Page 3 of Beyond the Bright Lights

I choke out a quiet laugh and shake my head. Bruno has lived in the U.S. for six years now, he’s been my bodyguard for five of those, and his English has improved tremendously. Still, sometimes his phrases get lost in translation and make no sense. Other times he makes them up and pretends it’s gospel.

I call them Brunoisms.

My assistant handled all the travel arrangements. As much as Tony wanted me to leave last night, there was no way. I literally just walked out of rehab. Shit, I didn’t even want to go today, but he’s right. I need to research this character, and I’m running out of time.

I can’t fuck this up.

We landed in L.A. late, so I spent the rest of last night at my Beverly Hills home, packing enough clothes to last the entire three months filming on location. This morning, I called Allan and told him I was coming by for a shave and haircut.

The old-fashioned barbershop, with its red, white, and blue swirling pole out front, is located in a touristy area of Hollywood. I remember the first time I walked through the doors. I was six years old, clutching my mother’s hand tight.

“How much to fix my son’s hair? I . . . I messed it up.”

Allan takes one look at my mother’s bruised eye, at my red nose and puffy face, and waves us to the chair.

“I’ll tell you what,” Allan begins. He leans over, hands on his knees, and smiles at me. His dark brown skin creases around his brown eyes and mouth. “I could really use a street team. You walk out of here with your new haircut and stop the first ten people you walk by. Show them how great I did and point them my way. If you do that, I’ll cut your hair for free.”

I shake the memory from my head.

Entertainment Tonight did a feature about the small-time barber with his high-profile client, but that part of the story wasn’t reported. No one knows the real reason Allan still cuts my hair, nearly twenty years later.

Once I no longer look like a lumberjack-in-training, Bruno and I head to the airport and hop on my jet.

By the time we're landing at a regional airport a few miles outside of Silo Springs, Arkansas, population 2,234, the sun is setting. I step out of the jet and stretch my arms high above my head. I take in the view, appreciating the show mother nature is putting on.

Not bad, Arkansas. Not bad at all.

A spectacular ombre of reds, purples, pinks, and oranges paint the sky behind brush strokes of feathery clouds. I breathe in deeply and fill my lungs with scents of oak trees, fresh air, and something else. Something . . . I can’t describe it, but whatever it is, my body relaxes in response.

Maybe it's the sounds pulsing from the thick forest beyond the worn-down tarmac. A chorus of bugs singing their goodnight songs, animals responding with their calls of prey. Or maybe it’s the heat. Damn it’s hot. No, humid. A sauna. I'm already sweating through my clothes.

A black SUV takes us to a hideous two-story building made of tan bricks and rust red trimmings that most certainly hasn’t been renovated since the eighties. Potholes and trash litter the paved parking lot. I blanch at the rancid odor that hits my nose and wish I were back at the airport, breathing in the oak trees and untainted air.

“Hungry?” Bruno points over his shoulder at the dead deer at the side of the road.

So that’s what reeks.

I cover my mouth and nose with my shirt and ignore the smartass.

He thinks he’s hilarious and full-belly laughs as he unloads the vehicle. He hands me my duffle and two other suitcases, one of which is full of books. There’s something nostalgic about holding a physical book in my hands. When I was young, my mother would take me to the library. I'd choose as many books as they’d allow and take them to set to read during the hours of downtime between scenes.

At home, I’d lock myself in my room and escape to fictional lands while my father berated my mother in the real world.

Reading saved my sanity.

With the driver’s help, we haul our luggage into the lobby where my assistant, Eloise, waits with a luggage cart. I’m surprised this hotel had that ‘luxury’ item.

“Great, you made it.”

Eloise is a few years older than me and stunning with her long blonde hair braided and swung over her shoulder. She’s wearing a power suit and high heels, making her all of five-foot-five. I hired her two years ago, and she’s the only assistant of mine to last more than a month. Entirely my fault, of course. Between fucking them, or me going all male diva, they either quit or I fire them. Eloise is different because from the moment we met, she put me in my place—and that doesn’t happen often.

“This is the hotel?” I ask putting my bags on the cart.

“Only one in town.” She’s not as horrified as I am. Likely because she’s used to the small-town life. Eloise moved to L.A. five years ago from some Podunk Midwestern town, which is where she’s been for the past thirty days, visiting her family while her pathetic boss got his life together. “The whole place is booked for the cast and crew. We’re getting the rooms the previous lead and his entourage booked. Which worked out perfectly because there weren’t enough rooms, so some people opted to book an Airbnb.”

“I think I'd prefer an Airbnb to . . . this.”

“You’ll live.” She hands over my room card. “They don’t have suites, Prince Mylan, but your room has a king bed and a view of a pond. That's as good as it gets.”

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