LISA
The limo slows as it nears Eighth Avenue, the traffic thick at seven o'clock in the morning, just south of sunrise as the world heads to work. Friday. I'm sure the detours don't help people get where they're going, but it's New York—they ought to be used to it. Never a day goes by that something isn't going on here. They're some of the most adaptable people on the planet—New Yorkers—but they're also some of the most no-nonsense. They don't have time for bullshit.
And this morning, it feels like we're all knee-deep in it.
People line the streets as we near the metal barricades. Out-of-towners, I'm assuming, because locals aren't usually the type to give a shit when filming happens in their territory. We're more of a nuisance than anything, blocking off streets and shutting down neighborhoods, disrupting lives. I have nothing to do with any of that—I don't pick the place, I just show up when they tell me to—but more than once I've had the blame thrown my way. Smug bastard, who does she think she is, shutting down part of Midtown during rush hour?
"Word must've leaked," the flippant voice says from the seat in front of me, unfazed as usual. Oh Sehun, powerhouse talent manager. Nothing ever seems to bother him. Believe me, I've tested his limits, so I know. No PR is bad PR. He's typing away on his beloved Blackberry, attention glued to the screen, but I know he's talking about the crowd packing the streets.
"You think?" I mutter, glancing out the window as we crawl past at a snail's pace. Despite the fact that the tinting is pitch black, making it impossible for anyone to see inside, I keep my head lowered, an old black ball cap pulled down low, the battered brim shielding my eyes.
Production is running under a fake name to keep people away, so prying eyes won't spoil things they might see on the set, but somebody must've already leaked that information for so many people to show up here this morning.
"I'll talk to them about tightening security around you," Sehun says. "See if we can work with the location department to shake up your schedule."
"Don't bother," I say. "They'll always be a few steps ahead."
Sehun laughs under his breath. "Your optimism is astounding."
"Tell me about it," a lithe voice chimes in from the seat beside me. "Something about this movie turns her into a moody prick."
I cut my eyes at Rosé as she musses her freshly dyed hair—deep brown now, instead of her usual blonde. Gotta get in character. I can sense her gaze, even though she's wearing sunglasses. It's a damn harsh glare. She isn't happy with me this morning. Or any morning.
Not a morning person.
Across from her sits her long-time assistant, Joy, ignoring us all as she busies herself filtering Rosé's email, like every morning, weeding out anything that might trigger a tantrum.
"That true, Lisa?" Sehun asks. "Because as your manager, I want you to be happy, and as her manager, it's my job to make sure her co-stars aren't being moody pricks."
"I'm fine," I say. "It's just been a long week."
The metal barrier is moved out of the way as the limo approaches it, and we drive into the quartered off area, past a wall of security. There's a slight commotion outside, a few fans screaming, as the limo slips past into a small alley and comes to a stop just out of view. Sehun helps Rosé out, taking her hand, while I let Joy go before stepping out of the limo.
Rosé doesn't hesitate, waltzing out of the alley and straight to the crowd, a smile suddenly plastered to her face. There are a few more screams, some shrieks as the fans freak out.
No hiding now.
I leave her to it. She loves that part and eats it right up. The limelight does her wonders—the adoring fans, the camera. Rosé was always destined to be a star.
Me? I wanted to be an actor.
I head straight for the row of trailers set up along the backside of the alley, fanning out into the lot of a massive warehouse. Mostly interior shots today, with some filming in the street as they coordinated a mock explosion, according to the call sheet that Sehun shoves at me before disappearing… somewhere.
Sets are always chaos.
I'm greeted with a genuine smile as soon as I step into the first trailer. Hair Makeup. Momo, with her warm brown skin and bright red lips, is a welcoming sight. It's not always easy finding a friendly face at this hour, everyone so focused on business. This trailer is the busiest, one of the biggest, half a dozen makeup artists scattered around at brightly lit stations, but I go straight to Momo.
"Hey, superstar," she says, patting the seat of a chair in front of a big mirror, motioning for me to sit down. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me."
"You always do," I say, dropping down in the chair and taking my hat off, setting it aside before running my hands through my thick hair. It's Momo's job to make me look good, and that isn't always easy—especially when I've been sleeping like shit for over a week, dark bags under my bloodshot eyes.
She gets to work, doing what she does, babbling away about something. I'm vaguely listening, my mind drifting to some damn dangerous thoughts I keep having. Thoughts of a life I could've had but threw away like a fucking idiot. It always happens when I find myself back in New York, a magnetic pull that's hard to ignore, but I do whatever I can to resist it.
It's even harder this time, though.
I'm dragged back to reality when Momo says, "So, I read something scandalous the other day."
"One of those kinky whips and chains books?"
She laughs. "Not this time. No, I picked up a copy of Hollywood Chronicles…"
I groan, closing my eyes and leaning my head back, covering my face with my hands when she says that. I'm fucking up whatever progress she's made in making me look human again, but I'd rather rip my own balls off and juggle them like a trained monkey than even acknowledge that piece of shit tabloid exists. They've been the bane of my existence for far too long, insisting on putting my face on the cover all the time.
"Why do you hate me, Momo?" I mutter. "Please tell me you didn't give those assholes your money."
"What? Pfft, of course not," she says with a laugh, snatching my hands away from my face to get back to work. "I said I picked it up, not that I bought it. I was in the checkout line at the store."
"Yeah, well, whatever it said, I don't want to know…"
"It said you and Miss Park got married."
I groan again. "I just said I didn't want to know."
"Well, I told you anyway," she says. "So, what do you think about that?"
"I think you shouldn't waste your brain cells on trashy tabloids. You're better off sticking to the kinky books."
She shoots me a look but drops the subject. I know what she's asking. She's hinting around, trying to get me to spill what's been happening in my life since we filmed the last movie. She wants to know if there's any truth to that story, but I'm not in the mood to get into it.
Once the makeup is done, I switch over to hair, before I bid Momo goodbye and head to the wardrobe trailer to get my costume on. My stunt-double is there, already rocking the slick light blue and white suit.
I slip mine on—or well, I get shoved into it like they're stuffing fucking sausage into its casing, the material showing every goddamn ripple, so they poke and prod and tape down and tuck. Mesh, and chrome, and layers of foam, covered in tweaked flexible material made to look like simple spandex without, you know, being spandex.
It's as uncomfortable as you're imagining.
"Congratulations, buddy," my stunt-double says, slapping me on the back. "Heard you got hitched! Lucky man."
I cringe. "Who told you that?"
"Momo."
I'm going to strangle that woman.
It takes damn near thirty minutes to get me situated in the suit, to get my junk looking right and my muscles padded up, since I'm nowhere near superhero strong. I walk out when I'm done, running right into Rosé with her assistant at her heels.
"Well, well, well," Rosé says, grinning, as she looks me over. "It's good to see you back in that suit."
I glance down at myself, stretching to try to loosen up the material. "I look ridiculous."
She laughs. "You do not. You should wear it all the time. I'm talking all day, every day—even at night."
"Keep dreaming, Sé."
"Oh, I will."
She slips past me, biting down on her bottom lip as she ogles me from the backside. It's fucking embarrassing. I damn near blush, as ridiculous as it is, watching as her assistant steers her to wardrobe so we're not late to start today.
"Hey," I call out. "You should know that Momo is telling everyone—"
"That we're married? I know." Rosé rolls her eyes and laughs it off. "Apparently, we made the cover of Chronicles again."
"Yeah, apparently," I say as she goes inside the trailer, heading onto set once she's gone.
It's a long day. Take after take after take. I'm sweaty from running and tired from standing, my head pounding from the loud bangs and booms, the pyrotechnics rocking the neighborhood. There's a breech of security around mid-afternoon, a woman slipping past the barrier after the shots move to the exterior, but they catch her.
I try to not think about it. Try to not think about any of them. I try to not think about her when I feel eyes watching me, but it's hard pushing her from my mind. We're filming a sequence where Maryanne, the love of Breezeo's life, had been kidnapped. Rosé's tied up with a bomb about to go off, and it's my job to save her from imminent death.
I do it, and I do it well, pouring my soul into every moment. It's nearing the end of the story, even though we're still at the beginning of filming. It takes everything out of me, because endings are hard. Endings are fucking impossible... especially endings that remind me of a girl I'm trying damn hard not to think about.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we wrap for the day, my shoulders slumping as I run a hand through my hair. I try to walk away when Rosé throws herself at me. The sun is setting, darkness creeping in, but the shuttering flash of cameras lights up the area as she jumps into my arms.
"That was amazing!" she says. "Like... wow. You acted your ass off, Lisa! You made me believe every word!"
She kisses me before I can respond, more camera flashes going off. It's just a peck, but I imagine some paparazzo will be making a pretty penny on those pictures tonight. I can see it now. Caption: Lisa fucks Rosé in front of everyone!
She pulls away when Sehun approaches.
"Great job, you two," he says, his voice devoid of excitement, his gaze fixed on his Blackberry as usual. "They're going to stick to the current schedule, so you'll be back here in the morning, Lisa."
"You, too, Rosé," her assistant says.
"Sounds great to me." Rosé grins as she backs away, her gaze lingering on me. "Get changed, Lisa. We're celebrating!"
"Don't stay out too late," Sehun calls out. "Car will pick you both up tomorrow at six sharp!"
Rosé makes a face at him but doesn't argue, heading for the lingering crowd to greet everyone again.
"You did good, moody prick," Sehun jokes, smacking me on the back. "Go get out of the suit. I know it has to be uncomfortable."
I do just that, changing into my jeans and plain white t-shirt, putting my hat on. With filming done for the night, security has gone lax, the crowd moving closer onto set… close enough that some of them surround me when I step out of the trailer. Shit.
Cameras flash, a barrage of questions pelting me. "Lisa, can I have a picture?" "An autograph, Lisa?" "Can I have a hug?" Those I don't mind, and I would do it all damn day long if it weren't for the others. The vultures.
"How long have you and Rosé been together?" "Is it true you two got married?" "What's your father up to these days?" "Have you forgiven him?" "Have you seen him?" "When was the last time you even went home to visit?"
I hate the personal questions and never answer them. I hate the prying. I hate the rumors. I hate it all and for good reason—there are too many skeletons in my closet, too many secrets I've been concealing. Too many things I can't let them taint in a world so pure that I'm no longer welcome in it.
Rosé appears at my side, ready to go. She smiles, playing it up for the cameras, charming everyone as she answers what she can, answering what I won't.
We have dinner at some exclusive private club in the Upper Eastside. Rosé, having started her career modeling here in Manhattan, always seems to know everybody everywhere she goes. Some of her friends are hanging out, laughing and chatting, socialites and trust-fund assholes, sharing bottles of vintage wine and doing a few lines.
Cocaine.
As soon as the white powder surfaces, I'm making my excuse to go. These people used to be my people, too. Friends. But Rosé's the only one who seems to be concerned about my hasty exit. She grabs my hand, trying to stop me when I stand, her eyes eerily dark. "Please? Stay! Celebrate! We never get to hang out anymore like this."
"I would... you know I would… if I could," I say, nudging her chin as she stares up at me. "Don't party too hard, okay?"
I leave before she can try to stop me again, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact. Instead of taking the awaiting limo and heading straight back to the hotel, I stroll a few blocks, slipping into a small bar. It's quiet, not very busy despite it being Friday night. I find an empty stool along the edge of the bar as the bartender approaches.
It doesn't take long, just a few seconds, before recognition happens, his eyes widening, but he doesn't announce my presence.
"What can I get for you?" he asks, not calling me by name.
"Whatever's on tap."
He pours me a beer. I don't ask what it is. I sit in silence after he slides it in front of me, wrapping my hands around the cold glass. I can smell it. It's cheap. Not the cheapest shit, but still… cheap. My mouth waters, and I can damn near taste the golden liquid, my tongue tingling from anticipation as I stare at it.
"Something wrong?" the bartender asks after a few minutes, motioning to the beer I'm not drinking. "Would you like something different instead?"
"No, it's fine. I just… I haven't had a drink in a while."
"How long?"
"Twelve months."
It's been a long year—longer since I touched anything harder. I'm stuck between steps eight and nine of AA, between admitting I've wronged people and making up for what I've done. You see, there's a catch to those steps, one nobody mentions until you get there. It isn't so cut and dry. There's a bit of fine print to making amends that says 'except when doing so would cause further harm'.
"So, I know it's none of my business," the bartender says, "but twelve months is one hell of a streak. You sure you want to ruin that?"
"No," I admit. "Not sure about much these days."
He doesn't wait for me to say anything else. The beer in my hand is snatched away and replaced with Coke.
The soda. Not the drug.
"Been a while since I've had one of these, too," I tell him, but I don't hesitate to sip this drink. It's heaven in a plastic pint glass. Soda does hell on the body, though, with the empty calories, the bloating. Or well, at least that's what the nutritionist says that the studio hired to make sure I stay in shape.
"You wanna talk about it?" the bartender asks.
"About what?"
"About whatever has you almost breaking a twelve-month streak of sobriety tonight."
I shake my head. I would if I could. It's been eating me up inside. But what's bothering me isn't something I can talk about, because unlike most of what Hollywood Chronicles peddles, this is a real scandal.
"I appreciate it," I say, taking another sip of the soda before standing up. I toss a few dollars down out of gratitude and turn to leave before I'm tempted to spill my guts and tell the guy a story that could earn him retirement-level money.
Using my phone, I order a car and step out of the bar as it connects me with a driver. Three minutes away. The second the warm night air greets me, something else does, too—a small crowd. A couple girls, just teenagers. Nobody ever gives teenage girls enough credit. They're smart. They probably aren't even old enough to hang out at a bar, but they knew how to track me down. No paparazzi yet, but they won't be far. They never are.
The requests fly at me. Autographs. Pictures. Hugs. This time I stop for them. I've got three minutes to spare. The least I can do is give back to a few of the fans that have probably been looking for me all day. Hell, I'd be nothing without them. I scribble my name in sharpie on whatever they shove my way—pictures, t-shirts, even an arm—and take a few photos, putting on a smile that would make Sehun proud.
"Can you sign this? Please?" a blonde girl asks, shoving a DVD of the first Breezeo movie at me. "And make it out to Ryujin?"
"Ryujin," I mumble, jotting down her name, earning a squeal when I say it out loud. "How you doing tonight?"
"Amazing," she says, sounding like she means it. "My friends and I drove the whole way down here to see you when we found out you were filming."
"Yeah? How'd you find out?"
"It was all over the gossip blogs," she says. "There was even a video of Rosé talking about it."
Rosé. No matter how many times she's warned, she always slips up and says shit she shouldn't. "So you drove down here? From where?"
"Bennett Landing," she says.
My stomach sinks. "You're from Bennett Landing?"
"Yep."
"Nice place," I lie—or maybe I'm not lying, but as everything gets fuzzy, it sure as hell feels that way. "I've been through there a few times."
"I know!" she says. "Or well, I mean, I've heard stories."
"Stories, huh? What kind of stories?"
"I heard you got arrested once for running around naked in Landing Park."
She blushes as she spits out those words, while I laugh—genuinely laughing. I haven't done that in a while. "Damn, didn't think anybody knew about that."
"They do. They talk about it all the time. They say you got drunk and went streaking."
"Not quite," I say. "I wasn't streaking. I was with a girl."
Her eyes light up. "Really?"
"Really," I say. "She was hiding when the police showed up. The charges were dropped the next morning, but it's nice to know my moment of indecent exposure lives on in infamy."
She laughs. I laugh. It's a nice moment. I almost forget myself because of it, letting my thoughts slip back to that time, letting myself think about that world again. Guilt eats me up inside. I take a photo with Ryujin and sign a few more autographs before my car shows up to whisk me away. Six o'clock will come early, without a doubt, and I have a feeling I won't be getting much sleep tonight.