Page 17 of A Lucky Shot

Stephen scratched his armpit, sniffed his fingers, and grimaced. “Might as well have. Feels like I did,” he replied. “Why didn’t you wait for me this morning? We could’ve carpooled.”

“And let you stink up my car? No fucking way.” Delete, forward, flag for reply. Sixty emails after being out of the office for a day? Not bad. “Didn’t hear you come in last night, anyway.”

“You were busy, from the sounds of it.”

“A gentleman never tells.”

“What do you know about being a gentleman?” Stephen rubbed his hands over his beard, the unkept blonde ends making his chin look an inch longer, and shifted into work mode. “Think we’ll get the shots we need today?”

Nothing short of an earthquake would prevent them from getting the shots today.

And that is not an invitation, he silently whispered to any powers that be. He flicked through the call sheets fresh off the printer. “Take a shower. You’re disgusting.”

“Can’t. My landlord gives me shit when I use too much hot water.”

“I’m not your landlord.”

“Then what do I pay you rent for?”

“You don’t, but if you did, it would all go to my water bill.”

His attention was pulled from Stephen’s bemused shrug with a new flash in his inbox. Fuck, a new email, just as he’d gotten through everything.

This one was different.

LookBACK Films. The script he sent months ago. Long enough for someone to have finally read it after following up with every contact he had. He ground his teeth together and braced himself to open the message.

Dear Mr. Graham, Thank you for your submission; however, we …

Josh bit back an expletive. No need to read any further. He resisted the urge to delete it, instead filing it in the folder labelled What Doesn’t Kill You. At least, he didn’t think twenty rejections in half as many months would kill him.

Might not make him stronger, but it put him in good company.

Everyone got rejected. All the time. Josh Graham was used to rejection. His scripts, anyway. Back in college, he was one of the few people in his film and screen arts program who wanted to be behind the camera, unlike the actors who feigned camaraderie, then backstabbed each other later while they all vied for the same roles.

His friends tried to convince him he belonged in front of the camera. He had the looks for it. It was like his parents had thrown all their features in a bag, shook it up, and built their son with whatever they grabbed first. The thick black hair that looked good, no matter what he did with it, came from his mother. He also got her dimples, but the cheekbones and glacial green eyes came from his father. The lanky, sinuous torso came from his father as well, and while his father would die before being seen unclothed outside of a sauna, Josh’s agent insisted shirtless photos be at the top of his portfolio. More than one modelling agency had tried to recruit him in the past decade, but he wanted to do more than stand around and look pretty.

Or look angry, if any of the feedback he got was any indication.

“You have this whole murderous supermodel thing going for you,” his drama coach had said, fingers fluttering in a circle around his face. “You’re a shoo-in for any villain roles.”

If he wanted people to think he was an asshole, he’d keep doing what he was doing. So, yeah. The bullshit in front of the camera didn’t interest him. He might make an exception for a reimagining of Newsies set as a nineties gangster film, but those roles didn’t come around that often.

Unless …

He whipped out his phone. “Siri, take a note. Screenplay idea Newsies remake meets nineties mafia.” After a beat, he added, “Upcoming actors who dance question mark.”

At least the bullshit behind the camera was better than in front of it. Usually. A few of his screenplays for short films had been optioned, even if nothing had come of it yet. Executive producers were allergic to risk. Oblivion, the film he’d directed, sound-mixed, lit, and everything else, had taken him over a year to make, and he still hadn’t thought it was ready. He’d never have entered it if Stephen hadn’t berated him into submitting it.

And Cass had said she’d liked it, even without knowing he’d directed. She got it, got him, what he was trying to say.

That felt good. Really fucking good.

So, minor success on his shorter works. No bites on any of his feature length screenplays, though.

Yet, he reminded himself. One of these days, the self-gaslighting might turn into an actual positive thought.

Stephen rolled his chair over. “Hear Westy’s in today?”

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