holding her hand up to her headset, I guess talking to someone on the other end.

I stand there with my hands tucked into my pockets, waiting for her to finish so she can give me instructions.

She blinks up at me.

I blink at her.

"Um, hello? Only used to talking to yourself and not someone else?"

Was she ... "I'm sorry. I thought you were—"

She waves her hand, cutting me off. "It's fine. Here." She brandishes a bottle of sanitizer from out of nowhere. I hold out my hands as she squirts some into my palm, and I rub them together as she sticks the bottle into her belt. Only then do I realize she's wearing a construction worker's tool belt, but it's packed with hand sanitizer, tissues, a hairbrush, mints, and about ten other things I can't make out. "Come on. We're on in fifteen."

"Fifteen seconds?" The words come out as a squeak.

"Now ten. Get ready." She touches my elbow, steering me farther down the hall and closer to the final curtain, which separates me from my impending doom. "And maybe don't vomit on live television, okay?"

She shoves me closer to the curtain, and I trip, barely catching myself before I fall flat on my face.

Oh yeah. This is going to be a disaster for sure.

"Our next guest is none other than Jude Rafferty. You may know him as the star of Lakedale, a quirky teen show from several years ago, or ..."

The unease in my stomach grows as they go over my list of accomplishments.

"Five . . ." the PA whispers.

Oh no.

"Four . . ."

"And soon you'll know him from Love and Arson, the upcoming, sure-to-be-a-hit film by world-class action-film producer Larry Brickey ..."

I'm going to puke. It's going to happen. Do I really want to act this badly?

"Two ..." she murmurs. Then she points at me and mouths, "One."

No, no, no.

"Here goes nothing . . ."

I take a deep breath, then step under the bright lights.