We haven’t shot anything yet, so the promo posters are simply images of me, but the marketing department is good at what they do, and the advertisements struck a chord. I can only hope that the show strikes a bigger one.
I really love the script for this show. It’s smart and witty and has more than enough material for me to work with. I play Alex, a jaded New York detective who’s sent deep undercover to dismantle part of the Mob. The plan is to get close to the mark through his daughter Genova, but Alex gets too close, and by the end of season one, he’s going to be in way too deep. And he’s going to be completely in love with Genova.
Shooting starts today, and I’m excited, but I’m still struggling with some of my lines. Which is why I’m here, being distracted by the looks the busty redhead is obviously throwing my way. I glance down at my phone. There are a couple of texts from my agent, Michael, reminding me when I need to be at the studio. I struggle not to roll my eyes. As if I would forget my call time on the first day filming the biggest show of my career.
Female laughter distracts me again, and I glance toward the table where the redhead is sitting with her friends, and stifle a sigh. She’s standing now, and I recognize the body language. She’s getting ready to make her approach. A lot of these girls have the same kind of deal. Basically groupies, they’re not interested in anything but being able to say they slept with you. Maybe they’ll get their fifteen minutes of fame from some of the tabloids. She’s going to be disappointed.
At this stage of my career, I have everything to lose. So I don’t sleep with groupies. That’s not to say that I lead a celibate life—I’m not going to torture myself—but I’m not going to jump into the back of a car with girls who approach me in coffee shops.
I take a deep breath and a sip of coffee as she approaches, pretending that I don’t see her. I’ll do my best to let her down easy.
She clears her throat. “Excuse me?”
I look up and give her a mild smile. “Yes?”
“You’re Peter Holleman, aren’t you? From Tales of Briony?”
“I am.” I had a small part on Tales of Briony, but the character became a fan favorite. Probably because I was shirtless in the majority of scenes. She smiles, and holy shit she looks like Amber. I feel like the breath has been knocked out of me, but I keep the smile on my face. “Can I help you?”
Clearing her throat again, she inches closer. “I just wanted to come over and tell you that I’m a huge fan of yours.”
“Well thank you,” I say. “That’s very nice to hear.” Behind her, I see one of the staff watching the interaction, and I appreciate that they know. But I give a subtle wave with my hand. I’ve got it.
“I was also wondering,” she says, a sudden blush painting her cheeks, “I’ve heard that you’re single?”
“Correct.” There’s no point in lying about that. The only thing that happens if I lie is she goes to a tabloid saying I now have a girlfriend, and there’s a whole run of speculation about it. It’s a delicate time right now. I’m not famous enough to be followed by a bunch of paparazzi yet, but I’m just famous enough that things can easily be made up about me because I’m not a household name.
She takes a brazen step forward and leans down to my level, her breasts nearly pouring out of her shirt in a way that is one hundred percent intentional. “My apartment is only a couple of blocks from here. I can be your Cassidy tonight.”
The light catches her hair and turns it burgundy, and I’m back with Amber on our hilltop, and I have to blink away the image. “I appreciate the offer,” I say, “but no thank you.”
“Come on,” she says, voice low and silky. “I can make you feel so good. Better than you’ve ever felt before,” she whispers in my ear.
I take an even breath before speaking, and I’m careful not to move an inch. I don’t want anything to be misconstrued. “What’s your name?”
“Cynthia.”
“Cynthia,” I clear my throat. “Once again, I appreciate your offer. But ‘no thank you’ wasn’t an invitation for you to try to convince me, nor was it an invitation to touch me. Please back up.”
She blinks, like she doesn’t understand. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
I grit my teeth. I’m definitely going to have to find a different coffee shop. But I still don’t move. I can’t touch her. I know how fast these things spin out of control, and there’s no way I’m going to let this spin into a story with a headline that reads ‘Peter Holleman assaults female fan asking for autograph.’
Cynthia lowers her eyes like she’s embarrassed and sorry, but when she looks at me again they’re full of determined fire. “I bet I can convince you.” I catch her wrist as soon as I see her hand moving downwards, probably reaching for my cock. Jesus, she can’t take a hint.
Suddenly, the manager is next to us. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Cynthia’s eyes snap away from me, and she’s suddenly livid. “Excuse you?”
The manager smiles sweetly. “We have a zero-tolerance policy for harassment here, and even though Mr. Holleman has been more than polite in asking you to leave him alone, you’ve only escalated. Please gather your things and follow me.”
She scoffs. “Follow you where?”
The manager gives her a cool look. “To my office. I’ll be taking your picture. You won’t be welcome in this establishment again.”
“What?” Suddenly her eyes fill with tears, and she turns to me. “I didn’t mean it, please don’t let them do this.”
I sigh, and close my eyes. “I don’t work here. It’s not my decision,” I say.
The manager gently leads her back to her table where a couple other employees are looking on, making sure the whole group gets their things and heads back to the office. Cynthia is still crying. Part of me is sympathetic. She’s young and not really used to consequences. The other part of me wants to take a shower. Not exactly what I was expecting from my morning coffee.
The manager, who’s name I read as Daisy, approaches me again.
“I apologize. We like to create a safe environment, and I hope that you’ll still consider this a place that you can visit. We’re proud to host celebrities here and will always protect your privacy.”
I think that’s the first time someone has called me a celebrity to my face. That’s…odd. “Thank you, Daisy.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Holleman.” She walks away from me and toward the office with determination in her step.
I throw back the rest of my coffee and tuck my script into my bag. I’ll look over the lines when I get to the studio. While I’m walking to my car, I text Michael and give him a heads up about the incident, telling him I’ll fill him in once I arrive. My publicist, Wendy, should be put on alert so if there were cameras or if Cynthia and her friends go to the press, there are no serious repercussions.
I pull onto the road and into traffic. Now that I’m out, the memories of Amber that Cynthia brought up surface. I’ve got time to kill, and apparently I’m a masochist, so I let myself get sucked into the memories, as painful as they might be.