Not Another Player

20.STFD

3AM // Matchbox Twenty

"Shut the front door!" My costar shouts before smacking me on the shoulder. "You were on the road with Ryan Christiansen? And you left to come film this garbage?" She waves her copy of the script for Fatal Payback, the action movie we're filming, in my face.

"Um, yeah." I keep my gaze focused on my script. There are last minute changes to the scene we're shooting, and I've got to memorize them before the director says 'action.' If I were a name in Hollywood, I could get away with winging it between takes, but as it is, I'm skating on thin ice. If I'm labeled as a problematic actor, I'm out. I'm already running a rep as a playboy, I don't need one as incompetent on top of it.

"Holy Clementine he's hot." The woman fans herself as she scrolls whatever images she's searched up. I've read about Emily Montano and her crushes. Half of her social media posts are thirst trap reactions and 'hot take confessions' of her lust for the latest Hollywood hottie. I guess it's Ryan's turn. He'd be so excited.

In fact, I make a mental note to text him some of the shit she's saying later.

"Brutal," she says, leaning back in her chair and slowly melting out of it. Once she's a puddle on the floor, she leans her chin on my knee and looks up at me with puppy dog eyes.

"I'm begging for an intro. Literally, I'll do anything. Need a latte? A late night pizza run? I'll do it. Help me slide into his DM's and I'll be at your beck and call."

I look at her for a split second before scoffing. "I have an assistant for that kind of shit." Not that I've used him for anything like that. Strictly job related tasks. That's another rep I don't need, all of my personal business in the hands of some Hollywood insider who ends up the tabloid's 'source' quoting shit about my life.

"Gah, you're a hard ass." Emily flops fully onto the floor.

I think she'd get along great with that girl Misty from the party. Both of them are 'extra' as my sister would say.

"What's he like?" She rolls onto her stomach as she asks.

"Who?"

"Ry-an." She draws out his name while rolling her eyes to emphasize what an idiot I am for asking. Now she's acting like my sister.

"He's fine."

"He sure as fuck is. Fiiiiiine."

I decide silence is best, so I say nothing, returning to the script to work on the scene. We're shooting the middle of the movie first, so Emily's character is about to find out that my character has been lying about his identity. It's also when she finds out her attraction to him is forbidden.

And he kisses her.

Which means I have to kiss her. One of those, heat-of-the-moment angry kisses, according to the blocking notes. I picture kissing Char like that. It doesn't work. There is no part of me that's angry enough to kiss my girl with that kind of fury. Passion? Hell yes, but not frustration.

The truth is, I used to dig on this part of a scene when the sexual tension boils over and the two characters give in. I've had a few opportunities to act it out and it's fucking hot. But now that I'm with Char and she's hundreds of miles away, I feel a little sick at the prospect. She's the only woman I want that experience with. How do working actors deal?

Thinking about it, I realize they don't. So many in this business can't keep relationships going for long.

"Let's run lines again," Emily says from her spot on the floor. As long as she stays there and isn't trying to actually act out the scene, I'll be fine.