Chapter Text
The harness was set onto him with a reassuring click.
It was a simple enough sequence, one he’d done since the beginning of his days as a stunt double. He’d be pulled through a casing of sugar glass, all of it shattering beautifully around him and then thrown onto a brick wall, where he was supposed to bounce off of it and slump to the floor.
Usually, he wasn’t this excited about such a shot. Heck, he’d been bored with the number of times this was done to him.
This time, though, he was. Mostly because of the fact that Jody sat behind the camera, coordinating with the crew regarding the placement of the cameras.
Another movie, another day.
But this day was special, though. He’d promised Jody that he’d take her out to karaoke after a long time. Really, he was just glad he was able to now. With the shit that went on a few years back, he’d thought that it’d take him a while to get back on his feet.
However, in classic stuntman fashion, Colt had bounced back up, having a long enough list of prospective movies and television shows to work on.
Ryder was gone, so was Gail. And the only thing standing between Jody and him was this shot, the last of today’s filming.
“Quiet on the set, please,” Jody’s voice boomed on the microphone. The hush settled in, the stunt crew near him double-checking his harnesses and giving a thumbs up to the operator above them.
“Stunt ready?” she asked, and damn it, he couldn’t stop smiling at her. He could hear her smile in those words.
Up went the traditional thumbs up.
Colt knew he didn’t have to peek around the camera to see her roll her eyes.
“And… action!”
The harness was yanked, and the familiar feeling of his stomach dropping into his legs accompanied it as he hurtled through the glass, shutting his eyes and a moment later, met the hard surface of the brick wall. His breath escaped in a quick whoosh, and he fell, groaning.
Oh, holy shit, his back hurts. And he bet his injury from the Metalstorm set was making it worse.
“Fuck,” he muttered, getting up and brushing the glass from his hair and immediately being accosted by the crew. The harnesses disappeared quickly enough, and one of the crew handed him a bottle of water.
Taking a gulp and easing the pain in his back, he strode toward the director’s hut, watching himself being dragged and thrown around like a rag doll on almost eight screens.
“That’s it, then,” she declared, smiling up at him when he reached her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “We’re done for the day, folks!”
A soft cheer went up from the crowd as one by one the background crew began to disassemble the sets.
Colt flopped tiredly onto the chair next to hers, emptying the bottle and tapping it absently on his knee.
“On for karaoke tonight?”
“You have anywhere else to be?” she asked slyly, massaging her temple.
He chuckled, shaking the hair out from his eyes. Jody crinkled her nose at that, and he laughed harder. She hated that movement, saying that it made him look like a wet dog. The first time she’d said it, he’d laughed just like he did now, saying that after all, he was her dog.
The redness in her cheeks hadn’t faded for almost an hour.
“Not if it means the same place you and I are thinking right now,” he replied cheekily, enjoying the way she rolled her eyes and pretended not to notice the soft red blush on her cheeks.
“You’re an asshole, Colt Seavers,” she said, rising from her chair and packing up her things. Before he could open his mouth, she turned right back at him, poking him in his chest.
“And you better not say what I know you will.”
He raised his hands placatingly. “I didn’t know you’d take offence to an offer of a mimosa.”
Jody shook her head, letting out an exasperated sigh and unable to stop the smile blooming on her lips. She waved him away, saying, “I have better things to do, you know.”
“And what might those be, other than relaxing with me?” he asked, jogging up to her.
She shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Nothing. Just some paper and a few words.”
He stopped short, watching as she happily continued toward her trailer. Holy shit. Another movie? A prospective one with her as assistant or main director?
“You can’t just drop that and leave!” he called to her.
“I’ll meet you at the karaoke!” she happily replied.
Colt stood there, a big, dumb grin on his face as he saw her go.
Life was good. As good as it got, really. He was dating the most popular director in his industry, living in a house by the beach owned by both of them and had adopted Jean Claude, who also happened to make an excellent friend.
Really, if his life were made into a movie, the part he was in right now was the ‘happily ever after’.
And now he has to go with his girlfriend to the date that should’ve happened a long damn while back. Essentially, he was getting back his lost moments.
“Livin’ the Hollywood dream,” he muttered to himself, jogging towards his Sierra and hoping he made it in time to the house.
He didn’t like to be late to dates, especially this one.
The engine roared as he pressed the gas, heart leaping. But it stuttered as he saw the photo he’d shoved behind the dashboard. Its edges were the only thing visible, but he knew what it’d show him.
It was years back, from when he was a child, and things were normal. Five people, including him on it. One of them is gone for good, one is slumming it out on his own, one is pursuing his passion, and the other is staying at his old home.
All of them survived without talking to each other for almost a decade.
“The Hollywood dream,” he repeated to himself, quieter, gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.
The roaring engine didn’t help quieten the numbness in his head as he headed towards home.
“So, this new ‘paper and few words’, huh?” he asked over the din of someone singing “Lithium”. It was a shit job, and he reckoned if Kurt Cobain were alive, he’d probably cut the mic himself.
Jody smiled at him over a glass of martini.
“It's very secretive and all, and I’ll still need the permissions to start it all up. There’s literally no material here except for an idea. Well, I don’t even know what I’ll be directing yet, either.”
His eyebrows shot up at that. “What is this? Some sort of mystery romance? Or erotica?” he asked teasingly, making sure to waggle his eyebrows enough at the end. Jody only shoved his arm, laughing.
“I’ll tell you when it actually exists on paper, you idiot,” she replied, downing her glass and ordering a Shirley.
He shook his head, sipping on his Long Island and drummed his fingers on the bar table. Glancing at the music floor, he saw a girl ripping it out on ‘Let it Go’. Odd choice, but hey, he wasn’t one to judge. He’d, after all, chosen ‘London Boy’ and was trying not to be nervous about it.
The girl was killing it. He only hoped the crowd would be half as enthusiastic for him.
“Actually,” Jody said, setting aside her glass and pushing back a strand of her blonde hair. “It won’t require stunts.”
Colt frowned at that. What kind of movie was this then? Almost every great Academy Award-winning movie required stunts. Hell, even the Oscars were filled with them.
“Okay, I’m a little offended,” he admitted. “What kind of a movie are you even making?”
She rolled her eyes again. Despite the snub, he couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. “It's something new,” she said softly, popping an olive in her mouth. “I’m nervous too, but again, I really want to do it. The ideas I’d pitched were shot down by the producers, so I’m still on the lookout for a good topic.”
He downed his Long Island, setting the glass carefully back on the table. It was important that he didn’t get too drunk, he still had to sing coherently. He winced as he remembered the time when he and Dan decided it was a good thing to duet on ‘The Piano Man’ while drunk on vodka. Another memory surfaced at that, a little older, but he brushed it away.
Tonight was just for Jody.
“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Colt said, taking her hand in his. She smiled at him, whole and earnest, and if his heart was a balloon it’d have burst right now.
“Besides, I’ll always be right next to you and make sure you are adequately annoyed,” he continued, a satisfying smirk on his face. It only grew as Jody snatched her hand back, flicking him on the forehead.
“Ow!” Rubbing the skin, he threw an accusatory glance at her. “This is a workplace violation.”
“We’re outside work,” she replied sweetly.
“That doesn’t mean—“
He was interrupted by a buzz he’d been hearing a long damn time now. His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he didn’t reach for it. Colt knew who it was and had zero intentions of listening to what he had to say.
Jody’s smile slid off at that, somehow able to hear the buzz of his phone even in the chaos of the bar. She raised an eyebrow at him, but Colt waved it away.
It was probably the eighth time it had rang today. And the forty-sixth time that week.
“Spam,” he said, the lie easily rolling off his tongue.
Her face turned grave at that, and he had a feeling that she’d sussed it out easily enough. Was he that bad at lying?
“Colt—“ she began, but he heard his name being called. It was his time to sing.
“Colt Seavers! Give it up for Colt Seavers, everybody!” came the guy’s voice, and a cheer went up in the bar.
He raised his hand in an indulgent manner, quickly getting up.
“Later,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Colt, seriously— “she tried again.
“Music calls!”
He grabbed the mic just in time as the first few beats began to sound on the speakers.
And he ignored the hollowness in his chest as he belted out the lyrics.
However, the buzz of his phone still echoed in his mind.
It was way too late for them to be out right now.
Jody was giggling, still a little drunk, and he steered her towards his Sierra. Colt had forced himself to sober up immediately after, restricting his drinks to just two.
“We have schedules,” she whispered-shouted, and collapsed into another bout of giggles that he joined in. The parking lot was deserted, a few lamps shining out in the street and an occasional car passing by.
They clambered into the car, Jody frowning at herself in the sun visor. “Bloody makeup,” she muttered, hiccupping and began to root into her bag.
As for Colt, he fastened his seatbelt, making sure she had hers on too, and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror.
It had been an amazing night, full of songs, drinks (again, only two for him, though it killed him to maintain that rule, but someone had to drive), and the world seemed to blur there to just him and her. The photos on his phone were blurry, some clear while others had the haze of lights mixing with their faces.
Jody began to remove her makeup, muttering venomously about how hard mascara was to remove. “We really should do this again, you know?” she spoke, using a cotton pad and dabbing it on her cheeks.
“Yeah. Maybe next time we do the same, but on the beach?” he grinned, turning on the engine.
She grinned back at him. “I don’t think Jean Claude would appreciate me drunk singing.”
Colt snorted. “We’ll sing him a few French songs.”
Just as he placed his hand on the radio button, maybe turn on some Nirvana, Kiss or maybe even Taylor Swift when his phone began to ring again.
Fuck’s sake.
He gripped the volume knob tighter, the buzzing filling the car even as the engine was humming. Ignore. He could ignore this. This had been the perfect day he’d been dreaming about and he was not going to let—
“You can’t keep running forever.”
He blinked, confused. Jody only dabbed at her lips, removing her lipstick coat with a clean sweep of tissue. Was it just him, or did that come out softer than usual? Heck, she didn’t even bother to look at him as she said, “Pick it up.”
“Should I?” he stalled, still clutching the knob as if it were a stupid lifeline. He didn’t owe anyone shit. No, wait, that was a lie— he did owe it to his mother, to his—
No. No, he’d cut himself from that life long back. Going back only meant digging up old memories where no one was happy.
He was Colt Seavers now.
Plain and simple.
“I can just ignore it,” Colt continued, berating himself for even speaking the words, but he continued. He wasn’t ready. To be fair, he never was. “I can focus on you. Maybe go over tomorrow’s schedules?”
“Pick it up,” Jody repeated, voice deadly serious despite being drunk.
Sometimes he really was a little scared of her. He didn’t forget the beating he’d taken in that stupid alien costume. Even as he thought of it, his leg gave a familiar twinge of pain, the place where she’d stabbed him with a pen.
“Damn it, Jody.”
Unhappily, he unfastened his seatbelt, muttering about how he hated phones, why the buzzing didn’t stop, cussing out the mobile lines, and finally getting out of the car.
His phone had stopped ringing by then, and he looked at the long list of missed calls. Really, he didn’t even need to unlock it either.
Because there it was. Missed call— Holland March.
Holland March, not Holland Grace. Nee Grace, he supposed.
The bastard had taken his wife’s last name. Through the haze of annoyance, Colt’s conscience called him a little hypocrite and a bitch.
Okay, a little harsh, but fine. He’d changed his name to Seavers, why was he getting pissed that Holland had taken on his legal wife’s name?
Because my change is for the showbiz, he reminded himself harshly, the same reminder he’d think of every time the thought entered.
And he changed it because he’s a fucking coward.
The anger, he told himself, was justified. Holland was at fault, and Colt had every right to call him out for it, punish him even.
Still, the words always rang hollow. Just like they always did.
Reluctantly, he unlocked his phone, scrolling through fifty-eight missed calls (What was he desperate for, a family reunion? Even as he thought of it, he snorted in disbelief), all of them being Holland’s.
Of course, he wasn’t labelled Holland March in his phone. No, Colt knew he was being childish when he’d done it, but it was still labelled ‘Asshole 1’. With a poop emoji.
The other asshole was, of course, Tom. Now that he thought of it, why did he even save the actor’s number?
His finger hovered over the contact, ready to call, but still hesitating. Colt risked a glance at Jody, who was nearly done with removing her makeup.
Hollywood dream.
He wanted to protect what he had, what he’d built for himself. Deep down, he knew he was a coward, too. Not with Holland, though. Never with him.
He clutched his phone tighter.
Colt was a hypocrite. His conscience was right— he was a coward and a failure and had no right to be pissed off at Holland. Because he’d nearly done the same thing with his mother and Ryland.
Ryland…
Fuck.
His phone lit up again, ‘Asshole 1’ poop emoji blazing over the screen, and since he’d removed the vibration mode, his ringtone of the rock cover of ‘I Was Made for Lovin’ You’ began blaring through the parking lot.
It was late, around eleven. And he’d been trying for almost a week, trying to reach to him.
He knew Jody wouldn’t judge him if he didn’t pick it up. Disappointed, yes, but never upset. She understood him, what he was as a guy, beneath the layers of cool confidence.
Pick it up.
Colt stared at it a moment longer, wishing that he could be someone, anyone else.
But his finger went to the answer button, and his voice was dead when he placed it on his ear.
“Hello.”
He was Colt Seavers, a professional stuntman, one of Hollywood’s own (at least that’s what he assumed he was, and really, they owed that to him) and Jody Moreno’s boyfriend. The Jody Moreno.
And yet it all crumbled when he heard Holland’s voice because in a blink, he was no longer all that, suddenly seven and not knowing what would happen next.
“Finally, you shitty asshole,” Holland said.
A million different names came to him, ready on his tongue like acid. He didn’t open his mouth anyway, but one word kept blaring in his mind, loud and demanding.
Brother.