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His shoulders shifted and he shook his head, the gesture almost helpless.
“I mean, I wouldn’t have to do anything, really. I’ve made enough money for several lifetimes and I’ll be earning a fortune off residuals for the rest of my life.”
“You’d be bored out of your mind in no time,” she scoffed.
“I kind of like carpentry, I could make high-end furniture.”
“Like a reverse Harrison Ford,” she mused. “I could see it. These gorgeous hands were practically made for artisanal work—you’d create beautiful furniture. I still don’t think it’s quite you though.”
“What do you think I should do?”
She smiled and kissed his jaw, her mouth landing on his scar. She liked kissing him there—it made her feel like she was healing it a little more with every affectionate peck. It was stupidly whimsical, but she was prone to occasional—okay, more like frequent—flights of fantasy.
“I need to give it a little more consideration, but for now I think you should help me fix dinner after which, we should cuddle up in the cinema room and watch a movie. My choice.”
He laughed and palmed her face to give her a long, sweet kiss before rolling her off him and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
“Maybe I should be a chef,” he suggested, smothering a yawn.
“You’re a good cook, but you don’t have enough imagination in the kitchen, I’m afraid,” she told him, her voice filled with feigned regret, and she giggled when he swatted her arse on their way out of the room.
“Christ Almighty,” Trystan groaned when Iris gleefully pushed the start button on her chosen movie. “Where the fuck did you dig this old thing out from?”
“I rented it off one of the streaming services,” she said as she crept under his arm, nestling her head in the crook between his shoulder and armpit, huddling beneath the fleecy blanket as she settled in to watch the movie.
“Fuck, Iris, why would you want to torture me like this?”
“Ssh,” she hissed as the title shimmered onto the screen in a drippy, creepy red font: Night of The Killer Wetas. “It’s starting.” He swore beneath his breath and dug a fistful of popcorn out of their large shared carton.
She squealed in delight when a painfully young Trystan Abbott appeared on the screen in his debut role. He’d been just twenty-one at the time of filming, not yet as big and muscular as he was now. He’d been a tall, skinny, good-looking young man, with striking eyes and moody dark looks. There were hints of the beauty to come, glimpses of his talent in the earnest delivery of every terrible line, and it was clear that he—and every other cast member—were having the time of their lives.
Trystan hooted beside her when Hunter Quinn—the boom operator—appeared in shot, gave the camera a deer-in-the-headlights look and awkwardly edged his way back out of sight. And laughed uproariously when his friend Darryl—who’d cast himself as the hero’s self-sacrificing best friend—died dramatically after having his face gorily chewed off by a gigantic, obviously fake weta.
The production values were appalling, the special effects horrendous, the acting mostly subpar, but some of the writing was brilliant. Trystan’s talent shone through though, as did Darryl Constanza’s directing skills. There was a reason this train smash of a movie was a cult classic. And it lay in the occasional witty one-liner, the obvious innate acting ability of a future leading man, and the hilarious on-and off-screen gaffes of the inexperienced cast and crew. It was endearing, and it was entertaining from beginning to end.
When the end credits rolled, Trystan remained silent and Iris, who was idly stroking his arm, murmured, “That is what you should be doing, Trystan. What you love. I don’t mean the Cryo Cops and the super-hero big-budget stuff, I mean passion projects alongside people you enjoy working with. As you so smugly boasted earlier, you have enough wealth for several lifetimes. You don’t need the money, so why not work on movies you’d enjoy doing? Quirky, off-the-wall arthouse ventures that showcase your talent more than they do your outstanding body.”
“How do you see me so clearly?” he asked, his voice wobbling. “It’s bothered me. So much. Being typecast, always playing the action hero, flexing abs and arse, spouting catchy one-liners. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had fun… but the last few. I’ve been so bored. I’ve hated it. And I forgot how rewarding I once found this work. But the roles I truly enjoyed, the dramatic roles, with meat to them have all been box office failures, with critics mocking my efforts and urging me to stay in my wheelhouse. It made me doubt myself. I felt ridiculous, starting thinking that all I was capable of doing were movies like Cryo Cop and Max Velocity. I’ve always wanted to test my acting chops, try comedy, do more drama. But I’ve been shoved into this box and I feel trapped.”
“You need to rediscover the love you once had for your craft. Maybe re-hire your idiot manager so that he can help you find these roles you love. He knows you better than most people. He’d know what to look for.”
Trystan was staring at her with something like reverence in his eyes. He blinked rapidly for a few moments before speaking, his voice hoarse with emotion, “I’m beginning to think my manager’s not quite an idiot. Because he certainly knew what the fuck he was doing when he sent you to me, Iris.”
“Do not remind me of what that duplicitous bastard did, Trystan, or I’ll want to punch his pretty face all over again.”
“You think he’s pretty?” Trystan asked with a glower, looking seriously aggravated at the notion that she might find one of his best friends attractive.
“Don’t worry, darling, he’s not as cute as you.”
He looked momentarily appeased before his brow lowered again. “What about Dazza?”
“He’s too surfer boy-ish for me,” she placated. “I like my men dark and glowery, and moody as fuck.”
“And don’t you forget it,” he warned in a dark, moody voice and she laughed happily.
“So are you still going to throw in the towel on your acting?” she asked, the laughter fading from her eyes, hoping he would consider her words.
“I’ve been unhappy for so long,” he admitted, lifting her hand to toy with her fingers, avoiding her eyes as he focused on his task. “It’s been hard to remember what I loved about my work. Tonight has helped. It’ll be a long road, and I’ll need to speak with Quinny and my PR manager, Bee, to see how feasible restructuring my career will be. I’m committed to four more projects—two sequels, a super hero thing and heist flick—I can’t get out of those. But you’re right, I need a change. A palate cleanser. I’ll take on fewer projects and only ones that I truly love. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at directing as well, but I had that dream tucked so far out of sight I’d almost forgotten it existed. It’s something to consider.” She could hear the rising excitement brewing beneath the even—almost distant and disinterested—tone of his voice. He was desperately trying to keep his cool, but she could tell, he wanted this, he was enthused about it and couldn’t wait to mull it over with Hunter Quinn.
