When the taxi arrived, Matthew didn't get in. The place the director mentioned was right here in Burbank, so there was no need to head back. After watching Michael Sheen leave in the cab, he called Lister to request some time off, grabbed a casual dinner, and soon found the address Martin Jackson had given him.
It was a hotel. The address led to the top-floor suite.
Matthew checked the time—it was still early—so he found a seat in the hotel lobby to wait. He stared blankly out the glass wall at the traffic and bustling streets outside.
As night slowly fell, neon lights lit up the city, and the streets below bustled with people.
Across the street, in a dark alley, Michael Sheen watched Matthew through the glass wall, a gloomy look clouding his face.
He hadn't gone to Hollywood Boulevard. Instead, he'd gotten out of the taxi shortly after getting in and waited here all this time. And just as he feared, things had gone terribly wrong.
The fact that the director had invited Matthew Horner to the hotel meant he was very likely the top candidate.
Inside the hotel, Matthew leaned back in his chair, trying to clear his head. He didn't want to think about anything, not even the meeting with Martin Jackson.
As the clock approached 8 p.m., he finally stood and walked to the elevators.
Michael Sheen saw him leave and figured he must be heading upstairs to meet the director. After a moment of hesitation, he quickly crossed the street, entered the hotel, and sat in the same spot Matthew had just vacated, waiting quietly.
He was waiting for a possibility—that Matthew, with his strange personality, might actually turn the director down.
On the top floor, Matthew stood in the hallway and knocked gently on the door. Footsteps sounded, and then the door opened to reveal the familiar face of the man in his thirties he'd seen earlier that day during the audition.
"Good evening, Director Jackson," Matthew said politely. "I'm Matthew Horner. You called me this afternoon."
Martin Jackson gave a slight nod and stepped aside. "Come on in."
Matthew entered. The carpet inside was spotless. "Should I take off my shoes?" he asked.
"There are slippers in the cabinet," Martin said, pointing to a spot behind the door. "Help yourself."
Matthew opened the cabinet, changed into slippers, and walked into the suite's living room. Martin Jackson was already seated on the couch, pouring himself a glass of red wine.
He set the bottle down and took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on Matthew, offering no invitation to sit.
The silent scrutiny made Matthew uncomfortable, and he slowed his steps.
When Matthew reached the middle of the room, Martin finally spoke. "That's far enough. Just stand there."
Matthew wasn't sure what was going on but stopped anyway.
Martin took another sip, eyes still on Matthew. "We didn't really look at your physique during the audition. This role has strict requirements for muscle definition. I need to see your build."
He motioned with his hand. "Take off your shirt."
Matthew froze for a moment, alarm bells ringing in his mind. Up until now, he'd been focused solely on landing the role and hadn't considered anything else. But he wasn't some naive newcomer. His life experience told him Martin Jackson clearly had something else in mind.
Still, he hesitated. Maybe the guy really just wanted to see his physique?
If that was the case, refusing could mean losing this hard-to-get opportunity.
Two conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind in the span of a few seconds.
"What are you waiting for?" Martin said, setting down his glass. "Take it off."
After a brief pause, Matthew pulled off his fitted T-shirt and tossed it onto a nearby armchair, revealing his muscular torso.
"Tsk..."
Martin made a strange sound and suddenly stood, eyes glued to Matthew.
"Matthew," he said again, "now take off your pants."
At that moment, all of Matthew's remaining hope shattered. If he didn't get it before, he sure did now.
He wanted the role badly. He came here hoping for a chance. Even when he suspected the director's motives, he still held on to a shred of optimism—because he was desperate to make it, desperate for fame and money.
But there were some lines he wouldn't cross. If he did, he'd never be able to respect himself again.
Ignoring Martin's demand, Matthew grabbed his T-shirt, pulled it on, and headed straight for the door.
"You don't want the part anymore?" Martin called after him. "You're the top choice right now. If you walk out that door—"
He didn't finish his sentence. Instead, his tone shifted. "Stay. I promise the role is yours."
Matthew turned and gave him a hard look, anger flashing in his eyes. He resisted the urge to throw a punch, put his shoes back on, and strode out without looking back.
In the hallway, the fury didn't subside—it only grew. His throat burned, his mouth dry.
"Son of a bitch!" he swore under his breath.
So this was it. The infamous casting couch.
He took the elevator down. Even if it meant losing the role, Matthew had no regrets. Now, if the director had been a hot female instead—well, maybe he'd have thought about it…
Down in the lobby, still parched, he walked over to the vending machines to grab a bottle of water and cool off. Otherwise, he might've marched right back up there and beaten the crap out of Martin Jackson.
Of course, this wouldn't just be the end of it.
But Matthew also knew he didn't have the power to do anything right now.
Back in the lobby seating area, Michael Sheen had been watching the elevator intently. As soon as Matthew stepped out, he saw him—and started grinning.
Even counting elevator time, Matthew hadn't been upstairs for more than five minutes. And he looked totally unbothered when he came down.
What did that mean? Either Matthew had rejected him, or things didn't go the way he'd assumed.
Michael quickly dismissed the second option. He wasn't some clueless rookie. Even though he hadn't made a name for himself in three years, he'd been in the industry long enough to know the score. A director calling an actor to a hotel suite? The intention couldn't be clearer.
His eyes followed Matthew as he walked to the vending machine, while his brain spun with possibilities. That director was into men. If Matthew had turned him down... maybe he, Michael, still had a shot?
He touched his face with one hand, and his well-defined chest with the other. Maybe it was worth the risk.
He didn't think Matthew had any edge over him in terms of looks or body.
Taking a chance might change everything. Playing it safe meant staying a nobody.
And besides, even if he wanted to sell himself before, no one had offered.
Without realizing it, Michael stood up, as if afraid the opportunity would slip away. He couldn't wait any longer and rushed toward the elevators.
An opportunity is only real when it's in your hands.
By the vending machine, Matthew had just bought a bottle of water when he saw a familiar reflection in the glass—Michael Sheen was heading into the elevator.
"Huh?" Matthew raised an eyebrow. "What's he doing here? Did Martin Jackson call him too?"
Michael had clearly left Burbank earlier in the afternoon, so this sudden appearance could only mean one thing.
Taking a big swig of water, Matthew decided not to leave just yet. If Michael was heading upstairs, he wanted to see what would happen.
He walked back to the glass wall, sat in the same seat, and kept his eyes fixed on the elevators.
Compared to his earlier rage, he was a lot calmer now.
It was simple. Even if Michael agreed to Jackson's offer, it didn't guarantee he'd get the role.
The final say belonged to Britney Spears, not the director.
Matthew kept in mind what Amanda had told him in private. That's why, even though he was furious earlier, he wasn't discouraged.
Still, now that he'd pissed off the director, if he wanted that male lead role, he'd have to figure something out with Britney.
But how could he get Britney to pick him? If she was into the casting couch too, then things might actually work in his favor.
His thoughts drifted. Britney was still young, pretty, full of energy—not even twenty yet. If she wanted to play that kind of game... well, maybe he could make a "sacrifice" for art. The role would just be a bonus...
Lost in these silly fantasies, Matthew checked his phone. Over half an hour had passed, and Michael still hadn't come down.
"Did he stay up there?" A chill ran down Matthew's spine at the thought. "Is he really sacrificing himself for art?"
He sat there another half hour, finished the whole bottle of water, and still no sign of Michael.
Guess he was staying the night.
No point waiting anymore—Matthew stood to leave.
Then, suddenly, he took a few steps back and ducked behind a column.
Michael Sheen was walking out of the elevator.