Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,87
only thing different in Hollywood is me. Word has officially gotten out that I’m back in town, and the paparazzi is hip to my game.
My stop at Alfred’s Coffee—the best coffeehouse in this city—was met with a hundred camera flashes and even more random, bullshit questions tossed my way.
“Luca Weaver! Over here! Are you back for good?”
“Are you excited to work with Serena Koontz?”
“What do you think of your costar, Lucy Larson?”
“Is it true that Capo Brothers Studio is making you get drug tested every day on set?”
The drug testing one was a little irritating, but how can I be pissed about it? A reputation is created for a reason. Sure, I was never an actual drug addict, but I was dabbling. I was partying. I was doing all the things you shouldn’t be doing.
The old Luca would have been a fucking dick to those paps.
He would’ve flipped them the bird.
He would’ve told them to fuck off.
But I refuse to be that sad, pathetic guy again.
So, instead of threatening to toss their cameras into the street, I simply waved, said hello, and told them to have a good day.
I can be nice without giving in to their questions.
I can be nice without giving them more than I’m willing to give.
I have control of all that. I have control of everything related to my career in Hollywood.
Thank fuck.
Fresh coffee in hand, I pull into the studio’s parking lot and head inside.
This is the second day of our script run-through, and I’m trying to set a new precedent. Instead of running twenty minutes behind, I’m now twenty minutes early.
That probably has more to do with the fact that I actually feel like I’m in control of my career, but the reasons do not matter. I am early, and Hollywood’s bad boy with a penchant for tardiness is in the past.
I sit at the table, scrolling through emails on my phone, and waiting for the rest of the cast and crew to arrive.
But just as I’m scrolling through an email from Adele bitching about the fact that I have yet to hire an assistant—I don’t want a fucking assistant—a text message comes through.
Lou: Why in tarnation is some kid named Jeremy stopping by my place, wanting to make goddamn small talk?
I grin and type out a response.
Me: I’m assuming that in addition to the lovely small talk, he also brought you some supplies.
Or, at least, that’s what he better have fucking brought.
Jeremy is an eighteen-year old Rally local and Earl Harry’s grandson. Once I made the decision to head back to LA, I ensured arrangements were taken care of.
With my shooting schedule and, well, my attempts at getting Billie to forgive me commandeering most of my time, I had no idea when I would be able to get back to Alaska to check on Lou. Which, thankfully, is where Jeremy comes in.
Lou: Yeah. He brought a whole bunch of shit. But I already told you I’m good.
Me: Just make nice with Earl Harry’s grandson and be grateful I still care about your cranky ass.
Lou: Cranky ass. Ha. Like you should talk. And just be prepared, the next time you’re back in Alaska, I’m kicking your ass.
A small laugh escapes my throat.
Me: Bring it on, old man.
“Mr. Weaver, can I get you anything?”
Eyes away from my phone, I find a young, twentysomething guy with short brown hair standing beside me.
“No, I’m good, but thanks.” I shake my head. “And please, no need for formalities. Just call me Luca.”
He nods, smiles, and then walks away.
Back to my emails, I hope to find a message from my sister.
I’ve now resorted to emailing her, at an address she hopefully still uses. But so far, no luck.
I have no idea what is going on with her or how she is doing, but I refuse to resort to Google and fucking TMZ to figure out what my baby sister is up to these days.
With all the bad press I received prior to my departure from Tinseltown, I know how shit can get spun and twisted.
When I was twenty-four, a story broke that I had checked in to rehab for a cocaine addiction.
But I wasn’t in rehab. And I wasn’t addicted to cocaine.
I was in fucking Alaska visiting Lou.
Fucking gossip hounds.
“Would you like a fresh cup of coffee, Luca?”
I look up to find the same man standing there, smiling at me while holding out a cup of coffee in his hands.