“I haven’t heard yet,” he said, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.
Miles and Simon frowned.
“Maybe you should call your agent,” Simon suggested.
Jake felt even more freaked out. He walked to the other side of the room, ignoring Simon’s and Miles’s story-swapping, remembrances from their days as early actors. He hit the contact for Susie.
“The room situation’s all straightened out,” she said, in lieu of a greeting. “I gave them the heads-up to keep your room number private, in case that looney woman tries to show up again and leave you presents. Oh, and make sure they have an impressive fruit basket and turn-down service and a bottle of aged Scotch waiting for you, or I will have somebody’s balls.”
He grinned. “You take good care of me, Susie.”
“Bet your ass,” she said fiercely. “Not that yesterday was a good example. I’m sorry, kid, that was a fiasco all the way around.”
“I’m fine. I managed,” Jake said, then cleared his throat. “Say, Susie . . . did the producers get back to you about renewing my contract yet?”
There was a noticeable pause.
“I saw that we’d been picked up for season three by the network,” he rambled nervously. “Production should start up this summer, filming by July. I’ll feel a lot better when the ink’s dry on my renewal.”
Susie sighed. Jake could almost picture her face: the picture of a middle-aged New Yorker in L.A., dressed sharp as a razor, stylish caramel-colored haircut over shrewd brown eyes, signature red lipstick on a mouth frowning with regret.
“I’m just going to come out and say it. They’re not thrilled, and there’s been some pushback.”
Jake froze, glancing at the other guys, who were too engrossed in their own stories to notice. “What? Why?” he blurted, his voice low. “I haven’t done anything bad. I’m not in the tabloids every week. I’ve been lying low for almost a year!”
“That could be part of the problem,” Susie said, surprising him further. “Listen, it’s great that the show’s starting to pick up steam. But there’s your Q Score to consider.”
Jake boggled. “What does that even mean?”
She sighed again. “I blame myself,” she said. “I should’ve pushed you harder on this front. I mean, you’re Kurt Windlass’s kid, I figured if anyone would be familiar with the cutthroat world of Hollywood publicity, it’s you. Didn’t your father set you up with his publicist?”
“That was a few years ago,” Jake said, his voice tight. “So it’s publicity related?”
“It’s, well, recognizability, for lack of a better word,” Susie explained.
“And I’m not recognizable?”
“You don’t have a lot of brand recognition,” she admitted, her voice apologetic. “I mean, if we ask people on the street, ‘Who is Jake Reese?’ you’re pretty much known as either the underwear model or Kurt Windlass’s son.” She waited a beat. “If they recognize you at all.”
Now it was his turn to sigh.
She hemmed a little. “You know, it’s not too late to change your name . . .”
“I’m not Jake Windlass.”
“Of course you’re not,” she soothed, obviously expecting his response. “And it’s admirable that you don’t want to cash in on your father’s fame to further your own career.”
That wasn’t quite the reason, but he let it lie.
“But I’m having a tough time getting the producers to sign off,” she said. “It’s an uphill battle. The other guys are more bankable. They had that show together before, and if you got half the social media hits that Simon got, I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Miles doesn’t do a lot of social media,” Jake pointed out, feeling confused.
“Yeah, but he’s friends with Simon, so he gets a residual effect,” she said. “And he’s a fan favorite. Your part isn’t written like his.”
He grimaced. He could do more, he knew it. If they’d just give him a chance.
Susie cleared her throat, pressing forward. “If we got you more recognizable, it would help—not only with the contract renewal, but with other projects.”
“Other projects aren’t even on my radar right now,” Jake said. “I just want to lock up next season. Hell, several seasons, if they keep getting renewed. I love this show, Suse. What do I need to do?”
She let out another sigh. “These things take a little time, but of course, there’s always a way.”
Jake sighed, not wanting to get into that argument again. “What are you suggesting, then? Orchestrating some abuse problem that I can go to rehab for? Or some other crazy scheme?” He tried to force a laugh, even though his stomach knotted. “Really. It all sounds crazy. The tabloids can come up with a lot of that crap on their own, you know.”
“Nothing that radical,” Susie assured him. “There’s train-wreck publicity, and then there’s the PR that actually helps your career. Like the charity stuff you do . . .”
“That’s not for publicity,” he said quickly.
“I know, you sweet kid. But there’s no shame in it. Look at Chris Pratt, Russell Wilson,” she argued. “It’s not just about you boosting your image. It helps get the name of the charities out, too.”
“I’ll think about it.” He rubbed at his temple. “Anything else?”
“A girlfriend, the right girlfriend, could work wonders.”
He groaned. “No.”
“What? Publicity setups can be effective, and they cut those deals all the time. Sure, they don’t always work—that Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston fiasco, for example—but sometimes they . . .”
“Wait, that was fake?”
She laughed, a gravelly smoker’s laugh. “You are so cute. What are you, twelve?”
“So you’re saying I should get a fake girlfriend,” he reiterated. He hated when Susie teased him for being naïve.
“Let me see who I can come up with,” she said. “Talk to you later, sweetie.”
“Susie, no—damn it!” She’d already hung up.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, and spun. It was one of the convention people, looking annoyed. “You’re on,” the guy hissed, covering the microphone of his headset. Jake quickly apologized, feeling guilty, and followed him out the door.
The panel was ready, and Simon and Miles had already made their way onto the “stage,” such as it was. There were three chairs, and three microphones, and that’s it.
It was a different thing than filming on-set. The energy was like a wall. There had to be a few hundred people out there, mostly women. They wore Mystics T-shirts, and a few were cosplaying. Some wore his characteristic leather jacket, others were dressed as Druid priestesses or wore Templar armor.
“This question is for Simon,” said one of the fans, dressed as what he recognized was a Templar seminarian. “You’re best friends with, and share a house with Miles. What is his most annoying habit? And what is his most endearing?”
Simon rubbed his hands together, and Jake couldn’t help but laugh, especially when Miles hid his face behind his arms.
“His most annoying trait is the healthy food. He’s constantly trying to make me eat new vegetables . . .”
“Hey, you liked fennel bulb,” Miles gave a muffled protest.
“And his most endearing?” Simon’s eyes gleamed with glee. “He sleeps with a stuffed panda bear named Mr. Bobo.”
Miles emerged, pretending outrage. “You swore you wouldn’t bring him up!”
“They wanted to know!”
“How about you, Jake?” the fan teased, but her smile was gentle, more playful than lecherous. He wondered if she was trying to make sure he didn’t feel left out, and he felt his chest warm. “Sleep with anything endearing?”
“Miles,” he said. “I just wish he wouldn’t make me dress up as a stuffed panda.”
The crowd roared with laughter, Simon started clapping, and Miles high-fived him. He grinned back, the annoyance and nerves from his talk with S
usie forgotten.
He could see himself doing this for years—like Stargate: SG-1 or Doctor Who—if given the opportunity. He loved the show’s take on sci-fi and fantasy. He loved that, even though they hadn’t done much with his character, the writing was great, alternating between humor and pathos, like so many of the shows he loved. And he even loved the conventions. Granted, this was their first, but he knew they would be booked in other conventions—panels at various Comic-Cons, stuff like that—and he was all in. He just frickin’ loved this stuff.
For the rest of the panel, he mostly sat quietly, as the other two fielded questions about future arcs, and some things about Double Negative, the old show they’d been on. On Mystics, Miles was the brains, the scholar; Simon was the con man, the guy who charmed his way into anything. Jake was cast as the muscle, the action guy, so his arc tended to be . . . well, sort of flat.
He frowned as he thought about that. He really should have Susie arguing about that, as well—but since it seemed hard to keep him on the damned show, it didn’t seem like the right hill to die on.
As his eyes scanned the room, he stopped short as his gaze locked onto a pair of deep violet eyes, staring right back at him. Her dark walnut hair was done up in pin curls, cascading behind a high ponytail. She had lips the color of a good Bordeaux and lashes that went on for miles. He couldn’t see the outfit, but he guessed it was something brutally sexy. Maybe that was just because of the woman wearing it, though.
She came, he thought, and couldn’t stop a smile from creeping across his face. Did that mean she’d forgiven him? Or did she just want to give him another piece of her mind?
“Jake?”
He shook himself. “Sorry. What?”
Simon grinned at him knowingly. “Question for you, dude. Stop staring at the ladies.”
There was an appreciative giggle that rippled through the crowd, and his smile spread sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I was . . . distracted.”
He gazed at Hailey again. Her perfectly arched eyebrow went up, and those full lips quirked in a knowing little lopsided grin.
“What was the question?” He looked over, trying to see who was at the microphone stand.
It was a guy—already a bit of an anomaly at the female-skewed crowd. He was wearing a Deadpool T-shirt and a serious expression. “Mr. Reese, I’m Ty Connors, from the AllThingsMystics blog,” he said, with just a trace of self-importance.
“Great to meet you,” Jake said. “What’s your question?” He braced himself for something technical, or some tiny detail. Fortunately, he could nerd out with the best of them—he’d had long talks with several of the writers, discussing the backstory of the world. And he just had a memory for that sort of thing. He found himself looking forward to it.
“Is it true that your contract isn’t going to be renewed?”
Everyone gasped. Jake froze. “What?” he finally croaked.
“Inside sources say that you may not be continuing with Mystics,” Ty said, looking down at a small notepad, then glancing back up at him. “Is that your choice, or theirs? And are they planning on killing the character off, or simply recasting it?”
Chapter 4
Sitting in the audience, Hailey saw the look of pain and shock pass over Jake’s face the moment that stupid blogger asked him about being fired or replaced. She could’ve smacked the blogger for asking the question, but that was the way of it: controversy drove the news, such as it was. Admittedly, Jake leaving the show would be of great interest to the fans.
Jake stammered, looking over at Miles and Simon with a quick, baffled expression. “I . . . ah, I have no idea. I haven’t heard anything like that from my agent.” He looked momentarily at a loss. “I sure hope that’s not true. I mean, I love this show, and I’ll do whatever it takes to stay on it.”
The crowd cheered, Hailey louder than most. Personally, she thought his performances were just as strong as Miles’s and Simon’s, if not stronger—the writers and producers underestimated his character and didn’t give him much to do, but he had some sly humor and great delivery.
Granted, she was a little less charitable toward him after his epic fuckwittage when she’d had to leave last night, but it didn’t discount the fact that she enjoyed his character.
She prayed he’d be more Rick, less fuckwit, now that she had to face him again. God, she hated asking for favors.
It’s for Cress, and Rachel, she scolded herself. So suck it up, buttercup.
“Okay, that’s it for questions,” a man with a headset and a convention T-shirt said, holding up his hands defensively when the crowd booed. “Hey, the guys will have another panel tomorrow! And don’t forget, we’ve got other events this week, including the cosplay fashion show and the dance party. Later this afternoon, we’ll have two mini-panels, with the women of Mystics”—this drew an enthusiastic cheer from the priestess fans—“and the villains of Mystics, the Illuminati.” Fewer people cheered at this, and a few jeered in response. The guys walked off the stage, waving, and headed to what had to be the green room via a door at the back.
Hailey wasn’t here for any of the panels. She had used the VIP badge he’d left at the front desk to get into this one, grateful that Jake had done as promised before their “romp turned fuck-up.” Now, she was going to see how far it could get her. She waited for most of the panel attendees to file out, heading for food and restrooms. Then she walked up to the security guard who stood sentinel at the green room’s door.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one who was looking for entry. “But I just want to see Jake,” a woman—not much more than a girl, maybe twenty?—said, holding up her VIP pass like it was a weapon. “He’ll be really pissed if he doesn’t see me. Did you hear what those bloggers were saying? He’s probably really upset!”
“What’s your name?” the security guard asked, deadpan.
The girl frowned. “Missy. Missy Bailer.”
“Your name isn’t on the list, Miss Missy,” the security guard said, keeping a straight face.
“My name isn’t on the list, either,” an older redhead said, looking at the guard with an obvious seductive pout. “But I’m sure he’ll want to see me.”
Good grief, was that the woman from the pocket-ripping brigade? Hailey shuddered. That lady had “predator” written all over her, from the hungry glint in her eye to the way she kept stroking her neckline.
The guard remained implacable, not looking at either woman. “Sorry. If your name isn’t on the list, you don’t get entry.”
The redhead flounced away, while “Missy” tried even harder to convince, cajole, or bribe the man into letting her back into the green room. Hailey felt her stomach clench. Maybe she should wait until Jake was leaving, heading back up to his room? Assuming the hotel had fixed that problem and he actually had accommodations this time. But there were still other women, clustering around the green room door. They were probably there to see the other two actors, as well . . . it was going to be a crush, an absolute shit show.
Hailey stood straighter, doing her best “of course I belong here” strut. As if she didn’t care, one way or the other if they allowed her access. Her goal was to get in, and see if Jake was amenable to helping out the bookstore. She’d back off if it didn’t work, or press forward if it did.
One way or another she’d get to talk to Jake tonight, and ask about the appearance. There was more than one way to catch a fish.
The security guard gave Hailey more of a look than the others. “Hey, I know you,” he said.
She blinked, then her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
“You deal.”
Missy stared at her, obviously assuming that “dealing” meant drugs. Hailey couldn’t tell if the woman was appalled, or wondering if she should’ve bribed her way in with a dime bag.
“Blackjack dealer,” he continued. “Up at Snoqualmie. Yeah?”
Hailey nodded, grinning. “You play? What’s your name?”
He shook his head. “I
’m Rico. I worked security there, few years back, before moving over to this hotel,” he said, grinning back. “Don’t tell me you’re a fan?”
“I am actually,” she said. “But I was supposed to, erm, talk to Jake Reese. My name’s Hailey Frost.”
His grin widened to a beam. “You’re on the list.”
“How do you know?” Missy demanded. “You didn’t even look on your phone or on a paper or anything! How do you know she’s on the list, and I’m not?”
“Because hers is the only name on the list for Jake.”
“Thanks,” Hailey said, leaving the girl to splutter. She walked down a dark hallway, before stepping into the little side room they’d set up. It wasn’t that fancy looking—just a hotel’s back room, with a table set up with some food and drinks, and a couple of chairs. The Mystics guys were there, in their full glory. Simon was just as good looking, with those piercing green eyes. Miles was tall, resembling a poet or a Renaissance painter with his trimmed beard and his longish hair pulled back at the nape of his neck.
“It’s bullshit, man,” Simon was saying to Jake. “You should talk to the producers. No way they’re replacing you!”
“My agent told me they don’t want to speak to me directly,” Jake responded, rubbing his face with his hand.
No matter how they’d left things last night, Hailey couldn’t help but feel her heart clench at his stunned expression, and the devastation in his voice. The show meant more to him than she’d realized.
Miles grumbled. “They’re not going to fire you. I don’t even know where the guy got that information.” He was standing close to Jake, giving him one of those hard pats on the shoulders that guys give instead of hugs.
“I have to boost my Q Score,” Jake said, still sounding mournful.
“What the hell is that?” Miles asked, obviously baffled. She knew the feeling. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard it correctly, because she had no idea what they were talking about.
Simon, on the other hand, shook his head. He seemed much more knowledgeable, and shrewd. “Really? Your Q Score? What are you, a video game? A movie? A bar of frickin’ soap?”
One True Pairing: A Geek Girl Rom Com (Fandom Hearts) Page 7
