Page 72 of Dream On

Maybe it was something I said.

Blowing out a thick plume of smoke, I watch as it warps the contemporary light fixture above my head. Foggy glimmers zigzag across my vision as my eyes start to fall shut.

Finally. A pocket of peace.

But nothing good ever lasts, and I’m jerked back to reality when my phone pings in my pocket. Fishing it out, I sigh when I glance at the name lighting up the screen.

Rudy.

My agent.

He teeters the line of obnoxious and endearing, often giving me whiplash. Considering it’s pushing midnight, I can only assume obnoxious will win out tonight.

Rudy: Big ideas going down at my office. Get your ass over here.

I was right.

Groaning, I type out a reply.

Me: Fuck off. It’s almost midnight.

Rudy: What, like you sleep? Also, can you make a stop on the way over and pick up this very small coffee order for me and the crew?

I inhale another cigarette while I wait for the follow-up text.

Rudy: Jill: one large soy latte with extra foam, two pumps of vanilla, and a dash of cinnamon. Carla: one medium iced oat milk mocha, extra drizzle, no whip. Mike: one large flat white with coconut milk and a hint of cocoa powder. Me: one large caramel macchiato, half sweet with almond milk.

Rudy: Please.

He tops it off with a heart emoji.

Me: Circle back to my initial text.

Rudy: I said please.

Kill me now.

After a week of pandemonium filled with photo shoots, premieres, interviews, charity functions, and stuffy dinners, I’m fucking exhausted. But Rudy knows that, just like he knows I’m always awake, always moving, a vortex of endless energy. Doesn’t matter how tired I am; the show must go on.

I send back a quick text before hopping off the couch and stabbing my half-charred cigarette into the granite ashtray.

Me: This better be good.??

There’s a café open until four a.m. on Ventura, so when Adrian returns from dropping off Lindley, I ask him to make a coffee stop to pick up the ridiculous order before heading to Rudy’s office. “Thanks again, A,” I murmur from the back seat, watching late-night pedestrians stroll the street as my driver pulls in front of the building and flips on the hazards.

He studies me in the rearview mirror, the crow’s-feet around his eyes puckering warmly. “Happy to do it. You pay me more than I’m worth, my friend.”

“Nah.” My knees bounce up and down, my gaze narrowing in on the whir of people and headlights. “You’re worth every penny.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m sauntering inside the office with two cardboarddrink trays. Rudy is sprawled out in one of the rolling chairs, his feet propped up on a ten-foot table, ankles crossed. His head pops up when he spots me, eyes brightening like a preschooler on Christmas morning.

Beelining in my direction, he wiggles the coffee free from the cupholder. “Hell yes. You’re the man.” Then he sputters as he takes a sip. “What the hell? This tastes like ass.”

I smirk at him. “It’s black. And decaf.”

“You’re a fucking shithead.”

My grin doesn’t waver as I plop down in the chair he was in and swivel it from side to side, itching for another cigarette. Instead, I snatch up the extra cup of coffee I purchased for myself and guzzle it down in a few chugs, considering spiking it with a shot of bourbon I know is hidden in one of the cabinets. I vowed I would never touch alcohol again, but Hollywood has a way of making you break promises—to yourself, to everyone. It chips away at your resolve, one glamorous, hollow victory at a time, until you’re staring down the barrel of another bad decision, just to numb the noise.