Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,43
to act in?”
His answer is rocket-quick. “Agent Zero.”
“Seriously?”
A sly smirk crests his lips as he gets up from his spot across the way, crosses the distance, and sits down on the log beside me. A hum of energy runs through me at his unexpected proximity, but I squash it down with a swallow from my water bottle. “Is that your second question?”
“No, smartass.” Good feelings fleeing, I snort. “This is my second question…why was it your favorite move to act in?”
“Hmm…” He pauses for a long moment as he runs his fingers along his beard. “There are a lot of reasons. For one, the director, Lance Lee, is a genius and was amazing to work with. The cast was first-rate, even with such a large ensemble, and that movie was the first and last movie I ever chose for myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the one who decided to pursue that script.” He moves his eyes from the fire to meet mine. “Not my parents, not my agent, but me. It was the one and only thing I did for myself when I was still working in Hollywood.” He laughs sardonically. “Which is probably why it went downhill so fucking fast from there.”
At the mention of Luca’s parents, I rack my brain, trying to remember everything I can about his family history. It’s all a little hazy, but at one point, I’m pretty sure his mom was both his and his sister’s manager. I’m not sure of the details that led to that changing, but I do remember that right before he left Hollywood for good, Robin and Lionel Weaver went through a nasty and very public divorce. It was like the OJ trial of divorce media, and I can’t imagine it would have been easy on any of them.
I don’t really know what happened to his mom and dad after that, but I know they didn’t stick around. In fact, it’s like everyone but his sister left Hollywood.
“Not sure if you know this, but Agent Zero still holds box office records,” I say instead of digging into a depressing hole with all of that shit, my lips turning up into a small grin. Maybe a little good news about the one movie he actually loved doing will put him in an amenable mood.
“Eight years later? Is that right?”
I nod.
When his eyes turn soft in thought, and I decide it’s best if I don’t push or pry anymore. Intuitively, I know—both for him and my agenda—now is not the time for more questions.
And it sure as hell is not the time to hobble over to my tent to get the screenplay out of my backpack.
Luca needs a moment, and I’m going to respect that. And, with the kind way he’s treated me for the past several hours, I’m surprised to find it’s not a hard thing to achieve.
Honestly, today, Luca Weaver has been a gentleman and—dare I say it—likable.
I’m willing to play my cards later if dropping the subject now will get him to stay that way.
Luca
Nothing good happens after midnight. When I was a kid, my mom was always telling Raquel and me that the streets of LA transformed like Cinderella’s fucking carriage at the final stroke of twelve.
For the first time in my life, I think I might be close to agreeing with her. To start with, lying here in the dark while I listen to see if I can hear any movement from Billie’s pink monstrosity while thinking of my parents at all are giant red fucking flags, but my mind has been off to the races since I came in here a few hours ago. I’ve been in this fucking tent, trying like hell to fall asleep, but between Bailey’s snoring and my brain refusing to shut off, I’m failing miserably at getting some shut-eye.
I stare up at the top of my tent, counting the seams and fighting the guilt I feel over Billie’s injury.
Fuck. I need to be more careful from here on out.
I know she’s tough. And no doubt, she’s as stubborn as a damn mule, but I need to do a better job of looking out for her.
I’ll stop being such a miserable prick, and I’ll do better tomorrow, I tell myself. I will make Billie’s safety my number one priority, even when she’s being a pain in my ass.
Eyes heavy and mind slowing down, I force a deep, cleansing breath into my lungs and shut my eyes.