Chapter 4: 4. A Golden Ticket

Keith

Thank fuck for the private entrance of my Presidential suite at the hotel where I usually stay whenever I’m in L.A., which is more often than I’d like. Often enough to warrant buying a house here, but that’d be admitting this insane race is my life. Plus, I don’t want to blow money on pointless luxury, but in this case, it seems worth it, if only for the discreteness, silence, and ocean view. More so than usual right now, as I arrive, head pounding, drained, and feeling like a fucking spoiled celebrity. Guess that’s who I am these days, so perhaps I should embrace it. It’s not like I need to live on a shoestring budget. Not anymore.

The suite is spacious and beautifully appointed in Mediterranean style. Even if I don’t intend to use the fireplaces or the kitchen, the ambiance, the warm colors, and the fantastic bird’s-eye coastline view soothe my nettled brain. I plop down on the oversized curved couch that takes up a decent chunk of the living room and let the day swirl away.

The meetings with the production crew are exhausting but vital. The meetings with the network… well, those are exhausting and useless, though Ben would probably argue they’re also necessary. A necessary evil, maybe. I’m dying to learn what the network will think about possibly hiring a complete newbie. And we are going to hire a complete newbie if I have my way, which is still TBD. Sure, I invested my money into the show, but it’s only a fraction of the production costs, so the network gets the deciding vote. 

My cell vibrates in my pocket. I whip it out and groan at the name on the screen. Talk about necessary evils. I can’t put this off forever, though. At least afterward, I can get room service and fall into a coma. Holding fast to that idea, I pick up.

“Kolivan, hi.”

“Keith.” It’s always like this. My agent doesn’t do niceties, but I owe him a lot, so I grit my teeth, ignoring the flash of annoyance. 

“How’s the… project?” Okay, still not on board with my involvement in what he deems inane kid fantasies.

“It’s on track. We’re moving into callbacks and should come back to Canada for shooting as scheduled.”

“When you return, we should discuss the future direction of your career.” 

“When I get back, I’ll be busy shooting the show. And afterward, hopefully, we’ll get green-lit for more seasons.”

“Don’t get too attached, Keith. The streaming business is unstable.” 

“Yeah, you’d be thrilled if it failed, so I could focus on more lucrative stuff.” 

“Keith.” The sharp rebuke in Kolivan’s voice makes me wince. “I do not wish to see you fail. Especially considering your financial involvement.” 

“I can spare the money. James manages my stock portfolio like a rabid shark.” 

A good thing, too. Without him, I’d probably be just as poor as when Kolivan discovered me walking down the streets. Money management is not my strongest suit, but James, despite being the mousiest guy in existence, is fucking ruthless with investments, and he’s helped me build a solid safety net over the years.

“Yes, I’m aware. It’s not the money I’m worried about the most.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

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“Don’t play dumb. Your involvement with this type of show sends the wrong message.” 

“And what type of show is that?” I ask, deceptively calm. I’m familiar with Kolivan’s concerns. Of course, I am. They’ve been a major bone of contention between us since I was seventeen. 

“The type that connects you to the homosexual agenda. You know how this could damage your reputation. You’re not famous enough to be queer.”

“Charming. But you know that as far as the public knows, I’m on the straight and narrow. Hell, if I get any narrower, my clothes will fall off.”

“Don’t get snippy with me, Keith. I helped build your career from nothing.”

“And I’m fucking thankful, but you’re way off here. My Voltron character is straight. Akira has a freaking romantic plotline with princess Fala. Have you seen who plays her? You can’t get more hetero-wet dream than Allura Starlight. And much as you like to pretend gay people don’t exist, we do. I’m glad they’ll have representation on our show, and I’m even more glad the guy we consider for Ryou is actually gay.”

Dammit, that shouldn’t have slipped out, but I’m too riled right now. Kolivan has a way of pushing my buttons. While I’m grateful for what he did for me over the years, too much care can easily turn oppressive, as pleasant as too tight shoes. 

“Is that wise?” Kolivan’s simple question holds an ocean of judgment. And it’s not something I haven’t pondered myself, which makes me even angrier.

“We’re picking the candidates based on their abilities. There’s nothing more to it.”

Isn’t there, though? Not even a little? I’m not sure I want to answer that question, even in the privacy of my mind, where Shiro seems to have taken a permanent residence. 

“I only wish to ensure your success.”

Of-fucking-course. It’s always about the career with Kolivan. I’m his project, his greatest find. His golden ticket. Never mind that I’m also a person with feelings I’d like to have acknowledged one of these days, not just dismissed as an inconvenience on my way to stardom. Swallowing the acerbic retort costs me, but I bite it back, forcing a smile on my lips. My therapist says even the act of smiling releases endorphins into the bloodstream, making a person feel better. Well, I guess I’m defective because all I feel is wound tight and ready to snap. Maybe because my smile is more of a sneer, but who knows?

“If you want me to be successful, let me do my fucking job, okay? Believe that after ten years in the business, I might have a clue about what I’m doing.”

“Very well, Keith. Remember what’s at stake.”

The line goes deaf. Sure, why bother with a goodbye? A cook wouldn’t say goodbye to his pans. That’s all I am to Kolivan. A tool. To be fair, though, he got me out of foster care and provided for me much better than the system ever could. Ensured I wasn’t abused or taken advantage of, either physically or financially. There’s a lot to be thankful for, and yet I long for a simple “attaboy” or the option to bring a boyfriend home to family dinner. Fucking pathetic is what I am.

Well, no point in crying over what’s never going to happen, not in this lifetime. Torn between the desire to wallow in self-pity and the need to conquer the mounting pile of tasks ahead, I choose neither. Instead, I find the file with Shiro’s audition on my phone and press play, for a moment allowing myself to fantasize about a world where I wasn’t such a coward.

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