Character Bleed Book 1: Seaworthy

Prologue: Auditions“I cannot work with Colby Kent,” Jason hissed into his phone. “I will seriously end up punching someone in the face. Probably Colby Kent.” “I’ve only ever heard good things.” From the sound, Susan had set down her tea; the old-fashioned porcelain clink echoed across the line from her office, clear and sharp as her reputation. Jason knew both he and his acting career had been lucky to have her as an agent; sometimes, like now, he wished she didn’t know him quite so well. She threw in, on top of the previous statement, “Everyone adores him. Cast, crew, directors, producers. Audiences. Box offices. What did you do?” “Nothing!” “Are you sure?” “Yes!” “Did he say he doesn’t like you?” “No!” “Then what happened?” “He apologized for running late! And gave me his coffee!” This was true. Jason had been precisely on time, knocking at the door of the twelfth-floor Raven Studios production offices where he’d been told to come in for a screen test and chemistry read with the man in question. Colby Kent had opened the door, a flustered column of that everywhere-and-nowhere faded accent and stylishly disheveled shadow-brown hair, and had said, “Oh, no, I’m so sorry, we’re just finishing up some discussion about James—er, that is, the previous person we—would you mind waiting a minute or two? And would you like coffee? Oh, wait, are we out of coffee? Here, have mine, I’ve actually forgotten to drink out of it, so it’s perfectly untouched, I promise.” Jason, standing bewildered in the wake of this blue-eyed hurricane of niceness, had attempted to process an offered coffee-cup. Had hunted for words. That niceness couldn’t be real. That apology couldn’t be true. Colby Kent was an international phenomenon, a superstar, someone who’d built the skyrocket of his career out of romantic comedies and period dramas and critical acclaim. Someone who’d gone from playing the heroine’s gay best friend, to playing the glamorous bisexual hero of that provocative aristocratic television miniseries—even Jason had seen it, and had stared at that cool flippant elegance and that shower scene for far too long—to becoming a film-star romantic lead in his own right, and someone who’d somehow made everyone fall in love with him along the way. He was a producer on this particular film, which was a passion project of his, or so said the general industry commentary. Colby Kent was, at this moment in time, someone who had all the power. Someone who did not need to apologize and give up his own coffee to an aging action hero whose last film had been kindly referred to as “good for a forgettable popcorn afternoon.” For most people thirty-eight wasn’t even that old. Getting up there, though. Jason tried to imagine his future for a second or two. Jason Mirelli, starring in Revenge: Aftermath: Aftermath. Jason Mirelli in John Kill Part Ten: John Kills From A Wheelchair. In Heart Attack IV, only this time it’d be a documentary. He knew that was exaggerating. But he also knew the industry. And he wasn’t that young, and he wasn’t that attractive. Not terrible, or he thought not, but nothing to rely on, either. Brown eyes, square jaw, lots of weight and height, dark ominous eyebrows, craggy nose. It’d be a matter of time before the parts dried up or became self-parody, unless he was unbelievably fortunate, and he’d never been that. And his back had begun to creak alarmingly some mornings. And… …he’d been getting bored. He’d watched Colby Kent command the screen and everyone’s sympathies as the clumsily adorable single father stealing the heart of a cynical journalist in Local News, and as the quick-witted and tragic updated version of Mercutio in that modern-dress Romeo & Jules, and he’d thought: not this, not exactly, but something like this. Something that’s significant, that can also make people smile. Something that’s bigger, brighter, telling stories that scoop up hearts and souls. He was more or less out and public, as far as sexuality and liking both women and men—these days it wasn’t a huge deal, or mostly not, and he’d not made any real public statement or any kind of a big reveal out of it, and that seemed to be that. Quiet. Under the radar. Unremarked. Susan had advised him on that, too; you might see some reaction, she’d said, as far as outdated ideas of masculinity, if you’re massively indiscreet about it. But mostly people won’t care. And they hadn’t, though he hadn’t been dating anyone lately, and lately meant for the last three years. Occasional hookups, yeah. Fleeting connections at a bar, at a party. Nothing more. No time. No sense of connection. Nothing that seemed to click. This project, though…that’d clicked. It’d been a script he’d not been able to put down. Glorious, gorgeous period details. Taffeta and silk, satin sheets and brandy, and the slow unbuttoning of waistcoats and the shapes of two men’s bodies entwined. Lavish sweeping scope. Intimacy and epic proportions. Traded gazes across a Regency ballroom, and the thunder of guns at sea, during the battle of Trafalgar. He’d wanted to play Captain Stephen Lanyon so badly he could taste it: honey over bare skin, a stolen interlude, a dried rose pressed into a love-letter that lay signed, Always yours, Will. He wouldn’t even mind the scenes involving a plunge into deep water. He’d figure out that abyss when he came to it. He’d been in Vancouver finishing up a reshoot on the latest big-budget thriller. He’d sent a video, filmed with the help of friends. A hotel suite standing in for a nineteenth-century library. A short monologue from the script pages he’d seen. A parting vow, a hand held too long, a promise of devotion. He’d sent it shaking with desperation. Guns and battle he could do. Emotion, desire, longing— He hoped. Oh God he hoped. And he’d gotten a call. An in-person audition. And now, today, a screen test, along with three or four other actors, at least two of whom were far more famous than Jason had ever hoped to be. He’d be on camera with Colby Kent, today. Looking for chemistry. And Colby, who loved the novel that was the source material, was—as Jason’s brain helpfully pointed out yet again—a producer on this project. A very active and interested one. Who had a say, obviously, alongside his director—Jillian Poe, another critically acclaimed name, and another reason to be nervous—about whoever’d be playing Stephen, to his Will. Colby Kent had the say, really. Money. Production. The role. The person he’d want to tumble naked into bed with. Which therefore meant none of that apology to Jason, about everyday problems like running late and running out of coffee, had been real. Some sort of act. Or test of his patience. Or intimidation. Had to be. Right? Susan said nothing, exquisitely loudly. “You weren’t there for his coffee,” Jason explained, and heard how ludicrous this sounded, and gave up. “If I can’t work with him…” “Try,” Susan advised unhelpfully. “This is his pet project, and if you love the role as much as you say you do, you’ll get along with him.” “But—” “You told me you didn’t want another John Kill sequel or another Saint Nick Steel project. Serious, you said. Emotional, you said. Epic.” Jason paced a few feet down the hallway, and complained, “We don’t talk about Saint Nick Steel.” “It made you a lot of money.” “I punched a lot of tactically ill-prepared kidnappers while wearing a hat that made me the reincarnated spirit of Christmas. I’ve spent years punching people on camera. Or shooting them. I’ve got range.” “Which is why you asked me for something else, and I delivered. They liked your video audition enough to call you in, in person, and then again, and now you’re here. Doing a screen test for chemistry. With, let me remind you, Colby Kent.” “Dammit.” “Everyone likes Colby Kent, Jason. Do your job.” “I am doing my job,” Jason grumbled, “I’m expressing professional concerns to my agent,” and wandered around the hallway some more. No motion from the closed doors yet. Colby had waved the coffee at him with the insistence of someone who didn’t hear rejection much. He’d been taller than most media suggested, only an inch or two shorter than Jason’s own height, but slim and tidy as ever, in a cozy-looking royal blue sweater over casual grey slacks. That instantly recognizable voice held all those stories, the ones that were part of the public persona: thirty years old, the childhood in England, the American diplomat father and celebrated poet-laureate mother, the years they’d spent following his father’s postings to Germany and to France, and the years after his parents’ divorce, when he’d moved to Southern California with his mother and gone to a casting call as support for a friend, and everything had begun. Those poster-boy eyes had beamed Jason’s direction like the first-ever smile of summer oceans. Jason had taken the coffee because it’d been practically shoved at him, and had tried not to glare. Of course Colby Kent could afford to beam affably at low-budget hopelessly hopeful action-hero stars. Of course Colby felt sorry for him. Offering kindness, offering pity. He’d flung the cup into a trash bin once the door had closed. He muttered into the phone, “I can’t do this.” “Yes you can,” Susan said, “and you know it, so you’re whining at me.” “I am not.” “You are. This is a role you love, you’ve said so yourself, everything you wanted when you were looking at possibilities. And it’ll open up all those possibilities. Film festivals. The awards circuit. Jillian Poe’s a big name, and Colby Kent’s—” “Also a big name. I know.” “A huge audience draw, I was going to say.” “He annoys me.” “You’ve barely met him.” Jason scowled at a hapless nearby wall. The wall remained placidly beige and uninterested. “I told you. He gave me his coffee.” “I’m not seeing the problem.” “It was the way he did it! He looked at me like—and his hair is like—and he smiled and—” He flung arms around in exasperation. “Look, I don’t like him, okay? Nobody like him apologizes for keeping somebody like me waiting. Which means it’s fake. Which means he’s fake. And the stupid hair and the stupid smile are just parts of the act. And I have to go in there and pretend to want to flirt with him.” “If you really don’t think you can do it,” Susan said, “then tell them now, and leave. And give up on this chance. Otherwise, get yourself together, get in there, and be a goddamn good actor. Because you are. You’re good enough for that. And Jason—” Jason, defeated by praise and wanting this and cranky about it, swung around to face the door. And froze. Susan kept talking. He heard nothing. Colby Kent, leaning against the wall, gave him a little wave and a half-smile. The smile did not reach into those blue eyes, this time. “Oh s**t,” Jason said weakly. Susan said, “What was that?” He ignored her. He hung up. He swallowed hard and prepared to watch his career crash into a flaming heap of ignominious rubble. “I’m…I didn’t…I’m sorry if…” “If what?” Colby said. “I only thought I’d come to get you in person, and apologize again for the running late. We’re ready now, if you’d like.” His tone sounded friendly. His smile looked friendly. His eyes… Colby did not look angry. Or upset. Or like a man plotting revenge. Different, yes; some emotion lurked that hadn’t been present before. Jason couldn’t pinpoint it, and found himself looking more closely, trying to figure out answers. Those eyes were a shade darker around the outside of those famous irises, he noticed: a circle of even richer, more luxurious blue. That didn’t show up on most movie posters. “Ah,” Colby said lightly, “getting into character? You don’t have to pretend to want to flirt with me yet, you know. You can put it off until we’re in front of the camera, but we should be heading in, they’re waiting for us,” and turned, obviously expecting Jason to follow. Jason couldn’t follow. Jason could barely breathe. He put a hand on his companionable wall for support. The hallway lights beat down on his head.