The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,8
father had finished his sentences or supplied words when Rory got stuck. He hated it. Or worse, his dad would get this look in his eye if Rory struggled, part embarrassment, part cringing, like he didn’t understand how such a smart kid couldn’t string a sentence together.
Turning his back on his economics degree and entering the entertainment business had initially been about flaunting his freedom. That, and the fact the best speech therapist he’d ever had, Amelia, had guided him toward drama classes to improve his confidence as a kid and to practice techniques learned to control his stammer. He’d been hooked since.
Hosting a reality show would prove to his father he wasn’t a loser and, even better, that other people wanted to hear what he had to say even if Garth didn’t. It would show him how far he’d come. That nobody finished his sentences for him these days. That he could be successful despite his stutter.
“Because you’ve never done any speaking roles, the dialect coach will train you in vocal delivery of lines, help improve diction, get a good balance between tone and articulation, that kind of thing.” Chris closed his laptop and stood. “It’s all about getting the speech of your character right in the context of on-camera work, so don’t stress. You’ll be fine.”
Easy for him to say. Would a dialect coach pick up on his stutter? Reading lines off a monitor shouldn’t be a problem, as he’d had to read out loud for years as instructed by a therapist, but ad-libbing could trip him up.
“Any questions?”
When he didn’t respond immediately, Chris’s eyebrow rose, and Rory quickly shook his head.
“Great, then I’ll set everything up and text you the details.” Chris stood and held out his hand. “You deserve this, mate.”
Rory smiled and shook his agent’s hand. “Thanks for the opportunity.” It took more effort than usual to articulate the sentence clearly while he was a jumble of nerves.
His own TV reality show. It defied belief.
Becoming a stuntman seemed the perfect choice once his acting course had finished. Since then, driving behind the wheel in a car chase or jumping from a burning building gave him the adrenaline rush he craved.
The thought of standing in front of a camera, reading off a script, learning lines, left him cold. Not that he hadn’t done it before. That acting course had been a major step forward in managing his stutter. No, he knew his funk stemmed from something deeper.
A fear of being called out as a fraud.
Being up front and center on a show would entail interviews and promotions and a plethora of speaking opportunities that had the potential to undo him. Rehearsing lines that could be edited post-production was a far cry from answering questions on the spot by curious interviewers.
He’d never come out of it unscathed.
Six whiskey shots later, his nerves blurred. He didn’t give a shit anymore. Another few drinks and he could forget everything, at least for tonight.
He’d ordered a boutique beer chaser when the couple a few feet down the bar caught his attention. The exotic woman snagged his gaze first: shaggy brunette bob, figure-hugging black dress, manicured purple toes peeking from sparkly sandals, petite, curves in all the right places. Big hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth that had him imagining all sorts of fun ways he could forget about the dramas of this upcoming audition.
A wannabe hipster was coming on to her. Sidling up with a drink first, then putting the moves on her. Smarmy prick. Then he saw the guy grab her and her expression morph from disinterest to fear. It had him off his barstool in a second. Considering the whiskeys he’d consumed, he didn’t hesitate in posing as her boyfriend. Those acting classes came in mighty handy at times. The part where the dickhead deliberately tipped his wine down his shirt hadn’t been in the plan, but it got rid of the douche, and that’s all that mattered.
Having the stunner invite him up to her room was a bonus.
Now, as they rode the elevator in uncomfortable silence, Rory mentally cursed his inability to make small talk. One of the speech therapists he’d seen in his teens had admonished him for being afraid to speak. They’d encouraged him to practice the techniques he’d learned rather than clam up. Easy for them to say. They’d never experienced the gut-deep fear of embarrassment, the mortification that came with people’s overt pity when he couldn’t formulate a full sentence.
He could