Matthew sat frozen in the chair as more memories flooded in, confirming that this Crew was about to shoot a romantic action film—the kind that trades passion for pay-per-view.
Worse, the previous guy had known exactly what he was signing up for—and had done it willingly, contract and all.
Why? Money, of course.
The Agent had spun him a fairy tale: this was the back door into Hollywood, a detour that still ended on the red carpet.
Matthew rolled his eyes. Even a newcomer like him knew that once you flashed that kind of skin on camera, your Hollywood Star dream was over. The guy hadn't been blind—just dazzled by dollar signs.
The poor bastard had landed in Los Angeles months earlier and crashed hard. No auditions, not even as a background extra. Broke and desperate, he'd swallowed the Agent's snake-oil whole—good looks, great body, bigger dreams, and, well… exceptional natural assets. He'd let the fever take him straight toward a cliff.
Correction: he'd been about to step off. Shooting hadn't started yet.
That single thought let Matthew breathe again. If that footage ever hit the market, how could he show his face anywhere?
A guy with no skills and no résumé might gamble on acting, but once you go down that road, the exit ramp vanishes.
Matthew would rather take another hammer to the skull than star in this thing.
Decision made, he glanced at his bare-chest reflection, hunted through the dressing Room, and—guided by the memories—dug out his own clothes. He changed without hesitation.
Faded denim, worn soft and almost white. The moment the fabric settled on his shoulders, he felt steady again. While dressing he realized why the Agent had targeted the last guy: tall, built, sunny-yet-rugged looks—and an almost unfair genetic jackpot below the belt.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The door rattled. The same voice he'd heard earlier burst through: "Matthew! What are you doing in there?"
It carried an edge of irritation. "I told you—out in fifteen. Time's up!"
Matthew crossed the Room, yanked the door open, and found a bald, bespectacled white man glaring at him. Memory supplied the name instantly: Morris, the con-man Agent.
"What the f—"
Morris cut himself off at the sight of Matthew's street clothes. He stepped inside, slammed the door, and hissed, "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm out," Matthew said flatly.
Morris's eyes bulged as if he hadn't heard right. "Speak English, not that damned Texan drawl!"
The words had tumbled out in a half-Chinese, half-Texas train wreck. Matthew cleared his throat, reset, and tried again. "I—said—I—quit."
Clearly, he still needed to calibrate his American accent.
"Quit?" Morris scoffed, certain it was a joke. "Cut the crap and suit up. The entire Crew is waiting."
Matthew squared his shoulders, found the rhythm of the language, and delivered the line like a verdict. "I. Quit. Not joking."
Morris looked up, saw the granite set of Matthew's jaw, and his gaze turned icy. "You insane? This isn't some driver gig you can walk away from. You signed a contract—break it and you'll pay—"
His voice dropped to a freezer's hum, "—big money."
"I'm broke." Matthew had already checked—wallet held a few creased twenties.
"Then stop wasting my breath.
Stop screwing around." Morris's tone softened into honeyed persuasion. "The deal's eight grand up front. With your looks you'll be huge—five grand a picture, maybe ten, who knows?
He knew every button to push. "Money in your pocket means no more chauffeuring models—you'll have them delivered to you. Cash opens every door, and this is your shot. Miss it, it's gone."
His gaze slid downward. "Not every guy is born with your… credentials." He clapped Matthew's shoulder. "Don't waste the gift."
Under that stare Matthew's skin crawled; he fought the urge to cross his legs. Thank God the previous guy hadn't crossed the point of no return… "You know who backs this production?" Morris pressed. "General Electric—biggest shareholder. They could squash you like a bug."
Carrot time. "Remember the blonde I introduced? Jessica—sexy, right?"
Matthew pictured the woman and nodded before he could stop himself.
Morris suddenly switched to a sleazy tone. "Jessica Derek is the industry's certified beauty. In five minutes you can have her—ride her all you want. Not only is it free, you'll pocket a fat wad of cash. Anything sweeter than that? If the Crew didn't think I'm past it, I'd do it myself!"
He slapped Matthew's shoulder again. "Money and a gorgeous woman—right in front of you. Don't you want them?"
"I… I…"
After twenty grinding years, the lure of money and a beauty like her was overwhelming. Matthew swallowed hard. "Of course I want it!"
Morris grinned. These small-town paupers never could resist. A few had tried to back out at the last second, but once he applied the right mix of threats and promises, every one of them had dropped his pants.
This one would be no exception.
Morris pulled the door open and glanced back. From inside the Room he had a perfect view of tall, sultry Jessica Derek. No way a kid barely twenty could resist.
He caught Matthew's Adam's apple bobbing, cheeks flushing, eyes flicking toward the hallway.
Certain the boy was back under his thumb, Morris began plotting. Once the audience tired of him, maybe he'd shove this unruly punk into the studio's most extreme productions.
A man who'd been broke for twenty years—sometimes unable even to eat—faced a temptation almost beyond imagination.
Heat surged to Matthew's head; hormones screamed at him to nod. But he wasn't some fresh-off-the-bus kid. Years on the bottom rung had taught him that behind every glittering lure waited a price you might pay for life.
He dragged his gaze from the blonde, eyes hardening, the flush draining from his face.
Morris, sure everything still lay in his grip, reached to pat Matthew's shoulder again.
"Stick with me, Matthew. You'll be a star, make big money, drive the best cars, bed the hottest women…"
His hand froze mid-air: the shoulder had shifted aside, its owner making plain the hand wasn't welcome.
Morris's eyes flared. Before he could speak, Matthew cut in. "I like money. I like beautiful women."
He smiled, then his tone iced over. "But not this way."
"What?" Morris's eyes bulged. "Say that again?"
"Simple." Matthew tapped his chest. "I'm out."
"You—"
Morris jabbed a finger. Matthew's voice cracked across the set. "I said I quit!"
Heads turned. The bespectacled director strode over.
"What's going on?" he demanded.
"I quit," Matthew said first. "Find someone else."
"What do you think you're pulling?"
The director—also the producer—looked at Morris, who shook his head as if innocent, face twisted in fury. "Handle him," the director snapped.
"Know what breach costs?" Morris snarled. "You'll pay ten times every dime the Crew spent—wardrobe, props, condoms—plus a fortune in penalties. And you won't just walk out—"
Matthew cut him off. "Spare me. I've got nothing. I'm flat broke.
He pulled out his phone and waved it. "One press of a button and the cops come. We're in downtown L.A., right? Want to explain things to them?"
Morris sneered. This wasn't the wild seventies; one wrong move could bring heat the industry couldn't afford.
The director-producer spoke up. "Fine—walk if you want. Pay five times your fee plus expenses. My lawyer will bill you fifty thousand dollars."
Cast changes happened all the time; he'd even stepped in himself when an actor bailed. The kid had talent, but time was money.
"My lawyer will collect," he said coolly, already heading out. At the door he tossed over his shoulder, "Next time pick someone reliable."
The director left. Matthew shrugged at Morris. "See ya."
He turned to go.
"Better have that fifty grand ready. The company always collects," Morris blocked him. "I'll ruin you, then watch you crawl back."
"Whatever." Matthew—barefoot and unafraid—sidestepped him. "L.A.'s a big town. You're not king of it."