It was the early hours of the morning when time began to shimmer, just as the sky started to lighten. Billy had ended up at Leonardo's house, while Scarlett remained by his side, her round cheeks flushed as she tried to keep the party going. The crowd had thinned, leaving only a select, haughty few who had turned it into a far more private and extravagant gathering. Leonardo had a strong appetite when it came to women, and with two of his friends—curiously, Tobey Maguire wasn't among them for some reason—he entertained nine models, two of whom were nearly naked.
–We have to go. –said Billy, smiling at the tipsy blonde. The alcohol had taken its toll on her, and Billy held her steady while her heels lay on the floor.
–Partying with you is kind of intense. –Scarlett muttered, recalling how everyone had seemed eager to celebrate by his side. He had bought champagne after champagne, practically inviting half the party. He danced with her all night, kissed her, laughed, teased—it was how each of them sought a moment to breathe. But the hallmark of it all was that every detail, no matter how small, lived in the madness of the night. She was drunk, leaning her chin softly against his shoulder, her arms draped over his chest, legs curled like a cradle.
A car waited for them outside, the driver slumped asleep in the front seat.
Billy knocked hard on the window, jolting the driver awake with a frightened start. He had spent the whole day doing the dirty work of being a moody chauffeur, and now, through the side entrance and with complete discretion, he drove them to the hotel. With a slight nod, he accepted a $100 bill and a wink from Billy as they passed through security, no cameras in sight. But one lens managed to snap a somewhat scandalous photo of Billy holding the blonde as they entered through the back door.
It had been a long night for Michael Ramirez, a Latino working for a drivers' agency in Los Angeles. His contract strictly forbade anything of this sort, but that week he'd been hired by Jerry to be Billy's full-time driver, 24/7, on call as needed.
He left the car in a garage across from the hotel and took a motorcycle home—that was another story.
The door clicked behind them. As Billy undressed and tried to slip into bed, a pair of bright green eyes looked up at him closely.
–You were awake and still made me carry you. –Billy said.
–My legs hurt, and I wanted you to carry me. –replied the blonde, tilting her chin up as her dress slid down, revealing her breasts and underwear.
–I heard we've got three hours of sleep. Come here, lie down. –whispered Scarlett, curling comfortably against his chest, skin to skin, both smiling.
–You're spoiled. –Billy whispered back as they fell asleep peacefully. And just five hours later, the paparazzi had already done their work—they were on the front pages, stirring up conversation. They were both under 21, but that didn't seem to matter. They were partying, and the rules felt different.
…
Steven Spielberg was one of the film's producers—one of the driving forces behind a type of script that was different, more youthful, and aligned with the tone they wanted. Unlike Michael Bay, who was more relaxed when it came to filming, Spielberg demanded excellence. With his hooked nose and hands-on approach, he focused on creating something commercially appealing rather than hard fiction, though not entirely dismissing the philosophical. And yet, they weren't ruling out including the kid.
–He'll attempt a soundtrack, and that's a good thing. –said Michael Bay, explaining that he could produce his score, ranging from brief piano ballads to rock. It would cost less than what the kid might charge otherwise.
–Then let him show us what he's made of. All arrangements for Nevada are finished and polished, and Detroit is ready, too. Now it's just a matter of waiting for your shoot schedule. –Spielberg replied.
The question was which song could work for a movie like this—something that would tie the entire plot together without compromising the truth behind a story worth telling. It was unlike what they'd originally imagined. The only real hope was that, perhaps, something brilliant could come from a singer with that kind of style. Steve Jablonsky had his place secured, but with one original song, and without inflating the budget, the change could be made seamlessly.
–But Steven, it's a great relationship for the company. Violent-shot films help us create that sense of connection when the movie's good. Now you just have to work your magic, and this partnership will be a big help. –Michael Bay responded, choosing his words carefully. Opportunities were rare—maybe that's why he kept up the favors? He didn't want the burden of responsibility, so he turned to his superior, a true talent at channeling people.
They moved on to adjust some cameras, meticulously. Extras began arriving—it was almost 10 a.m., still some time before filming began. But then, less than ten minutes later, Billy arrived with Scarlett. The young man wore sunglasses, his wet hair slicked back, giving him a bohemian look that made it hard to approach him. So hard that it seemed unreachable.
…
Someone handed him a newspaper. In it, both he and Scarlett appeared to come to some unspoken understanding. He shrugged.
–It doesn't matter. –he said, considering the possible fallout from the photo, especially now that he'd already convinced Avril to send some deliciously indecent pictures. Maybe they'd fight again. For now, he would use the movie as an excuse for love, a future encounter for other upcoming projects.
–Nothing matters less than a photo… when we're together, that kind of thing just happens. –Billy said again, catching Scarlett's inspired gaze. He took a step forward and headed to the makeup. A white suit and Puma shoes were waiting for him. Only a few more scenes left to shoot—one of them about how his bond with Jordan made it impossible not to go back for her. The crush between two people.
–We'll start filming in ten minutes. We're going to rehearse the long shot. –came the call from the production team, who were already deep in their tasks.
–That'll be all. –they said.
–No other choice. –Billy replied, staring at himself in the mirror. Ready in five minutes. Everything was in place. He adjusted his mood—he needed to be young, though he already acted like it. A rare, nostalgic vein slipped out of him.
...