The rest of the day passed in a blur for Morthisal. He ventured out to the local store and returned with a case of cheap brew, which the inhabitants seemed to prefer over more expensive brands, and joined the others at the pool. The man who had summoned the paparazzi was nowhere to be seen. If the man knew what was good for him, he would leave the motel and move on.

  As Morthisal tried to keep up with the others' conversations, he could not help but think about all that had happened with Yvette today—his secret revealed to yet another, but she was taking it in stride. He had high hopes that she would accept him.

  He excused himself before the sun went down and returned to his little room. Morthisal propped his phone up and put on a playlist of cats getting into trouble. He always rooted for the feline's favor, particularly when it involved scaring children.

  He ate a light salad he had picked up at the store across the street. It came with a diced chicken breast, croutons, a splash of cheese, and dressing. It didn't seem like a lot of food, but he was happily full by the time he finished eating.

  Later, he decided to message Yvette. But what should he say? His thumb hovered over the keyboard before he typed a simple note, deleted it, and wrote something different. It didn't have the right ring and was far too long. The third take was short and straightforward. He sent: Thank you for giving me a chance today.

  A few minutes passed before his phone buzzed with her reply: Sweet dreams, Vince.

  He stared at the message for a long time. Morthisal set the phone aside and wondered once again if this woman had some kind of spell on him.

  Morthisal tried to sleep, but his mind drifted back to Seattle and the night they had spent in her condo. Then his mind raced with thoughts of their earlier conversation and what it might mean for his future.

  If Yvette rejected him, it would hurt, but on the bright side, he was now in Hollywood, and he was going to become a major star. The world would open to him.

  One obstacle remained—the man in the hat who had tried to shoot him. The individual, who was also from Mythralon, knew who Morthisal had once been. He'd paid Jackson Creed a thousand dollars to try and discover the man's location, but so far he had come up blank, explaining that he had very little to go on. Morthisal had asked him to keep trying. Jackson had messaged back, "It's your money."

  The next morning, Morthisal lay in bed, eyes dry and irritated thanks to the weather, and contemplated whether to get up for a walk or maybe attempt another run. His stomach flip-flopped, and the television mounted on the peeling wallpaper only received a handful of channels, so he had resorted to watching more cat videos on his phone. A black cat leaped off a refrigerator and landed squarely on a child's head. The little girl screamed while the cat desperately tried to hang on with its claws.

  "You're a devil, aren't you?" Morthisal smiled as the chaos unfolded.

  His phone rang at seven thirty AM. Marty's name flashed on the screen. Morthisal picked up the phone and answered. "Hello Mar-"

  "Vince! Good morning, buddy!" Marty shouted into the phone before Morthisal could get another word in. "Listen, we had to push back our call time until two this afternoon. Studio politics, you know how it is. But hey, how about we meet for coffee at eleven?"

  "That sounds acceptable," Morthisal replied.

  "Great! There's this place called Grounds for Divorce on Melrose. You'll love it. Grab an Uber and I'll see you there!"

  The line went dead before Morthisal could ask for directions.

  He showered and shaved, then stood before his meager wardrobe. His nice shirt and slacks from his corporate days hung neatly pressed. But on second thought, he reached for one of the Hawaiian shirts he had purchased after leaving the airport. The bright tropical pattern seemed more appropriate for Hollywood.

  Dark sunglasses completed the look. Morthisal had watched enough shows and movies to understand how people in this town presented themselves. He might be hiding out at the Hollywood Hacienda, but he had a recognizable face now and planned to be seen. After all, what good was fame if he wasn't being fawned over? However, while he was at the motel, he wished to keep as low a profile as possible while he could.

  The ride-share to Grounds for Divorce took thirty minutes through congested traffic. The coffee shop was situated in a corner building with floor-to-ceiling windows and an industrial aesthetic. A line of customers snaked out the door.

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  Marty spotted him immediately and approached with his arms spread wide.

  "Welcome to Hollywood!" Marty slapped him on the shoulder and launched into a rapid-fire conversation about meetings with studios, CGI budgets, and backend deals that meant nothing to Morthisal. The man took a breath and went on. "This place has the best coffee in the city," Marty explained as they joined the line. "It got its name because half the divorces in Hollywood get finalized at the tables here. Lawyers love meeting their clients in public spaces."

  The line moved at a glacial pace. Behind the counter, a young barista with purple hair and multiple facial piercings worked with deliberate slowness. She wore a torn band t-shirt and yawned as she mixed a drink in a thin paper cup.

  Ahead of them, a man stood wrapped in a scarf despite the eighty-degree weather. Sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low completed his disguise. Marty had leaned over and said, "See? Even Clooney likes this place."

  A tall woman, tanned to an interesting shade of aged leather, leaned in toward the barista. "Make it a half-caf, oat milk, sugar-free, extra foam, one-hundred-forty-degree flat white."

  At a nearby table, someone pitched a movie idea to their friend. "It's like Die Hard meets The Notebook, but in space! And get this. Get this. It has cybernetically enhanced cows! Wild, right?"

  An actress practiced her surprised face in a compact mirror while waiting for her order, cycling through various degrees of shock and delight.

  Writers hunched over laptops at every available table. Fingers flew across keyboards. "They're all writing the next big thing." Marty pointed out. “Been there too many times."

  "Did those scripts become the next big thing?"

  Marty ignored the question and pointed at the barista. "We're up."

  Morthisal studied the extensive menu board above the counter. Dozens of options with names like "The Breakup" and "Irreconcilable Differences" filled the space.

  "Yo. Spill it," the purple-haired barista said and smacked pink chewing gum around her lips and teeth.

  "I'll have a vanilla mocha with two extra pumps. I will also take an egg white sandwich with turkey bacon, although it sounds quite wretched."

  "Bro. It's the tits. You'll love it."

  Morthisal blinked.

  Marty leaned close and whispered the identities of several celebrities in line. Morthisal nodded politely but found himself more interested in observing the social dynamics than starstruck recognition.

  While they waited for their drinks to appear on the counter, a woman in an oversized flowing dress that trailed behind her like liquid fabric, paired with rose-colored sunglasses that covered half her face, breezed past him. She reached for the first coffee cup she saw.

  Morthisal had been reaching for the same cup.

  "Excuse me," he muttered. "That's rather rude. Do you see your name upon this cup? It says Vince." He pointed.

  The woman appeared to be an assistant fetching coffee for her boss. She turned and stared at him as if he had spoken in tongues. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose above her sunglasses.

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  Marty shoved his way around Morthisal and looked over the counter. Several unclaimed drinks sat around. No one had called out names. He turned a few around and found one. He laughed and jerked his thumb at Morthisal. "Sorry about that one, Serena. He just rolled into town. You know how it is."

  "Klien," she stated flatly. Serena rolled her eyes behind her rose-colored lenses, grabbed her coffee, and swept out of the shop with her dress flowing dramatically behind.

  "Jesus, Vince," Marty whispered as they claimed a table in the back. "That was Serena Winters. She won an Oscar last year. You can't just call out A-listers for basic human behavior."

  "Perhaps calling them out will make them less rude," Morthisal posited.

  "Hah! If it only worked like that. You're a breath of fresh air, Vince baby. Breath of fresh air, I tell ya."

  Around them, voices chattered about box office numbers, backend deals, and "points". Some of it made sense, and he was able to follow. Other terms sailed over his head.

  "Listen. We're shooting at Pinnacle Studios today," Marty explained while pulling two phones out of his pocket and somehow managing to maintain a conversation. "It's important you understand studio politics. Don't bother other productions. Don't gawk at the A-listers. And definitely don't call them rude, even if they are. If you see someone like Serena Winters acting all cool and aloof, leave 'em be. You might get there someday, Vince. Not today, but someday. You got the goods and you have power others only dream of."

  Morthisal nodded, then caught himself, and stuttered, "Power? What do you mean?"

  "Yvette." Marty mouthed. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. "You and I both know you two still have a thing going. I heard she flew into town and stayed for half a day." Marty nodded, eyelids knowingly lowered. "I know what you've been up to."

  "We are just friends." Morthisal cleared his throat and sipped his exceptionally sweet coffee. Speaking of power, he needed the sugar and caffeine to stay alert. He should have ordered another shot. While he contemplated these things, he pointedly ignored Marty's question.

  "Okay. Okay, I get it." Marty drew his finger across tightly closed lips. "I won't say a thing. Betty won't say a thing. You got it good, Vince. Hold onto that one at all costs."

  "As I said, she and I are just-"

  "Friends. Right. Got it." This time, Marty added a wink. "Anywho. We'll be using the New York Street backlot for some exterior shots," Marty continued, typing messages on one phone while talking. "It's already dressed to look like 1800s London. One of the guys from Pinnacle said we can use a few sets, but we gotta be careful with the camera angles. They don't show the same scenes in two movies released close together."

  "I see. What all is on the set-?"

  Marty answered a call. "Yeah? Yeah. Yeah…" He rolled his eyes at Morthisal. "Yeah. Yeah! … yeah? Yeah. Uhuh. Yeah. Yeah… yeah. Right. Yeah!" And clicked to hang up, and said, "Betty Mead says hello. Now, where were we? That's right. Going to work. Ready?"

  Before Morthisal could answer, Marty grabbed his arm and towed him out of the coffee shop before Morthisal had a chance to finish his disturbingly bland egg sandwich.