(Please vote for the story!)
"This guy walks really funny."
"Is he disabled or something?"
As he got out of the taxi and walked towards the restaurant, Michael Sheen overheard people commenting about him. He had thought that after resting for a night and a morning, he'd be fine. That's why he invited Matthew out for a meal. But the pain in his backside hadn't eased at all. In fact, walking even slightly faster felt like a power drill was grinding into him.
Still, he came. Just thinking about how Matthew Horner refused to help him as a friend gave him all the motivation he needed.
His legs were awkwardly spread apart, his butt slightly sticking out, and he walked slowly, swaying from side to side as he made his way into the restaurant.
"Hello, welcome!"
A blonde waitress greeted him with a smile. "Sir, how many of you? Do you have a reservation?"
Michael Sheen looked past her into the restaurant and said, "I'm meeting someone. Has Matthew Horner arrived yet?"
The short walk from the car had already made him break into a sweat. He badly wanted to sit down—preferably on a nice soft cushion. That would feel much better.
The waitress gestured politely, "Mr. Matthew Horner is this way."
Michael followed behind, limping slightly. Many people inside the restaurant glanced his way, curious about his odd walking style.
"Damn it."
All those eyes on him made him uncomfortable. He muttered under his breath, "Why the hell didn't that idiot pick a quieter restaurant?"
"Hey, Mike!" Matthew waved at him. "Over here!"
Seeing that he could finally sit down and rest, Michael quickened his pace a bit. The waitress gave him a polite nod and turned to leave.
Matthew noticed Michael's strange walking and immediately figured he hadn't recovered. He stood up and asked, "What happened?"
Of course, no normal man would want others to know he'd been… assaulted.
Sure enough, Michael tried to look casual. "Nothing. I twisted my ankle getting out of the car."
"Then sit down quickly," Matthew said, pulling out a heavy wooden chair for him. "Don't just stand there."
Michael eyed the chair, and his eyelid twitched. The whole thing was solid hardwood—no cushion in sight.
"Don't just stand there," Matthew urged again. "Want me to get someone to take a look? I know a doctor nearby…"
"No, no, that's fine," Michael quickly refused. "It just hurts a little. It'll pass."
He saw that Matthew looked genuinely concerned, probably ready to keep asking questions, so he hurried over to the chair and forced himself to sit down. But the moment his butt touched the hard surface, the pain shot through him again—just as bad as when he was walking.
"What's wrong?" Matthew asked, looking worried.
Michael gritted his teeth and slowly lowered himself further, putting more weight on his backside. The sharp pain turned into a tearing sensation like the one from the night before. Instinctively, he bounced up a bit from the seat.
Matthew looked even more concerned. "Are you hurt somewhere else too? Want me to take you for a check-up?"
If Michael had wanted to go to a doctor, he wouldn't have waited till now. He quickly shook his head. "No, really, I'm fine."
To avoid suspicion, he forced himself to sit properly. But the pain wasn't something he could just ignore. By the time Matthew sat down beside him, sweat had already started forming on Michael's forehead again.
Just then, a server came over with the menu. Michael felt like a drowning man spotting a lifebuoy. He was about to ask for a soft cushion—
Before he could say anything, Matthew noticed how he kept shifting in his seat and asked, "Did you hurt your butt? Should I get you a cushion?"
"No, no!" Michael quickly denied, thinking of what happened last night. "My butt's perfectly fine!"
No way was he going to let Matthew even think along those lines. Some things you could do, but you absolutely couldn't say. It was just too embarrassing.
He quickly came up with an excuse. "This chair is a bit strange. I'm not used to it."
Matthew nodded seriously. "Yeah, you'll get used to it after a while."
Then he called the server over to order food.
Sitting on the hard wooden chair, only Michael knew how much pain he was in.
"What do you want to eat?" Matthew asked. Michael wasn't in the mood to think about food. He waved his hand and said, "I'm not familiar with Chinese food. You order for me."
"Alright then," Matthew said, not holding back.
He opened the menu and deliberately picked out spicy Sichuan dishes: stir-fried beef strips, boiled pork slices, mapo tofu…
"Do you speak Chinese?" he asked the waitress with black hair and eyes. When she nodded, he switched to fluent Mandarin and said, "My friend really likes spicy food. Make sure everything is super spicy—add lots of chilies, especially bird's eye chilies!"
The waitress looked a little surprised at how fluent his Chinese was, but she nodded and left.
On the other side, Michael wiped the sweat off his forehead with a napkin. Sitting on that terrible chair was absolute torture. Every second felt like hell. If he had known, he would've brought a cushion with him… no, he wouldn't have come at all!
Just then, he remembered why he came and said to Matthew, "I got a solid lead. Looks like I'm most likely getting the lead role in that music video."
"Really?" Matthew looked genuinely happy. "That's great!"
Michael was stunned. This wasn't the reaction he expected.
Matthew continued, "If that's true, congrats, Mike."
His tone was warm and sincere, just like a true friend's blessing.
Hearing that, all the lines Michael had prepared to brag suddenly stuck in his throat.
"You've finally made it," Matthew said, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Go for it—become a big star!"
"Ah…"
Michael let out a cry. It sounded like he was agreeing, but in truth, the pat had jolted his body, making his sore butt press harder against the chair. The pain was unbearable.
Matthew patted him again and said sincerely, "Honestly, you were a better fit for that last role than me, but it wasn't up to us, right? Now look—luck's on your side."
Michael bit his lip and just kept nodding.
"I'll talk to Helen Herman tomorrow," Matthew added. "If she's okay with it, I'll drop out of the audition."
"Mm…" Michael's face twisted, "Mm… mm…"
Seeing how genuine Matthew was, he suddenly felt a bit guilty. Was it too much to come here just to show off?
Just then, the food arrived. Matthew even ordered a bottle of strong Chinese liquor and poured them both a glass.
Michael looked at Matthew, slightly dazed. Does this guy really think we're friends?
"Matthew…" he wanted to say something, but Matthew lifted his glass and said cheerfully, "Mike, you were the first friend I made when I came to LA. Here's to our friendship and our futures—cheers!"
"Cheers!" Michael was a bit emotional. Despite the pain, he lifted his glass and clinked it with Matthew's. "To the future!"
He downed it in one gulp.
Matthew finished his too, then poured another for Michael.
"Eat up," he said warmly. Michael took a bite. The spiciness burned his mouth—and for some reason, it felt like his butt was on fire too.
"Cheers!" Matthew raised his glass again.
Michael clinked and downed it again.
After that, Michael didn't mention any of the nonsense he had planned. He just endured the heat in his mouth—and the burning pain elsewhere—and finished the meal with Matthew.
Though the food was too spicy and he didn't eat much, he did drink quite a bit of the strong liquor.
In fact, he even insisted on paying the bill first.
His thinking was simple: if this idiot Matthew still treated him like a friend, maybe he could still be useful. Like that close connection with Helen Herman…
After paying, Matthew asked, "Leaving together?"
"I'll sit for a while," Michael said. His backside was burning with pain, and he didn't want Matthew to notice anything. He casually made up an excuse, "I'm meeting someone else nearby this afternoon."
"Alright." Matthew nodded. "By the way, your injury…"
Even though he was in a lot of pain, Michael quickly waved it off. "I'm fine now. That short rest really helped."
"Okay then." Matthew waved goodbye. "See you, Mike."
"See you, Matt."
As soon as Matthew turned around and left, Michael couldn't hold it in any longer. His face twisted in pain, and he bounced off the chair like he was spring-loaded. His eyes instinctively looked behind him—but of course, he couldn't see anything.
"Ah!"
He stood up too fast. With those few hard pats Matthew had given him earlier, the wound on his backside got pulled again, and he couldn't stop the painful cry that came out.
He quickly covered his mouth.
Even so, people around him looked over curiously. A waitress even walked up and asked kindly, "Can I help you, sir?"
"I…" Michael started to say he was fine, but the pain flared up again—he wasn't even sure he could stand.
He quickly changed his tune. "Could you get me a cab and help me outside?"
"Of course," the waitress said politely.
She called the front desk for a cab, then helped Michael outside step by step.
Michael's face had gone pale from the pain. It felt like Martin Jackson had taken him again. With the waitress's help, he finally made it out of the restaurant and into a cab.
He swore to himself that he was going to lie face down on his bed and heal properly. He wasn't going out again until he fully recovered.
Near the restaurant, after watching Michael leave in the cab, Matthew stepped out of a nearby alley with a smile. All those acting classes had paid off—he could really feel the improvement.
At least, Michael hadn't noticed a thing.
From Michael's attitude, Matthew was now sure that Martin Jackson had promised him the lead role. That was a major reason he had accepted the invitation today.
If he wanted to win the second audition, he had to do more than just act well in the room.
He had already made plans last night. He pulled out his phone, took a business card from his wallet—the one given to him by Elena Boyar—and dialed the number printed on it.