Metaville, p.1
Metaville, page 1
Metaville
Charlotte Brough
Copyright © 2024 Charlotte Brough
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9798322371700
To all the twenty-somethings who gave us totally unrealistic expectations of what a teenager should look like
& for my boys, with love always.
CHAPTER ONE
Mason
Sunday, September 5th
I've been a teenager for the last twelve years.
Don't get me wrong, it's been lucrative as hell. Still, as I gaze through the morning mist at the Victorian college building masquerading as Winslow Point High, I can't help wondering if it isn't time I start acting my age. Take on some more adult roles, as my sister suggests. No, not that kind of ‘adult’—get your mind out of the gutter—just something a little more appropriate for my twenty-four years. Something challenging that would give me the chance to push my boundaries, the way Shauna pushes hers.
If only.
I shouldn't have come back. Frankly, I'm surprised the whole show wasn't canned after Bobby, but I guess all the free publicity we got when he disappeared was more than enough to keep the network happy. No one argues with sky-high ratings, and the chances of my career surviving a legal battle to get out of my contract are questionable at best.
After one last drag on my cigarette, I scrunch it into the gravel beneath my boot and toss a couple of mints into my mouth, then stroll across the rain-speckled concrete toward the imposing old school. Someone calls for final checks, so I take my mark and shake myself out.
As I roll my shoulders back and forth, the new makeup artist appears. She scans my face for imperfections, taking care not to meet my eyes, then gets to work with barely a mumble. I can't remember her name, but 'gentle' seems to be a foreign concept to her. She dabs camouflage cream on my chin the way a kid might prod roadkill with a stick, each jab sending painful ripples through my sleep-deprived, hungover brain. I jerk my head away.
Chill. She's probably nervous.
“Sorry, I'm feeling a little delicate this morning,” I say in answer to her puzzled frown. “First day on set, huh?” I give what I hope is a reassuring smile and let her have my face again.
“Yeah.” She finishes dabbing and moves on to assaulting my nose with a powder brush.
Okay, then. Not a talker.
As I resign myself to being manhandled, my gaze catches on Callie, my co-star. Seated at the foot of the stone school steps, she holds her head high while another makeup artist touches up her eyeliner. Once perfected, she hops to her feet and adjusts her tight-fitting blue blouse. My character's paramour is looking extra lovely today, far lovelier than anyone has any right to at 6am on a drizzly Sunday morning in the Pacific Northwest.
It's not the first time I've felt a pang of jealousy toward my alter-ego.
The clapperboard snaps, the assistant director calls, “Action,” and I saunter toward Callie, standing at the foot of the stone school steps. I throw my arm around her and flash the smile that's kept me in teenage magazines' hottest hunks countdowns for the better part of a decade.
“There's my girl.” I move to brush my lips against her cheek, and as scripted, she turns her head away. “Tori? What's wrong?”
“It's my uncle.” Her face crumples. “They said it was a heart attack. He–he…”
I've never known anyone who can turn on the waterworks quite like Callie Montague. Tears cascade down her face in crystal rivers, her lips quiver and she trembles with a vulnerability that makes me want to wrap my arms around her and never let go. The girl couldn't ugly-cry if she tried. Even more upsetting is that, this time, she's not acting. Not completely. Tori Hope may have lost her uncle, but in the real world, we all lost a friend— the inimitable Bobby Palmer, the man who played him.
One of the most sought-after teen heartthrobs of the late nineties and early aughts, Bobby vanished five months ago while we were shooting the season one finale. No one has seen or heard from him since. At this point, he's presumed dead—drowned—and we're filming a tribute for the season two premiere.
The Point was supposed to be a fun project, a way to jolt my idling career back to life. And last season, it was. Now, the atmosphere is somber to the point of oppression. There's no goofing off. Everywhere you look, there are tears, and any smiles are tense, as though the very idea of happiness is disrespectful. Everyone wants this episode to be perfect for Bobby, yet no one seems to care that all of this is so not him. He would have wanted to leave the show in flames, go down in some epic plane crash or something, not slip away as a result of some crappy biology.
Hell, he wouldn't have wanted to die at all. Poor bastard.
When the director calls a break, I cross the parking lot to the catering van to grab a coffee. After checking no one's looking, I slip around the back to Irish it up with a generous drop from my hip flask. I raise the cup and mutter, “Here's to you, wherever you are.”
The coffee burns my lips, but I don't care. I gulp down as much as I can stand and rest my head against the back of the van, closing my eyes. If I can just get through today, everything will be fine. It's the first day back on set, and the first is always the hardest, right?
I retrieve the flask from my pocket, debating adding another splash. I know I shouldn't. One drink is hair of the dog, but any more than that...While I may have my reservations about returning, I don't want to get fired before we're even five minutes into the season opener.
“Something you wanna share with the class?”
I whirl around to find Callie. She flicks her golden hair over her shoulder and waggles her coffee cup at me. With a sly grin, I unscrew the flask and top her up.
“Ms. Montague, I confess, I'm surprised.”
She takes a long sip. “Yeah, well, all this…” she gestures back to where everyone else is milling around in front of the school. “It makes it real. I mean, I knew he was gone, but before we came back here, I could pretend he was just...somewhere else. Now we're here and he's not, and I'm not sure how to deal with that.” Her voice lowers on the last few words and she stares into her cup.
“Tell me about it.” Every day, I wake up wondering the same thing. Between the nightmares and the weather aggravating my titanium-reinforced forearm, my return to Vancouver Island has mostly been sponsored by the winning combination of caffeine and Valium.
And bourbon.
“I thought you might quit, the way you were talking in the summer.”
“Can't say I wasn't tempted.” I was offered several roles and, not going to lie, it felt great to be the Brookes twin that everyone wants for a change. But, a contract's a contract, and not only that, we all made a pact to stick out The Point, at least for one more season.
Callie's perfectly arched brows knit together as she turns her attention to the ground, and I wonder how long she contemplated leaving before resigning herself to her fate. I give her a playful nudge.
“Couldn't let this ship sink now, could we?”
“Mason! Callie!” The voice of showrunner Drew Chamberlain blares through a bullhorn, summoning us back to the set.
I sigh and hold out my hand to Callie. “Come. The Fuhrer awaits.”
She slips her hand into mine and it's all I can do to stop myself rubbing my thumb across her soft palm. Apparently, she takes her skincare endorsements just as seriously as she does everything else.
“What do you think he wants now?” she asks.
“My money's on the long-anticipated introduction of the zombie pirate-lepers.”
Still holding my hand, Callie laughs. “Shut up. No one is hoping for that.”
“I am! Who knows? This is The Point. Crazier things can and will happen.” After hearing some of the ideas for season two, I'm pretty sure Drew has the writers drop acid before their brainstorming sessions.
“What, stealing a plane to go ghost-hunting wasn't insane enough for you?”
“Guys, over here!” Drew catches sight of us as soon as we round the catering van. He beckons us over to where he's studying this morning's footage.
Callie drops my hand and tucks hers into her back pocket. “Hey, Drew, what's up?”
He frowns, pointing at the screen in front of him. “Something's missing here. I need you to—” He turns to Callie, but his gaze catches on something behind us. “All right, who the hell has been fucking with my set?” He glances around, raising his voice, then jabs an accusatory finger at the roof of the old school building. “What the—Jesus Christ!”
His eyes widen and all heads snap round to look. A couple of seconds pass as our vision adjusts in the bright sunlight burning through the haze, then the gasping and the screaming begin.
“Oh, my God!”
“Is that..?”
Hot liquid splashes up my jeans as Callie's coffee cup bounces off the ground beside me. I pull her in close, shielding her eyes and trying to absorb the shock with my body as tremors ripple through her. She sounds more like she's choking than sobbing, but I can't look at her. I can't tear my gaze from the roof.
A flag pole stands tall above the school entrance. Last time I looked, the stars and stripes hung there forlornl
And he's wearing Bobby's jacket.
Will
Sunday, September 5th
It's cold, it's wet, and I'm blind. I break the surface to hear yelling and my own frantic splashing, then I'm diving again and all sounds merge into one. My hands reach out, opening and closing, grabbing nothing. I'm so tired, I can't…There's a face. I swim toward it, but no matter how close I get, it's always just out of reach. Then something tickles my cheek, my hand shoots out and I grasp something solid. I've got him, this time I've actually got him. My eyes fly open—
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I spring across the leather sofa and press myself into the corner.
On his knees on the trailer floor in front of me, Tim McCafferty rips off the monster mask he's wearing.
“Best one yet!” he cries between howls of laughter. He holds up his phone, the video already playing as he hits 'post'.
I throw my shoe at him, narrowly missing his head when he doubles over laughing.
“You absolute wanker! What are you doing in here?”
He gets to his feet, takes a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to pull himself together, and starts laughing again. Once he's calmed down, he says, “Payback, bro. Five alarms, really?”
I shrug and move into a more comfortable position on the sofa. “Didn't want you to be late.”
The big Texan shakes his head, a mischievous grin stretching across his chiseled features. “I warned you not to mess with me. You know it's on now, right?”
I thought as much. It's too bad I didn't think about it before setting all those alarms on his phone. A couple of drinks last night had me reminiscing about the prank war we had going last year, and how much I'd missed the banter over the summer. What I didn't consider was, now that we're living together, I'll have to be on guard twenty-four seven.
Tim opens a cupboard, helps himself to a bag of crisps, and sits in my desk chair. “You twitch a lot in your sleep,” he observes.
“Probably because I can sense you watching me.” It's definitely nothing to do with the nightmares. Seeing Bobby's face every time I close my eyes doesn't bother me at all. I turn on the TV, grab my PlayStation controller and toss a spare one to Tim, but before we can resume our game, there's a squeak and the trailer door swings open. “Does anyone around here know how to knock?”
Maya LaShae steps inside and her sharp gaze settles on Tim's formidable frame. “You know you have a fitting right now?” she asks. “For the funeral?”
He glances at the time on his phone. “Shit. Yes, I do.” He scrambles up and out the door, leaving a trail of crisps behind him.
Maya watches him go, twirling her ebony hair around her finger. “Don't you just love him in a suit? All those muscles rippling under the tight fabric.” She shivers and sighs. “If only he was single.”
“I don't think I could date someone who spends more time in the gym than I do.” I scoot along the sofa to make room for her. “So, I heard about your break up.”
“You and the rest of the world.” She screws up her nose and takes a seat. “And no, I don't wanna talk about it. I can't believe I let that piece of shit walk all over me for so long.”
Me neither. But then I never understood why a girl like Maya, who takes no shit and gives zero fucks, would go for a cheating arsehole like James “PsyFer” Turner in the first place. I'd always assumed it was some publicity thing, but she genuinely seemed to love him. Meh, relationships. I don't exactly have a lot of experience in that area.
Maya scoots closer and rests her head on my shoulder. “Isn't it surreal, being back here?”
“You're asking the wrong guy. It's always been surreal to me.”
Maya may have spent the last ten years in the spotlight, and Mason's been acting practically since birth, but this Cornish surfer bum had barely even set foot on a film set before The Point. Every day since I walked into that audition has been like living in a dream.
“You know what I mean.”
I nod. Losing Bobby was like losing my father all over again. I was just a starstruck eighteen year-old when we met, but he greeted me like we were old friends. He had this way of making everyone feel at home, always fooling around and cracking the worst dad jokes. It’s so weird being here without him.
“I keep telling myself that as long as there's no body, there's still hope.” I wrap my arm around her, running my hand through her soft hair. I'm so used to playing with it on-camera that it's comforting, and I think she feels the same as she doesn't pull away. “Then I think about his family, every day wondering if he's still out there, and if he is, why’d he choose to abandon them like that?”
“He could have had a breakdown. Maybe after all those years, the pressure finally got to him. You know what he was like.”
Everyone knew what he was like. Bobby Palmer's battle with the booze was well-documented, and his benders were legendary. Occasionally, he’d vanish for an entire weekend, then reappear like nothing had happened. But, he always made it to work sober and on time, and he always gave it his all.
Because he wasn't due on set, two days went by before anyone realized he was missing. The last anyone saw of him, he was smashed and hanging around the marina where we film a lot of our scenes. The police investigation concluded that he must have fallen into the water and drowned, but no one can explain why he hasn't washed up anywhere yet.
“What if—”
Maya cuts me off with a loud sigh. “There's no 'what if', Will. Bobby is gone, and he's not coming back.”
I free my hand from her hair and slide back across the sofa. “How can you be so cold?”
She frowns. “I'm just being realistic. I'm sorry he's gone, but there's nothing I can do about it.”
Not now, anyway. I bite my tongue and get to my feet. I need to move, so I start pacing.
“Have you seen Mason this morning?” she asks. Her hazel eyes follow me across the floor.
“Yeah.”
“How was he?”
I shrug. “Hanging, but he seemed okay. Hard to tell.”
Maya sighs. “Should we be worried?”
“Nah, he'll be fine.” Hopefully.
My phone vibrates on my desk where it's charging. I stride over to snatch it up, and roll my eyes as I read the message. Speak of the devil. Mason. He's always taking the piss with random British phrases he's found online. This one reads: Trouble at t'mill. I'm pretty sure he still thinks Cornwall is part of Yorkshire, but at least he's stopped chucking tea bags at me anytime I say anything that makes me sound too English. You make one comment about Americans and their piss-poor excuse for tea...Before I have time to ask what he's on about, his next message arrives.
“What the...” I stop pacing and lift my gaze to meet Maya's.
“What is it?” she asks, sitting forward.
“There's a body on the school roof.” It feels like I'm reading a line from the show, so much so that I slip into my American accent. But this must be real. Mason wouldn't joke about something like that. Even he isn't that much of a tool.
Maya's eyes widen as she springs to her feet and grasps my hand. “Is it..?”
I shake my head, hitting the call button to dial Mason. Voicemail, for fuck's sake. I tug Maya toward the door. “Come on.”
No sooner do we step out onto the school car park than a heavy-set member of the security team appears. “Guys, we have a situation. Please go back to your trailers until further notice.”
“What's going on?” demands Maya.
“Sorry, that's all I know. Go inside and we'll update you ASAP.”
Tempting as it is to ignore him and dash over to the set, I throw up my hands and return to my trailer, Maya close behind.
“I know what you're thinking, but it can't be,” she says as I step into the bathroom and splash water on my face. “It's been months. There's no way it's him.”
She's right. It doesn't make any sense. But who else could it be?
CHAPTER TWO
Callie
Sunday, September 5th
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
It isn't Bobby.
It's not even a person. Not a real one, anyway. It's a mannequin, stolen from the props department and dressed up to freak everyone out. I know that. The police confirmed it.
