Race Wilcox
yanked open his trailer door, pulling his shirt over his head as he
navigated the three steps to his own private sanctuary. He barely
noticed as the door swung closed and slammed shut the way it usually
did. The morning’s shoot had gone well, but the director had still
asked for an extra four takes of an action sequence. Race was hot,
tired, and ready for a cold beer; not that he ever drank during work
hours, but he really wanted a cold beer.
He
tossed the sweaty shirt onto the bed, and as he popped open his
button-fly jeans, he noticed a bright orange envelope propped up on the
dining area table. His name was written in large, graceful calligraphy,
and just the sight of it made him seriously reconsider his beer policy.
He knew exactly what it was, but he ripped open the envelope and looked
anyway, feeling his blood pressure rise. It was worse than he’d
expected, and he tossed the whole thing into the trash can. If they
didn’t have so many fucking rules around the set, he’d have preferred
to burn it so that he could watch the flames darken and devour the
paper. But that wasn’t an option.
He
groaned loudly, continued undressing, and then hopped into the shower
where the cool water washed away sweat and stage makeup but not his bad
mood. As he soaped himself, he thought about his options. He was pretty
fucking annoyed, which ruined his usual shower jerk-off session, thus
adding to his fury.
When
Race had first heard about it, he’d thought it had to be some kind of a
joke. He hadn’t believed it—or hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now the
orange envelope had arrived, and he wasn’t any less annoyed, but he was
starting to believe it. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a demand that he attend a party. And not just any party… his network’s Hallo-fucking-ween
party. While he usually enjoyed parties, the truth of the matter was
costumes were not Race’s thing. Despite the fact that he was an actor
and technically wore a costume every day at work, he hated having to dress up
as something, particularly when it wasn’t voluntary. He hadn’t been
cast in many genre productions, so almost all of the characters he’d
played—in film or on television—had worn normal everyday clothes. It
had been his acting that brought them to life, not how he was dressed.
When
he got out of the shower, he wrapped a towel loosely around his hips
and shuffled into the main area of the trailer. He barely noticed the
drops of water that continued to cascade down his chest and back and
drip off his dark brown hair. He’d call his agent! Maybe she could get
him out of it, and he wouldn’t have to go after all. He speed-dialed
her on his cell phone and crossed his fingers as he listened to the
phone ring, willing her to pick it up already. He was too angry to
leave voicemail. He worked every day… long, hard days, and his evenings
off were supposed to be his personal, private time. They had so few
evenings off in the first place that this really added insult to injury.
She picked up on the third ring, and he relayed his tale of woe, but she was less than sympathetic.
“Considering
the ratings aren’t good enough to ensure automatic renewal for another
season, it’s in your best interests—and those of the show—to go to the
damn party and act like you’re having a good time. You are an
actor, right?” she teased, but he knew under her joking tone she meant
every word, and next time he needed a favor she might not be very
forthcoming. “It’s good for your image and for your reputation with the
studio execs. The fans love you, but you need to suck up a little bit
more to the guys who sign the paychecks.”
“What
the fuck do I pay you for?” He paced around and the small trailer
rocked slightly, its contents shaking noisily. “Aren’t you supposed to
take care of this kind of thing? Arrange my jobs and keep me from
having to do these unbearable events. That’s not too much to ask
considering how much of my salary you get!”
“No
dice,” she said in an increasingly impatient tone. “It’s in your
contract to do a reasonable number of publicity events for the network,
and this falls under that description. A bunch of press people are on
the guest list. If they want you to be there, you had better be there.”
“It is not reasonable!“
He kicked the wall next to the bed and heard something crash down in
the bathroom, which was on the other side. “They’re making me dress up,and they want to approve our costumes in advance!” As soon as
the words left his mouth, Race realized he sounded like a five-year-old
complaining that someone else got the last red gumdrop. He sat down on
the bed with a thud and waited for her response.
“Look,
Race, when your name comes first in the credits maybe you’ll have some
leverage, but for now just suck it up graciously, and don’t piss off
any of the network people. That’s definitely bad for your career.”
Race’s
co-star Derrick Steele’s name came first in the show’s opening credits,
a fact which never failed to annoy Race whenever they actually watched
the broadcast together. Derrick was easygoing and great fun, but they
could really trash talk each other into the ground. The crew thought
they were more like brothers than simply best friends or co-stars. But
they rarely caught the show on-air. Usually they were so tired from the
long days of shooting; they were home sleeping at air time.
“You
mean Derrick can get out of it?” Maybe there was more to this name
order thing than Race had originally believed. Anger burned even
brighter in his chest now. Fucking Derrick!
“I didn’t say that. I said you
can’t, so stop trying. Just think of something you won’t mind dressing
up as and have some fun for a change. You’re too serious sometimes.”
“Oh, fuck off. And you’re fired,” he said—but with a laugh—and hung up before she had a chance to reply.
“Did
you get your invitation to the party?” Derrick came bursting into the
trailer while Race was zipping up his jeans, not five minutes after
he’d gotten off the phone with his agent. Derrick always barged in
without knocking and Race was used to it. His co-star was also freshly
showered and his damp dirty-blond hair spiked up in all directions. The
hair stylists always found working on Derrick a challenge, but Race’s
neatly groomed dark-brown hair was a breeze for them.
“Yeah, I got it, and it looks like I can’t get out of it. What about you?”
“Get
out of it?” Derrick looked confused. “Why would you want to get out of
it? It’s going to be an awesome party. I love Halloween!”
Derrick
was as animated as a kid off his Ritalin sometimes, which tended to
amuse or annoy Race. At the moment it was the latter, and he nearly
glared at his friend.
“Why are you so fucking excited?” Race pulled a clean shirt out of the closet and slipped it on.
“Deciding
what costume to wear is so much fun. Then finding out what everyone
else shows up as. You get a real insight into people’s personalities by
the costumes they choose.”
There
it was in a nutshell, the reason Race hated costume parties. People
always think there’s some hidden meaning to what you’re dressed as.
Race knew he was going to be analyzed and judged by the studio, the
network, and the tabloids based on his choice of costume. Now he was
even more convinced it would be a terrible mistake to go to the party.
Derrick stared at him. He frowned and shook his head as if he could
read Race’s mind.
“Look,
Race, I’ll help you pick out a costume. It’ll be fun!” Derrick offered.
He flashed his dimples and grinned in an infectious way that Race
always found impossible to refuse. “We’ll have a great time, you’ll
see!”
Derrick
was so excited that some of his enthusiasm rubbed off, and Race
actually began to think going along with him wouldn’t be so bad.
Derrick was fun, and together they always had a great time, no matter
what they did. This certainly wasn’t the first publicity event they’d
been sent to, and Derrick usually goofed around or did something dorky
for the cameras, which they ate up. It left Race looking like a stick
in the mud sometimes, but the fans seemed to love the contrast between
their two personalities.
“And
Stella’s coming down for the party too!” Derrick added as he rooted
around in Race’s refrigerator for a bottle of water. He chugged half of
it in one swallow as he watched Race finish dressing so that they could
get back on set.
“Stella?”
Race had no idea why the news suddenly disappointed him so much. Stella
Reynolds was Derrick’s long-term girlfriend. She was also an actor, but
her series filmed in Vancouver, British Columbia; so she lived in
Canada most of the year. Due to their work schedules, they maintained a
long-distance relationship but always seemed to have a hiatus or
vacation at different times. She managed to make it down to Los Angeles
about once a month, and usually the three of them got on great
together. Race was included in most of their plans when she visited.
She
hadn’t been down to L.A. for more than a month though, and Race and
Derrick had been spending all their time off together. Race had almost
forgotten she existed because Derrick hardly ever talked about her
unless directly asked. Of course Derrick would want Stella in town for
the party, but for some reason the party didn’t sound quite as
appealing to Race now, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
