Royal Reflections

Chapter FOUR

Oliver

My suitcase lay open on my unmade large bed. Slowly it was being filled with clothes, accessories, and toiletries. It wasn't simple to pack for an unknown duration and unforeseen engagements. While walking through my office, I saw the script for the final franchise movie—correction, for my final one. Holding it in my grasp, I let it hover over the wastebasket, ready to drop it and listen to the clink as it hit the bottom.

No, the warlord wouldn't do that.

I placed the script on the bookshelf near the others. If all other means of employment failed, I could sell them.

During our call earlier, Ricardo offered to let me crash at his apartment until I made definite plans. I wanted to say I would stay at a hotel in the theater district. That was what the notorious warlord would have done.

Yeah, he was dead.

Despite most of the world and fandom not knowing it, I did.

At some point in thirty-eight years of life, a man comes to expect self-reliance. That meant no crashing on a friend's couch or spare room. I didn't squander all my earnings—I wasn't destitute. And as I was later reminded, I would continue to receive merchandising royalties from my likeness. Andrew called from the airport to remind me of that particular clause in my contract. It meant while the warlord was no more, he could live on in action figures and posters in the bedrooms of fans.

Nevertheless, with my uncertain professional future staring me in the face, I accepted Ricardo's invitation. My airline ticket was purchased. Tomorrow morning, I was flying to New York.

I'd thought of most everything for my time away.

Mrs. Walker, the woman next door, had a key to my place, promising to water my plants—I only had one that was still alive.

A cactus.

It wouldn't dominate her time.

She also promised to collect my mail, which mostly consisted of flyers, and do whatever she could until I returned.

The thing that ate at me was if I wanted to return.

If I find work back on Broadway, do I want to return to the sound stages in Hollywood?

I told myself this wasn't me letting asshole Ronald Estes get to me. If I left California for good, he'd think he'd won. He'd be wrong. If I left the West Coast, it would be for a future somewhere else.

The phone plugged into a charger near my bed began to vibrate. I'd turned off the sound by afternoon. News of my demise was out among my co-stars and the different crews. Everyone was sworn to secrecy, but that didn't stop them from calling and messaging their condolences.

Shit, it was as if the mighty warlord really had died.

Turning the screen upward, I read the name.

Blame it on the coffee with whiskey that morphed into whiskey straight, no chaser, but seeing Rita's name on the screen fueled the gnawing questions I'd fostered since Andrew's visit.

“Hey," I said, by way of answering.

“Oliver, I promise the rumors aren't true."

While it wasn't even five o'clock, my daily nutrients were skewed toward over the limit on alcohol. “I heard they were."

“You think that I'd do that to you, to your career?"

“I didn't say it was you. Is that your conscience talking?"

Her voice grew hushed. “We—you and I—were never exclusive."

“Nope." I supposed the words had never been said.

Implied.

Yes, it was implied.

Rita went on, “I was seeing you and Ron at the same time, but I'd never interfere with your livelihood. Tell me that you believe me."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I held tightly to the phone. “You're a f*****g great actor, Rita. I wonder how many times I was the one to witness a performance…a personal performance." Before she could respond, I went on, “Did you ever o****m? Or was that another role? f**k, you know if the franchise decides to kill you too, you should try porn."

“f**k you, Oliver. I called because I care. I didn't give Ron an ultimatum about you. He gave me one about you."

Figures.

“My memory," I said, “is a bit fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I broke it off with you."

“I know."

“What are you saying? You telling me that Estes gave you an ultimatum and you chose me? It sure as f**k doesn't seem that way."

“I chose you," she said.

My head spun with her declaration.

“Tomorrow," Rita went on, “the cast is getting together at Brett's place in Malibu. Please come."

“I'm headed out of town."

“You can't leave. Come to Brett's and work the room. There's more than one universe out there."

Exhaling, I lay back upon the crumpled sheets and blankets, narrowly missing landing my head in the suitcase. Staring up at the ceiling, I made a decision. I would get on the plane tomorrow and explore what—if anything—there was for me in live performing. Memories returned—the smell of the greasepaint, presence of an audience, and roar of the applause. The energy before the curtain rises. The electricity of having one chance to do the scene right.

I was ready to embrace it.

“Oliver? Are you still there?"

“If you didn't tell Estes it was either you or me, then he made that decision. He chose you, Rita. Live with it. You're involved either way. I already have my ticket for tomorrow. I'll be back for the premiere."

“I hope you find what you're looking for."

“I'm not sure what that is." The whiskey was making me sentimental. “You too. Don't waste your life and talent on a slime like Estes. And for the record, you'd be great at porn."

Rita laughed. “You, too. Stay in touch."

Disconnecting the call, I dropped the phone to the bed and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, the world outside the windows was dark and my empty stomach was growling for real sustenance. Groaning, I blinked my eyes and focused on the half-packed suitcase.

Shit.

Tomorrow, I would be in New York. A thirty-eight-year-old man was about to crash in his friend's apartment in the West Village. Getting up from the bed, I made my way to the kitchen and searched my refrigerator for anything. Somehow eating cereal for dinner reminded me of the old sitcom Seinfeld.

Did that show have laugh tracks?

Before I poured the milk, I went back in the bedroom for my phone. Surely, laugh tracks were something I could research. Whoever thought they were a good idea was crazy. It was insulting to the audience and equally as bad as the days when people would lift signs telling the live audience when to applaud. If the script and actors didn't elicit the correct response, the problem wasn't with the audience.

“Shit."

There were multiple missed messages from Andrew, along with a line of text messages from my former castmates. I hit the voicemail symbol.

“Oliver, answer your f*****g phone. I don't care when you get this message, call me."

I couldn't recall the destination of my agent's recent trip. Hell, it could be three hours later wherever he was. I was considering waiting until morning to return his call when I saw his latest text message.

“How is your Molavian accent?"

What the hell?

Going back to the kitchen, I returned Andrew's call. As I poured the milk over my dry cereal, the call connected.

“Molave?" I asked, recalling the scene earlier on television.

The sound of people in the background dimmed. “Don't hang up, Oliver. This is a serious offer and she contacted me."

Serious offer.

“That's what you said about the universe."

“Yeah, I'm not saying this is a lifelong gig. I'm saying there is significant earning potential."

“I'd gotten myself psyched up about performing live," I admitted, or maybe I was hoping if I said it, it would be true.

“This is live."

“Who requested me?" I asked before shoving a spoonful of cereal into my mouth.

“Her name is Elizabeth Drake."

“Should I know who she is?"

“From now on, yes," he replied. “Elizabeth Drake is the chief minister to the Godfreys of Molave."

“Your timing is uncanny. I just saw the prince and princess on TV today."

“I'm waiting for my flight back to LAX. Don't leave for New York. I want you to hear the details of this offer from me—in person. And I hope you're dressed. Dustin Hargraves will be to your apartment in a half hour."

I shook my head. “Andrew, what the hell are you talking about?"

“Go to your computer and pull up a photograph of the crown prince of Molave, the Duke of Monovia."

“I saw him today."

“Humor me."

“s**t," I mumbled as I begrudgingly left the remainder of my cereal to get soggy and stepped into my office. It took me two tries to spell Molave, but finally I got it. “Okay, I'm looking at him."

“And what do you see?"

“f**k, a miserable, entitled lunatic who according to this article is not enhancing Molave's foreign relations." I clicked the arrow bringing up a picture of the prince with his wife, Princess Lucille. “Damn, she's something else. I'd say the prince outplayed his coverage."

“Back to the prince. Don't you see it?"

“What do you want me to see?"

“He looks like you. You look like him," Andrew said.

My eyes narrowed as I studied the prince's face. “I mean, I guess. He's five years older than I am, and there's gray in his hair." Not a lot, but some. I looked at the photo of him in a uniform. “I'd say he also weighs more than me."

“Fine, you're not twins separated at birth, but the resemblance is enough that the royal family wants to hire you to take on some of the prince's obligations. I'll tell you more when I get to your place."

“I have a ticket for New York. I've spoken with Ricardo."

“Oliver," Andrew said. “Listen to me. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. The Firm is offering to pay double what you made for the last movie."

“Double?" I sighed, leaning back in the chair. “For how long?"

“Cancel your ticket to New York."

I thought about the suitcase. “I'm mostly packed."

“Good, because you'll be heading to Molave."

“I haven't said yes."

“You will. And one more thing."

“What?"

“Don't tell a soul. This must stay confidential. You don't want to cross the royal family."