Call me, Brandon … where are you?
The thought hung around in her mind for a while. She wasn’t going to text him again. In Brandon’s world he could be in any of a hundred situations where he couldn’t be on his phone. In light of the canceled party, he might be having a more intimate celebration with the people at West Mark or maybe meeting with his agent and manager. He’d get back to her when he had time. She only wished she knew what was behind the canceled event. It was hard to see such big news about Brandon on the Internet before hearing it from him.
For a moment she had a worse thought: What if he was sick or he’d been in an accident? His people might’ve canceled the event and kept the truth hidden from the fans. She thought hard about the last time they’d talked and finally she checked her phone. The last call from him had been Wednesday night. He’d texted her Thursday morning but only once. Anxiety kicked a wave of adrenaline through her body.
But then she remembered his announcement. If he was going to broadcast his news live on his website tomorrow night, then he must be fine.
Still …
A flash of light and thunder boomed all around her, shaking the patio and the walls of the house. Bailey jumped and this time she hurried inside and shut the heavy glass door behind her. Inside, out of the storm, she felt even more aware of the heaviness in her heart. Only this time the hurt had nothing to do with her friend, Cody. It had to do with Brandon.
And what tomorrow night’s announcement would mean for both of them.
Twenty-One
FROM THE VANTAGE POINT OF THAT FRIDAY EVENING, THE CRASH in what had previously been Brandon’s rock-solid career started with a simple phone call earlier in the week.
A call from Luke Baxter.
Brandon had played the conversation over in his mind twenty times since then. Luke had sounded pleasant and upbeat, if a little concerned. “I know you’re busy, but I’m still waiting on that edited version.” He allowed a nervous chuckle. “Wasn’t the studio hoping to make an announcement this week?”
Brandon stood on the deck of his Malibu home where he had been praying about the importance of the coming days, and at Luke’s question he literally couldn’t respond for several seconds. His mind raced, trying to make sense of Luke’s words. Finally he leaned hard into the railing, his phone tight to his ear. “The edited version of what?” The question was all he could come up with.
Luke paused. “The West Mark contract.” This time the guy’s laugh made it clear he was at least a little worried about Brandon. “I gave you the red-lined copy months ago. You said they were going to make changes and let us see the edited version. The correct version.”
By then the blood was leaving Brandon’s face so quickly, the back deck seemed to sway beneath his feet. “Luke.” His strength rallied, and anger swirled up from deep inside him. “The studio execs presented me with that contract weeks ago. They said you approved it.”
Brandon would always remember how furious he was with himself for not following up and calling Luke, seeing if his attorney had really given his approval.
On the other end Luke was just as angry. “What? They told you I gave my approval? That’s completely wrong.” He released a burst of air. “Are they crazy? Lying about a lawyer’s okay on something this big?”
Brandon had searched his mind trying desperately to remember the wording from that meeting but he couldn’t be sure. “Maybe they didn’t say it that way.” He had never felt younger and more inexperienced. “It was something like, ‘Luke knows about the changes.’ I mean, I definitely had the impression you’d seen the revised contract and approved it.”
“Wow. Unbelievable.” His lawyer muttered the words under his breath, but he might as well have been standing in front of him. Brandon could see his disappointment that keenly. “If they said it like that — and they probably did — then they only mean I ordered the changes in the first place. So of course I know about them.”
Over the next hour Brandon faxed the new contract to Luke, who read it and immediately called back. “It’s better. You have more control than before. But they left clauses in that basically counteract anything they gave up. As is, I wouldn’t sign it.” Luke paused. “I can call the head of legal at West Mark and get it ironed out this afternoon.”
Like in several West Mark meetings, once more Brandon felt himself suffocating, like the walls of his world were truly closing in on him. The idea that Luke would have to call West Mark yet again to get the contract where it needed to be. And to think this was happening days before the announcement. Worse, he was about to trust these same people with his next five years. “Don’t call. I need to pray about all this.” Brandon didn’t mean to be short, but his thoughts were coming together as quickly as the waves crashing on the beach below.
Not until the call was over did another blow hit Brandon square in his gut. His team — his agent Sid Chandler and certainly Stephen Chase, his manager — must’ve known about the contract, the fact that Luke hadn’t actually signed off on the revised version. So they were a part of the duplicity as well.
Suddenly Brandon couldn’t think of a person in Los Angeles that he could trust. Not the studio or its legal staff or his own team. All of them stood to receive such great financial gain when he signed the contract that they’d stopped being loyal.
Or maybe they never were.
That reality stayed with Brandon, stirring up new thoughts and plans and possibilities and on Thursday he placed an emergency conference call to his team and the brass at West Mark. In a one-sided conversation that lasted only a few minutes, he canceled the celebration.
“Call it off … the whole thing’s too extreme.” Brandon still didn’t have his ultimate plan fully formed, so he kept his voice neutral. That way he had options about the rest of the week and the announcement he needed to make. “The contract is something private.” He paused. “So there’s no need for a red carpet or all the artists you’ve hired. Right?”
“Brandon …” Jack Randall made a sound that was more shock than quiet laughter. “We have the entertainers booked. It’s two days before the event. And what about the star you’re getting?”
“Ask everyone to take a rain check.” Brandon worked to sound respectful. “There’s bound to be another gala next month or next year, right?” He knew the business well enough to know that canceling an artist wasn’t always that simple. But West Mark ruled the movie world. Managers for the various pop acts would understand. Same with the people in charge of getting a star outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
“What does this say about the contract?” The fear in Randall’s voice was undeniable. “We’ve worked hard on this, Brandon. Don’t go crazy on us, now.”
“Right. And Luke Baxter’s on board?” Brandon resisted the urge to sound sarcastic. But this was one more chance for the studio or his team to come clean with the truth. “He’s seen the changes?”
Brandon’s team of Chase and Chandler remained silent. Tellingly so. And this time when Randall’s laugh rang through the conference call, he was clearly more nervous than shocked. “Brandon, you should know the answer there. Luke ordered the changes. Of course he’s familiar with them.”
A sick feeling twisted itself around Brandon’s stomach. They were working around the truth, just like Luke had warned him. “That’s what I thought.” This time the laugh was Brandon’s. “Anyway, the party’s off. Just wanted to let you know in case you had calls to make.”
The studio execs must’ve been on the phone making calls the moment Brandon hung up because by Friday morning the news was everywhere. Brandon Paul had canceled his own party. No gala, no red-carpet event, no epic celebration. It had occurred to him sometime after the conference call that if the entire nation knew basically what to expect of his announcement, then certainly the studio hadn’t kept silent about the details, the way they were supposed to from the beginning.
By Friday afternoon Brandon felt like little more than a puppet. He made his tea
m and the studio a ton of money as long as he did everything their way, as long as they could set the rules and break them at will. The West Mark deal would be lucrative and it could possibly build his career to a level no other actor had reached.
But at what cost?
Brandon wanted to walk along the beach and think, pray about the decision at hand and the announcement tomorrow. But on a Friday in late July the beaches would be packed. Paparazzi would follow him or show up within minutes and his quiet time of seeking God would become a circus.
Brandon walked out onto his back deck into the bright sunshine and crossed to the railing. For the first time he could understand how Bailey felt. Exactly how she felt. For all his money and for all the beachfront beauty around him, he was a prisoner in his own house.
He breathed in and tried to find peace in the situation, patience in it. But there was none. He thought again about Montana and how he wished Bailey could’ve come to the set at least once. They could’ve walked Main Street and shared coffee dates and grabbed pizza at Pete’s on the corner. And no one would’ve bothered them. Molly had private messaged him on Facebook the other day and told him she felt the same way. Like the serenity of that small Montana town was something that couldn’t be bought or found in LA, no matter how much power, money, and influence a person might have.
He smiled because Molly was dating a Christian guy now. Someone behind the scenes in the movie business. God was still drawing her close, and Brandon was grateful he’d been in the right place at the right time to make a difference. Those days remained part of how God continued to grow him, stretch him. He sighed and squinted out at the brilliance of the sunlight on the water. Like a million diamonds all promising fame and fortune and heaven on earth. But if he walked down the path behind his house and over the sand dune down the beach to the water, if he swam out to where the diamonds seemed to lay on the ocean’s surface, he knew what he would find.
Water. Nothing more.
The brilliant splash of diamonds across the sea was a mirage. Just like living a celebrity life in California. However it looked to the public, however glamorous it seemed and however envious millions of people might’ve been for the life Brandon lived, the truth was this: He couldn’t even leave his house.
Brandon held tight to the railing and thought about his last conversation with Bailey. She’d reminded him that whatever happened between the two of them, God had great plans for both of them. “If we don’t work out, if we don’t find a way … we have to leave this season still caring about each other. We can never be angry.”
Her words had sliced at him like so many knives. If they didn’t work out? Sure, she didn’t know about his asking her father for her hand. But was that really how she felt? That there was a possibility they might not find a way? Brandon reminded himself about the past week, the deceit and trickery, the manipulation for the sake of money and fame. The way he couldn’t go to the beach today no matter what. Like a light flipping on in the dark places of his heart, Brandon understood Bailey like never before.
Of course she wanted to live in Bloomington.
Something about the wind off the ocean and the sun on his face took Brandon back, back to the time when he first started acting. He had graduated high school early and moved to LA where one of his first auditions was for NTM Studios and a series they were putting together for teens. His place among Hollywood’s elite happened quickly, but that first year was tough. He was alone in LA and his relationship with his parents was utterly severed. Most nights he felt alone and unsure, not convinced of the sincerity of the people gushing over him. Often times he wished he could pick up the phone and call home. The way other young people did when they set out on their own.
Loneliness from those days drew him further into the past and as he looked out over the ocean he could see himself in his first apartment, see the very dark night when he had gone out with some of the cast from a movie that had been filming in LA at the time. One of the girls — an actress Brandon didn’t know — invited him through their managers. Brandon was thrilled. It was his first time partying with Tinseltown’s A-list. He’d never really drank, but that night he and a few girls finished off a couple bottles of champagne. The girl who invited him took him back to her house and when Brandon woke up he was in her bed.
He was seventeen.
The memory made him both disgusted and deeply sad for the childhood he’d lost out on. What happened next that day had haunted Brandon ever since. After the wild night he’d walked back in his apartment and found a bottle of pain pills in the cupboard. In case you have trouble sleeping, his producer at the time had written on them. Just keep them around.
Everything about that terrible time seemed more vivid now. Brandon hadn’t been able to shake the filthiness that consumed him. What if the girl had given him a disease? Or what if she got pregnant? Was this how things were in Hollywood? Partying and sleeping around like it was nothing more than a typical weekend?
He could feel the bottle of pills in his hand all over again, sense deeply the way the idea had come in a rush and consumed him. In that moment, nothing had felt real and he had no idea how to handle the fact that suddenly everyone wanted a piece of him. So why stick around? He could take half the pills and in minutes be done with missing his parents and finding his way in LA and trying to feel clean again.
He could see himself now, opening the bottle and pouring most of the contents into the palm of his hand. He had set the nearly empty bottle on the counter in his apartment and grabbed a glass of water. In that instant, voices had begun to scream at him and he couldn’t tell if they were real or not. Hurry up, you coward. Your father was right to get rid of you. Hurry! Get it over with! You’re filthy and you don’t matter to anyone, anyway.
Brandon had nodded then, believing every word.
Just do it! What’s the point in living? Take the easy way out.
The questions shouted at him and surrounded him, and slowly … slowly he had raised the handful of pills to his mouth.
And at that instant, less than a heartbeat from when Brandon would have ended it all, there came a knock at the door. Brandon froze and he remembered feeling the blood rush to his face. He set the water down and slipped the pills back into the bottle. Then he answered the door. It was a delivery guy with a basket of fruit and a card from his uncle. The one he’d lived with after he ran away from home, after his parents no longer wanted him.
He could see the words on the card as easily as if he were holding it in his hand again: Congratulations on your success, Brandon! Your life is just beginning!
That afternoon so long ago, Brandon had read the words over and over and over again, and in a flood of horror, the idea of killing himself suddenly felt like pure insanity. Like for a few minutes he’d fallen into some dark trance where he had briefly and fully lost control of his own mind. He had hurried to the sink, grabbed the bottle of pills, and washed them down the drain.
But then and a thousand times since when he thought about that moment, he felt certain about one thing: Someone, somewhere in that crucial moment in time had been praying for him. Probably not his parents — since they had basically disowned him. Most likely not his uncle, since the man and his family hadn’t come to know faith in Christ until this year.
Still, only a miracle could account for the way the knock on the door came only a second or two before he took the pills. And the message on the card seemed like divine intervention. His life was just beginning? When he was ready to down half a bottle of pain pills? Then and now Brandon was convinced.
Someone was praying.
And whoever in all the world had thought to pray for Brandon Paul that day, he could also credit them for praying for him through the next few years, through his dark days of partying and girls and one regretful decision after another. That person must’ve been storming heaven’s gates on his behalf, because God in all his mercy had done the one thing that had changed Brandon’s life forever.
He
had led him to Bailey Flanigan.
Brandon straightened and stretched, allowing the breeze to take with it memories of his past. Back on the day Brandon had talked about his darker days to Bailey at Lake Monroe he had stopped short from telling her this part. The fact that he had nearly killed himself. But that day she had said something to him that haunted him, especially now in light of his West Mark contract. She’d told him God had brought him to Bloomington to film Unlocked with her because of his soul, not his senses. She was trying to make the point that Brandon didn’t really want her, but her faith. The peace and love and joy that marked her life.
Back then he had to agree to some extent. When he first met Bailey, that’s what he needed. But now that he shared her faith, he couldn’t help but think of the rest of what she’d said that day. He closed his eyes, and the memory of her voice in that moment brushed soft against his heart.
“You’re a tremendously talented actor, Brandon. Can you imagine how this world could be changed if someone like you really lived for God?” She had been kind, as always. But her tone held the enormity of the possibilities. “There’d be no way to measure the number of people you could touch.”
Brandon had said that maybe that was a lot to ask of an actor in his early twenties. But at the same time he had asked Bailey to pray for him. That if God was calling him to do something big and extraordinary for him, then somehow that would be obvious. That God would show him.
For a long time Brandon thought about that, how he’d asked Bailey to pray and about the events of the past week. And suddenly — like a blind person receiving sight — Brandon could see what he hadn’t been able to see until now. The big and extraordinary thing was right in front of him, so close he could touch it. God was making it abundantly clear, just like he’d asked Bailey to pray about.