The taxi arrived, but Matthew didn't get in. The director's location was in Burbank—no need to go back. After watching Michael Sheen drive off, he called Lister to take the rest of the day off, grabbed a quick dinner, and soon found the address Director Martin Jackson had given him.
It was a hotel; the suite Martin Jackson had specified was on the top floor.
Seeing it was still early, Matthew found a seat in the lobby lounge, gazed through the glass wall at the endless stream of traffic outside, and spaced out for a long while.
As darkness slowly fell, colorful neon lit up outside; on the street below, pedestrians wove back and forth, the scene bustling.
In an alley across the street, Michael Shehan watched Matthew through the glass wall, his face clouded over.
He hadn't gone to Hollywood Boulevard; he'd gotten out of the cab after a short ride and had waited here ever since. Things had turned out just as badly as he'd feared.
The fact that the director dared summon Matthew Horner to a hotel meant he would almost certainly pick him.
Inside the hotel, Matthew leaned back in his chair, emptying his mind, unwilling to think about anything—even the upcoming meeting with Director Martin Jackson.
Not until nearly eight o'clock did he get up and head for the elevator.
Seeing Matthew leave, Michael Sheen knew he was on his way to see Director Martin Jackson. After a moment's thought, he quickly crossed the street, entered the hotel, and sat down quietly in the seat Matthew had just vacated.
He was waiting for a possibility; Matthew's temperament was odd—he might just refuse the director's offer.
On the hotel's top floor, Matthew stood in the corridor and gently knocked. Footsteps sounded inside; the door was pulled open, revealing the thirty-something man he'd seen in the audition room that afternoon.
"Hello, Director Jackson." Matthew greeted him politely. "I'm Matthew Horner; you called me this afternoon."
Martin Jackson gave a slight nod, stepped aside, and said offhandedly, "Come in."
Matthew entered and, seeing the spotless carpet, asked, "Should I change my shoes?"
"There are slippers in the shoe cabinet." Jackson gestured casually behind the door. "Help yourself."
Glancing over, Matthew opened the cabinet, took out a pair of slippers, changed into them, and walked into the suite's living room, where he found Martin Jackson sitting on the long sofa, pouring red wine into a glass.
Jackson set the bottle down, looked at Matthew, and slowly sipped his wine.
That ambiguous attitude made Matthew uneasy; he instinctively slowed his steps, but the other man kept studying him over his wine without inviting him to sit.
Only when Matthew reached the center of the living room did Jackson speak. "All right, stand right there."
Matthew didn't know what he was up to, but he stopped.
Jackson took another sip of wine, stared straight at him, and said, "I didn't check your muscles during the audition. This role demands strict muscle definition; I need to see them."
He made a gesture. "Take off your shirt."
The words startled Matthew; a bad possibility flashed through his mind. He'd been so focused on landing the role that he hadn't considered anything else—but he wasn't some green kid. Long social experience told him Martin Jackson had ulterior motives.
Matthew hesitated, still clinging to a shred of hope: maybe Jackson had no other intentions and really just wanted to check his muscle lines.
If that were the case, refusing to take off his shirt would mean actively giving up this rare chance.
In just a few seconds, two completely opposite thoughts raced through his head.
"What are you waiting for?" Jackson set down his glass and urged, "Take off your shirt."
Matthew hesitated for a second, then pulled off his fitted T-shirt, tossed it onto the single sofa nearby, and exposed his muscular upper body.
"Sss…"
A strange sound escaped Jackson's lips; he suddenly stood, his eyes fixed on Matthew.
"Matthew…" he said again, "now take off your pants."
At those words, the last of Matthew's illusions shattered. If he still couldn't see what was happening, he'd be an idiot.
He wanted this role badly, wanted to seize this opportunity—so he'd come, clinging to hope even after suspecting Jackson's improper intentions.
Because he was desperate to become famous, to make big money.
But there were things he wouldn't do; once he did, he'd despise himself.
Ignoring Jackson, Matthew pulled his T-shirt back on, turned, and walked straight toward the door.
"Don't you want the role anymore?" Jackson's voice came from behind. "You're the top choice right now—walk out that door…"
He broke off mid-sentence, then his tone changed. "Stay, and I guarantee the role is yours."
Matthew turned, shot Jackson a look filled with unmistakable anger, resisted the urge to strike, changed his shoes, and strode away without a backward glance.
Out in the corridor, his rage didn't fade; it blazed hotter, scorching his throat dry.
"Son of a bitch!"
He swore under his breath—he'd just run into the legendary casting couch.
He rode the elevator down. Even if he lost the role, Matthew wouldn't hesitate; if the director had been a young, attractive woman… maybe. Out on the ground floor, parched, he headed for the vending machine on the left, bought a bottle of water to cool the rage still blazing in his chest—otherwise he couldn't promise he wouldn't march back upstairs and drag Martin Jackson out for a beating.
Of course, this wasn't over.
But Matthew knew he didn't have the clout to do anything—yet.
Near the glass-wall lounge, Michael Sheen kept his eyes on the elevator. The instant Matthew stepped out, he grinned.
Even counting the ride, Matthew had been up there less than five minutes and came down looking normal.
What did that mean? Either he'd refused—or things weren't what Sheehan assumed.
Sheehan dismissed the second option. Unlike rookie Matthew, he'd spent three unremarkable years in this business; he'd heard countless tales of directors summoning actors to their apartments at night—everyone knew what that meant.
His gaze followed Matthew toward the vending machine while his mind raced: the director liked men; if Matthew had turned him down, maybe the door was open—for him.
Sheehan ran one hand over his face, the other across solid pecs—time to take the gamble.
He was sure he looked every bit as good as that hick Matthew Horner.
Risk it and he might escape life as a disposable extra; play it safe and nothing would change.
Usually he couldn't even find anyone willing to 'help' him.
On instinct he stood, afraid the chance might vanish, and strode for the elevators.
Opportunity only counts when you grab it.
At the machine, Matthew had just fed in a coin when a familiar reflection flickered across the glass; he glanced back in time to see Michael Sheen disappear into the elevator lobby.
"Huh… what's he doing here? Did Martin Jackson call him too?"
Sheehan had left Burbank by cab that afternoon; the only explanation for his reappearance was another summons.
Matthew took his water, gulped half, and—instead of heading home—decided to linger and watch.
Sheehan was as goal-driven as he was; Matthew wanted to see whether he'd stay, whether he'd play along with Martin Jackson—and, if so, whether the director would reward him with the role.
Bottle in hand, Matthew returned to the glass wall and settled into his previous seat, eyes fixed on the elevator doors.
The blinding fury was already cooling.
Because even if Sheehan said yes, the part wasn't guaranteed.
The person with final say was Britney Spears, not the director.
Matthew clung to the tip Amanda had slipped him; that's why he'd been furious, not defeated.
But he also knew that now he'd pissed off Director Martin Jackson, landing the lead would mean persuading Britney Spears.
How to make Little Sweetheart pick him? Life would be simpler if Britney played the same casting-couch game.
Watching the elevators, bored, he drifted into fantasy: Britney was young, gorgeous, barely twenty—if she wanted a little quid-pro-quo, he could sacrifice himself; the role would be a bonus… Thirty minutes later he checked his phone; Sheehan still hadn't reappeared.
"Don't tell me he's staying up there?" A cold sweat broke on Matthew's forehead at the mental image. "He's really going to 'devote himself to art'?"
Another half-hour passed; the water was gone and Sheehan still hadn't returned. Figuring he'd spend the night with Martin Jackson, Matthew stood to leave—there was no point waiting.
Then he stepped back, melting into a shadowed corner.
Michael Sheen was walking out of the elevator lobby.