Page 2 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“But you’re on a short leash, Mylan. No drinking, no drugs, no sex.”

“No sex? Come on, man!”

“Mylan,” Tony warns. “You know what I mean. You don’t need any distractions and that includes sex. Go to set, say your lines, and go back to the hotel. You hear me?”

I roll my eyes. Tony’s been my manager since I started acting at age five. He knows me better than anyone else. He was more of a father to me than Aaron Andrews ever was. That fucker barely lived past my tenth birthday.

If you don’t stop, you’ll end up just like him.

I remind myself that Tony’s not my father because, like Bruno, at the end of the day, he’s still a man paid to deal with my shit.

“Yeah, I hear you.”

The flight attendant pokes her head out of the door and waves, informing us the plane is ready for departure. Bruno slaps me on the shoulder and walks ahead.

“When do I need to be there?”

“You’re not going to like this.” He pauses as if working up the courage to say it. “They start filming in two weeks.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“They’re trying to stay on schedule and on budget.” He exhales loudly, and I briefly wonder if he’s seconds from quitting after finally reaching a breaking point. “You should know that the only reason you got this role is because the lead had a family emergency. You’re not their second choice. Fuck, Mylan, you’re not even their last choice because no one in their right mind would hire an actor who can’t stay out of rehab.”

Ouch. That stings.

I collapse into one of the massive leather seats in the plane’s cabin, covering the phone to tell Red my drink order. I scowl at Bruno when he cancels the whiskey on the rocks and tells the flight attendant to bring me water instead.

“Okay. Then how the hell did my agent book this role?”

“She didn’t. I got you this role. I was the one who called in favors. A lot of favors. Favors that will end my career if you fuck this up.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Do you? ‘Cause I just heard you try to order a whiskey on the rocks.”

My comfort drink when I’m stressed. Tony knows that, so I don’t even try to defend myself.

“This is it, Mylan. For you and me both. If you want to continue acting, then be ready to film in two weeks, lines memorized, in character.”

I curse and lean over, elbows on my knees as I rub my palms over my face. Learning the lines is not an issue. Becoming the character, however, is something I typically take pride in—at least, I do when I'm not lost in my addiction. Transforming into a character is a process, one that I try to spend months perfecting. Especially for a role like this one.

Red returns with a bottled water and a glass of ice. She smiles, no longer that sexy, flirty smile, but one full of pity.

I hate being pitied.

“Look, son. Go to this small redneck town, tonight if you can, and win over those hillbilly hearts. Find people who knew the real person this character is based off. Forget Mylan Andrews. You need to become Tyler Taylor.”

I grunt a response that Tony accepts as compliance and he rambles off more instructions that I tune out, not even worried I’ll forget because he always sends a million follow-up emails. When I hang up, I open the water and forego the ice, sucking half the bottle down and wishing it was that whiskey instead.

I need the whiskey to forget. I need it to mute my overactive brain. I need it to dull my sharpened nerves because I’m about to reunite with the last person I want to see.

The director of this movie. My former best friend.

Red’s contagious laughter brings me back to reality as she flirts with Bruno. I’m too numb to care that she’s moved on from me.

“Hey B.,” I say the moment their conversation ends, and she disappears behind a curtain. “Want to go to Arkansas?”

He rubs his hands together like he’s about to dine at the finest restaurant in the world. “God gave us women, but the Devil gave us Southern women. Let’s go sin, brother.”

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