Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,4
you anywhere.”
Adele laughs, a little rasp from years of smoking making it sound almost devious. “With the way this city keeps changing, I don’t want you to take me anywhere. No smoking, avocado toast, and sugary coffee drinks…” She shakes her head. “I hardly recognize the old girl anymore.”
Her table mate sighs and takes a sip of coffee. “You know what that’s a sign of?”
“What?”
I move my eyes back to my laptop, but I can’t stop myself from continuing to eavesdrop on their conversation. It’s too interesting.
“That you need to retire.”
“You act like I’m still working full time, Irene,” Adele retorts.
“You shouldn’t be working at all.”
“Horseshit. I’ve got a sweet gig, making sure Luca Weaver gets his royalty checks, and I plan to do it until the day I die.”
Luca Weaver? Good God, I haven’t heard that name in ages…
He got into acting as a child—I want to say around the age of ten or eleven—and by the time he was eighteen, he had a freaking Oscar. Not just a nomination—the freaking guy actually won.
He was the “it” thing there for a while, landing bigger and bigger roles every year until his midtwenties. He played the lead in a blockbuster spy movie that, if I’m not mistaken, still holds box office records, but his personal life took on a much more detrimental role.
Hollywood’s Baddest Boy.
That’s what they called him. I remember it distinctly.
Unfortunately, I imagine that kind of moniker is great for notoriety, but bad for the boy. He partied hard, rumors of drugs and alcohol and rehab a near-constant in his wild life. And then one day, he was just gone.
Up and out of the spotlight completely at the height of his career.
The conversation veers and Adele goes back to bitching about not being able to smoke with her morning cup of joe, and I lose interest in listening. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve got everything I need to text my sister, Birdie, with the most interesting topic we’ve discussed in a long time.
Me: You will never guess whose name I just heard.
Birdie: You’re right. I will never guess. Who?
Me: Guess.
Birdie: God, I hate when you do this. Just tell me.
Me: Birdie, just toss out a guess, for heaven’s sake!
Birdie: Fine. Post Malone.
I scrunch up my nose and laugh.
Me: Post Malone? Tell me you’re not listening to “Die for Me” for the 47th time today.
Birdie: Shut up. It’s catchy! Just freaking tell me already!
Me: Fine. Luca Weaver.
Birdie: Oh my Godddd, I haven’t heard that name in SO long.
Me: I know, right?
His younger sister, Raquel, is still a successful actress—in fact, she was pretty much all I heard about when she unexpectedly showed up pregnant in the tabloids not too long ago—but Hollywood finally stopped talking about Luca a few years back. I guess everyone finally gave up hope of him making some big, flashy return.
Birdie: You had the biggest crush on him when we were kids.
Ha! Like she should talk.
Me: I seem to remember YOU having a poster of him in your room. Come to think of it, you had it in just the right spot to stare at it from your bed while you diddled your doodle.
Truthfully, we were both fangirls of Luca Weaver back in the day. We would race home from school just to watch him and Raquel act in our favorite television series—Home Sweet Home.
Birdie: Yeah, right. I didn’t have time to diddle anything. Granny tore it down two days after I put it up.
I laugh at the thought.
Granny was a stickler for shit like that. She loathed the idea of us being boy-crazy teenagers. For a woman of her generation, she was quite progressive.
Instead of encouraging us to think about our dream weddings, she encouraged us to think about going to college. Instead of husbands, she spoke about independence. Instead of babies, she told us to dream about our future careers.
All of that will come, she always said. She wanted us to live our lives for ourselves and no one else before settling down.
Birdie: So…are you going to tell me how the name Luca Weaver came up or keep talking about how badly you need to get your kitty tickled?
Me: STOP. I’m doing just fine on my own.
Birdie: Sure, sure.
Me: You’re ridiculous.
Birdie: As I recall, you’re the one who brought masturbation into this conversation.