Richard Lovell (POV)
The kid was smaller than I expected, but not small in presence. Blond hair brushed back, and those eyes – blue, restless, too knowing for someone who should've been worried about homework, not Hollywood.
I didn't waste time. "Rob Reiner thinks you've got something. I think so too. But let's be clear, Jack – talent gets you in the door. Staying in the room? That's strategy."
He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, not fidgeting, just… waiting. Testing me.
"So what's the strategy?" he asked.
"Longevity. Not chasing every headline, not burning out before you've even started. We're not talking one movie, we're talking twenty years of choice. I don't build clients for opening weekends, I build careers."
He nodded, almost like he'd heard this before. Then, "Okay, but what happens when I want to write something that doesn't sell? Or act in a movie that doesn't make money? Do you still play the long game then?"
Smart question. Too smart for twelve. I gave him the truth.
"The long game means you earn the right to take those risks. You do the roles that keep you visible, and in between, you disappear into the projects that matter to you. Relevance buys freedom. And freedom's the only real currency in this town."
He sat back, lips quirking like he was testing the words on his tongue. "Relevance buys freedom… I like that." He tilted his head. "So you'll keep me from turning into a cautionary tale?"
I smirked. "If you listen to me, yeah. If you don't, you'll learn the hard way."
That earned a grin. Wide, boyish, but with an edge of mischief. "All right then. You're hired."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "That's not how this works, Jack. I'm the one hiring you."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But if this is a long game, then you're stuck with me for a while. So… let's just say we're hiring each other."
For a beat, I studied him. Small kid, big presence. He didn't just want the part… He wanted the career, the control, the freedom.
Ambitious little shit. The kind who makes his parents both proud… And fucking horrified.
I leaned back, folding my arms. "Each other it is."
A beat of silence followed.
"So," He clasped his hands together and rubbed, "What's next on the agenda?"
I smiled.
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The bulb popped, white spilling over the kid's face.
From the side of the room, I crossed my arms and studied him. Blond hair, just the right amount of neat and wavy, that jawline already defined…
Rob was right. Spitting image of James Dean. Couple of rom-coms down the road, and we're looking at a sex symbol… Nah – let's not go there now.
I shook my head, slightly disgusted at where that train was headed. He's a pre-teen after all, years away from the age of consent.
Flash.
"Relax your shoulders, Jack," the photographer coaxed. The kid adjusted, rolled them back, and the next shot landed cleaner than most twenty-somethings could've pulled off.
I thought about Dean again, how the studios didn't know what to do with him until it was too late. I wasn't going to let history repeat itself.
This kid ain't from a dynasty or nothin', he's something far more impressive.
Self-made.
Flash.
[HEADSHOT]
The session wound down, the photographer lowering the camera. Jack hopped off the stool, tugged at his collar like it had been choking him, and walked over. "So… that's it?"
"That's it," I said. "Headshots open the door. Talent keeps it open."
He grinned faintly at that, then matched my stride as we headed for the exit. His voice came casual, but the curiosity was sharp. "So, Richard… who else do you represent? Like, anyone I'd know?"
I kept my tone light. "Plenty you'd know. Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, Meryl Streep. And a few you don't — not yet."
His eyes went wide for a good second, "Whoa! You represent them personally?!"
I almost paused at that. Damn it.
"Well… they're a pool of talent that my agency represents at large-"
"So not personally?" He shot back.
I gritted my teeth loud enough to hear them grind. "Not yet."
He broke out into a chuckle…
And that very moment, I came to a realisation.
There's absolutely nothing more taunting than a child laughing at you.
And seeing his split grin, I came to another realisation. "You knew, didn't you? How?"
He snorted lightly, "Hey! I resent that accusation!" I narrowed my eyes. "All right, geez! I didn't. Just figured an agent who had time to ferry around a newcomer kid to get headshots wouldn't exactly be busy." He tossed out like a fucking salad.
… He's smart, I'll give him that. But man, does he know how to push my buttons.
"So where to next, Loverboy?"
I lean against the car's hood, holding my hand over my eyes as I sigh deeply.
'Deep breaths, Richard. DEEP FUCKING BREATHS!'
"Don't call me that ever again." I shoot him a quick look, "And Rob wanted you to spend some time with your co-stars, get you all familiar and shit. That's your day by the way, you're gonna babysit 3 kids your age, deflate their egos a little while you're at it."
If anyone accused me of enjoying the look on his face… Then guilty as fuckin' charged.
Fuck it – I'm getting some powder after this. I more than deserve it for this.
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Jack Ellison (POV)
The room smelled faintly of coffee and dust, like an old community centre at the height of decay. The four of us had been herded inside by a harried assistant who promised "Mr Reiner will be right in" before vanishing. Which left us in a silence so thick it could've been bottled.
River sat slouched against the wall, twirling a yo-yo. Corey had claimed the couch, drumming his fingers on the armrest, and Jerry… well, Jerry was inspecting the carpet pattern, shuffling his eyes better than I do a deck of cards.
I clear my throat. Nobody – I repeat – not a single soul looked up. Fucking teens. My mom wanted to know the reasons why I didn't 'play' with the kids my age.
'Well guess what, Mom?! I got a list longer than your cookbook!'
"So," I started, already regretting it, "this is the part where one of us makes a hilarious joke to break the ice, right?"
Corey smirked, but didn't bite. River shrugged, yo-yo flashing. Jerry muttered something about being "fine just waiting."
Brilliant. Four boys cast as best friends on-screen, and in real life, we looked like we were stuck in detention together.
"Okay, fine," I said, pulling my satchel onto my lap. "How about this- let's cheat."
That at least got their attention. I rummaged inside and pulled out a thick paperback with a battered cover, 'Improvisation for the Theatre' by Viola Spolin.
River actually sat up a little. "That's… a drama book?"
"More like the drama book," I corrected, flipping it open theatrically. "Rob- that's Reiner, not your uncle Bob or whoever, said this is the bible. His words, not mine. Apparently, if we play the games in here, we'll stop acting like awkward strangers and start acting like…" I gestured around at us, "awkward best friends instead."
Corey chuckled. "You sound like my English teacher."
"Yeah, except your English teacher probably doesn't have stage directions," I shot back, wagging the book at him. "Look, we can sit here staring holes into the floor until Reiner shows up, or we can at least pretend to be actors."
Jerry finally looked up. "What kind of games?"
I flipped through quickly. "Let's see… Zip Zap Zop, Mirror Exercise, Gibberish Conversations. Basically, stuff that'll make us look stupid together. Which, conveniently, is kind of the point."
River cracked the faintest smile. "Stupid, I can do."
That was it. The ice was finally fucking melting. I grinned, hopping off my chair. "Good, 'cause you're up first. Everyone stand up. We're doing 'Zip Zap Zop.'"
Corey groaned but got to his feet anyway. Jerry shuffled after him. River pocketed the yo-yo, rolling his eyes harder than… whatever, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
And just like that, the room didn't feel so heavy anymore. And hopefully what took them weeks to achieve would be over in days… can't take the full credit though.
Rob apparently foresaw this very scenario, bless him. So he took me aside and handed me the book, making a rather valid request.
And so it fell upon me.
Well, at least things will go smoother from here on out.
… I wonder how my dad and 'Dicky Loverboy' are doing? Drinks at Musso and Frank's… I'm almost jealous.
Sigh. Bet they're talking about what a smart, mature boy I am. Oh! Handsome and charming too!
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Richard Lovett (POV)
The air was heavy with the aroma of grilled steaks and cigars, mingling with the faint sweetness of whiskey. The walls were panelled in deep mahogany, lined with framed black and white photos of prominent actors, directors, and writers from a bygone era. Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, Orson Welles, Monroe with DiMaggio, and many, many more who used to haunt these hallowed halls once upon a time on the regular.
Even now, I passed through tables where I recognised the clientele, which consisted of ageing studio execs reading Variety, hopeful actors rehearsing lines under their breath, and a few established faces snorting lines under their breath… Would've been tempted myself if I didn't have priorities at the moment.
Speaking of those, I finally reached the reserved booth, evidently a few minutes late, as I glanced over at the balding man in glasses looking over the menu.
"David!" I greeted, my face oozing enthusiasm in waves.
"Richard! Hey, you took your sweet time!" He met my outstretched hand, eyes glinting in the bouncing light.
I shook my head, "Hey now, that's not fair. You know how LA traffic is, just made my way from the other side of town now-"
"Ah, relax now, I get it, yeah? This town keeps you busy and all."
We sat across the table, as a waiter in a crisp white jacket approached.
"Hey, I'll have a martini with a little zing – and for my friend here…"
"Scotch on the rocks, neat." I raised an eyebrow at that.
"A man after my own heart!" I exclaimed, "Also… I got a little something just for us." I said, shuffling through the inside of my jacket before bringing out 2 cigars.
His eyes went wide as expected, "Davidoff… Dom Perignon." He whispered with reverence.
I nodded with pride, "Dominican. Would've got Cuban if not for the fucking embargo…" I shook my head. "Don't mind me saying David, but – fuck the commies!"
He nodded abruptly, eyes still stuck to the 2 beauties I had managed to swindle from Jerry in a game of craps, just as the drinks arrived.
We each palmed the glasses before bringing them up.
"To fucking the commies." He smirked.
Well-well-well… The apple did indeed fall far from the tree now.
"To Castro getting castrated!" We clinked before taking a well-deserved sip.
A second to swallow, and then, "Well David, you're a busy man like me, so I won't beat around the bush here. I wanna know about the kid, I met him – a delight to be sure!" I nearly scoffed. "But how's he at home, in school, and with people? See, the more I know about him, the better ways I can find to help him out, you get what I'm saying?"
"I do, absolutely. I want him to make it more than anyone in the world – I'm an open book here Richard, especially with a scotch in hand, so no hesitations tonight. Anything specific?"
I bobbed my head after taking another swig, "Yes, actually. I'll start with the basics, work my way up. Now – how's he in school? His grades up to scratch and all? Cause shooting will last for months, and then press junkets, interviews – it's gonna pile up sooner or later. Now, as per the law, the production will be obligated to hire necessary tutors for his duration on set, and he'll study for 3 hours every day there… But the shoot, the notes, the travelling- it takes a toll. Sooner or later, he'll be too tired to read the books and would rather crash on a bed instead. So what I'm asking is… You know him better than anyone. You think he'll be able to handle it? Will his grades be able to take the beating?"
He paused for a good few seconds, staring into his drink, like he was contemplating his life at large.
Then he downed it all in a single shot- Damn…
He licked his lips, cleared his throat and broke out into… a chuckle?
I waited… and waited.
He didn't stop for a minute. No-no, in fact, his chuckle evolved into an outright guffaw.
That very moment, I started revising my previous assumption… Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree.
"3 hours?" He was still chuckling. "Mr Lovett, with all due respect… Jack's never studied more than an hour a week his entire life."
… Is that his way of saying he's dogshit in academics? Wai- hold on, he's a bestselling author – he can't be that bad… Right?
I opened my mouth only to be cut off with a wave of his hand, "I can see where your mind's going and- let me stop you right there. He skipped 2 grades-" Was there something in my martini, or are things not making sense?! "The only reason he still goes to school is cause we tell him to, I'm pretty sure he can teach the classes he attends better than the 'buffoons' as he says – they've got there."
Oh… Oh, this is gonna be a long-long night.
… Thank god I got a gram of snow stuffed in my glove compartment.
Author's Note: This chapter was primarily to introduce his agent, who'll be a fairly recurring character in the fic. Richard Lovett, irl went on to become the president of CAA, the most influential talent agency in Hollywood, and currently he's the co-chairman.
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