When the yellow lights cleared the area, Billy stood bare-chested, wearing tight pants that nearly cut off the blood flow to his feet. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of tinted glasses, while photographers snapped shots for Rolling Stone magazine. He almost hated being there—surrounded by thousands of cameras flashing in his face, the bursts of light irritating his eyes.
The lenses were yellow, and the yellow lights burned through the air, while the white background filled every face in the room with disdain. They were already wrapping things up for shipment.
–That's a wrap! – Someone shouted, and Billy exhaled deeply. He'd been holding his breath for a while, almost able to hear the blood rushing through his veins. Each movement distracted him, but now all that was left was to take a bus trip across the state, turning down every offer for a proper role in 300. Maybe something interesting would come of all this, he thought, as he grabbed a large robe from one of the crew members and slipped it over his body on the way to his private room.
–It's a success, being on the cover of Rolling Stone – said Michael Ocklars, completely thrilled about the situation. The boy's pose was upright, the headline read something about The New Prince of Rock. Some shots had him with his arms wide open, alongside a handwritten interview with Billy's answers, and another article about his life, revealing once again his past in a correctional facility and the bruises he'd carried from it.
–Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just give me a break. I'll send a draft with all the songs by next Thursday—get them registered, and then we'll record some solid singles – replied Billy. He was thinking about taking a bus trip with Scarlett for eighteen days while she prepared for her upcoming roles. Each one of those roles was tied to some small, noteworthy film—weekend movies airing on some production channel. Around that same time, she was joining one of Christopher Nolan's productions, The Prestige—a story about two men fighting to create the greatest magic trick in history.
–Alright, we've got another photo session before Thursday. Try to be on time, though I'll make it a bit more flexible than usual – said Michael as he opened the door. Billy sat down on the leather couch, slipped into black jeans, blue shoes, and a shiny button-down shirt.
He walked down the stairs, followed by his entourage. A large Ford truck was waiting at the exit, parked by the curb. Luckily, the paparazzi were busy with someone more famous—or maybe covering the fiasco of an actor, perhaps the split between Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston after four years of marriage. He was certainly not as well-known as the artist who had been charming women for the last decade.
–I guess we managed to stay discreet – said Billy.
–We actually did. The press needs to be handled. Meanwhile, we'll use your fans as the story—just focus on doing what you do best – replied Michael Ocklars. –By the way, you've got around thirty dates scheduled for April, across every state on the East Coast and a few in the Midwest—with all the lucky girls whose tickets are already paid for. Some dates are in the countryside, others at the top of skyscrapers, and some on yachts. Others we've reclassified as more "compatible" experiences—gallery visits, museum tours... –
–I'm guessing someone paid for all that – said Billy.
–Bingo. They did. But they want to record and release a promotional episode—at least thirty minutes per date, that's the deal – said Michael.
–Phew, poor girls – said Billy.
Going on national television was always a disaster.
–They're all over sixteen, and each one has permission from her representative. But the important part—the focus—is you. That's what makes it a portrait, a show – replied Michael Ocklars, who had explained everything to their parents and agents. Fame was magnificent, but they had adjusted every detail of the show to make it as polished as possible. Most of the girls were between seventeen and nineteen, finishing their last year of high school. Some were already well-known, with ties to the industry. The fantasy was simply a way to show that if they wanted to do something, they could.
–Alright then, just let me breathe – said Billy, taking a bottle of water and gulping it down. The streets became more familiar as they drove out of the morning traffic.
The streets blurred almost into dreams as he closed his eyes. He'd been short on sleep, and his thoughts drifted to Scarlett waiting for him at home—a dangerously natural woman, soft flesh, handmade beauty.
Her sighs whispered into his ear, her tantrums repeating again and again—demanding whims, recalculating every delay before admitting she was wrong, adding too much salt to the pasta. Women, those creatures, were like a warm blanket on a long winter's day.
–We've arrived, sir –
–See you later, Michael. Hope to catch you Tuesday – said Billy as he stepped out of the car. He climbed the stairs, regretting not being able to take acting roles because of his commitments. But a role in 300—everything about it screamed fantasy. A film of weapons, with Spartans as the core. His part was simple—the captain's son, a role without lines, dying by decapitation. Was there really much to say about how to play that?
He was greeted at the door. He nodded as he stepped into the elevator, taking a deep breath. With patience, he walked down the hallway—less than ten meters ahead, he caught sight of a stunning woman coming down in jeans, her generous hips moving in perfect rhythm, a tight red blouse breathing life into the soon-to-be Scarlett—the crush of half a generation. Everyone went crazy when they saw a woman who seemed to live in her own world.
–Want some coffee? – asked Billy, giving her a playful slap. She smiled and nodded.
–We're leaving Thursday, don't worry. We'll use a truck for the nearby stops—it's more discreet. The machine they rented prevents motion sickness—it's got a special system for tours like this – said Billy, taking a strong sip.
–Sounds good – said Scarlett. –I saw one of your friends wearing a sapphire necklace. –
–A necklace? – he asked.
–Yeah, a necklace. It's in a magazine. –
–She recommended it to me – said Billy. –It's from Brazil. I bought the sapphires there—and the diamonds, in Colombia and Venezuela. –
She looked at him, judging with her green eyes, then nodded slowly, taking a long sip of her coffee.
...