Behind the Scenes

Chapter 2

HARRY

"Are you ready?" Marcia asks me through the phone as I rush into the building. The scent of leather, cool marble and expensive colognes tease at my senses, my eyes glancing around.

"Yup, all set," I replied, hoping I was hiding the hint of uncertainty in my voice. Marcia knew me too well. She had been my manager for almost four years already, and I was pretty sure she had some sort of tracking implant imbedded in my skin when I was sleeping that could trace my heart rate, location, and lies at her whim. It was the only reasonable explanation for how she always knew everything I was doing...the good, and the bad.

"Did you get the book read?"

Again, I cringe as though she can see me through the line, holding the phone against my shoulder to dig in my pocket for the slip of paper she had given me the day before. "Yup," I lied again, reading over the information.

Ninth floor, room 935.

"You're lying," she said simply, causing me to stumble in my step, before throwing my head back dramatically. I held back the groan that threatened to escape, covering my face with my free hand. The woman always fucking knew when I lied to her. She was worse than my Gran.

"How do you figure?" I deflected, showing security my audition information and racing towards the back of the building for the elevators.

To this, she actually laughed. "Because I know you," she explained. "You always say 'yup' when you lie, and you always try to distract from an accusation with a question."

"That doesn't mean-"

"Plus, I found the book still in the bag in your carry on this morning,"

Shit.

"Look, Mar, I meant to read it, I just-"

She interrupted me, and I could almost see her raising her hands to shut me up through the phone. "Harry, I don't care if you read it. I think it could have helped you prepare, especially if you want this role as badly as you say you do. But it's up to you to get ready for this and I can't force you. As much as you think I am, I am not your mother."

I snickered as I stepped into the elevator.

"Are you in the holding room?" she asked, again, changing directions of the conversation at warp speed.

"Yup," I answered, cringing when I realized I had yet again given myself away.

"Lie."

"I'm just running late, I'm in the elevator right now, I'm going to be there in a second," I rambled, practically shouldering the heavy door out of the way as it slowly slid open on the ninth floor. "Traffic is insane today and I couldn't find a spot."

"Just calm down, for goodness sake. You need to get your head in the game."

I take a deep breath as I stride down the hallway, my eyes scanning the numbers of each room as I pass. "I read over the sample pages of the script a few times last night. I am ready as I'm going to be."

"Good. Just remember, the book was basically written about you, and that plays in your favor. But you still have to sway the producers and director. You have to prove to them that you are this character. Not just the guy who the author used as a muse."

I nod, even though her words cause a knot in my stomach. I may not have read the book, but I know the gist of the story. Girl meets wounded boy, and breaks down his walls to learn the kind, sweet person behind the darkness. Boy is determined never to have feelings for someone again after losing his true love, until he meets girl who shows him what love is again. It is all sweet romance, redemption and finding your soul mate; all things that I am nothing like. Again, the benefits of fiction, since authors can make up literally anything they want, even if the person they are using couldn't be more different from how they wish. For me, I am the dark side of the version of me the author wrote, not the light, but I know how to balance the two. In front of the camera, I play my part. In real life, I make no apologies for being me. I am the handsome, snarky, ego driven rock star that some girl thought was actually a sweet, caring, wounded boy lashing out to protect his secrets. As much as I want the role, and as much as my fans are inundating my social media accounts with desperate pleas for me to be cast, the thought of even pretending to be such a soft, stereotypical hero makes me want to groan.