by Megan Walker
Get your free book today!
Sign up for our readers’ group and get a free copy of Everything We Might Have Been, a full-length, stand-alone romance.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Acknowledgments
One
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
YOU ARE THE STORY
Copyright © 2020 The Real Sockwives of Utah Valley
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design
Decorated table and lights: elvetica Adobe Stock
Milk bottle: oligliya Adobe Stock
Tulips: smeagorl Vector Stock
Published by Garden Ninja Books
ExtraSeriesBooks.com
First Edition: February 2020
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Jennifer Bair,
who can’t ever wait for the next one
One
Felix
It’s my first day on set, and I’m on my way to meet Axel Dane, the child star I’m being paid to teach cello. Or, really, to look like he can play cello for the camera. When I first got offered the job—through my band’s agent—I thought it would be a great way for me to pick up side work while my wife is recovering from childbirth and our band is on hiatus. It should be an easy way to bring in a little extra money and give Jenna some solo time with our new baby—something I know she’s been looking forward to.
Within minutes of meeting Axel, however, I already know I’ve made a mistake.
Axel sits slumped in a papasan chair in the dead center of his dressing room. He’s ten, the same age as my son, Ty, so I expected there to be toys or video game systems or at least a tablet in here, but the room is empty except for some sparse furniture, a water bottle sitting on the table, and a cello on a stand in the corner.
“I need my organic quinoa,” Axel says to me in a disgruntled tone. “I can feel my insulin dropping.”
I blink at him. “Are you diabetic?”
He sneers at me, like he’s trying to cover up for not knowing what that means. “No.”
At this point, I’m sure of several things. The first is that this kid has mistaken me for someone who is paid to care about his probably-non-existent insulin problems and his need for pretentious organic grains. The second is that I’m pretty sure quinoa is a carb, and would therefore not be helpful if he did, in fact, have low insulin levels.
The third is that I ought to be at home with my wife and my son and my six-week-old daughter, not here trying to teach this kid how to look like a cello prodigy.
“Also,” he says, “this dressing room is too small. Get me a new one.”
“Sorry,” I tell him. “I can’t do either. I’m here to teach you to play the cello. Ready to get started?”
“No,” Axel says, one lock of his perfectly styled, dark brown hair falling into his eyes. “I can’t work under these conditions.”
I only mostly manage to smother a laugh. This kid is an actor, and I’m starting to get the feeling he’s punking me. A feeling that I might describe as hope, because if he’s serious—
“There you are!” a woman’s voice cries from the hallway behind me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where in god’s name is my son’s organic quinoa?”
I turn around to face a tall woman in a beige, designer pantsuit that reminds me of something my mom would have in her closet. Her short, curly hair is the same color as Axel’s. I’m surprised he kept his natural color for the role, but perhaps she’s dyed hers to match.
“Sorry for the confusion,” I say. “I’m not the . . . quinoa . . . person.” What would they even call that person? Does this staff position exist? “I’m the cello consultant. I’m here to teach Axel.”
The woman looks crestfallen. “Well, he can’t learn anything under these conditions.”
I immediately see where the kid gets his attitude.
My phone vibrates, and I pull it out and look at it. It’s my sister Dana, who’s been calling me non-stop the last couple of weeks, even though she’s been over to see the baby twice already. I remember Dana being a wreck after she had Ephraim, so I’d think she’d get that Jenna wants some time to get her feet under her before we let people invade our house at will, but this is Dana. She always thinks she has better ideas for how people should be living their lives than they do.
I silence my phone. “There’s a vending machine down the hall,” I tell Axel’s mom. “How about I get the kid a snack and then make sure they got him the right size cello?”
The woman narrows her eyes at me. “I’m Jean Dane,” she says, like that’s a valid response to what I just said. “And you are?”
“Felix Mays.” I refuse to follow this with “cello instructor,” both because I told her that already, and because I’m now remembering why I always refused to teach cello to bratty kids when I was in high school. I mean, yeah, I never needed the money, but I don’t now, either.
Clearly, this whole thing was a mistake, but I’m not sure I can get out of it now. I could march back to the production assistant who pointed me in the direction of Axel’s dressing room and tell them I’m done, but I’ve already signed contracts, and I have a schedule, and—
“Get my son a bigger dressing room, and we can think about looking at the cello.” Jean pulls her own phone out of her pocket. “I need to take this,” she says, and answers the phone before I can reiterate that I am not the purveyor of dressing rooms any more than I am of quinoa.
I sigh and step back into the dressing room. Axel is still sitting in the exact same position, slumped in that papasan chair in the middle of the mostly bare room like he’s a tiny James Bond villain. I don’t think my son could sit so still for that amount of time without a handheld game system in front of him. And on a movie set, he’d be bouncing (literally) out of his chair and trying to look at anything and everything there was to see.
But I suppose this is all old hat to Axel, which is kind of sad.
“Well, that is just unacceptable,” Jean says from the hallway. �
�My son’s contract is not being honored, and he needs someone to enforce it immediately. Who is going to do that if Marlin isn’t available?”
I look at Axel, and he stares back at me. In addition to his unnatural stillness, the kid is wearing a blue button-up shirt and perfectly tailored, gray blazer, like he stepped out of the pages of the fall Abercrombie Kids catalog. There’s not a trace of rips or stains or dirt on them that would indicate he’s ever played in these clothes—or played at all.
Though possibly I’m reading too much into that. After all, I have a kid with a weird fondness for sweater vests.
Regardless, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to convince Axel to work with me until his mother stops flipping out about the various dietary and environmental crises facing her family, so I might as well see if I can hurry this along. “What’s going on?”
Axel shrugs. “My agent is in jail.” He sounds no more excited about this than he is about learning to play cello.
“Yikes.”
Jean hangs up the phone and steps into the dressing room, looking defeated.
“Typical,” she says. “Just typical.”
I’m not sure if it’s typical of Marlin to not come through for his clients in general, or typical of him to find himself in jail, but I also don’t want to know.
“So,” I say. “I’m sorry you’re having problems today, but if I could just get Axel to sit down with the cello for a minute so we’re sure we’ve got him the right size, that would be—”
“Listen, Mr. Maid,” Jean begins.
“Mays.”
“Whatever. I don’t know who you think you are, but my son is a star. So until I can get his agent in here to make these people do their jobs, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
I look at Axel, and he nods like this is the final word from both of them.
These two make quite the team.
“So when is his agent getting out of jail?” I ask. “I guess I’ll come back then.”
“I don’t know.” Jean waves a dismissive hand. “He’s been accused of being involved in some rather unsavory projects.” She picks up her phone and shows me the screen, on which is a news article. Hollywood Children’s Agent Arrested in Child Pornography Sting, the headline says.
“Oh my god,” I say. “That’s terrible.”
“I know,” Jean says. “I suppose Axel is going to need a new agent. Marlin can’t very well do his job from prison, can he?”
“Plus, you know. He might be endangering your child.”
Jean looks at me sharply. “Oh, no. I’m not worried about that. No one would do that to my son. He’s a star.”
I squint at her. I’m a twenty-four-year-old guy who has been a parent for only two years, and until last month had no experience with kids under eight years old. In general, I try not to judge other people’s parenting, because heaven knows I’m no expert.
But my opinion of Jean’s motherly abilities is plummeting with each word that comes out of her mouth.
I’m about to walk out of this dressing room, find the PA, and tell her that under no circumstances can I work under these conditions. I’m sure I won’t be the first consultant to quit on the kid, and if he survives in this industry long enough to work on another film, I won’t be the last.
Jean lets out a little relieved sigh. “Oh, good. Marlin’s assistant sent over a list of agents who might be a suitable replacement. I’m sure any of them would jump at the opportunity. I should have someone here within a few hours.”
My mouth drops open. This woman—who’s so thoroughly failed to vet the professionals that work with her kid that one of them has recently been arrested for child pornography—is about to sign with the first person who’ll take them, just because he happens to be recommended by, of all people, the aforementioned child pornographer.
Axel bounces in the papasan chair. “Mom, where’s my quinoa? I can feel my insulin dropping! It’s almost gone!”
I shake my head, waiting for the mom to tell her son that he doesn’t have magical insulin detecting powers, that people with real medical problems have real medical devices for measuring this issue, and that he’s just grumpy and needs to go to the vending machine and pick out a snack.
“Oh dear,” Jean says, wringing her hands. “Of course. I’ll go find the AD and make sure someone gets that quinoa. This is unacceptable. Hold on, sweetheart.”
Axel lets out a whine that is startlingly familiar. This is the first moment that this kid has done anything I’m remotely used to seeing from my own ten-year-old. Then he adds, “But Moooooooooom, I need my quiiiiiiiiiinoa,” and the familiar moment has passed.
I’m pretty sure Ty doesn’t know what quinoa is, and if he did, he wouldn’t be whining that he wanted to eat it.
Jean cringes. “I’m sorry, honey. Do you want me to sing your song?” And then without waiting for an answer, she begins to sing a clearly made-up number about butterflies swirling down from the skies and calming down poor, delicate Axel.
I think I might be losing my mind.
“Mom!” Axel shouts. “Stop singing!”
And while I agree with him, the fact that she lets her kid talk to her like that and then does exactly what he says is the final straw.
“I know an agent,” I say.
Jean gives me a patronizing look. “I’m sure you do. But Axel is a star. He needs the very best.”
I curse the stupid part of me that feels responsible for keeping this child—who, let’s face it, is largely not to blame for the brat he is—out of the hands of Hollywood’s child pornographers.
“I think he’s good,” I say. “He represents Kim Watterson.”
For the first time, Jean Dane looks at me like I might have something beneficial to offer her. And given that not that long ago I was playing sold-out stadiums full of screaming fans, I find this more than a little insulting.
“Kim Watterson,” she says crisply. “Yes, that might do.”
Oh, god. If I can even get Josh Rios to do this, he’s going to kill me. We don’t know each other all that well—his wife is best friends with my sister—but if what this kid needs is an agent, and won’t work until I supply him one—
“Can you get him here?” she asks. “Within an hour, preferably.”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “Let me see what I can do.”
And this is how I come to be standing outside a building on the vast studio lot, dialing Josh Rios’s number. I didn’t tell my sister why I wanted her best friend’s husband’s phone number, even though she asked.
If I’d told her, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have given it to me.
“Josh Rios,” Josh says when he answers. I’m glad he picks up unfamiliar numbers. He probably gets a lot of work calls from people he hardly knows.
“Josh,” I say. “This is Felix Mays. Gabby’s brother.” I didn’t need that preamble. Josh has met me, and obviously knows who I am. I played in the band at his wedding, for god’s sake, and—
“Felix!” Josh says, sounding happy but slightly confused to be hearing from me. “What’s up?”
“Um. I have a bit of a professional problem I’m hoping you can help me with.”
“Okay.” Josh sounds even more confused, but he seems willing to hear me out.
“So I’m working this job as a music consultant for a project about a cello prodigy—”
“Oh, god,” Josh says. “Please tell me you are not trying to teach cello to Axel Dane.”
I close my eyes. “Yeah.”
“So I’m too late to tell you not to take the job? Because other than that, I’m not sure how I can be of any help—”
“This kid is a nightmare,” I tell him. “And his mother’s worse.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that about him. This is why I don’t represent kids. The actual children I could handle, but the
show parents? They really are the worst.”
I pause. “So about that.”
Josh laughs, and then goes quiet. “Wait. Tell me you’re not calling to ask me to rep this kid.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Here’s the thing. He’s losing his agent, and they say they won’t work until they have someone new, and the mom sounds like she’s going to sign with the first person who wants them, even though she’s simultaneously saying her kid is the best and anyone would be lucky to have him.”
“Who is Axel with currently?”
“Marlin something,” I say.
“Oh.” Josh obviously already knows the full implications of this. “I heard that news was going to drop today.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And apparently the mom is asking his office who they recommend as a replacement. Since he can’t very well do his job from jail, she says.”
“Oh my god,” Josh says. “Yeah, I know the circles Marlin moves in. They’re all just as bad as he is. Everyone knows it, but no one can do anything about it.”
This is what I was afraid of. “And it’s like she’s not even worried. She’s sure that no one would ever dare to do such a thing to her son.”
“She’s probably right,” Josh says, “if only because he’d be too recognizable.”
“Still.”
“Yeah,” Josh says. “Still.”
There’s a long silence.
“So you want me to do something about this,” Josh says finally. There’s a resignation in his voice that tells me his conscience won’t let him abandon the kid to the heinous adults who are clearly not going to do their jobs and protect him.
I’m glad I’m not the only one having an attack of that today. “Look, I know I should walk away. But I have a ten-year-old. If I can do something to help this kid out, and I don’t . . .”
“Yeah, okay. I can ask around and find someone who reps kids who isn’t a creep. I’ll have them give Axel’s mom a call.”
“She wants someone in the next hour.”
Josh groans. “Seriously? Even I can’t be there in an hour.”
“I figured,” I say. “But since you’re Kim Watterson’s agent, I think she might be willing to wait for you.”
