Page 1 of Beyond the Bright Lights

Chapter 1 – Mylan

I toss up both middle fingers as I walk out of Forest Ridge Rehabilitation Center in the backcountry of Northwestern Washington.

“And I’m not coming back.”

“You said that the last two stints,” the discharge counselor yells right before the heavy glass doors close behind me.

A black Range Rover waits in the circular paved driveway. The driver, an older man with stark white hair and too many wrinkles, exits as I approach. My bodyguard, Bruno, walks towards me—his dark blond hair tied at the nape of his neck like always. I’m tall, six-foot-four, but Bruno has a few inches on me. More muscle too. Despite the terrifyingly intimidating mask he wears in public, in private, he’s more teddy bear than grizzly as he offers me a smile and opens his massive arms. I fall into them, and he gives me three rough slaps on the back before releasing me.

“Miss me?” I smirk, combing my fingers through my shoulder-length hair. It grew too long as I sank deeper into my addiction. My self-neglect amplified in the months leading to rehab, and I stopped showering, stopped grooming, stopped caring.

First thing tomorrow morning I’ll head to my favorite barber, Allan, for a trim. I’ll probably have him shave this beard too. Though women love men with beards and soon mine will reach lumberjack status.

“Miss you? Hell, no,” Bruno says in his thick German accent, with a chuckle rumbling through his hefty chest.

He holds out his hand for my bag. Before giving it to him, I take out the manila envelope containing my phone, Patek watch, keys, and wallet—items I had to turn in thirty days ago when I checked in.

Bruno swings the duffle into the trunk, and the driver pushes a button to close the door. By the time both men are done, I’m inside the vehicle, my head leaned back, and my eyes closed.

“I know this was a tough one, Boss. You okay?” Bruno asks, his voice softening.

I answer with a nod and a long stream of breath. He doesn’t push me to talk about it. He knows I’ll talk when I’m ready. Instead, he taps his calloused palm on my jean-covered knee, his silent way of telling me he’s there for me.

He’s always there for me.

The drive from the rehabilitation center to the private airport is thirty minutes, which is long enough that I doze off. If I had a superpower, it’d be falling asleep fast and anywhere. I’ve slept standing up while in between filming scenes on movie sets. I’ve slept like a baby during loud parties in my hotel room. I even slept at the MTV Movie Awards. My drooling face was turned into a meme that people still tag me in on social media despite it happening two years ago.

Sleeping fast and hard may be my unimpressive superpower, yet I tossed and turned every night in rehab. Sleep was my villain, winning the war my body waged. Because this time was different.

Because this time, I hit rock bottom, and they tried to keep me longer.

Bruno shakes my shoulder, waking me. I wipe drool off my chin and crawl out of the massive back seat. My private jet is parked on the tarmac, being prepped for the flight back to L.A. I wait, leaned up against the vehicle as the driver hands my duffle bag to an airport worker.

The sun sets in a wonderful display of pastels cast over mountainous land. A breeze washed over me, offering a welcome relief while standing in this dry heat. I savor this peace and quiet, knowing it will all go away the moment I return to the limelight and my disappointment of a life.

A deep chuckle pulls my attention to the two male pilots, who look like they moonlight as models, walking toward the jet. My chest tightens with jealousy as the men joke and talk about weekend plans. I yearn for that type of friendship. How pathetic is that? I mean, yeah, Bruno is my friend, but he’s also my protector. He rarely loosens up when we’re out because he’s on alert, keeping fans and paparazzi away.

In private, Bruno helps me run lines. I vent to him or tell him about the women I fuck. Sometimes we gossip about the asshole actors and directors I work with. Bruno has seen me at my darkest. He’s seen me cry and not the manufactured tears I use during scenes. Real fucking tears.

Bruno is my friend until we’re in public, then he’s just an employee doing his job.

I’ve had friends, but they always fuck me over. I can’t trust anyone anymore. They'll share my secrets with the tabloids for a fat paycheck or take candid pictures of me looking my worst to sell to the highest bidder. I had one alleged friend steal my underwear to sell to my stalker. Most of the people who are in my entourage are only there for the fame, the pussy that tends to gravitate towards me, or the free trips on my jet.

Poor rich white boy, right?

I tuck away my self-loathing thoughts when I spot the gorgeous redheaded flight attendant strutting by. She turns to me, grinning her ruby lips and winks. I run my eyes down her body, appreciating her curves. Not curvy enough, if I'm honest. I love women of all sizes, ages, and colors, but I love my women thick. The thicker, the better.

I’m about to follow this fiery woman up the plane stairs when my phone rings.

My manager, Tony.

“Tell me I got the role.”

He sighs and my heart sinks. Fuck. I needed this job.

“Yeah, yeah. You got it.”

Wait. What?

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