GUY

It felt like crap.

I was at a friend's nightclub in Los Angeles. My ears exploded with bad electronic music full of effects and high-pitched voices. The drink in my hand didn't taste that good after the fourth bootle. Even the people in this place were starting to annoy the hell out of me.

I quickly puffed on a cigarette and got up. I staggered between drunk people and couples dancing on the main floor to where I thought the exit was.

Tiredness felt on my shoulders. The shooting had taken most of the day. When Stacker dismissed the whole crew, I thought a glass of whiskey could cheer me up a little bit.

Every time I said that to myself, but to be honest? Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes. I just felt more like shit. It was all an excuse to avoid going home right away and being alone in that fucking mansion. If there's anything worse than getting too high, it's that feeling of emptiness.

While I walked down from the VIP area to the common space, I bumped into a short girl who immediately grabbed my arm.

"Guy! Hey, remember me?"

The girl had the same blonde hair and accentuated lips that every California girl had. It was a difficult question, even more so when I felt like the ground behind my feet would tear down at any moment.

"Ashley?"

"Maya. This is the second time you forgot my name!" she said with a high pitched voice "Are you leaving already?"

"Yes," I replied dryly.

"Can I go with you? That night was amazing. I thought we could do a replay".

I nodded. I don't remember her. But it didn't matter. It was better to sleep with someone than alone, even if I had to fulfill some ridiculous fantasy of hers about having sex with a famous person.

We went out together to the street. It was empty now. There was just a person smoking weed and a couple taking a taxi. When I got here a few hours earlier, the paparazzi were jostling to get a photo of me.

Maybe they got tired of waiting for some extraordinary photo of me drunk as hell to sell to some shitty magazine.

"Guy? Guy Carver, is that you?" I heard someone call me a few meters away.

I turned enough to see the lighting going off right on our faces. Instinctively, I covered my eyes.

I always forgot the first rule of Hollywood — photographers and journalists never sleep.

"HEY, IT'S GUY CARVER!" he shouted.

"Fuck" I muttured. "Call an Uber" I said to Ashley, Tiffany or Maya. Whatever it was.

"I'm trying" she said, as we were hit by more flashes. "Don't worry. You always look pretty."

That was the last of my concerns right now. I shouldn't be seen leaving a party drunk because of Stacker's concerns. Actually, I shouldn't even be seen anywhere else other than on set.

Stacker hated controversial actors and I was unfortunately in the Top Three Most Controversials Actors in Hollywood.

It was very difficult to get him to accept me in the production. Even after my great test as Dirch. The director took a while to offer me the job, because of all that shit in my past. I couldn't lose this now.

Thatcher would have my neck cut.

"Guy! Hey!"

"Where is the bloody car!?" I asked the girl. My voice raised two tones above normal.

"It's coming!"

"Guy! Is Jeremy Carver's story true? Is that the reason you spent three years away from England?" One of the photographers asked, too close even for a photographer.

I felt the heat spread through my veins.

"Maya, the car!" I screamed as I turned my head away from that photographer.

My fist was already rigid at my side and I felt that unsettling energy in my body.

"Why don't you answer, Carver!?"

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It was starting.

My chest accelerated, the blood pulsed in my head, making everything around me spin for a few seconds. I tried to hold my breath. I tried to hold it inside me. Don't lose control, Carver. Don't fucking lose control, Carver!

"Are you not listening?" Someone grabbed my arm.

The next moment felt like a vivid dream to me. I heard Maya scream as the photographer came to the ground with a heavy punch... from me.

"My God, are you insane!?" I couldn't tell who said that. I was already leaving the scene, so scared as the moron at my feet.

"Go to hell," I muttered.

The photographer shifted on the floor.

People nearby either ran away scared or tried to help him.

Fuck.

I can't believe I lost control. I repeated this a thousand times as I watched the blood drip from the idiot's nose. My body told me otherwise. As I faced the scene a relief spread through my chest as if that was exactly what I needed to call the night.

"You're so fucking screwed, Guy! I'm going to screw you, you asshole!" The man responded to me, but I was too far, entering someone's cab.