Fitz gripped his hand. “You think I had a clue when I started my business? You learn as you go. Plus, you have me. What’s life without a little risk?”
Jasper smirked. His whole life seemed like a bad bet lately, all risk and no reward, but he shook Fitz’s hand. Risk or not, he couldn’t shake the idea of the theater. It had burrowed into his brain and wasn’t leaving without some blood spilled. “Then I guess I say, yes, asshole. Let’s do it.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Confidence.” Fitz pulled him in for a half hug/half hard thump on the back.
Jasper stepped back and took a long pull from his beer, his mind spinning and his gaze scanning the luxury apartment. “I can’t believe I’m going to be living in a fucking penthouse and trying to start a business. Life is weird.”
“Yeah, this place doesn’t suck.” Fitz grinned as he settled onto the couch and hooked his ankle over his knee, looking every bit the confident businessman. “I got it mainly because it reminded me of that apartment in that old Tom Hanks movie Big.”
“Huh.” Jasper looked around at the open space, remembering the movie. “Yeah, I can see the resemblance. No trampoline though.”
“That could be arranged,” Fitz said, no jest in his tone. “I loved that movie when I was a kid. The thought that I could just instantly be grown up and make my own decisions, not have to deal with another foster home or caseworker. That sounded like living the dream.”
Jasper met his gaze, seeing the kid Fitz used to be for a brief second in his mind’s eye. Scrawny. Scattered. No one would’ve suspected that hard-to-corral, too-loud boy could’ve landed in this spot. “I’m glad you finally got here, man.”
“Me too. But don’t get too sentimental.” Fitz ran a hand over his close-cropped black hair and stretched his arm out over the back of the couch. “Let’s be real. I also got this place to impress women.”
Jasper snorted and took a seat in the armchair across from him. “Of course. Does it work?”
“What do you think?” Fitz’s smile turned sly. “Feel free to test out its magical powers for yourself. Our rooms are on opposite sides of the apartment. You’ll have all the privacy you could want if you bring someone home.”
Jasper stretched his neck from side to side, tension building at the thought of getting involved with anyone again. “Thanks, but I don’t see that happening. I’ve got too much on my plate right now to worry about dating or any kind of social life outside of work. Plus, this”—he flicked his hand toward the wall of windows—“would be false advertising. You don’t want a show a woman a caviar lifestyle and then break it to her that you’re a coffee-pouring starving artist.”
He’d learned that with Kenzie. He could almost pinpoint the moment when her view of him shifted from seeing him as a passionate, ambitious performer to someone who was weighing her down. The only difference between hot, up-and-coming star and guy who can’t pay his bills was a break in show business. But the gap was a big one. They’d fallen on different sides of the chasm.
Fitz snorted. “True, but you won’t be that for much longer. Give it a little time, sprinkle in a little of my networking magic, and you’ll be owner of the hippest new theater in town before you know it. All the ladies will want a ticket to your show.”
Jasper rolled his eyes. “I’m glad you’re so optimistic.”
Fitz shrugged. “After what we went through as kids, I learned you have to be your own cheering squad. The world doesn’t want to believe that you can be special—that the kid with no family support and all kinds of issues can actually make shit happen. But look where I’ve landed. Screw all that negative noise. If you don’t believe you can do it, how the hell will you convince other people you can? Investors are going to want to see confidence.” He leaned forward, brow cocked. “So why not you, Jasper? Why the fuck can’t you have your own theater?”
Jasper stared at him. “I don’t know. It’s just—”
“Are you a shitty actor?” he asked, tone full of challenge.
Jasper’s teeth clenched. “No.”
“Does your group suck?”
“Of course not.”
Fitz leaned back as if pleased with himself. “Then there you go. Why not you? Why not now?”
Jasper let out a breath, the condensation rolling down the side of his beer bottle as he gripped it hard. Fitz was right. Why not him? It’s not like someone was going to give him official permission or a stamp of approval. Hell, even his family, who were more supportive than most artists could hope for, were losing faith in him. If he wanted this kind of opportunity, he was going to have to take it, fight for it, believe he was the best damn person to make it happen. Buy the story he was selling. He was going to have to treat this whole venture like he did improv. Onstage, in a scene, you couldn’t waffle. You had to fully commit. Create the base reality.
In this base reality, Jasper needed to be a guy who could start a business and make it successful. He needed to trust himself and his team to be good enough to pull off this show. He met Fitz’s gaze. “That theater is going to be mine.”
Fitz smiled a brilliant, toothy smile. “Fuck yeah, it will.”
* * *
Hollyn sat in the back of the newly minted improv classroom at WorkAround with Jasper’s promise that he would definitely, absolutely not, under any circumstances call on her to participate. She’d threatened death and dismemberment if he broke that promise. But even with that assertion, she was having trouble relaxing.
She shifted in her chair and pulled a notebook and pen from her bag because taking notes would give her something to do. Plus, if anyone asked why she wasn’t joining in, she had a prepared answer. She would tell them she was writing an article about the class offerings at WorkAround. She needed to focus on that and therefore couldn’t volunteer.
Andi was next to her, cross-legged in the chair, and chewing on the edge of her blue-polished thumbnail, looking almost as nervous as Hollyn felt.
“You okay?” Hollyn asked.
Andi turned to her. “Yes. No. I kind of feel like I’m in line for a roller coaster. Like sort of excited but also kind of vomity.”
Hollyn gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m familiar with that feeling.”
It was how she felt every time she was around Jasper.
“Maybe I should’ve gone out and had a margarita or something first,” Andi said, her gaze flicking to the people still wandering into the class. “I mean, I have to improvise on the podcast, but I can edit my mistakes out, you know? And when I’m writing, obviously I can delete the crappy stuff. Plus, the pressure to be funny kind of makes it hard to be funny.”