Page 8 of Mister Mom

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. My sister Charlie would kick my ass for what I’m about to do. But in all truthfulness, maybe it all worked out for the better. I mean, Layla’s in a film with Chris Pratt. She might not have gotten that gig if she’d gotten the role in Abandoned. She should be thanking me. Plus, if my movie is a success, that totally trumps a small role in a television series. Right? Definitely.

“All right. Tell me where to find her.”

He smiles over another mouthful of taco. “That’s my boy.” He winks.

3

Vance

I lower my ball cap to shield my face. You’d think I was Harry Styles from the way I’ve been peering around corners and hiding behind set pieces to try to escape recognition while walking through the studio lot. I should’ve sent Jagger to present the damn script to her. I won’t even get into the prima donna treatment Layla Andrews expects. Seriously, why the fuck am I here delivering this script? I suppose a courier service is too good for her.

Fucking actresses.

In some ways knowing she’s as self-involved as all this makes me not feel as bad about screwing her over in the past. Everyone stamped my forehead with ‘jackass,’ but look at what she has me doing now. Jumping through fucking hoops. If I didn’t need the investor so bad, I’d say, Fuck you, I’ll cast my lead actress myself. Sadly, that’s not the case. I need the money this investment lady is offering.

Layla Andrews’ name is stuck on the outside of her trailer, so I knock, eager to escape inside.

The door flies open and a woman in her fifties shakes her head, her shoulder knocking mine as she bounds down the stairs like there’s a billow of smoke about to follow her.

“Hey,” I greet her but she never stops.

“You can tell Miss Andrews I’m done,” she yells over her shoulder.

A granola bar flies out of the door and hits her in the back. When I turn back to the trailer the culprit is a blond-haired boy who’s squinting at her, hands on his hips. He looks like he’s trying to do some kind of voodoo crap on her.

The woman picks up the granola bar, cocks her hand back, but I grip her wrist before she can whip it back at the boy.

What the hell is she thinking?

Her hand opens and the granola bar drops to the ground. “He’s your problem now.”

I look behind me to see who she’s talking to but, nope, there’s still just me.

I turn back, but the woman is stalking away, her feet hitting the pavement so hard you’d expect there to be potholes in her wake.

My head slowly rotates back to the little boy, who’s standing there, staring back at me.

“Who are you?” he asks, his hands still resting on his hips.

“Vance.”

He stands there, his fiery eyes not dimming in the slightest.

“And your name is?” I ask.

“My mom told me not to talk to strangers.” The trailer door slams shut.

Great. I walk up the few steps and knock on the door again.

Silence greets me.

I knock again.

More silence.

My hand moves to the handle and it turns in my palm.

I inch the door open and peek in, but the little bastard kicks it shut, slamming me in the head with it. Now I know what that bald guy felt like in Home Alone.

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