May 6.
Unlike time and place, what he hadn't expected was to receive news that would both please him and offer a striking new perspective. What was it? At Billy's request, Jerry secured him a voice acting role in the anime called Naruto. Thanks to Jerry's backing, he ended up signing a contract with Viz Media, the company responsible for the dubbing, and Billy was allowed to choose a character—he simply picked a lead, and they gave him Uchiha Sasuke. At least this time, he would have something substantial to focus on.
-Then consider it done, we'll move forward with it. He'll handle the dubbing, just as the kid wants. The price is already settled.— Jerry said, sharp and decisive when it came to his business; his style was nothing if not demanding. Billy wouldn't do promotion or endorse anything under contract—it was simply a consequence of Jerry's negotiation, which secured the name and a long-term deal for as long as the series would continue being dubbed. That was how things were handled.
-May this be the start of a long collaboration.— Jerry added, closing the deal and giving Billy exactly what he needed for everything to feel right. It was a good idea.
Clear and straightforward.
-—Whoever wishes it, or however it unfolds, I suspect our collaboration will be long and fruitful in one way or another— Jerry said, not fully understanding, but aware that Billy only wanted to practice and perform his role as best as he could. However early-stage it might seem, dubbing was just another task in Billy's tight schedule, and the first thirty episodes already had a role waiting for him.
…
Billy couldn't help but feel that Scarlett was, in truth, a stunningly beautiful woman—like a delicate bloom. She wore a silver dress that highlighted every line of her body, completely captivating, the way everyone saw her. Billy wore a blue suit with a light blue tie and a silver shirt, and despite everything, they carried themselves with undeniable elegance.
-I just feel like taking that dress off you and seeing what waits beneath.— Billy said calmly, his tone clean, almost intimate. He continued forward as MTV lingered, while she pressed her body close to his, desiring him in a quiet, restrained way.
They both stepped in to do what they had to do—a new way of promoting.
-—What was it like working with Michael Bay?
-I don't really have a point of comparison; my experience with directors is basically nonexistent, but I'd say we did as well as we needed to.— Billy replied.
-—They say you're dating your co-star. Is that true?
-—Are you blind?
-—That sounds like confirmation.
-—As much as an innocent mind would like to believe.— Billy answered, completely unfazed.
Leaving the interview halfway through, he moved on to the next.
-Do you have anything to say about your entry into the film industry?— a reporter asked.
Billy looked around. Some people were handing him albums, shirts, markers for autographs—but he ignored them all except one: a young boy, lifted by his mother, holding out a record. Billy took it, signed both the record and the shirt, and gave a small wink. He stayed just long enough to watch the mother, understanding the moment, walk away with the boy in her arms, while the crowd looked on with a mix of admiration and envy.
-It's a cinema.— Billy said, echoing one of the most famous lines in the industry, one that always had something to say about everything. He offered a faint smile and continued, trying to be clever—he had been trained for these moments.
-Like music is to music. Art—both are nothing but that.— Billy added, smiling lightly, navigating the idea with ease. Cinema would give him as much as he wanted, and beside him, Scarlett was its promise—he could see in her the devotion and unconditional support she offered. Billy was a fortunate man who had already made his mark in film; all that remained was to become a walking marketing force, drawing the party wherever he went.
Billy entered the theater. Fortunately, they gave him a seat in the back, where he could rest. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Beside him was the beautiful blonde, and a producer focused entirely on the film. He longed for those VIP cinemas where everything was comfortable—room to stretch his legs, to feel the warmth of his companion—but watching the same film more than twice in a week was tedious. His eyes closed.
The after-party in London was just as expected. People chatted while a piano melody played strongly for the next hour, followed by a small celebratory meal—nothing extravagant—and then everyone headed home. The real party had been in New York; London carried a more refined rhythm, its capitals serving as hubs for events, connections, and gatherings.
Many beautiful women.
The Leonard sisters, present at the event, observed with subtle interest a man twice their age. He wasn't unattractive; the age difference was simply undeniable at a glance, and that was what transformed cinema into opportunity. Two beautiful women who would never have given a man like him the time of day now surrounded him with attention, especially in those white dresses that revealed their delicate shoulders. Jasmine, in particular, had a striking figure—firm, rounded curves partially exposed, almost confronting the man with their presence. Billy felt a sudden urge to strip her bare and claim her for himself.
But Scarlett was a cradle of wonders.
-—I think I want to take you right here on this table.— Billy whispered. He noticed her skin bristle, her pores opening, her breath shifting.
With a soft, affirmative response, he lifted her feet onto his lap, slipping off her heels. A few people glanced at the couple, but he simply began massaging her feet. She let out a soft moan of pleasure as his fingers worked across her toes, the soles of her feet, and her legs—especially her calves. She surrendered to the sensation; in those moments of carelessness, Billy always gained the most.
—Keep your feet up, I think it's time I give you the kind of welcome to London you deserve. I admit, I don't feel English, but it seems like the right moment.— Billy said, taking control of the atmosphere. The next task was to give everyone a chance to enjoy real music—and unfortunately, the pianist he had hired wasn't very good. It was a disaster when it came to conveying emotion, and that only worsened the dull ache in his ears as he listened closely.
Taking the piano himself, with delicate precision, he played a quick arpeggio, then another, building into two scales in under a minute, with the finesse of a master.
Playing a classic—that was what he needed.
Hey Jude, don't make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
He performed it so calmly, even better than anyone from The Beatles—but that was to be expected. They had made great music fifty years ago; if in fifty years you couldn't do something greater, then you simply weren't trying hard enough. They had created what was most difficult in music—creation itself. His voice was like therapy, soothing people's souls, washing over them like a balm filled with the tenderness music carries. It moved, it breathed, it proved that a great singer could make anything possible with any song.
His eyes fixed on Scarlett with precision, laying his soul bare, exposing his intentions. The signature was unmistakable.
He needed that—for her.