The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (Guide #1)(2)

Without a doubt, the Wizzers were more excited to see Cash Carter than anyone else on the panel. If they weren’t in costume, almost everyone in the theater wore a T-shirt with a picture of his character, Dr. Webster Bumfuzzle. The doctor was famous for his thick glasses, green bow tie, and blue laboratory coat. The Wizzers whispered among themselves as they speculated what Cash Carter was doing at that exact moment and if he was as excited about the panel as they were.…

From the greenroom backstage, the commotion in the theater sounded like the rumblings of a distant storm. Cash Carter found serenity in the bathroom, where the crowd was drowned out entirely by the hum of the fluorescent lights. He stood in front of the mirror with his eyes closed, enjoying the quiet while he still could.

Cash was not a jealous person, but he envied people with quiet. Only in absolute silence could he simply exist and not be reminded of who and what he was, or according to his critics, who and what he wasn’t. But finding a space that wasn’t dominated by the commotion of a television set, the rapid clicks of paparazzi cameras, or the murmuring of a hungry crowd was very rare. The bathroom may have had cracked tiled walls, peculiar stains on the ceiling, a terrible musky smell, and someone definitely had been murdered there in the past—but to Cash, it was a sanctuary.

His tranquillity was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Mr. Carter?” asked an underpaid stagehand. “Are you still in there? We’re hoping to start the panel in five minutes.”

“Five minutes? I thought we weren’t starting until two,” Cash replied.

“It is two,” the stagehand said.

Cash had been in the bathroom for over an hour without realizing it. He opened his baggy, bloodshot eyes and stared at his reflection. The twenty-two-year-old actor was thin, unshaven, and sported messy hair. He wore a black blazer over the T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in the night before and strong cologne to mask the fact that he hadn’t showered in two days.

“Is everything okay?” the stagehand asked. “You’ve been in there for a while.”

“I’m fine,” Cash mumbled. “I just lost track of time. They can start the intro to the panel—I’ll be out in five.”

“Actually, the producers wanted to have a word with the cast before the panel begins,” the stagehand said.

Cash grunted. “In that case, I’ll be out in ten.”

The stagehand let out a deep sigh. “Copy that,” he said, and clicked a button on his headset. “He says he’ll be out in ten—yes, I know we’re already running behind. Let the crowd know we’ll be starting closer to two thirty. Calm down, Gary—this is WizCon, not the Oscars.”

The stagehand walked down the hall in a huff, granting Cash a few more moments of peace.

A rush of nerves swept through Cash’s core like a flock of bats. Even after nine years of conventions, he always got anxious before appearing in front of an audience. Call him crazy, but there was something about walking into a room of screaming, applauding, and crying strangers that Cash just couldn’t get used to. Although he never took the Wizzers’ affection for granted, it was a lot of pressure being the source of so much happiness. With one slip of the tongue, he could emotionally scar a generation of young people for the rest of their lives and trigger a wave of resentment for the rest of his.

Being beloved was fucking tough.

Luckily for him, these days Cash had a little help to take the edge off. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three large pills and two marijuana gummy bears. He swallowed the pills, chewed up the gummies, and chased them with a sip from a flask tucked in his blazer. Sure, it wasn’t exactly the healthiest combination, but the goodies always worked faster when they were taken together.

Cash closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and waited for his secret weapons to do their magic. A moment later, there was another knock at the door.

“Mr. Carter?” the stagehand said. “It’s been fifteen minutes. Are you ready?”

Poor time management was a side effect of Cash’s special treats, but his anxiety was completely gone. In fact, Cash could barely feel anything at all. Everything felt light and easy around him, as if he were drifting through the clouds in a hot-air balloon. Only when he opened his dilated eyes and looked around was he reminded he was in a bathroom at all. His preconvention cocktail had done the trick!

“Mr. Carter? Did you hear me?” the stagehand asked, growing more impatient by the millisecond.

Cash giggled. There was something so funny about being called Mr. Carter by someone almost twice his age.

“Yeah, I heard you,” he said. “Showtime!”

Cash begrudgingly left his porcelain sanctuary and followed the stagehand down the hall. The greenroom was more crowded than he thought it would be. Seven people were seated with their chairs facing him, and in Cash’s delayed state, it took him a couple moments to recognize them.

Damien Zimmer, the creator of Wiz Kids, was seated in the middle with the show’s executive producer, Jim Kaufman. To their right were Cash’s cast mates, the beautiful Amy Evans and the hunky Tobey Ramous. To Damien and Jim’s left were two middle-aged men and one woman, each wearing a designer suit. Cash knew they were executives from the network, but since executives were fired and hired so frequently, he didn’t know their names.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Cash said.