Method(49)

Lucas



Gabriela’s confession stabs me continually as I pace my trailer. In that alley, I was brought to my knees by her revelation. Blake was guilty, but not in a way I could have ever fathomed. I’d demanded her silence, accused her of being the reason his life was over because of her inability to keep him out of it. In that respect, she was guilty, and I’d been quick to point a finger at her in anger. She’d all but begged for my forgiveness as I ripped myself away from her clutches, threatening her with every fiber of my being to keep his name out of the press. She’d tearfully agreed, I assumed due to guilt and the threats I was spewing before she left me to bleed out. Once I managed to make it to my SUV, my racing thoughts lined up as if her confession pulled the handle on a slot machine.

“Yo, Blake,” I say, knocking on his bedroom door before peeking inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. His answering silence has me pushing past the door and studying him in the center of his bedroom.

“Whatever it is, I’m not up for it.” He sighs and pulls open his bedside drawer grabbing a prescription bottle. I step forward and take it from him.

“What the hell is this? This isn’t prescribed to you.”

He snatches the bottle from my hand. “Chill out, man. It’s just something to help me with aches and pains.”

“Yeah, what’s aching?”

Shrewd eyes scrutinize me. “I’ve got it handled.”

I study his gray complexion. We’re supposed to start filming our next movie in a few days, and he’s nowhere near ready for it.

“What in the hell is going on with you, man? You’ve been out all hours of the night, and we haven’t run lines. I can’t carry you through this.”

“Then don’t,” he snaps. “I’m not asking you for shit.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Look,” he says, lighting a cigarette and blowing a puff of smoke in the dense air between us. “I get you’re worried, but I’ll be there. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“No, it’s your second. A stint on a TV show and one movie credit doesn’t make you an expert.”

He shakes his head and stares at me incredulously. “Yeah, and reading a few fucking books doesn’t make you an actor.”

I resist the urge to tug him up by his collar. We’ve been roommates for almost five years, and I’ve never seen him so self-destructive. More and more he’s numbing himself, and I can’t think of one good reason why. We’ve upgraded our West Hollywood bungalow with every imaginable comfort. For the first time since we became roommates, we’re able to pay rent without issue. The offers are coming in, and the champagne and women keep flowing.

“Are you looking for a reason to fuck it up? We’re onto something here. Coke last night, Percocet this morning, what’s next? Mainlining heroin?”

“How about whatever the fuck I feel like?” he snaps with the pinched cigarette between his lips while pulling up his jeans. He’s lost weight, and they hang low on his hips. He points the burning cherry in my direction along with an accusing finger. “Don’t tough love me, man, you’re so out of your depth.”

“Then why don’t you clue me in, because from where I’m standing, you don’t have a reason for this bullshit.”

“You’re such a good guy,” he snaps sarcastically, “a real Boy Scout. You think they’re going to appreciate all that work you do when they aren’t looking? They won’t. Get ready to be disappointed.” Disposing of his cigarette in an empty beer bottle, he grabs a waiting T-shirt off his bed and pulls it on.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“Matter of fact, I do,” he says carelessly. “I’m glad you finally figured it out, but you’re a day late. There comes a point in life where you just have to acknowledge who you are. It’s not such a bad gig. It’s pretty fucking liberating actually, and it’s time to embrace it, and it’s been…fun.” He widens his eyes, his lips curling up. “Fuck this life and the next one, I don’t want to be the good guy in either one of them.”

I shake my head and glare down at him. “You’re strung out, and you need to sleep. You’re going to blow this ride, Blake. This is what we’ve been working for.”

“You think they know?” he asks absently, his pupils a pinpoint when he finally looks at me.

“Know what?” His speech is slurring and has worsened since our conversation started.

“They know, they can always pick us out.” Confused, I watch as he swipes some cash off his bedside table and shoves it in his pocket.

“Dude, you’re wasted, you don’t need to go anywhere.”

He laughs sarcastically. “What should I do instead? You want me to carry your books to the library for you? Haven’t I helped enough?”

“Of course, you know I’m grateful—”

He cuts me off with a swipe of his hand through the air. “Then how about we consider that help my one good deed. Everyone needs a point of redemption, right? ‘Sides you know the saying; no good deed goes unpunished. Find another mentor, man, don’t make me yours.”