All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(57)

Summer: Should we all put out the same statement, to show our solidarity?



Maria: YES



Peter: Solidarity. I’ll do it right now.



Asha: Same



Mackenzie: Whiskers agrees that solidarity is the way to go here, and we’ll match Carah’s statement



Marcus: After that Bruno Keene shitshow, this is going to mean the world to him



Marcus: Shit, I can’t believe you assholes made me choke up



Marcus: Thank you, everyone



Ian: You’re ALL fucking traitors, and I hope your careers tank because of this



Marcus: To quote a great leader, and I think I speak for all of us here: fuck you very much, Ian



Carah: Marcus, please tell Alex I want to talk to him about all the pegging, because I am fucking INTRIGUED by that shit



Mackenzie: Whiskers also has pegging-related questions



Maria: I love all of you SO MUCH



Maria: Except Ian, naturally





18


IT TOOK FIFTEEN MINUTES FOR ALEX’S HAZE OF FURY TO dissipate.

The march back to his room, Marcus at his side, passed in a blur. When his best friend pressed a familiar-looking phone in his hand and told him to call his camp, he did so automatically. The opening conversations with his horrified lawyer, agent, and publicist seemed to happen at a distance, to someone else entirely.

Then, when Lauren still didn’t answer his tenth or twentieth text, it hit him.

He knew why she wasn’t responding.

The world around him snapped into focus, and he could suddenly hear something other than his own deafening heartbeat. Only then could Alex do what Marcus always advised, and play the film to the end. The advice seemed especially prescient today, because yes: the end. That’s what he’d brought upon himself in all his righteous rage.

He’d burst through the wall, all right. Waiting on the other side?

Disaster.

He didn’t regret what he’d said and written. He didn’t even regret the possible consequences for his own career, although he’d devoted his adult life to that career and—with several notable exceptions—loved almost every minute of it.

The camaraderie. The cameras. The way different roles immersed him in different, fascinating cultures and forced him to learn and hone new skills. If he couldn’t land another role, he’d miss all of that. Still, his conscience was worth his career.

But he bitterly regretted the consequences for all the people around him.

He’d fucked over nearly everyone in his orbit. His agent, who relied on the income from Alex’s work. His castmates, who would rightfully shun him for shit-talking their final season, the project to which they’d devoted so many years of their lives and love and labor. His mom, because after this, he might not land enough work to continue supporting her as he wanted—or he might get sued, and not be able to support her at all. His charities, which also needed the money his work brought in. Abused women and children, who might not have a safe space to rebuild their lives if his savings ran out.

Lauren. Fuck, Lauren. The woman he’d meant to defend and avenge.

He’d fucked her over too, because there was no way Ron and R.J. would keep her on their payroll after this. Not when her entire job description entailed keeping Alex out of trouble, and he was currently in a shit-heap of that.

An indeterminate amount of time later, his phone dinged, and there it was. The text he’d been waiting for. Confirmation that his worst fears had been realized.

On the plane; I’m so sorry.

Of course she’d apologized to him. Of course. It’d be funny, if it weren’t so awful.

As she’d told him on that set of starlit stairs overlooking downtown L.A., she needed time. She needed a break from the work that had burned her out.

He needed her.

But she was already gone, because of what he’d done on that stage. Already on a plane home. Not the home they’d shared for months, but her little turreted duplex in NoHo. And soon, she’d have to return to work, ready or not, because of his inability to fucking think ahead.

No wonder she hadn’t returned his earlier texts.

Shit. In the space of five minutes, he’d fucked up everything. Everything.

When Marcus entered their shared suite after his fan photo sessions, he found Alex in an armchair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

“Well,” Marcus said when the door closed behind him, “the good news is that the media is no longer focusing on your fan incident yesterday.”

Alex groaned and lifted his head.

Marcus sat on the coffee table facing Alex, his expression sympathetic but matter-of-fact. “I thought you’d be juggling three separate phone conferences right now. What’s going on?”

“As a group, my team decided my input was neither necessary nor beneficial as they formulated a response to the situation.” Slumping wasn’t enough. If he could, Alex would simply dissolve into the seat. “Zach and my lawyer and publicist are all discussing the issue amongst themselves, and they said they’d contact me when they reached a consensus. At that point, I either approve their game plan or not.”

“I see.” Marcus nodded. “Have you happened to glance at the cast chat recently?”