On the plane; I’m so sorry.
Of course she’d apologized to him. Of course. It’d be funny, if it weren’t so awful.
As she’d told him on that set of starlit stairs overlooking downtown L.A., she needed time. She needed a break from the work that had burned her out.
He needed her.
But she was already gone, because of what he’d done on that stage. Already on a plane home. Not the home they’d shared for months, but her little turreted duplex in NoHo. And soon, she’d have to return to work, ready or not, because of his inability to fucking think ahead.
No wonder she hadn’t returned his earlier texts.
Shit. In the space of five minutes, he’d fucked up everything. Everything.
When Marcus entered their shared suite after his fan photo sessions, he found Alex in an armchair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“Well,” Marcus said when the door closed behind him, “the good news is that the media is no longer focusing on your fan incident yesterday.”
Alex groaned and lifted his head.
Marcus sat on the coffee table facing Alex, his expression sympathetic but matter-of-fact. “I thought you’d be juggling three separate phone conferences right now. What’s going on?”
“As a group, my team decided my input was neither necessary nor beneficial as they formulated a response to the situation.” Slumping wasn’t enough. If he could, Alex would simply dissolve into the seat. “Zach and my lawyer and publicist are all discussing the issue amongst themselves, and they said they’d contact me when they reached a consensus. At that point, I either approve their game plan or not.”
“I see.” Marcus nodded. “Have you happened to glance at the cast chat recently?”
Alex’s hands were a friendly, comforting place, and his face decided to revisit them. “No. Too chickenshit.”
Something cool and smooth nudged his arm, and Alex looked up again.
Marcus was holding Alex’s cell. “C’mon, man. Don’t you trust me?”
Shit. As Marcus very well knew, Alex did trust him, and to prove it, he was going to have to access the cast chat, where everyone now hated him.
You’re the worst, dude, he almost said, but that reminded him of Lauren, and if he thought for longer than a few seconds about Lauren, he wouldn’t be able to function at even his current, minimal level.
“Fine,” he grumbled, eyeing his best friend suspiciously.
As soon as he opened the cast chat, he saw Ian’s messages from a couple hours before and cringed. But then …
Nothing but love and support.
Back into his hands went his face, this time to disguise his stupid wet eyes.
Marcus chafed his shoulder supportively. “Maybe we should reclassify you as a weepy bitch instead of a gossipy bitch.”
Alex raised a trembling middle finger.
“Have you checked your email yet?” Marcus’s voice was gentle. “Because I imagine Ron and R.J. had something to say.”
“Before I stopped checking my phone, I got a message from them. I forwarded it to my team, but didn’t actually read it.” He took a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Are you ready now?” It was a genuine question, not a demand.
His best friend would give him as long as he needed. Thank fuck for Marcus.
“Yeah. I suppose.” Using the backs of his hands, he swiped away his grateful tears, then accessed his inbox. “Here we go.”
It was no worse than he’d expected, really.
Too late to remove you from the show, blah blah blah. Consulting with our lawyers about legal and financial consequences, blah blah blah. As the public now knows, you’re an embarrassment to your profession, blah blah blah. Not welcome at the convention or future publicity events, blah blah blah.
It was the last bit that jolted him from the cozy depths of the armchair.
As you’ve defamed us and our show, we are no longer interested in helping you. Thus, Lauren is fired, as she should be after such gross incompetence. Also, we have ceased paying for your virtual PA as of this evening. If you want her continued assistance, you’ll have to shoulder her hourly rate yourself.
The gross incompetence part set his teeth on edge, but there was something else niggling in his brain, some sort of idea …
Yes. There it was.
For the first time in two hours, the pounding in his skull eased, because he could see a possible path forward again. One he could actually live with.
Surging to his feet, he strode into his bedroom and slammed his still-open suitcase closed again, then zipped it shut. He tossed it onto the bed, then reached for his phone and ordered a ride to the airport. Next step: an airline ticket back to L.A.