Mr. Hollywood’s Secret by Adora Crooks
Eric
The flash of cameras nearly blinds me.
I smile through it. Always smile. As the crowd claps, roars, and whistles in a haze of black smudges behind the overhead lights.
Being at the convention gives me a strange two-way mirror illusion. I can see the people on stage beside me—Raul at the speakers’ table to my right and our host, Grant Lizzy, to my left. Microphones and mini bottles of water on the table in front of us. But beyond the stage? The crowd is a fuzzy cloud of smoke, a sea of noise and excitement.
I can practically taste their sweat; it’s that dank in this room.
Grant sits in his chair, notepad of questions in front of him, and smiles. I like Grant—he’s a weird kid. Messy bleached hair, gauges in his ear, and ripped jeans, but he’s wearing a blazer to class up his couch-potato outfit. Good attitude on him, though, and he’s been doing his best to make all of us feel at ease on stage.
I need it. I’m not at ease. Put a camera in front of me. Give me lines. Give me a character. That I can do. But put me in front of a crowd of people and ask me just to be myself?
I haven’t stopped sweating since I sat down. I’m glad I’m wearing my blazer. Hides the stains.
“So, Eric,” Grant starts, with that unwavering smile, “our big action movie star!”
A ripple of laughter through the crowd. I smile so hard my molars hurt.
“This film is a bit of a departure for you, non? What made you take the role?”
I clear my throat and lean forward to speak into the microphone. “No one made me take it. I read it. Fell in love with the role. I saw an opportunity. To be more than…” I lean into my elbows, rub my hand up my arm self-consciously. “…a guy who blows things up.”
“We’re certainly itching to see this new side of you,” Grant says.
“So am I,” I reply.
“I love you, Eric North!” A woman’s voice screams shrilly from the black cloud.
I chuckle and wink at the mass. “Love you more.”
A chorus of hollers and shouts. My stomach churns under the attention.
“And Raul,” Grant continues, and my gut unpinches once the eyes move away from me and onto the fidgety Cuban at my side, “they’re calling this your big breakout role. Do you agree?”
Raul launches forward toward the microphone, nearly toppling his bottle of water. “Oh, yes, thank you. That is kind of you to say. Yes! I certainly hope so. I am among giants here, no?”
“What was it like to work with Eric North?”
“Oh—he is easy, so easy to work with. Very professional. And so handsome! I mean, look at this man.” He slings an arm around my shoulder, and I tense. “It is not hard to love acting with him, no?”
He’s leaning on me now—I feel the weight of his body on my shoulders—and the crowd eats it up, cheering him on. Even Grant laughs. “It seems like you two really get along.”
Then Raul looks at me, his mouth crooked in a leering smile. “I could tell you…but I think it would be best to show you, no?”
My heart drops into the floor. The crowd loses it—cheering, shouting at us to kiss. I feel the beat against my rib cage, and I can feel Raul’s body weight shifting closer.
Before he can lean in for a kiss, I grab the microphone and get out, “You’ll have to pay the ticket fee to see that.”
Disappointed groans from the audience. Grant swiftly recovers and moves the interview along. But I can barely hear it for the blood pounding in my ears. The rest of it is a blur, and eventually, it ends to the tune of fans cheering and chanting for us.
We cross the stage and take the steps backstage. Once we’re in the wings, the techies start to pull the microphones from our shirts. As soon as both Raul’s and my wires have been removed, I descend. I grab him by the front of his shirt as the techies scatter and slam him up against the wall.
“You touch me like that again,” I growl, “and I’ll tear your arm off. Is that understood?”
Raul gapes—this dumb, openmouthed expression—and I want to slap it off his face. I leave him like that—slack-jacked fucking idiot—and barrel past a couple of stunned volunteers.
“Hey—Eric!” Raul shouts when he finally gets his voice back. “It’s a joke! Just a joke! We’re still compadres, no?”
No.
It’s not a joke to me.
It’s my fucking life. And his little gay-for-the-camera stunt makes me feel unclean. Covered in stares. Toenail clippings in my teeth kind of bad.
I was going to stay, take a couple of pictures with con kids, but that plan is null and void now because I can’t stop shaking. My vision blurs, and my heart won’t stop pounding. I’ve got that light-headed feeling that always signals an oncoming panic attack.
Not here. Not now.
I cross backstage and throw myself into the nearest bathroom, locking the door. Part of me wants to lie down on the cool tiled floor, but the sensible, rational part of me knows it’s a disease-ridden cesspit down there, so I turn on the sink instead, flip the water to cold, and start splashing my face with it.
I want to call my publicist. Or Nico. Someone. Anyone.
No.
I want to call my mom. I want to call my mom and tell her the kids in the playground are teasing me again and can she come pick me up?
But I haven’t made a call like that since I was six. After my parents got divorced, I tried it, once, with my father. He scoffed and told me to stop being such a fag and suck it up.
I turn my gaze to the mirror and try to control my breathing. I look a lot like him, now. My father. Our hair greys the same—from the sideburns up. Same steel-blue eyes. He was built like a house too. Scary guy when you’re six and your knees are bleeding.
I let the cool water drip down my neck, seep into my shirt. I stare at the guy in the mirror.
“Suck it up,” he tells me. “Fucking pull it together.”
I solidify. I stop trembling. I yank a paper towel free and dry off my face before tossing it in the bin. Unlatch the door and exit.
There’s a bustle of people outside, so I grab the nearest woman with the “Staff” tag attached to her con lanyard hanging around her neck. “Hey. I’ve gotta sign some autographs. Where should I be?”
Her eyes widen—she must’ve seen my outburst with Raul—but she composes well with a smile. “This way.” I follow the click of her heels. After a second, she glances over her shoulder at me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. And then we enter the fray, and cameras swallow me again.
* * *
It’s late by the time I get back to the hotel. Almost nine.
But my blood still feels like it’s on fire. I sign some autographs in the lobby and then take the elevator upstairs.
My key card doesn’t take the first three times, and I swear at it, smack it, and finally the light turns green and the door unlocks. When I get inside, the air feels ten degrees colder. Chrys seems oblivious to it. She’s in a small dress with her foot on the table. She’s painting her toes seashell pink.
“How was the con?” she asks.
“Fine.” I rip off my blazer and fling it over the back of the chair.
Her eyes flick over me. A slender eyebrow rises. “Are you okay?”
I wish people would stop asking me that.
“I’m fine.”
Her feet are on the table, the dirty room service cart in the middle of the room. I’m as raw as a cracked oyster. Everything has me on edge.
She wiggles her toes. “Can you say any words other than fine?”
“Yes. Get dressed,” I tell her, my voice coming out a bit rougher than I intend it. “We’re going out tonight.”
Her eyes light up. “Out?” she repeats. “Like out, out? Thank God—I’m dying of cabin fever. What should I wear?”
“Clothes. Nice clothes.”
I go into my bedroom, close the door, and lock it. I need at least thirty minutes of warm-up. Shower. Change. Scrub my face.
Then it’s showtime. The cameras. Chrys.
One big fucking show.