Method - Kate Stewart Page 0,79

his concerned eyes warm when he sees the smile I’m wearing beneath.

“I shouldn’t do shots without eating dinner first,” I proclaim with a laugh. Patient eyes gaze down at me as he waits for me to speak truthfully because he knows me, he knows I will.

“Okay, Hollywood,” I admit tearfully, “you got the girl. Now what?”

“Now everything,” he promises before his lips crush mine.

“One of the things about acting is it allows you to live other people’s lives without having to pay the price.”—Robert De Niro

Lucas

TWO MONTHS AGO

INT: Nikki sits in a dim room on a metal counter gripping his calf, teeth clenching as he sorts through surgical tools.

Alejandro

Wait for the doctor. He should be here soon.

Nikki

I don’t wait. He’s late.

Alejandro

It’s too deep. You can’t get that bullet out on your own.

Nikki

Give me some of that Chiba.

Alejandro leans in with a spoonful, and Nikki sniffs it back with vigor

Nikki grips the scalpel

Nikki

In five minutes, this will have been a dream.

Alejandro

Patience, brother. You could get an infection.

Nikki

No, that’s only if I lay down with your fat wife.

Alejandro

She’s not fat, she has the build of her father.

Nikki

Even worse.

“Lucas,” a knock sounds on my trailer door and Nova comes walking in with a package in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but this just came for you. The courier said it was urgent and I spent twenty minutes arguing with him because he insisted he give it to you directly.”

Nodding, I keep my eyes on the script, flipping the metal through my fingers.

“Need anything?”

I know she’s eyeing my lunch which I haven’t touched.

When I don’t answer, she shows her concern the only way she knows how…by bitching.

“You need to eat, Lucas.”

When I keep my head down, I hear her grumble and the door slams a few seconds later.

Getting back to the script, I spend a few more minutes with the words, letting the architect take over—sort, pull, compose, and draw before laying it all out flat like a blueprint in front of me. Glancing over at the package, I assume is a script, I dismiss it until my vision blurs. Curiosity wins and I finally rip it open. Inside is a script, but for a movie I’ve already made. An envelope falls out with a note scribbled on the front.

It’s all up to you.

G

Ripping it open, I tilt it, so the contents fall in my hand. Thumbing the flash drive, I flip it into my palm, turning it over, the weight of it making my stomach roll.

And then my laptop is open, and the screen rotates briefly when I pull up the media source and click play. And I’m there, in the room, familiar voices sounding. Resuming the flip of the coin I turn the volume up and quicken my fingers, sweat sliding down my back in rivulets. I watch on, second by second, speeding the workings of my knuckles, collecting all the air I can as I’m gutted from one end of me to the other. I can’t look away, I can’t erase what I’ve seen. My chest begins to cave, but only briefly before it expands to the point of exploding.

Thirst like I’ve never known dries my throat, traveling down my insides and chokes me like a suffocating blanket.

It’s when the screen goes black that I see red.

Flames of outrage lick me from all sides. And then I’m ablaze, engulfed in disbelief and fury. Glass shatters as my heart rattles in my chest begging for relief, my mind reeling as I try to rip all thoughts away. Wood splinters around my knuckles as I fuel the fire, dousing myself in kerosene to escape the searing inside.

But there’s no extinguishing this hatred.

There’s no extinguishing this truth.

Rage overtakes me.

And I let it, ripping the life around me apart to match the rubble left inside. I rage until I’m gratified with the wreckage and can’t see through the blur of destruction. I rage until I’m burning so white-hot that I can see nothing else. I rage and let it wreak its havoc because anything feels better than this reality. I rage until I go numb. I rage until I suffocate.

Mila

PRESENT

Lucas: When, when will you talk to me?

Lucas: Tell me where you are.

Lucas: I didn’t do this to hurt you.

Lucas: Please just tell me you’re okay.

I hadn’t texted him since I left for the winery. It was wrong, immature to make him worry like that, but I needed space and he refused to give it. He was a hypocrite that way, and it only fueled my anger.

As