I sigh and mentally debate what to do. There’s still enough time for more sleep, but I don’t want to take anything else and not have it wear off before the party starts. I need an hour or two of good, sober behavior before hells breaks loose. If I take the rest of the pain pill, I might be in a fog when my friends come over. I have Adderall, but I hate taking that shit. It makes me anxious as fuck.
I get up, knowing there is stuff I should be doing, like going over lines. Instead, I open my MacBook and scroll through comments on my Facebook fan page, replying to just enough to give me good fan interaction but not too many to appear needy. Basically, I give them something to make them want more.
Claire texts me, making sure I’m awake and decent before she brings me espresso and something to eat. I hired her as my assistant before I could afford her, and she’s stuck with me through everything. Though she’s my employee, sometimes I feel like she’s one of the only friends I actually have.
Four hours later, the house is filled with some of Hollywood’s hottest. I play the perfect host, talking and greeting everyone, taking pictures for our social media accounts before I get so wasted I’m puking off my own balcony. Kennedy Jamison, a singer turned actress—and my ex—walks in with her arm laced through the arm of another A-lister. Both women look fantastic, and both smile and wave to me through the crowd.
Kennedy was on Shadowland with me for two and a half seasons. We were lovers on the show and took that romance off screen. Things were good for a while, and then I couldn’t fucking stand her. We just didn’t mesh, and she was constantly putting anyone and everyone down to feel good about herself—including me. She’d been in the scene since she was a child and couldn’t handle getting passed up by me, who’d only been in a few years at the time.
We split the day before she found out she was being killed off in Shadowland, and I’ll just say things didn’t go too well after that. She went through periods of hating me, trash-talking me to anyone who’d listen, then she’d turn around and want to get back together. I occasionally hated myself, but not enough to ever get back with that crazy bitch.
I didn’t invite her. But whatever. She’s here and she’ll suck my dick if she’s drunk. When a blowjob is my silver lining, I know the night isn’t that bad.
I should have stopped drinking hours ago. Someone should have seen how far gone I was and taken the bottle of Scotch from my hands. Someone should have noticed the fresh cuts on my arm, three in a row in perfect straight lines. I’m surrounded by dozens of friends, yet no one cares I’m lying face down in my yard in a puddle of my own vomit.
Truth is, half these people would love to see me break down, to watch my life become a train wreck. Because that’s how they are. They don’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves. I listen to the party going on around me and realize that I have to take a piss—bad. I struggle to my feet and wipe vomit off my face as I stumble into the house.
I unzip my trousers and realize I’m in a corner in my wardrobe. Part of me is too drunk to care, and I really have to pee. Somehow I make it to the bathroom and end up making a mess on myself because I’m too drunk to stand steadily in front of the toilet.
I should feel ashamed in the morning when I wake covered in urine and vomit. But I won’t. I won’t because getting this shitfaced is necessary. Being in a multimillion-dollar house full of people—important people, people who are looked up to and loved and respected at that—should make me happy.
But it doesn’t. Nothing does, because no matter how many people come over, how many people rave about the party later and brag about hanging with party-boy Aiden Shepherd, they’re not talking about me. Not the real me. The real me hasn’t been seen in years, and the façade I put up is what they like, what they see. It works. Sometimes. And when it doesn’t…well, that’s what the drugs and alcohol are for.
They keep the darkness away.
Chapter 4
I’m out in the middle of nowhere. Literally, no-fucking-where. I only have one bar of service, making it impossible to update my Instagram or answer emails and messages from my friends. Not having social media and “likes” pouring in from anything I post makes me feel lonely.
Dread for being this out of touch with the real world has been building up inside of me since I got the role. Dread replaced the excitement, replaced feeling proud I easily landed something outside of my genre. I buried the dread by partying, fucking, and drinking. I kept it out of my mind as long as I could, but now I’m here and there is no escape.
Fuck. It’s just a movie. I can do this.
Part of me hoped I’d be told I wasn’t right for the role. It would be a bit of an ego blow, I suppose, but then I could stick to doing what I like instead of what was wise for my career. I can do that shit later.
I guess appearing on the cover of GQ and being called this year’s sexiest actor helps more than I thought it would, and the screen-test was a joke, really. All I had to do was prove I could speak with an American accent, and I can quite well. I don’t think the role will be a hard one. Boring, maybe, since there aren’t many stunts and no fighting to choreograph. I have to ride a horse—a well-trained, push-button horse that is feet from its trainer the whole time. How hard could that be?
I slump in the chair, waiting for the makeup people to work their magic on me. It’s the first day of filming, and I just arrived. Okay, I was late. There was a party I wasn’t missing last night, and I drank too much and missed my flight this morning. Claire got me a connecting flight that got me here just five hours after I should have been. But I’m here now, sitting in a cold trailer in the backwoods of Montana with my eyes closed, waiting for someone to cover up the dark circles under my eyes.
The director is world famous. He’s won a shit ton of awards. Yes, Thomas was right. This is exactly what my career needs. We’re filming the majority of the movie on-site with a little green-screen and CGI help. Today, one of the final scenes is being shot. That’s something that surprises people more often than not. Movies are hardly ever shot in order. The end of the movie takes place in the summer, and it’s summer now.
Hollywood magic can do a lot, but controlling the natural seasons isn’t feasible…yet. I feel a moment of panic as I look at the Google image of this town. Billings was the biggest city in all of Montana, yet it’s only a fraction of the population of L.A. What the hell was I going to do for entertainment at night? Being alone, having quiet time to myself…that isn’t something I do.
When I do, dark thoughts make their way into my head. I am undeniably Aiden Shepherd, unable to escape the memories that plague me. Nope. Won’t be happening. At least the hotel has a bar.
I don’t know my costars well, and I miss the familiar set of Shadowland. We’ve been together for years now. We’re like a family and always raise hell after a long twelve-hour day of shooting. Everyone assumes actors are outgoing and love social events. I like the attention. I like people fawning over me. But I don’t like putting myself out there. I like being the character, playing a role. Being me…I’m not so good at it.
After an hour of primping and wardrobe changes, we get started. It’s a change of pace, that’s for sure, and is more of a challenge than I thought it would be.
I collapse into bed that night. Eleven hours of filming and I’m exhausted. And I was wrong. Riding horses isn’t as easy as I thought, even when the horse is as well trained as Rusty, the large Quarter Horse I was riding. Just sitting there, unmoving, wasn’t bad, but once he started going forward, things would squish and bend. My poor balls took a beating. Even if there are any decent-looking women in the hotel bar, I’m not taking one up to fuck. I’m settling for an ice pack and some porn tonight.