CHAPTER1
DARE
GORILLAS
Memories arethe ghosts of the past stalking us every day, haunting us every night, reminding us we can’t elude them. Sometimes we’re lucky, and we get the friendly ghosts that come with memories associated with love and joy. Some of us aren’t that lucky, though, and we’re running scared through life with raging poltergeists strapped to our backs.
I’m the latter of the two, but no one suspects a thing because I’m also a big time Hollywood actor with a house in the Hollywood Hills, fancy car, and boatload of fake friends. I’ve learned to hide my ghosts and live with them, or that’s what I tell myself—and my therapist.
The door of my trailer closes, offering some relief from the noise of the explosions outside. I grab a bottle of water and a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter like things explode around me every day. Of course they do—it’s an action movie set. Even my dog, Pongo, seldom notices them as he sprawls out on the bed after spending the last few hours watching the window for my return.
The schedule for this film has flown by at a brutal pace, and we’ve been at it since two this morning. Sleep comes in short shifts, so I’ve been looking forward to the shut eye I’m about to get for hours. Shit blows up, gets put back together, and blows up again for days on end, making me long for a nice, calm indie film. My stunt guy and I have been tag-teaming the scenes and rehearsing between takes for a solid week. We’re both exhausted and freezing our asses off, but expected back on the set again in a few hours. I’m glad I don’t have heavy makeup in this film. It’s impossible trying to catch a nap in that shit.
When another explosion echoes through the backlot, I dig in my pocket for the noise canceling headphones and crash into an unfamiliar bed. The next blast never registers as I tuck two pillows on either side of me to keep me from turning over. I lose consciousness almost immediately, drifting off to sleep with Pongo at my side.
When I wake up, I’m starving. I grope around, finding the apple and my buzzing phone from under the darkness of the blanket. If I do this right, I can keep the sunlight out until I’m better prepared for it. Once the alarm stops, I go through my messages while I eat, wishing I could close my eyes again for just a few more minutes. There are a few messages from my friend, Dani, telling me about some gig that she has but how I shouldn’t go. I keep scrolling until I spot Jamie’s name. I groan so loud, Pongo looks up. Jamie’s going to kick my ass.
JimJam
Hey man, we still on for the school gig tonight?
Planning to leave my place around 4:30
Shit. I pull up the latest schedule to check for changes after last night’s shoots. I forgot I’d promised my best friend I’d make an appearance at a charity art function with him. I need to find the PA and verify what time filming wraps today and if there’s time for me to make it. Either way, they’re always pretty cool about it when it’s a kids’ event.
I stumble out of my trailer like I’ve been drinking at a damn club all night with my buddy, Steve. The sun burns my eyes as I slap at my pockets, trying to figure out where the fuck I left my sunglasses. No luck, so instead I’m blocking the late morning sun with my hand as I reorient myself to the forest of identical white trailers.
“Chase, oh my god, is that you?”
I don’t recognize the voice, and when I turn around, I don’t recognize the woman either. Pongo presses against my leg as I scan around to check for anyone else nearby. The lot is a ghost town right now, with everyone either shooting or sleeping. It’s possible she’s a new intern or some other staff sent to wrangle me. My gut says she’s a fan, though.
She’s not wearing a badge—that’s a bad sign. We’ve had some security issues in this location, so I’m prepared for just about anything. Pongo, being a giant Pitbull, helps keep some of the wilder fans a few extra feet back, too. They don’t realize he’s a big sweetheart, and a therapy dog.
“Uhm, hi, how are you?” I croak out. I swipe at the screen on my phone and send a text off to Megan, the PA who has spent the week keeping me on track and on schedule. She’ll act as a buffer and get security here, plus I can list a million other set-related items Megan and I need to go over, anyhow. I’m sure she’s already looking for me, but the phone might help give the impression that I’m busy. I lay it on thick, in the hope that she’ll get the hint and leave me alone.
I don’t think my plan worked, and Megan still hasn’t checked her texts.
“OH MY GOD! I can’t believe you’re here.” She bats her eyes at me, trying to be cute as she pushes her boobs out and smooths down her hair. A few years ago, I might have given her an autograph and a selfie as I showed her the way out. Maybe even a tour, since she’s kind of cute. The fan entitlement has worn me out since I made it big. They interrupt dinner with introductions, interrupt movies for my autograph, and beg for selfies when I’m trying to pick up my coffee. So now, I try to avoid fan situations outside of official events. “I saw the filming and thought you might be here. You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Uhm.” I swallow hard. My hard nap brain fog won’t allow me to think fast enough to deal with this. Do I know her? “I’m so sorry, I’ve been filming all night so, can you help me out with that?”
“I’m Shawna!” Her voice borders on a shriek. When I don’t respond, she pouts—sticking her bottom lip out so far, it’s almost comical. Oh, she’s definitely a fan. I glance down at my phone again and I’ve got bubbles appearing and disappearing from Megan. That’s promising. “I can’t believe you forgot to call me when you got into town.”
She says it like I should understand what that means. I don’t. I text Megan again, sending nothing but the wordhelp. While I do this, I’m trying hard to remember if I’ve gotten drunk with Steve over the last few weeks and forgotten about someone he’s tried to set me up with, but that can’t be right. Steve’s got a serious relationship and we haven’t done that in months. It’s a mystery when, or even if, I’ve ever talked to this woman before. Too many fans take an innocent wave and twist it into an invitation to my personal life.
“Shawna, right? Hi.” Pongo senses my nervousness and nudges my side. I give him a pat on the head and check my phone again.
“You’re just trying to be nice. You still don’t remember?” The longer I’m standing here, the less I want to remember her. The girl can’t be much older than early-twenties, maybe younger—not my type.
My agent will rip some poor assistant a new asshole for this, which I’ll feel bad about. By this afternoon, she’ll be hitting my new best friend, Shawna, with a restraining order. She’s justified in doing so, since breaking and entering on a private, closed set qualifies as stalker-level behavior. “Chase! I met you at Comic Con a year ago and I gave you the book I made for you with all the pictures of us. It had my number in it, so you could call me.”
Oh boy. I hate being that guy. The guy that has to break her heart and tell her I get about two hundred gifts at any signing that range from stuffed animals to personalized books and cards. It’s impossible to keep track of them all. Even the people I meet multiple times sometimes slip my mind unless there’s some other connection. I wish I could remember every one of them, but I can’t. I shouldn’t tell her that there’s a solid chance I’ve buried her stuff in a box somewhere in my dad’s garage or my agent’s storage locker, because that’s where most of it ends up going. My house isn’t that big. Okay, it is, but some of the stuff people give me qualifies as full-blown creepy.
“Right, the… pictures. Ofus?”
“You do remember! I was worried you forgot or that the dickhead on security took my book away after they made me leave. Oh my god, did they take the book away, and that’s why you didn’t call me? Those fuckers! It’s okay, I have another one in my car!” She lights up and my stomach drops as a memory clicks in my brain and I recognize her. She’s one of the few people escorted away from my table by security during a signing event. She damn near climbed over the table, insisting that we were friends. Apparently, I liked some status she’d tagged me in on social media a few years ago, and she read way too much into that.
Truth be told, if I did like the status she posted, there’s a solid chance I was drunk or high, scrolling social media out of boredom.
