Chapter 1
Patrick Lake glanced sideways at his stunt double and thought, I'd do me.
OK-maybe that was an inherently weird idea to have about somebody decked out to look exactly like you. And it was surely not the kind of thing that Captain Kismet, everybody's favorite superhero, said to himself between takes. But it had been a long day.
"The trick to falling," the stuntman said, "is knowing how to land."
Corey's words, however sage, were not for Patrick's benefit: The two of them were filming behind-the-scenes content, taking turns to demonstrate the simpler stunts they had planned for Kismet 2. Footage of the pair in their matching costumes would then be cut into polished thirty-second videos and used to advertise the movie on social media later in the year, a perfectly curated glimpse behind the curtain. It was the kind of thing Patrick could usually do in his sleep. Except all he could really think about was, well . . . sleep. They were supposed to wrap on the movie a week ago, yet new script pages kept showing up outside his hotel room door like bad omens, and at this rate Patrick felt as though he would die in this grim little city.
"Birmingham?" he'd asked his manager, Simone, when she told him where reshoots would take place. "Like, Alabama?"
"No, thank god," she'd replied. "It's in England. Very cheap to film there, apparently."
"Cheap," it turned out, was the operative word. The famous auteur the studio had hired to direct the second installment of the newly rebooted Kismet franchise had burned through much of the movie's budget before half the film was even in the can, leading to his rapid firing and replacement by Lucas Grant, whose résumé largely consisted of TV commercials and a Pixar short. Grant was tasked with righting the ship and getting it to port without bankrupting the studio, which meant relocating production to an old factory town where accommodating the enormous cast and crew wouldn't cost an extra couple of million dollars.
Corey executed a perfect backflip, and Patrick applauded, mugging for the camera. "Nicely done," he said, truthfully. With his earnest eyes and back-clapping Aussie cheer, Corey was impossible to dislike, even if Patrick was occasionally thrown by their uncanny resemblance. Same sandy hair, same muscular build, even something of a likeness in the jaw. It took some getting used to. Patrick's stand-in for the first movie had been a slightly terrifying former MMA fighter in a blond wig.
"You got what you need?" Patrick asked the videographer, who gave him a thumbs-up. "Great. Nice work, Corey. Thanks, everyone!" He began walking out of the soundstage warehouse, back to his trailer. A shower and then a nap, he thought. A nap would fix everything.
"Hey, buddy," Hector Ramirez greeted him as he entered; he was doing sit-ups between the sofa and the coffee table. Patrick was almost always pleased to see his trainer, but right now he felt a lot like a kid who'd walked into class having forgotten to prepare for an impending exam.
"Hey, Hector," he replied. "Did we have another session today?" They'd seen each other that morning, when they'd hit chest and back. The first time Hector had put Patrick through one of his workouts, prior to the first Kismet movie, he'd spent the entire next day feeling like he was recovering from minor surgery. Now it was . . . well, not easy exactly, but he gained real satisfaction from pushing his body and seeing how much stronger he could make it. Not that he was in the mood for pushing right now.
"Nah." Hector completed his final rep and immediately launched into a set of air squats. "I was just around," he added, barely short of breath.
"Just around." Patrick eyed him suspiciously. "And wondering if a certain leading lady might also be . . . just around?"
Hector simply continued his rhythmic ascent and descent, gaze fixed on some spot to Patrick's left. "Who?"
Patrick snorted. There was definitely only one actor in the room. Hector was cool but lost his chill when it came to Audra Kelly, Patrick's co-star. And Patrick couldn't really blame him. Beautiful, funny, charming-recently named "Internet's Ultimate Girlfriend" by a men's magazine. Some guys really went in for that kind of thing.
"She's not here." Patrick gathered his jacket and headphones. "Just me and Corey today. I think Kismet and Sura's next scene isn't until Monday."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Hector, who was doing a pretty shoddy job of hiding his disappointment. "But since we're here," he continued, "how about some burpees? Just for fun."
When Patrick returned to the hotel forty minutes later, limbs crackling like firewood, he was more desperate for a shower than ever.
After he'd made his way out of the elevator toward his suite, Audra spotted him and waved through her open door across the hall. Patrick leaned on the door frame and stuck his head into Audra's room. The Princess Sura to his Captain Kismet was pacing with earbuds in, talking to thin air about her beauty must-haves.
"I like to keep things simple. ChapStick, a good concealer, a tiny bit of mascara," she said, her voice low and throaty, like she smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Which Patrick knew for a fact to be true, although the morality clause in their contracts kept it from public knowledge. Movie stars who smoked used to be cool; now they were bad for the studio's brand. Role models didn't smoke, or swear, or screw. And Patrick was nothing if not a role model.
"One hair must-have . . ." Audra paused mid-pace, appearing to give this serious consideration. "You know, I'm such a slob," she laughed. "I've been using the same drugstore shampoo since I was sixteen! Oh, and argan oil. I swear by it."
Another pause.
"My absolute pleasure." She smiled radiantly, as if the reporter were in the room with them. "Thanks so much. You have a great day now. Byeee . . ." Audra hit a button on her phone and pulled her earbuds out, sighing in exhaustion. She handed the device back to her assistant, shooed her out, and as Patrick stepped into the room to let the girl pass, Audra turned toward the bar assembled in the corner of her suite.
"That was Elle," she said, fixing herself a vodka on the rocks. "Want to hear something funny?"
"Sure," Patrick replied. Audra picked up a crystal tumbler and held it out to him with an inquisitive look. He smiled, shook his head, no thank you, and took a seat on the expansive sofa.
"I would never use argan oil on my hair." She ran her hand through her wavy blond mane. "I think it's gross. But now a whole bunch of girls are going to try it, and their hair is going to be all greasy and sticky, and they're going to say to themselves: 'Why doesn't my hair look as fabulous as Audra Kelly's?'"
"I don't get it," Patrick said.
"Oh, it's just a silly game I play with myself." Audra waved a dismissive hand and threw herself dramatically down on the couch beside him. "I mean, why would I give my actual secrets away? Until a makeup company pays me to shill for them, I'm just making up shit as I go. We can't all be the Girl Next Door."
Patrick didn't know what to say to this-but that hardly mattered. Audra was on a roll.
"And that's just women's media. A walk in the park, I tell you, compared to the creepy fuckable-little-sister act the guys expect. Never mind the fact that I have an Independent Spirit Award. The real performance of a lifetime is convincing everyone that I love pizza and beer despite looking"-she looked down at her tiny waist-"like this."
"Oh, right." Patrick nodded. "The relatable thing."
"Yep! I've gotta be one of the guys and love sports, and comic books, and video games. But not other women, apparently. The average Wonderverse moviegoer doesn't like it when girls exist for themselves or each other. Makes them uncomfortable. Honestly, some days I would love nothing more than to tell them that I've never seen Star Wars and prefer caviar to hot dogs, just to see if their heads explode."
"Now that I'd love to see."
"Ugh. I just hate all this 'pick me' bullshit, you know? You have no idea how exhausting it is." She leaned back against the sofa cushions and exhaled forcefully, lifting her glass to cool her forehead.
Patrick bit his lip. Don't I? he thought. Affable, unflappable charm was his thing. In other words, a focus group put together by his manager, Simone, had determined he would be most appealing if he leaned into the laid-back, humble-but-not-disingenuous, well-shucks-I'm-just-a-boy-from-Jersey brand of heartthrob.
"What's wrong with being myself, and saving the acting for when I book a job?" Patrick had once asked. Simone had laughed a real laugh, a rare moment of authenticity, considering she tried not to convey more than twenty percent of an emotion at any given time, if she could help it.
"Sweetie." She had touched his arm with genuine affection. "This is the job."
He drew in a breath, ready to tell Audra that he knew how she felt, but she was still gesticulating with her vodka on the rocks as she pontificated to the ceiling.
"I was in the TIME100 last year," she said. "Why the fuck should I have to be relatable? I don't want to be fucking relatable! I want to be stoned out of my mind on an island with Rihanna-preferably being fanned by men in diamond-encrusted thongs. But apparently that is not the kind of answer people like to hear you giving in '72 Questions with Vogue.'"
"People want to feel like we're just like them," Patrick offered weakly.
"Well, here's the very simple problem with that," Audra said. "We're not."
Patrick's eyebrows shot up.
"Not that I'm saying we're better," she added hastily. "Just . . . richer. Prettier. More successful."
"More neurotic, anxious, and insecure, too," Patrick added.
"Definitely not better," she repeated. "Maybe even worse, in some ways. I mean, we're fucking spoiled, aren't we? But we are certainly not just like them. For one thing, I bet if I were just a regular girl, I wouldn't have to consult with my management team before getting a tattoo or cutting my goddamn hair."
"Your hair? Seriously?"
"My hair, Patrick." She flicked a honeyed lock over her shoulder for emphasis. "But with all that said, what would I rather be doing with my life? Waiting tables? Acquiring crippling student debt? Getting married to some lunk who resents that I'm smarter than him, then giving up my minimum wage job because, bam, he got me pregnant and we can't afford day care?" Audra shuddered.
"Isn't there anything you miss about your life before fame?" Patrick asked. "I don't know, being able to go for lunch with your family without someone taking your picture?"
"Please. One of the perks of this life is not having to deal with my mother." She caught his surprised look before he could hide it, and tsked. "Let me guess, Patrick Lake is best friends with his parents."
"My parents are nice people," said Patrick instinctively.
"Good for you." Audra pursed her lips, swirled her glass. "My mother doesn't have my phone number. When she wants to contact me, she goes through my agent."
"Are you kidding?"
"He negotiated her down to a visit every other Christmas." She looked up with a dry smile. "That man is worth every cent I pay him."
Audra knocked back the rest of her vodka and abruptly rose from her lounging position on the sofa.
"Get up," she said, crunching on ice. "We're going out."
"Out?" Patrick didn't stir. "What do you mean?"
"You know, that whole place that exists outside of your hotel room? Honestly, it's a good thing you're as handsome as you are, because you are not the brightest star in the sky."
"But we're not-"
"If you say 'We're not allowed,' I might just slap you," Audra said, flexing her right hand, which Patrick now noticed was bejeweled with several elegant but weighty-looking rings. "It's Friday night! And we're the talent. What we say goes. Otherwise, what is the actual point of being a movie star?"
"I don't know about this . . ." Patrick reluctantly allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
"Trust me, a night off from reading endless rewrites and scrolling through what people think of us online is exactly what we both need."
"Oh, I try to stay off social media," Patrick said.
"Very admirable!" She looked him up and down. "You should probably shower. That last workout is lingering. I'll see you in the lobby in half an hour." She waved him toward the door and muttered to herself, "Now, what to wear . . ." before vanishing into her bedroom, clearly confident that Patrick would play along. She's right, he thought. She'd have been wasted on real life.
"I . . . fine," he called out. "But only for a little while, OK?"
Audra's head reappeared from behind the door. "Great! And who knows," she said. "Maybe I'll go absolutely wild and get a haircut while we're at it."
Chapter 2
Will Wright was halfway through transforming into a woman when his sister called. Upstairs at the Village Inn, the area designated for the drag queens' toilette was a former utility cupboard that had been colonized by the bar's coterie of performers. Dressing tables and vanity mirrors had been installed against one wall, but metal filing cabinets and moldering cardboard boxes still lined the opposite side, and its occupants wasted no time in enforcing a pecking order. Spots at "the High Table," as the queens had dubbed the well-lit vanity, were intensely coveted. According to local lore, those chairs were reserved for the more seasoned artistes-although, more often than not, they were claimed by whoever got there first on a Friday night.
Three drag queens-Faye Runaway, Gaia Gender, Raina Shine-were sitting there now like Macbeth's witches, titivating between sips of gin and tonic. Tammy, the emcee for the evening, was already downstairs at the DJ booth. Julie Madly Deeply wasn't due to join them until after midnight.
Will, who was both the new girl and incapable of showing up on time (according to everyone who knew him), had no chance of a seat at the High Table tonight-or even a proper mirror. As a result, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor and applying his makeup while peering down at the front-facing camera of his phone, which he had propped up against the skirting board. At one point, Gaia left her post to go smoke outside, but Will resisted the urge to take her place, staying his own licentious hand: Stealing such a spot once it had been claimed was a sin akin to sleeping with somebody's husband. Come to think of it, most queens were less territorial over men than they were over favorable lighting.
Copyright © 2024 by Philip Ellis. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
