….
The Aston Martin pulled to a stop outside a quiet, unpretentious residence in the hills—a property held under Jon Voight’s name for his ex-wife and children.
The moment the brakes caught, Julie unbuckled her seatbelt with a sharp jerk.
But as she turned toward the door, she suddenly lunged back across the console.
Before Alex could react, she leaned in close—bringing a sudden breeze of cool night air and faint perfume—and landed a hard, sharp kiss directly on his lips.
It wasn’t a romantic gesture; it was an aggressive, competitive statement.
A final, impulsive mark.
She pulled back just as fast, slipping out the door into the cool air.
Standing under the driveway lights, a sharp, fox-like smirk touched her lips.
Her dark eyes flashed with dangerous excitement.
“Don’t forget you’re supposed to be a musician, too,” she called out, tapping her lips before pointing a finger at him.
“Next time I see you, I want to hear a set.”
Her tone was bold and uncompromising.
“Now you know my secrets.
And I know yours.”
She tilted her head, her smirk widening.
“I’ll be seeing you around, Alex.
You don’t get to run off—otherwise, we both burn down together.”
Alex watched her turn and head up the walkway, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
A threat?
She was nineteen and acting out.
In Hollywood, a vague rumor from an unproduced indie actress carried zero weight against an actor building real studio momentum.
The town was run by executive circles with a long history of ignoring far worse scandals.
He didn’t bother arguing.
Instead, he rolled down the window and called out to her retreating back: “Get some sleep, Angie.
Late nights aren’t great for early calls.”
As her shadow vanished behind the front door, Alex put the car in gear and pulled away into the night.
Upstairs, behind the heavy curtains of a dark second-floor window, Julie stood quietly watching the red taillights vanish down the canyon road.
The smirk was gone, replaced by a dark, conflicted quiet.
“Angie?”
A quiet knock sounded at her bedroom door.
It was her brother, James.
“Can I come in?
Julie froze.
Alex’s words from the car echoed in her head—Stop tearing yourself apart.
Let your talent do the talking.
A sudden surge of irritation washed over her.
She spun around and yelled at the door, “Get out of here, James!
Leave me alone!”
Outside, James paused, muttering quietly, “…Okay, Angie.
Get some sleep.”
As his footsteps faded, Julie slid down against the wall, resting her forehead against her knees in the dark room.
The Bel-Air party and his interaction with Julie were an eye-opening look into the town’s hidden dynamics.
Hollywood’s reality was far messier than anything Levi had seen in his past life as a stunt worker.
Over the next few weeks, Alex adapted quickly.
Guided by Fina, he attended lower-profile industry events—indie film showcases, wrap dinners, and mixer calls hosted by mid-level agencies.
He put Fina’s advice into practice: maintain a quiet, polite composure, introduce himself smoothly without appearing desperate, and find natural entry points into conversations.
His progress was clear.
Instead of standing near the doors as an uncredited face, he learned how to navigate small groups naturally, offering sharp observations about stunt safety and second-unit production.
Fina was pleased with the progress, seeing it as solid groundwork.
However, Hollywood events were rarely limited to polite networking.
As his profile grew, subtle undercurrents began to surface.
At a wrap party hosted by a mid-tier production house, Alex was standing near the bar talking with another young action actor about second-unit setups when a stylishly dressed woman stepped into their circle, holding a martini.
Alex recognized her immediately: Martha Preston, an independent producer who managed mid-budget action features.
“Hey, boys,” Martha purred, her eyes scanning Alex’s broad shoulders and the line of his tailored suit.
“What are we discussing over here?”
“Ms.
Preston,” Alex nodded politely.
Recognizing the situation, his companion made a quick excuse about grabbing another drink and slipped away, leaving Alex to handle the conversation alone.
Martha stepped into the open space, her perfume heavy in the air.
“Alex Shawn, right?
I’ve caught a few of your second-unit clips,” she said, her fingers lightly tapping the edge of the bar near his hand.
“Very physical.
Very impressive.”
Her tone was unmistakable, her eyes lingering as she evaluated him.
Alex adjusted his stance subtly, stepping back an inch to maintain a polite, professional boundary.
Preston.”
“Call me Martha, darling,” she said, leaning in closer.
“I’m setting up an indie action feature right now.
High-octane, solid distribution deal.
We need a lead with real physical presence…
and explosive charm.”
She reached out, lightly pressing a finger against his lapel.
“You have the exact look for the part.
Why don’t we find a quiet table somewhere and go over the script?
Or discuss your…
take on the character?”
The invitation was completely transparent—a classic Hollywood trade of access for personal attention.
Alex felt a quiet wave of annoyance, but his expression remained perfectly composed.
He stepped back casually under the guise of letting a waiter pass with a tray of drinks, creating a clear three-foot gap between them.
“I appreciate the interest, Martha,” Alex said, his voice dropping into a polite, formal register.
“For any project details, my agent, Fina Cohen at CAA, handles all my script submissions.
If your office sends the breakdown directly to her desk, her team will review it right away.”
By invoking CAA and Fina’s name, he firmly redirected the conversation back to standard business channels.
Martha Preston’s smile froze for a fraction of a second.
A flash of irritation crossed her eyes before being replaced by a cool, practiced smirk.
“CAA…
Fina Cohen,” Martha murmured, dragging out the name with a faint edge.
“Well, darling…
it looks like you’ve got a very protective gatekeeper.”
She gave him a sharp, evaluating look before turning away.
“My door is always open.
But remember—there are some opportunities an agent can’t book for you.”
With a subtle sway, she smoothed her dress and drifted back into the main crowd.
Alex watched her leave, letting out a quiet, slow breath.
The game in this town was complex, but he had no intention of taking shortcuts.
….
-Krazybro