It’s not even my second. The first video I took was on my eighteenth birthday, officially marking the end of my innocent child actor career. It was purposeful. A big fuck you to the industry and my father. The second film was difficult to see. It was just my back and my ass 90 percent of the time, hands tied to the bedframe, but enough people recognized my side profile when I twisted around, strip of cloth wrapped around my eyes. It was taken without my knowledge or permission. Pretty sure it’s still up on Pornhub, no matter how many times my team’s tried to get it taken down. And now this.
Willow says she doesn’t think it’d be a big deal to release it, but I know it’s a calculated move on her part. Her career had been waning, and this drama of dating me, one of the most hated people in Hollywood, has thrust her back into the spotlight. Now this video will only earn her sympathy points from around the world. Fans will flock to her, saying that I didn’t deserve her, that she’s too much of an angel for a devil like me. I’ve already quit social media. The number of trolls was impossible for my social media manager and her assistants to control. I decided to fold them into my manager’s team so they wouldn’t lose their jobs just because people can’t fucking stand me, but there’s nothing for them to do. It doesn’t matter.
If the video is released, my manager, Audrey, and the others will need to go into overdrive （and probably overtime） trying to contain the story and control my image. I have to be a persona. A character I play off-screen, too. I entertain people in movies, sure, but I learned early on that my entire life is a source of entertainment also. I’m the villain. People enjoy picking me apart and berating me. I give them someone to hate. I’m used to this. I even look forward to it, sometimes. It’s all that I know. It feels like a comfort. People screaming “You’re an asshole, Gray!” is like a lullaby after a while. Besides, maybe this will give my social media team something to do.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Post the video.”
Twitter.com
Trending for You
#WeLoveYouWillow #LoganGrayIsOverParty Fuck You Gray #WillowGraceDeservesBetter
@willowgracefanforlife
I can’t believe he would break her heart like that. Willow is the kindest woman in this industry. People, listen up. You can’t change or save anyone. They will only hurt you in the end.
708 6.1K 10.3K
@everydayhustlin
This is why I don’t date bisexual men lol they’re all sluts
506 2.1K 5.2K
@robertklingon
why is Logan Gray still around? he should just overdose on drugs and kill himself already tbqh
301 1.1K. 3K
RED ALERT: BREAKING NEWS
Hello, my little Cherubs. I’m sure most of you have already seen the latest film of our favorite love-to-hate asshole Logan Gray, but I thought it might be nice to repost the video here for your viewing pleasure.
[Video begins: A dark, grainy film. It’s difficult to see what is on the screen. There’s a moan. The video pivots down. Logan Gray looks up, mouth—well—full. He seems surprised to be filmed, then grins and makes a performance of it. The screen shakes. Video ends.]
Don’t you just love the way our garbage fire of a man completely shreds the last of his dignity? I know I’d claimed that Gray’s lowest point was being caught in an, ahem, certain steamy film, but I think we might have a new reigning moment of secondhand embarrassment.
Seriously, why does anyone let Gray go outside at all? There’ve already been enough rumors that he’s about to be fired from the film Write Anything for being a total and complete trashcan of a human being. Oh, well! With this new incident, I’m happily expecting the official announcement any minute now.
Signing off, Angel
Mattie
My manager Paola was frantic when she told me Dave had called for a meeting. “Just play it cool. But not too cool. You don’t want to look like you don’t care. Tell them you’ve been rehearsing a lot more. But, you know. Don’t act like you’re desperate.”
Word got back to her about my not-so-great table read, and she thinks I’m going to be fired. She might be right. My heart sinks at the thought.
“It would be fucked up, absolutely fucked up, if they fired you after watching you perform for five minutes,” she said under her breath.
“Do you really think they’ll fire me?”
I could practically hear her catch herself over the phone. “No—no, of course not,” she told me, but I know she only wants me to be in a good headspace.
I hired her when my career was just starting to explode, right when I got cast for Love Me Dearly. I liked that she was also from Atlanta, and that she would meet my eye with raised brows at Hollywood parties, like when a weed sommelier walked up to us and asked in a fake British accent, “What sort of high would you like?” We both think that LA is a little ridiculous. We both want to succeed here anyway. We’ve made a good pair. I’d be devastated if I got fired, but I’d feel even more guilty if I took Paola down with me.
The meeting is at a restaurant, the kind I’ll never feel fully comfortable in. It’s not just the know which fork to use kind of place, but it screams—I don’t know—fame. Like even if you’re rich, you’ve still got to prove you belong there with your aura alone, with your presence, with other people deciding you are worthy. Not sure I’d pass that test, though I’ve passed the first requirement of wealth. That’s a weird thought. I never had more than twenty dollars in my bank account at one time, and now I have five hundred thousand, after giving my mom most of my money to help pay off her debts and mortgage, and after I paid for my little sister’s college tuition.
They tried to fight me on it. “There’s no way in hell I actually need one million dollars,” I told them. Five hundred thousand is nowhere near a lot in LA, but it definitely is for me. I feel a little like I don’t know what to do with myself. Do I start saving up to buy a house? （I’m trying to ignore that a home here would probably be a quarter of the price in Decatur.） Or do I rent out one of those lavish condos for a few months? Pretend to be a part of this lifestyle for as long as possible? I hate money. I hate that I need so much of it just to have this dream of acting.
The restaurant is shiny with golden reflective walls and a bar that glows soft colors and large light bulbs that hang from the ceiling, plants everywhere. Paola walks closely beside me, heels clacking on the concrete floor. She’s got dark brown hair that tumbles over her shoulders, paler skin that might have a touch too much blush on her cheeks. She’s taller than me by a few inches. Most people don’t expect me to be this short in real life. I’m an average five foot, six inches, unlike the six-to seven-foot Adonis actors. Pretty sure Logan Gray is about six feet, three inches. I wonder how our height difference will look on-screen. If I don’t get fired, anyway.
“Breathe,” she says. “Just breathe.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to herself or to me.
“Even if I’m fired, there’ll be other roles to audition for, right?”
“You’re not going to be fired.”
“But if I am…”
She hesitates. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.”