“Better tell me what I want to know, ese, or my friends Smith and Wesson will start asking the questions.”

A sad, surprised breath caught in Luke’s throat. He reached out one hand and walked closer to the mirror, almost as if he could step through, back into a life of autographs and red carpets. A feeling of longing overwhelmed him—an acute, immersive déjà vu. It was in everything, from Colton’s wide, cowboy-like stance (which Luke had adopted without even thinking) to the odor of the silicone adhesive keeping his blond wig in place.

“Jesus, you look the part,” Kitty said.

“Yeah,” Luke said, using Colton’s gravelly, Texas-tinged voice.

He hadn’t stepped onto a TV or movie set for over three years. His last real acting gig was in the Hulu original Bleeding Out, in which he’d played a punch-drunk boxer. It was a supporting role, maybe a dozen lines, but the writing was strong and he was able to demonstrate some range. The audience never saw this, though, because his scenes were cut from the movie after everything with Lisa went down.

And sure, voice acting was still acting. He told himself this all the time. But it wasn’t the same—certainly not the dogshit he’d been churning out these past three years. For Luke, there was nothing like stepping onto a set in full costume and makeup, becoming so absorbed in the role that the lights and cameras disappeared.

He missed it. God, he missed it so much.

“You’re going to crush this,” he vowed to his reflection. This was the positive mantra he would recite before every performance. “You are the man. You are the fucking man.”

There were no cameras rolling, no director, but even so, it felt good to be back.

Luke rented a ’78 Camaro from Hooper’s Movie Cars on Hollywood Boulevard, partly because he didn’t think Colton Stone would ever drive a 2007 Dodge Caliber, but mainly because Johan had likely seen the crappy little car, with its distinctive dents and rust patches, parked in the driveway opposite Kitty’s apartment.

This performance had to be convincing, from top to bottom. One errant detail could condemn him—and Kitty—to the cutting room floor.

The three-hour rental set Luke back two hundred and eighty bones. Not cheap, but if it helped sell the illusion, it was money well spent. Besides, the Camaro was a blast to drive, with its worn leather interior and gator-like V-8. Luke couldn’t resist a moment to cruise, growling up and down the Strip with the windows down and the radio way too loud.