A.W.

Okay, here we go! Asher expected nothing less from Atticus. It’s equally as annoying as it is pointed, captures his eyes and pins them to every minute action. Granite would be softer in emotion than him, just as harsh when it comes to the way he’s holding his jaw, how the words hiss out. But he can’t show how the back of his neck feels as if it’s been yanked by the scruff of it. Liquid courage bottled up in an aluminum can and labeled as energy; even the half-empty variety is good enough to tip back and gulp to busy his tongue before he says something he’ll surely regret. Even when it’s down his throat, though, his mouth tingles either from the bubbles or the urge to spit. He looks at Atticus again, a quick flash, and the guesswork is gone.

“She's… the best that’s left,” he mumbles before his lips shift, a bite before releasing. “Katie can fix her to whatever you want. I’ll fix the attitude.” He holds his gaze, longer than expected before it drips to the popped open can for a moment of rest, like staring into a black hole, until he returns to be sucked in again. “She’ll be good. Once we have her on a leash, she’ll be perfect.” She’ll have to be.

katie. things are grim if they’re already reaching for transformations and ious. while the sorority girl turned emergency solution might be able to do something about the platinum blonde but she couldn’t change reputation. “she’ll be perfect.” the word has a bitter aftertaste, searching out the way to make it go done. of course she’ll be perfect if she’s going to be on his set.

he searches for an easy target, swinging fist in the dark, making mark on frustration that cannot be aired out here. because while his own research is revealing asher is right and the bid will have to go to bellamy— that doesn’t mean he had to say so. “what do you want with wright on set?”

They’ve been at this for hours, drilling away at the contracts, the odds, the strategies. Asher’s eyes draw up to the ticking clock in the drawing room. 1:23am. His hand grazes across his hair, combing it off his face. The sharp ring of ice clamoring has his attention dragged back, as tired of a movement as how he feels. At this point, anyone could be the lead if it meant he could just go home and sleep, only to wake back up a few hours later.

“She said no.” He almost delights in telling Atticus this. Half-exhaustion, half-masochism. The word no never meets a Winters like how it never used to meet a Welles. But that no of his is delivered by a man whose guts quickly remind him they’ve abandoned him. His position is lost before it’s found. His lips wet, thoughts drenched in his defense. He tried to lock her in. He did. Now, he has to fix it before he’s told to. “Forget her. She’s not committed enough.” Now the replacement.

“What about Bellamy?” he throws out. “She’ll do anything.”

no. his teeth grind, jaw setting tough against the news that’s being delivered. her funeral. the redirect isn’t smooth, glare flashing from the screen to asher, a moment of silence stretching out into two, tension formed by letting the next idea linger in space. his was offering a starring role, more than that, a film with a singular character. not a single other character in the script mattered. it was lydia. they needed the perfect fit. and his next option is jade bellamy. 

“she happens to get one good connection,” it wasn’t exactly a secret that her only good roles came from santiago’s pity, “and suddenly she’s worth this script— my script?” each word has a jagged edge, the displeasure evident. it doesn’t matter who’s caused it, it’s in the room with the two of them now. 

 “you’ll have to change her appearance. i won’t have a platinum blonde lead. i won’t have any of that behavior.” the attitude, the diva profile, anything that approached dramatics. the disappointment is palpable, “bellamy is the best you’ve got?”