Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
He was a portrait in motion.
Cillian Tell always looked to be somehow in motion, arrested in the midst of the flow of energy even when holding perfectly still, carrying himself with a sort of restrained, silent energy that made his stillness seem more like a pause for breath. He was a dash of dark paint slashed against white canvas: an impression of the furious energy behind it, left behind in a lasting, raggedly graceful streak—a bold and indelible mark. Brendan could admit Cillian Tell was compelling, with just the right presence to capture an audience’s attention.
But he also looked exactly the same in every last one of his photos—no matter the film frame captured, the model shoot, the pose, the setting.
Brendan didn’t even need to see him on-screen to know he was painfully one-note.
And looks wouldn’t be enough to get him through a production this complex.
Capturing the audience’s attention meant nothing if you couldn’t hold it.
“This kid looks,” Brendan muttered, “like someone ordered Timothée Chalamet off Wish.”
“Stay off Twitter, you’re too old to meme. And he’s not a kid. He’s twenty-nine.” Drake craned his head to peer at Brendan’s phone, just a perfunctory glance before he cleared his throat and looked pointedly away. Out the windows. Very clearly avoiding Brendan, as if the view of Los Angeles was so very captivating. “The casting director also said,” he added a little too offhandedly, forcing a cough and half-swallowing the words, “something about your shipping potential with him.”
“I have no idea what that means. There are no scenes on a boat in the script.”
“That’s right. There are no scenes on a boat, and that’s all you need to take away from this.” Sighing, Drake finally looked at him, and tapped Brendan’s arm with the script. “Look. Brendan. It’s a done deal. You signed on for it, and you’re at the stage in your career where you have the freedom to broaden your roles. Experiment. Show people you can do more than just the stock heartthrob with the cocky smile, because that’s the rut you’ve been stuck in for a while.” For once his agent dropped the façade of caustic sarcasm and no-nonsense, straightforward impatience, looking at him with a touch of sympathy. “So embrace this. It might not be the biggest role, but you can still shine. I’ve got several producers interested to see what you do here, and thinking about lining you up for big budget dramatic projects. If this goes well, you could take off in a whole new way. Make the Brad Pitt Ad Astra transition.” Drake smiled wryly. “Wear your age with a little grace and dignity.”
“I already have grace and dignity,” Brendan countered—but without much venom. He looked down at the script, then reluctantly took it back, flipping it open to the first page where the father appeared on screen. “Hmph.”
He supposed Drake was right. And more than anything, despite their bickering, every conversation jabbing back and forth for five rounds in the ring…
Brendan trusted him.
Even if Drake was over ten years his junior and had only been in Hollywood for half Brendan’s career, from the moment he’d taken over from the last agent Brendan had fired for telling him but Asian Waiter #4 is probably the best you can get Drake had fought for—and with—him rather fiercely. He didn’t know if he’d call them overly close, but they understood each other. Two gay Chinese American men in an industry that talked a good game on the surface, but still followed the money…and thought there was no money in people like Brendan.
Until he proved them wrong, time and time again.
Until when moviegoers thought of romance, they thought of him.
But that didn’t change that once he’d crossed the line into fifty, the calls had stopped coming in as frequently. His schedule was more open, and while he didn’t really need the money, the idle time was rather disconcerting. He preferred to be working; preferred to keep his days busy with table readings, set blocking, costuming, discussing tone and body language with his costars, sitting in on meetings with camera crews and special effects teams about lighting, greenscreening, all the fascinating little things that went into something so simple as following a single flake of snow in focus or properly illuminating someone with golden-brown skin.
Not that Brendan minded downtime, took his time off regularly before he had a stress aneurysm or gave Drake one, but…
There was downtime, and then there was being out of work.
And his pride rankled painfully, bitterly, at the idea of being out of work.
So he eyed the script. Eyed his part. And when Drake flicked his arm and teased, “Ego appeased?” Brendan grunted.
“Somewhat.”
“How far along is somewhat?”
“Sixty to sixty-five percent. No groveling necessary, but I wouldn’t mind a little more flattery, backpedaling, and excuses.”
“No excuses,” Drake said. “But…this might make you feel a little better. I sat down to lunch with the new kid’s agent the other day. You’ve met her, I think—Corinne Lucas. She said it was already a done deal before the negotiations even started. Something about diplomatic relations.”