The Best Movie Actor In Hollywood! Chapter 20

A taxi pulled up, but Matthew waved it off. The location the director had mentioned was in Burbank, so he didn't need a ride.

He watched Michael get into the cab and drive off, then grabbed a quick dinner at a random restaurant. Soon after, he found the address the director, Martin Jackson, had given him.

It was a hotel, and the address Martin Jackson had provided was for a suite on the top floor.

Seeing he was early, Matthew found a seat in the hotel lobby, closed his eyes, and waited.

As darkness fell, the world outside ignited in a blaze of neon, the streets below coming alive with a bustling crowd of pedestrians.

Across the street, lurking in an alleyway, Michael watched Matthew through a large window, a malicious sneer spreading across his face.

He hadn't gone to Hollywood Boulevard after all. The taxi had driven only a short distance before he got out, came here, and waited for this very moment. And things were just as bad as he had suspected.

The very fact that the director had summoned Matthew Horner to a hotel could only mean one thing: the role was already his.

Inside the hotel, Matthew leaned back in his chair and tried to clear his mind, not wanting to think about anything at all—not even the upcoming meeting with Martin Jackson.

Michael watched Matthew leave, realizing he was on his way to see Martin Jackson. After a moment's thought, he quickly crossed the street, entered the hotel, and walked over to the exact spot Matthew had just vacated. He sat down and waited.

He held onto a sliver of hope that Matthew, with his somewhat peculiar personality, might just refuse the director's... generous offer.

On the top floor, Matthew stood in the hallway and knocked on the suite door. He heard hurried footsteps from within, and then the door swung open to reveal the man in his thirties he’d seen earlier that day in the audition room.

"Hello, Mr. Jackson." Matthew kept his tone polite. "It’s Matthew Horner. You called me."

Martin Jackson gave a slight nod and stepped aside. "Come in," he said nonchalantly.

Matthew stepped into the suite and, noticing the immaculate carpet, asked, "Should I take off my shoes?"

"There are slippers in the shoe cabinet." Martin Jackson gestured vaguely toward it. "Grab a pair."

Matthew opened the cabinet, retrieved a pair of slippers, and changed into them. He then walked into the living room to find Martin Jackson seated on a long sofa, pouring red wine into a glass.

Martin Jackson then set the bottle aside. He looked up at Matthew, an unnerving gleam in his eyes, and took a slow, deliberate, almost provocative sip from his glass.

The gesture immediately set Matthew on edge, and he found his pace slowing. But the director just kept staring, savoring his wine, making no move to invite him to sit.

Only when Matthew reached the center of the living room did Martin Jackson finally speak, as if rousing himself from a reverie. "Stop there."

Confused, Matthew stopped.

Martin took another sip of red wine, his eyes fixed on Matthew. "I couldn't really see your physique at the audition," he said. "This role has very specific requirements for muscle tone. I need to see your build."

He commanded, "Take off your shirt."

Matthew flinched. A cold dread washed over him as he realized what was happening. He’d been so fixated on getting the role that he hadn't considered... this. But he wasn't some naive kid. Life experience told him exactly where Martin Jackson's thoughts were headed, and it had nothing to do with the job.

Matthew hesitated. A small part of him clung to the possibility that this was all a misunderstanding, that Martin Jackson genuinely just wanted to check his muscle definition for the role.

If that was the case, wasn't he about to throw away a rare opportunity by refusing?

In the span of a few seconds, two completely contradictory thoughts warred in his mind.

"What's the problem?" Martin Jackson set down his glass, his voice laced with impatience. "Take it off."

Matthew reached down and pulled off his fitted t-shirt, revealing a toned and sculpted torso.

"Ooh..." A strange, breathy sigh escaped Martin Jackson's lips, thick with lust. He suddenly stepped forward, his eyes devouring the lines of Matthew's physique.

"Matthew, you're so..." he began, his voice husky. "Now, take off your pants."

Those words shattered the last shred of illusion in Matthew's mind. He'd have to be a complete idiot not to understand the man's intentions now.

He wanted this role so badly, wanted to seize this opportunity with everything he had. That was why he'd let himself cling to a sliver of hope, even when he suspected Martin Jackson had other motives for inviting him here.

He was desperate to become famous, to make a lot of money, but there were lines he would never cross. If he did this, he knew he'd never be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

Ignoring the damn pervert's words, Matthew snatched his t-shirt from the floor, pulled it back on, and turned toward the door.

"Don't you want the role anymore?" Martin Jackson's voice followed him. "If you're worried I'm going to be too... demanding..."

He was only halfway through the sentence when his tone shifted, becoming a slimy promise. "Just stay. I promise you, the role is yours."

Matthew turned and shot Martin Jackson a look filled with pure rage and contempt. Resisting the overwhelming urge to punch him, he swapped his slippers for his shoes and walked out without a backward glance.

Out in the hallway, his anger didn't dissipate. Instead, it flared hotter, scorching his throat.

"Son of a bitch! Bastard!" he cursed under his breath. He knew he’d just run into the infamous casting couch—the industry's dirtiest "unspoken rule." Only, that was supposed to happen to women, forced to spread their legs for some producer or director. He was a guy. Who knew the same damn rule applied to men?

He rode the elevator down, fuming. So what if he lost the role? He didn't give a damn. Although... Matthew had to admit, he might have considered it if the proposition had come from a beautiful young female director, and not...

Back in the ground-floor lobby, his throat was parched. Matthew headed for a vending machine on the left, needing a bottle of water to quench his thirst and cool his searing anger. Otherwise, he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't march right back upstairs, drag that damn Martin Jackson out of his suite, and beat him senseless.

Of course, an act like that would have consequences.

But Matthew knew perfectly well that in his current position, there was nothing he could do about it.

In the lobby, by the glass wall, Michael's eyes were glued to the elevator doors. The moment Matthew stepped out, a smile spread across Michael's face, and he couldn't stop it.

He’d been timing it. Including the elevator ride, Matthew had been upstairs for less than five minutes. And he definitely looked different coming down.

What did that mean? Either Matthew had turned him down, or things weren't what Michael had assumed.

Michael immediately dismissed the second possibility. He wasn't a greenhorn like Matthew. He hadn't made a name for himself yet, but after three years in the business, there were things he might not have seen firsthand but had certainly heard about countless times. A director summoning an actor to his hotel room to "talk about the job"—the intention couldn't be clearer.

His eyes followed Matthew toward the vending machine, his mind racing. The director was into men. So if Matthew had refused him... did that mean there was an opening?

Michael ran a hand over his face, then let his other hand rest on the solid muscle of his chest. It was worth a shot, he decided.

He certainly wasn't in worse shape than that hick from Texas, Matthew Horner.

If he took this chance, he could turn his whole situation around. If he didn't, he'd stay a nobody, a spineless extra, forever.

In the past, even when he’d wanted to let someone fuck him for a role, he'd never even gotten the chance.

Michael rose to his feet, almost unconsciously, as if terrified the opportunity might slip through his fingers. Unwilling to wait another second, he strode impatiently toward the elevators.

The only way to get a real shot was to take matters into his own hands.

At the vending machine, Matthew selected a bottle of plain water. He had just inserted the coins when a familiar figure passed behind the machine's glass front. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Michael hurrying into an elevator.

"Huh?" Matthew blinked in surprise. "What's he doing here? Did that bastard Martin call him, too? Goddamn pervert."

He’d seen Michael leave Burbank in a taxi earlier that afternoon. There was no other explanation for him showing up here now.

Matthew collected the bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and took a long drink. He'd been about to leave and head home, but seeing Michael get into that elevator made him change his mind. He decided to stay.

Michael was ruthlessly ambitious, a lot like himself in that way. Matthew found himself wanting to see what would happen. Would the guy go through with "it" for a shot at the role? If he did, Jackson would almost certainly give it to him.

Bottle in hand, Matthew returned to his previous seat, his eyes fixed on the elevator with a newfound curiosity.

The rage he’d felt just moments before began to subside.

The reason was simple: even if Michael said yes to Martin Jackson, it wasn't a 100 percent guarantee he’d get the part.

In the end, it was Britney Spears who had the final say on the male lead, not the director.

Matthew remembered what Amanda had told him in confidence. That's why, right now, he was furious, but not defeated.

However, he was also keenly aware that now he'd pissed off the director, Martin Jackson. If he still wanted the part, he'd have to find a way to get to Britney Spears directly.

How could he get Britney to pick him? If only she were into the same kind of... persuasion... that would be perfect.

His eyes still on the elevators, Matthew let his mind drift. He was bored. With nothing better to do, he started to fantasize. Britney was young, beautiful, full of energy... she couldn't be older than twenty.

More than half an hour passed, and still no sign of Michael.

"Did he actually stay up there?" A cold sweat broke out on Matthew's brow. The thought was... unimaginable. "Did he really just trade his ass for a role?"

He waited for another half an hour, finishing his bottle of water, but there was still no sign of Michael. Matthew figured he must be staying the night with Jackson. There was no point in waiting any longer, so he finally stood up to leave.

But just as he did, he quickly stepped back, ducking into a spot where he wouldn't be easily seen.

Because Michael was stepping out of the elevator!