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Now when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was a man aging too fast. Deep circles, puffy eyes, leathery skin—the sun to thank for that, as well as for my bleached-out hair.
I was fit enough, thanks to the active lifestyle of sun and surf, but the drugs and alcohol and hard nights—okay, maybe days too—of partying were at odds with me.
Things needed to change. I’d buried my past, refusing to entertain memories of my father, my mother, and Sara, and I probably needed to deal with all of it. But I crossed my arms, stubborn, unwilling to go there tonight.
Nope. What I needed was a new path forward and to stop hiding out on this beach, letting life pass me by.
A few days into my new sedentary, sober, contemplative lifestyle, when my phone rang on the table next to the hammock, I almost switched it to ‘Do Not Disturb,’ but something told me to answer it.
“Yellow?” I always answered the phone with a funky bravado. I smiled at the memory of how much it used to irk Daniel, my very conservative former business partner. What made us so successful? We were total opposites. Me, the crazy frontman, him the serious about everything else type of man.
Not that I couldn’t be the serious one from time to time. Hell, I grew up with one of the most serious men known to mankind who never knew how to have fun. And shit, I didn’t want to think about Dad another second.
“Is this um, Buddy Rodgers?” a voice from the female side of life flooded into my ear.
I cleared my throat and sat up a little, as much as the hammock would allow.
“Yep. Who’s this?”
“I’m Honey Adams, calling on behalf of Mr. Cal Tomms of Dream Waves Studios.”
“Yes?” Honey Adams. Nice voice. Silky and smooth, yet professional.
“We received your manuscript submission for ‘Never See the Light of Day.’”
“Uh… Manuscript?”
“Yes. We had an open call for new action adventure proposals in several publications around the world. While your submission was a little, um, crude, we think it has potential.”
“Oh?” Holy freaking shit.
The truth was, I’d forgotten all about it. In one of my more messed up rages, drunk and high as I could be, I got the notion that I was some sort of hotshot word-slinger capable of writing a movie script.
My creative urges were squelched long ago by my tough-as-nails father, and I had no idea a story was even still in me. But I woke up the next morning, my head on the keyboard, and hungover. The square letter keys etched into my skin like I’d had them tattooed there. On the table next to me was a completed manuscript.
I knew nothing about the craft of screenplays, and I immediately tossed the script into the garbage. Later, curiosity got the better of me and I retrieved it back out and stuffed it into my desk drawer.
In one of my sober sprints, I took it out and read it. It wasn’t half bad. Although I don’t actually recall ever mailing it to anyone. Jeez, I needed to stop getting wasted.
“We would like you to come to our movie studio in Los Angeles to meet and talk about developing your script for production.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Would you be available next week?”
“Oh!” Realizing my dumbfounded brain was making me sound stupid, I scrambled to get out of the hammock to stand and take this call seriously.
Oof! I landed face down on the porch, sending my phone sliding across it. I belly crawled to reach it.
“—still there?” I heard her say.
“Yes! Yes, I’m here. I-I’d love to go to L.A. No problem.”
“Fantastic. I’ll send you the details.”
“Sure.”
“Would you be able to meet next Thursday or Friday?”
