"That guy walks really weirdly."
"Don't tell me he's disabled?"
After getting out of the taxi and heading toward the restaurant, Michael Sheen heard plenty of comments about himself. He'd thought a few days' rest would fix everything, which was why he'd arranged to eat with Matthew, but a night and a morning later the pain in his rear was still excruciating—especially when he walked. Any pace faster than a crawl felt like a power drill boring into him.
Yet he'd still come. The thought that Matthew Horner, a so-called friend, had refused to help spurred him on.
Legs splayed, backside slightly stuck out, steps deliberately slow, Michael Sheen waddled into the restaurant.
"Hello, welcome!"
A blonde, blue-eyed waitress came up. "Sir, how many? Do you have a reservation?"
Michael Sheen looked past her into the room. "I'm meeting someone. Has Matthew Horner arrived?"
The short walk had him sweating from the pain; he needed to sit—preferably on something soft—fast.
The waitress gestured for him to follow. "Mr. Matthew Horner is this way."
Michael Sheen tottered after her. Diners everywhere stared at his odd gait.
"Damn it!"
The stares made him squirm. "The bastard—why didn't he pick somewhere quiet?"
"Hey, Mike!" Matthew spotted him and waved. "Over here!"
Relief at the prospect of finally sitting sped Michael's shuffle. The waitress gave him a smile and left.
Matthew took in the duck-footed hobble and, guessing the injury wasn't healed, stood deliberately. "What happened?"
Any normal man who'd had his backside assaulted would want it kept secret.
Sure enough, Michael put on a relaxed face. "Nothing—just twisted my ankle getting out of the cab."
"Then sit, quick." Matthew pulled out a carved wooden armchair. "Don't stand there."
Michael eyed the chair; its unforgiving hardwood offered no cushion. His eyelid twitched.
"Don't hover." Matthew's tone was solicitous. "Want me to call someone? I know a neighborhood doctor—"
"No, no." Michael waved it off. "Just a little sore. It'll pass."
Seeing Matthew about to fuss further, Michael shuffled to the chair and sat. The instant his backside met the hard plank, a jolt as bad as walking shot through him.
"What's wrong?" Matthew's face was all concern.
Michael forced himself down, his full weight landing on tortured flesh; the raw burn flared into last night's tearing agony and he jerked upward.
Matthew watched him. "Something else hurt? Want me to take you for a check-up?"
If Michael had wanted a hospital he'd have gone already. He shook his head frantically. "I'm fine—really."
To keep Matthew from guessing, he stayed seated. The pain wouldn't be willed away; sweat beaded on his forehead the moment Matthew settled beside him.
A waiter approached with menus. Michael, desperate as a drowning man spotting a rope, opened his mouth to ask for a cushion.
Before he could speak, Matthew eyed his restless shifting.
"Hurt your butt? Should I get you a pillow?"
"No, no." Memories of last night flashed; Michael denied it at once. "My backside's fine!"
He'd die before letting Matthew connect the dots—some things you could survive but never speak aloud.
Michael produced a ready excuse. "First time on a chair like this—takes getting used to."
Matthew nodded solemnly. "You'll adjust in a minute."
He summoned the waiter to order.
Perched on unforgiving hardwood, Michael alone knew how every second felt like torture.
"What'll you have?" Matthew asked. Michael couldn't care less. "I don't know Chinese food—order for me."
"Sure." Matthew didn't stand on ceremony. "I'll pick."
He flipped the menu and chose spicy beef, water-boiled pork slices, mapo tofu—classic Sichuan dishes.
"You speak Chinese?" he asked the black-haired, black-eyed waiter. When the man nodded, Matthew switched smoothly. "My buddy here loves spice—pile on the chili, the hotter the better!"
Though surprised at Matthew's fluent Chinese, the waiter simply said, "Got it!"
Michael snatched a napkin and mopped his forehead. Sitting on this torture device, each second was agony. If he'd known, he'd have brought a thick cushion—or better, never come.
Then he remembered why he was here. "I've got solid intel: I'm the front-runner for the male lead in the MV."
"Really?" Matthew beamed. "That's fantastic!"
Michael Sheen was stunned—this was nothing like what he'd imagined.
Matthew added, "If it's true, congratulations, Mike."
The words sounded utterly sincere, like a blessing shared between best friends.
Hearing that "congratulations," Michael Sheen felt the speech he'd spent all night rehearsing to show off stick in his throat.
"You've finally made it!" Matthew said, slapping Michael Sheen's shoulder affectionately. "Go for it—become a big star."
"Ah…"
Michael Sheen yelped; it sounded like a reply to Matthew, but it was really a cry of pain as the jolt forced his sore backside harder against the chair.
Matthew patted his shoulder again. "Honestly, you were better for that last role than I was, but that decision wasn't ours to make, right? This time, luck landed on you."
Michael Sheen bit his lip and nodded repeatedly.
"Tomorrow I'll sound out Helen Herman," Matthew went on, still patting his shoulder. "If she agrees, I'll pull out of the audition."
"Mm…" Michael Sheen wore the look of a man constipated. "Mm… mm…"
Seeing Matthew so genuinely happy, Michael suddenly wondered if coming here to gloat had been a bit much.
The dishes arrived; Matthew ordered a bottle of high-proof baijiu and poured a glass each for himself and Michael Sheen.
Michael Sheen stared at him, head fuzzy—did this guy really consider him a friend?
"Matthew…" he began, but Matthew raised his glass. "Mike, you're the first friend I made in Los Angeles. To our friendship—and to our futures—cheers!"
"Cheers!" Michael Sheen, moved, ignored the searing pain in his rear, clinked glasses, and said, "To our futures!"
He downed the drink in one.
Matthew emptied his glass too, then refilled Michael's.
"Eat up," he urged warmly. Michael took a bite; his mouth burned, and for some reason it felt like the burn reached right between his cheeks.
Matthew raised his glass again. "Bottoms up!"
Michael clinked and knocked back another shot of the fiery liquor.
After that he dropped the boasting, enduring the dual blaze in mouth and backside, and finished the meal.
Though the spicy food meant he hadn't eaten much, he and Matthew had put away plenty of baijiu.
He even snatched the bill before Matthew could.
His reasoning was simple: if Matthew Horner was foolish enough to treat him as a friend, there might still be value in exploiting that—like his close rapport with Helen Herman. Once he'd paid, Matthew asked, "Leaving together?"
"I'll sit a bit longer." Afraid Matthew would notice his pain, Michael made an excuse. "I'm meeting a friend on another street this afternoon."
"All right." Matthew nodded. "Your injury…"
Though his brow was knitted in agony, Michael waved it off. "It's fine—rested a bit and I'm all better."
"Good then." Matthew waved. "See you, Mike."
"See you, Matthew."
The moment Matthew turned away, Michael stopped pretending; his face twisted in pain and he sprang from the chair as if ejected by a spring, craning to see his backside—useless, of course.
"Ah!"
He'd stood too fast, aggravating the wound Matthew's slaps had jarred, and couldn't stifle a cry.
He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth.
Even so, people looked over, and a waiter hurried up. "Can I help you, sir?"
"I…" He meant to say no, but the pain spiked and standing became impossible. "Call me a cab and help me out, please."
"Of course."
The waiter radioed for a taxi and supported him toward the exit.
White-faced, as though Martin Jackson had given him another round, Michael leaned on the waiter, barely made it outside, and collapsed into the cab home.
He swore he'd stay face-down in bed and not set foot outside for days.
Nearby, Matthew stepped from an alley, grinning. All those acting classes hadn't been wasted—his performance had clearly improved.
At the very least, Michael Sheen hadn't suspected a thing.
Michael's attitude confirmed that Martin Jackson had promised him the lead role—one big reason Matthew had accepted the lunch invitation.
To win the second audition, he'd have to fight outside the audition room.
He'd already made his plan. Taking out his phone and the card Elena Boyar had given him, he dialed the number.