All the Feels, page 17
Lauren flew to her feet, somehow sensing imminent trouble, and Marcus was already striding toward center stage, but it was too late. They were too late, and Alex was smashing through the goddamn wall, fuck the consequences.
Fix this. Fix this now, his brain howled.
So he did.
17
LAUREN BURST INTO THE DESIGNATED HALL FOR ALEX’S Q&A session, frantic to talk to him. But even as a volunteer ushered Lauren to her assigned seat—a special one without arms, and she’d immediately known who’d arranged that—the moderator strode onstage, and the session began.
Shit. Shit.
She was too late.
After receiving Ron and R.J.’s email, she’d taken a few minutes to calm herself in her hotel room. The insult itself didn’t particularly bother her—if she had a dollar for every time her cousin called her ugly during their childhood, she’d have enough money in her savings account for several Spanish vacations—but having Alex read it . . .
Well, that stung a little, if only because it put their differences in such sharp relief. It wasn’t as if he could somehow overlook the fact that he was an unabashedly beautiful human being, and she was not. He didn’t require a reminder, though, and she didn’t either.
But that small sting had faded quickly, entirely subsumed by sheer terror at what might happen next. Because Alex would not handle the insult well, and if she looked upset at all, he would go ballistic. So she’d needed to get entirely calm, and then she’d intended to find him before he had the chance to speak to anyone other than her or Marcus.
But he hadn’t been in his suite, and he hadn’t responded to her frantic texts, and by the time she’d worked her way through the crowds outside the hall, she’d run out of time.
Bowing her head in defeat, she took her seat and sent a plea winging to the heavens. Please let him not have seen that email. Please.
After the moderator’s introduction, Alex didn’t simply walk onstage. He prowled, bright streaks of color high on his cheekbones, face split wide with a rage-filled smile, and oh, yes, he’d seen the email.
But as he answered the moderator’s questions, he remained polite and jovial, and if his voice had sharper edges than normal, she and Marcus—because surely Marcus was here somewhere?—were probably the only ones who noticed it.
After a few minutes, she exhaled slowly and began to relax.
Despite his ridiculously wide protective streak and volatile temper, he was a professional. He’d survived in a tough industry for almost two decades, and despite a couple of bobbles and challenges along the way, he’d managed to construct a very successful career.
He’d do the right thing, much as it might pain and enrage him. She had to believe that.
Then: disaster.
That poor, scared young woman in the third row asked about the last season of the show, and Alex’s expression. She’d seen that same expression only yesterday. The beam of a berserker ready to slash and burn, and laugh as he did it.
He hadn’t been restraining himself. Not at all.
He’d been lying in wait.
As soon as that expression registered in her brain, she scrambled to her feet, and from the side of the stage, thumping footsteps heralded Marcus’s attempt at intervention, but Alex was already speaking. Already offering his knife-edged grin to the cameras filming his every word.
“As you know, cast members aren’t allowed to say much about episodes that haven’t aired yet.” He wasn’t pacing anymore. He was entirely still, enunciating clearly and distinctly so his message couldn’t be mistaken. “However, if you’re interested in my thoughts about our final season, you may want to consult my fanfiction. I write under the name CupidUnleashed. All one word, capital C, capital U.”
Oh, no. No.
The stories Alex had written, the comments he’d made . . . Ron wouldn’t forgive them, and he wouldn’t forget. He’d do his best to drive Alex from the industry in retaliation for how the actor had so scathingly criticized Gates’s scripts and showrunners.
She knew her cousin, even if her cousin knew next to nothing about her.
She wrapped her arms around her middle in a futile attempt at self-comfort, even as a hush fell over the enormous, packed hall. Her knees watery, she dropped back into her seat and curled in on herself, hiding the tears that glazed her vision.
Alex had incinerated his career. Because of her.
Two decades of such hard, hard labor and dedication; all those endless days he’d had to show up on set and harness his towering energy in service to work he loved, even if he didn’t always love his scripts; the reputation he’d painstakingly built . . . he’d tossed all of it away.
For her.
She didn’t think she’d ever felt so small before. So racked by shame. To have been the means by which Alex got hurt was unbearable.
He was done.
And maybe it shouldn’t matter, compared to the flaming shreds of Alex’s reputation, but they were done too, she and Alex and whatever they’d had together. Because there was no way Ron wasn’t firing her. Within minutes, most likely.
Alex was still speaking, still setting his professional reputation ablaze, even as she covered her face with both hands, bowed her head, and tried not to let her tears fall.
“Those stories will also give you some insight into my feelings about the show in general,” he informed the audience, all razor-edged good cheer. “Also, fair warning: Cupid gets pegged in my fics. Delightedly and often. It’s not great literature, but it’s still better than some of this season’s—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.
Everyone knew what word he’d playfully omitted: scripts.
“Well, never mind about that,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.
She huddled tighter in her chair, because he’d ensured there was no way to misinterpret what he’d said, no spin that could explain away or disguise his loathing of his employers. The power brokers in Hollywood wouldn’t forgive such open disloyalty. She knew almost nothing about the entertainment industry, but even she understood that.
There was a moment of silence, and she was afraid to look.
“No, that’s everything.” Alex’s words were muffled through the ringing in her ears. “I’m done.”
Then he was gone. The crowd erupted into scattered applause, then shocked laughter and conversation—Can you believe what he said about the scripts? I’m looking at his AO3 handle, and holy shit—as Lauren continued to sit in her special damn chair, motionless.
Minutes later, as a new crowd began to fill the hall, her phone buzzed. Slapping away the wetness on her cheeks, she read her incoming text.
It was from Alex.
Marcus ordered me to go to our suite and call everyone in my camp. Come on up, Wren. It’s a party! After a moment, another message appeared. I know you aren’t happy with what I did, and I’m sorry for that.
He was sorry for her unhappiness. Not for the damage he’d done to his career.
Then again, he had years ahead to mourn that. Decades. The rest of his life.
Her legs shook as she got to her feet and headed for the exit. She was going to her room, because nothing she could say, nothing she could do, would help Alex now. With one exception.
In the elevator, she texted him back. Promise me you’ll listen to what your team and Marcus say. Promise me you’ll do your best to salvage this situation.
He wrote back immediately. I promise. Unless they tell me to do something that’s wrong. In which case, I won’t budge.
It was a deliberate echo of what she’d said about her experiences at the hospital. The times she’d run afoul of her colleagues or patients or supervisors.
She sagged against the elevator wall, bereft.
Another buzz. Where are you, you intolerably plodding harpy?
She didn’t answer.
When she got to her room, she let the door slam shut behind her. Her phone buzzed several more times as she emptied the few drawers she’d filled with clothing and other odds and ends, but she ignored the peremptory summons.
Once she was completely packed again, she checked her inbox, just to confirm.
Ron’s email had arrived five minutes before.
I should have known you weren’t capable of doing such a simple job, he’d written. You’re fired, and we’re not fucking paying for your hotel room or the guesthouse anymore. Good riddance.
She could check out over the phone, so she did. Then she caught a cab to the airport and took the first flight back to L.A. A seat in coach, of course. She couldn’t afford more, and it was where she belonged.
By the time the small jet took flight, she’d texted Alex one last time—On the plane; I’m so sorry—and turned off her cell, because he needed to concentrate on salvaging his career, not on her, and his increasingly agitated messages hurt.
The bruises forming on her thighs, pressed into her flesh by the armrests, hurt less. Which was saying something.
She’d almost forgotten how it felt to squeeze into a space too cramped to contain her comfortably. She’d almost forgotten the specific pain of attempting to make herself as small as possible, contorting her arms and legs in a way that hurt her joints and made relaxation impossible. She’d almost forgotten the reality of her life.
In the end, despite all her attempts to be small, despite the discomfort of those attempts, she’d still have bruises. Pain following pain. It was unavoidable. Inevitable.
She’d accepted that for herself long ago.
But Alex hadn’t been willing to accept it for her.
He’d witnessed her pain, and destroyed himself to avenge it.
For that reason, and for that reason alone, she wished to God she’d never met him.
Gods of the Gates Cast Chat: Friday Night
Ian: I want Alex kicked off this cast chat
Ian: I fucking told you, and so did Bruno Keene: cast poison
Ian: Our future careers may depend on the success of Gates, and he just shit all over it because he thinks he’s too good for us, the ungrateful motherfucker
Carah: Oh, give me a fucking break, Ian
Carah: We all know everything Alex said (and wrote) is true
Carah: And yes, maybe making all those things public knowledge wasn’t the smartest decision he’s ever made, but I’ve never seen him THAT angry without damn good reason
Asha: I’ve worked closely with him for years now, and yes, this
Asha: And I’ve never seen even the slightest hint that he thinks he’s too good for us
Mackenzie: Whiskers is very upset and worried about what may happen to Alex
Marcus: I can’t share any specifics, but I can definitely tell you he had just cause to be very, very angry at Ron in particular
Carah: I knew it
Carah: We all knew it, except fucking Ian
Maria: As far as our careers depending on the success of Gates: our show has been a blockbuster for years now, and if you haven’t already capitalized on its popularity to help your career, that’s on you, Ian, not Alex
Peter: The final season of the show can’t make or break our careers, and Alex never said one word about our acting
Peter: Just about the scripts and Ron and R.J. as showrunners, and like Carah said: fair enough
Carah: FYI, everyone: I just put out an official statement saying that Alex is not only a good friend, but also a valued, talented colleague who has always behaved with impeccable professionalism on set, and I hope to act alongside him in many future projects
Carah: I didn’t even use profanity, because I too am a goddamn PROFESSIONAL
Ian: Another fucking traitor
Carah: I didn’t insult the show, I just defended my friend, so fuck you very much, Ian
Summer: Should we all put out the same statement, to show our solidarity?
Maria: YES
Peter: Solidarity. I’ll do it right now.
Asha: Same
Mackenzie: Whiskers agrees that solidarity is the way to go here, and we’ll match Carah’s statement
Marcus: After that Bruno Keene shitshow, this is going to mean the world to him
Marcus: Shit, I can’t believe you assholes made me choke up
Marcus: Thank you, everyone
Ian: You’re ALL fucking traitors, and I hope your careers tank because of this
Marcus: To quote a great leader, and I think I speak for all of us here: fuck you very much, Ian
Carah: Marcus, please tell Alex I want to talk to him about all the pegging, because I am fucking INTRIGUED by that shit
Mackenzie: Whiskers also has pegging-related questions
Maria: I love all of you SO MUCH
Maria: Except Ian, naturally
18
IT TOOK FIFTEEN MINUTES FOR ALEX’S HAZE OF FURY TO dissipate.
The march back to his room, Marcus at his side, passed in a blur. When his best friend pressed a familiar-looking phone in his hand and told him to call his camp, he did so automatically. The opening conversations with his horrified lawyer, agent, and publicist seemed to happen at a distance, to someone else entirely.
Then, when Lauren still didn’t answer his tenth or twentieth text, it hit him.
He knew why she wasn’t responding.
The world around him snapped into focus, and he could suddenly hear something other than his own deafening heartbeat. Only then could Alex do what Marcus always advised, and play the film to the end. The advice seemed especially prescient today, because yes: the end. That’s what he’d brought upon himself in all his righteous rage.
He’d burst through the wall, all right. Waiting on the other side?
Disaster.
He didn’t regret what he’d said and written. He didn’t even regret the possible consequences for his own career, although he’d devoted his adult life to that career and—with several notable exceptions—loved almost every minute of it.
The camaraderie. The cameras. The way different roles immersed him in different, fascinating cultures and forced him to learn and hone new skills. If he couldn’t land another role, he’d miss all of that. Still, his conscience was worth his career.
But he bitterly regretted the consequences for all the people around him.
He’d fucked over nearly everyone in his orbit. His agent, who relied on the income from Alex’s work. His castmates, who would rightfully shun him for shit-talking their final season, the project to which they’d devoted so many years of their lives and love and labor. His mom, because after this, he might not land enough work to continue supporting her as he wanted—or he might get sued, and not be able to support her at all. His charities, which also needed the money his work brought in. Abused women and children, who might not have a safe space to rebuild their lives if his savings ran out.
Lauren. Fuck, Lauren. The woman he’d meant to defend and avenge.
He’d fucked her over too, because there was no way Ron and R.J. would keep her on their payroll after this. Not when her entire job description entailed keeping Alex out of trouble, and he was currently in a shit-heap of that.
An indeterminate amount of time later, his phone dinged, and there it was. The text he’d been waiting for. Confirmation that his worst fears had been realized.
On the plane; I’m so sorry.
Of course she’d apologized to him. Of course. It’d be funny, if it weren’t so awful.
As she’d told him on that set of starlit stairs overlooking downtown L.A., she needed time. She needed a break from the work that had burned her out.
He needed her.
But she was already gone, because of what he’d done on that stage. Already on a plane home. Not the home they’d shared for months, but her little turreted duplex in NoHo. And soon, she’d have to return to work, ready or not, because of his inability to fucking think ahead.
No wonder she hadn’t returned his earlier texts.
Shit. In the space of five minutes, he’d fucked up everything. Everything.
When Marcus entered their shared suite after his fan photo sessions, he found Alex in an armchair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“Well,” Marcus said when the door closed behind him, “the good news is that the media is no longer focusing on your fan incident yesterday.”
Alex groaned and lifted his head.
Marcus sat on the coffee table facing Alex, his expression sympathetic but matter-of-fact. “I thought you’d be juggling three separate phone conferences right now. What’s going on?”
“As a group, my team decided my input was neither necessary nor beneficial as they formulated a response to the situation.” Slumping wasn’t enough. If he could, Alex would simply dissolve into the seat. “Zach and my lawyer and publicist are all discussing the issue amongst themselves, and they said they’d contact me when they reached a consensus. At that point, I either approve their game plan or not.”
“I see.” Marcus nodded. “Have you happened to glance at the cast chat recently?”
Alex’s hands were a friendly, comforting place, and his face decided to revisit them. “No. Too chickenshit.”
Something cool and smooth nudged his arm, and Alex looked up again.
Marcus was holding Alex’s cell. “C’mon, man. Don’t you trust me?”
Shit. As Marcus very well knew, Alex did trust him, and to prove it, he was going to have to access the cast chat, where everyone now hated him.
You’re the worst, dude, he almost said, but that reminded him of Lauren, and if he thought for longer than a few seconds about Lauren, he wouldn’t be able to function at even his current, minimal level.
“Fine,” he grumbled, eyeing his best friend suspiciously.
As soon as he opened the cast chat, he saw Ian’s messages from a couple hours before and cringed. But then . . .
Nothing but love and support.
Back into his hands went his face, this time to disguise his stupid wet eyes.
