Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1) (8 page)

1987

... Christian had offered to introduce me to a few big shots in showbiz. I declined his offer because the guy was crazy and I could only imagine the kind of connections he had. Plus, I wanted to make it on my own.

While searching for an agent and trying to find a role that I liked, I contacted my old modeling agency. They took me right away and I was able to shoot a few commercials that kept me going while
Perdition
, the independent movie I had invested in, premiered.

The big room with the piano in the middle became one of my favorite spots in the house and since I paid my monthly rent, I asked Christian if I could add a few bookcases to the room.

“Yes,” he said. “Just don’t forget that when you have the money, you’re buying the house. As a matter of fact, you can do whatever you want with the house right now with the condition that you’ll buy it, as is.”

He was adamant about selling because the place was far too big and made him feel alone. I offered to leave the house so he could sell it, but he wanted it to stay with someone who would appreciate it. Gradually the room filled with bookshelves and books, and I liked to be there while I worked on my portfolio or wrote my short stories.

There were times I’d work while he played one of his various instruments.

One day, Christian barged into the room dressed in a suit.

“Did I miss the memo?” I asked him.

Maybe he had a party or an award event that he didn’t mention.

“Memo?”

“You’re dressed up.” I pointed at him.

“Ah, the monkey suit.” He glanced at himself and shook his head. “Yes, well, I have some big wig party to attend.”

He stared at me with a thoughtful frown.

“Do you own a suit?”

I cocked my head and arched a quizzical brow. Christian’s unpredictability impressed me at times and other times scared me. Like when he decided to drive to Vegas in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep. Or down to Mexico because he wanted to watch the sun set before heading to bed.

“Of course you own a suit, I mean a fancy suit,” he specified.

“I do, but—”

“You should come,” he suggested without letting me get a word in edgewise. “These are the parties that make me want to drink all that champagne the waiters waltz around the room with for the guests. The best way to numb myself as people try to sing my songs.”

I blurted out a laugh, but he didn’t join in.

“I’m not kidding; they do it off tune and make me want to punch them in the face.” His hands transformed into fists. “Or at least recommend some singing lessons before they continue shattering my eardrums. Some even put on a front trying to sound like a badass just to please me. I need babysitting, please, be a friend.”

“You’ll be fine,” I assured him, waving my hand toward the door so he could vacate the room and leave me the house for the night.

“No, I won’t.” He glared at me. “Please come with me. No one from my band is going—they hate to give away money. Bet by the end of the night, you score some girl… the future Mrs. Colt or is it still Colthurst? Nah, I don’t give a shit.”

A party wasn’t my plan for the night. The now homebody—Christian—didn’t like to be out of his home unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I’ll go.” I rubbed my brows. “But you’re not allowed to wake me up in the middle of the night for another crazy trip.”

“Yeah, yeah, go hurry. We’re running late and I hate to be late.”

I went to the party that ended up being a charity ball. There were a lot of directors, producers, screenwriters, and many celebrities there to support cancer research. I made a mental note to thank my agency for scoring me an Armani suit a few months ago.

Even with the expensive suit, I looked under-dressed compared to the men who wore tuxedos and expensive watches. Along with the big chandeliers dangling from the ceilings, the golden plated silverware and the women who sported expensive diamonds. The buffet table had caviar, escargots, sushi, and other delicatessens that were trending at the time.

The boy from Albany wanted to escape as he wasn’t dressed for the occasion or knew much about the expensive menu they offered.

I found the silver lining as each step I took, I met a new director or producer, screenwriters who shared their vision about the next space movie they were making or something even worse.

I wanted to be a part of everything: write the next blockbuster, direct it, produce it, and act in it. I wanted it all.

Fame.

That day it became my only goal. The few guests who weren’t celebrities gawked at the stars with admiration, love, and respect.

I wanted that.

That night I found my agent, Jerry Williams. In less than a week, he had lined up two auditions for me. One was a role in a new romcom,
The Price of Love
. I auditioned for the male lead. A rich college student who falls for the smart girl working as a waitress to pay for her college tuition. It didn’t have much action, but they had already cast the female lead—Abby Ritz.

We hadn’t spoken to each other since she
watched movies
with Christian.

The man whose romantic code was: if it isn’t serious, it doesn’t count; you can sleep with the girl.

Abby had sounded like the perfect complement to my future, and I hoped this time it would happen.

A few hours after my audition, Jerry called me, “It went well, boy. The director and producers are impressed with you.”

I got the part. Impressed? I doubt it since I only read a few lines. My physique matched their needs. Attractive, tall, blond, and blue-eyed male.

“They’ll courier the script tomorrow,” he continued. “The producers are wondering about you and Abby, it’ll be great for the ratings if the two of you date.”

A strange request, which I’d happily oblige to as long as she agreed. Who wouldn’t want to date the green-eyed, petite, curvy girl? I liked the idea, but I doubted she’d agreed to it.

1987

One night, as I paced back and forth in the library, I repeated each line. I experimented with voice tones, hand gestures and all kinds of facial expressions to fit what I read.

“I always hoped to be with a woman as special as you,” I pressed my hands to my heart as the script indicated.

A chuckle startled me and when I looked toward the door; I found Christian’s body shaking. His green eyes crinkling in laughter.

He had gone to New York to record his latest album and I had the entire house to myself, until now.

“You working?” he finally asked as he sobered up.

“Yes, you’re interrupting.”

Why was he here? Yes, he owned the house. I wanted the house and be able to kick Christian out in order to start my life, but I still didn’t have the money to pay for the place.

The house had everything. Plenty of rooms, a gym, pools, and the ocean view. It was removed from town, set back in the hills next to the crystal blue sea and had a beach house feeling with only a twenty-minute drive to town.

If only
Perdition
—the indie movie—made it big and soon, I would be able to pay cash and have the place to myself.

“At least confess that you missed me and my music.” He plunked himself on the couch, then placed his head on one arm of the couch and his feet on the other.

“No, I didn’t,” I said, but I did miss his music.

Truthfully, his old music had grown on me—I tolerated it. And I enjoyed the new stuff that he played on a daily basis.

“How’s the album, did you finish it?”

“Shitty. It’s a fucked up record that I’ll hate for the rest of my life.” He slid off of the couch and walked to the window. As he stared outside, he talked, “I can read the reviews already. ‘They couldn’t transcend.’ But do you know why? Because my band wants to keep playing the same stuff with different lyrics. The hair bands are dying slowly and guess what; I’m no longer wearing the fucking wig. Dreadful Souls are seriously dreading this moment. I bet my ass that we’ll be done after this album. After I fulfill my tour dates, I’m out. If they want to replace me, I don’t give a shit. The music is mine and they’ll have to pay me to play it. What’s with you?”

I handed him the script I worked on before he stormed into the room and let him read it.

“Well, chicks eat this shit like honey,” he handed it back. “Who’s playing Eloise?”

“Abigail Ritz.”

He snapped his fingers, cocked his head from one side to the other and then nodded with a wicked smile.

“Mile-high club. Yes, I approve. You should give her a try, she’s not great but… wait, wait, wasn’t she the runner-up to be Mrs. Colthurst?”

“Mrs. Colt.” I corrected him as I planned soon to legally change my name.

“Gabriel, Gabriel,” he shook his head and went back to the couch. “If you marry-no, when you marry, make sure to keep your life separate. You shouldn’t change your name. Keep the Colthurst name and keep your children and personal life out of the spotlight. Remember my past, everyone can read a tabloid while waiting in line to pay for their groceries. They know who I fucked, what I snorted, and the brand of rum I drank during my wild days. The headlines of who would be the next Mrs. Decker and all that shit is still being published. Even when no one knows how, who, and where I do things. If I had been smart, I’d have changed my name. Something like, Christobal Alonsito Deckerritto.”

“You really need to stop pretending that you speak Spanish,” I laughed at him.

“Then I’ll have to go back to drinking myself to sleep because my life will be boring,” he joked. “Let’s get down to business. You mentioned you went to college and have a finance degree.”

Chris rose from his seat and headed to the only set of drawers in this room. He handed me a folder and then sat at the piano where he fidgeted with the keys.

“I want you to be my investment guru. As I said, the band is sinking. Though I’ll sink with my ship, I don’t want to be poor and featured on one of those shows where they narrate my sobbing story about how I snorted my money away, and now I’m broke.”

I opened the thick folder, read his statements, and went through his assets. For a guy who didn’t give a shit, he had his information well-organized. He owned all of his properties and cars outright and had no debt. His credit card statements were paid in full every month. I laughed and he joined.

“You poor little rock star,” I finally said. “I agree, if I don’t take over your finances, you’d be broke within days.”

He began to cough, went pale, and then his uneven breathing scared me shitless.

“Bro, I’m joking.” I stood up and patted him on the back. “You’ll have enough money to live comfortably for the next three centuries.”

He stared at me, his eyes hardened, and his jaw twitched.

“I trusted you,” his voice was loud. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. You play pranks on me all the time, we joke.”

“Yes,” the hardness on his face didn’t change, “but shit like that is different. Gabe, I had no money when I started. I know what it is to go without food for weeks. That shit is serious to me. If my band doesn’t make it and I can’t play again, I want to have a roof over my head and be able to buy food for the rest of my life.”

That night I learned about real friendships, I had friends before, but not one who would trust me with his fears.

Handing me his financial future was a big deal to him, one I took seriously.

I planned to use his money to play with the stocks at large and win more money back. Not that I told him that, he wouldn’t understand that the stock market was like gambling and sometimes you could lose big too. Those words would only freak him out.

“We’re going to divide your money into several various investments,” I explained, and he stared at the papers. “We’re diversifying, which means putting your money into different baskets.”

“I want to open a music label company, produce for other artists,” he added. “Can you set money aside for that shit?”

We headed to the kitchen while discussing the pros and cons, and we set up a plan based on his vision.

“I want to discover new artists.” He poured himself some water from the sink and sat to eat the sandwich I prepared for him. “The industry is changing; Seattle is the crib for a new movement. Grunge. It will grow strong.”

Christian believed in it, his hands gestured as if he was strumming his air guitar while explaining how the distorted electric guitars, growling vocals, and angsty lyrics combined to create it—Grunge.

“It’s like the bastard child of hard punk and heavy metal,” he concluded.

“I’m curious to hear what that sounds like,” I honestly wanted to head to my room and play The Beatles to erase the bastard child from my head.

“I like that shit,” he bobbed his head. “You’re going to dig it.”

“If you let me,” I proposed, ignoring that I’d dig that music. “I’d like to be a silent partner in that venture too.”

It became clear that I might not be able to play with the big guys on Wall Street. By then my life had shifted, but I found these different investments as enjoyable and diverse from what I had planned at the age of eighteen.