Dreams of Stardom (Hollywood SI)

"Seriously?" Rihanna shot me an irritated look. "You can't even guess why a singer would want to go on tour?"

"But I'm not a real singer like you," I argued. Even to my own ears, it sounded weak.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because Rihanna's response was anything but calm. "If you're not a singer, then who is!? Your album is still number one on Billboard. Are they stupid for including a non-singer's album on their list?"

"No…?" I answered hesitantly. "Are you okay, love? Why are you so angry over something so trivial? Did you have a bad day?"

"I'm not angry!" she shouted before realizing her outburst. Taking a deep breath, she muttered, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I assured her, guiding her to the couch and pulling her onto my lap. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, per se," Rihanna said, her tone turning petulant. "I just came from a meeting with Jay-Z, and he said something that infuriated me. He told me you won't ever win a Grammy if you don't start acting like a singer—things like going on tour to promote your music."

I raised an eyebrow. "Be honest—do you really think I need to spread my music any further? The album has been number one since its debut last year. Not just in the US and the UK, but almost everywhere. Everyone's already heard it. Touring is for small bands or up-and-coming singers who need to build an audience—like bards used to do back in the day."

She gave me a flat look. "I'm not asking you to perform in some remote pub. Book the biggest arenas if you have to. And why settle for a small-town crowd when you could own the world?"

I narrowed my eyes slightly. "What's your agenda? You're starting to sound like a sleazy salesman trying to sell me on this world tour when I barely have time to breathe. I have two movies to shoot right now, and then I have to promote [Order of the Phoenix] and [Little Miss Sunshine] later this year. Next year, I'm already booked for the TV series I'm producing with my mother. I don't even have time for all these things, and now you want to add a world tour to the mix? Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do a tour until late next year."

"Then you won't win a Grammy," Rihanna said matter-of-factly.

"Then I won't win a Grammy," I said, unfazed. "Listen, Ri, out of all the awards, the Grammys are the worst. At least the Oscars and the Emmys recognize great performances. The Tonys are somewhere in the middle. But the Grammys? They give out awards to random unheard-of singers, just to seem relevant. They're like the Golden Globes, but even worse. I'm not doing a tour just to win a Grammy. If they give me one, great. If they don't…" I shrugged nonchalantly.

She kept staring at me with narrowed eyes while I held her gaze, cool and unbothered. After a few moments of an intense stare-off, Rihanna finally asked, "Have I ever asked you for anything, Troy?"

I scratched my chin thoughtfully, a grin creeping onto my face. "That one time on the beach when we were au naturel, you asked me to—"

"Be serious!" she interrupted, exasperated. "You know what I mean."

I chuckled. "Of course, you've never asked me for anything," I replied sincerely this time.

"Well, now I am," she continued. "I want you to dominate the next Grammy Awards—just like you did with the Oscars. Your music is good. Too good, in fact. Listeners and critics alike agree on that. All you need is a dedicated awards campaign. You already know how to run one from your Oscar wins. If we do this right, you could walk away with the most wins of the night."

Her request caught me off guard, but it wasn't unreasonable. She wasn't asking anything for herself, which was sweet in a way. Still, there was one thing I couldn't quite wrap my head around.

"Is this because of what Jay-Z said?"

"Yes," Rihanna admitted without hesitation. "I need to show him—and the whole world—what my man is capable of. Can you do this for me, Troy?"

I grinned. "I love this possessive side of yours, calling me your man." My voice dropped into something softer. "Since this is my girl's first request, how could I refuse? Consider it done. This season, you and I will rule the Grammys. Leave the rest to me. By hook or crook, I'll win that bloody award."

Her smile widened before she turned around in my lap completely, locking her lips with mine. The way her hands roamed across my body, the slow, deliberate movement of her hips against me—it was obvious what she wanted.

Without wasting a second, I stood up, effortlessly carrying her with me as I walked toward my bedroom. Her legs wrapped securely around my waist, and our lips barely parted the entire way.

(Break)

I sat across from a man who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Why am I even doing this?" he moaned. "I already hate my life. Believe me when I say this—I only ever drove that one time after drinking. And that was only because someone called and told me my house was on fire. I had to hurry."

I glanced around. "This house?"

"They meant this one, yeah," he admitted. "But it wasn't on fire. Turned out to be a prank by the neighbor's kid."

"Then why are you under house arrest?" I asked curiously. "If it was your first offense, they probably would've let you off with a warning."

His expression darkened as he continued. "In my rush to get here, I rammed into a guy on a motorcycle. The accident was bad. Thankfully, he survived—broke an arm and a leg, but that was it. I gave him a good chunk of my savings so he wouldn't sue me in civil court, but the DA pushed for criminal charges anyway. Said they wanted to set an example." He exhaled sharply. "That's why I got a year of house arrest."

I felt bad for him—I really did—but there was nothing I could do. He was only six months into his sentence.

"I'm guessing the money I'm offering was a good motivator for accepting my request," I joked.

"The only motivator," he said bluntly. "I don't really know you. I know of you, but not enough to fawn over you. That reminds me, are you sure you're British? Because you sound pretty American to me."

I chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment. The role I'm working on requires an American accent, so I've been practicing."

I gave him a once-over. He was balding, overweight, and looked older than he probably was. Six months of inactivity could do that to a person.

"I'm curious, though," I said. "You're home all day—don't you watch TV? I'm sure at least one of my films is on pretty regularly."

"I don't watch kids' movies," he said flatly.

"Ouch." I grinned. "You know, that's exactly why I chose you. Everyone else I reached out to was a fan to some degree. I want honest insight into what house arrest is like—something a fan wouldn't give me. So, go on."

He thought for a moment before saying, "I wish they'd sent me to prison instead."

I raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"

"Absolutely," he nodded. "At least there, I'd have someone to talk to. I live with my mom, and she's working triple shifts—at her age—just to make ends meet since I can't work anymore."

"So, what do you do to pass the time when you're alone?"

"Honestly?"

At my nod, he gave me an answer I wasn't expecting.

"I masturbate."

I blinked.

"Don't give me that judgmental look," he said flatly. "It's easy to stand where you are and look down on someone like me, but I've got nothing else to do. Never married, no kids. My girlfriend dumped me after this whole mess. I'm home alone all day, and I hate watching TV. What else am I supposed to do? At this point, I'm probably addicted to it."

Talking to this man was giving me secondhand depression.

I had no idea why I'd agreed to the production team's suggestion to speak with someone actually undergoing house arrest. The more I listened to him, the clearer it became—his situation was miserable. On the bright side, at least it gave me some valuable insight into my character. (Minus that last part, of course, since this was a PG-13 film.)

[Disturbia] was heavily inspired by Alfred Hitchcock's classic film, [Rear Window]. My character, Kale Brecht, is a teenager dealing with the guilt of his father's death—a car crash that happened while Kale was driving. Even a year later, the weight of it still lingers. When his teacher makes an insensitive comment, Kale snaps and punches him in the face.

The teacher presses charges, and Kale gets sentenced to three months of house arrest. At first, he tries to pass the time with random hobbies, but eventually, boredom sets in. That's when he starts spying on his neighbors through a pair of binoculars.

I needed inspiration for this first part of the movie, which covered about a quarter of the script. After that, the story shifts into full thriller mode—something I was really looking forward to shooting. This? Not so much.

"Well, uh… it was nice talking to you, man." I stood up and started to offer my hand—then hesitated. Remembering his little addiction, I pulled back at the last second. Yeah, no physical contact.

To cover my sudden change of mind, I reached into my pocket and pulled out an envelope, holding it delicately by the tips of my fingers.

"Consider this a token of appreciation."

He took the envelope and carefully opened it. As soon as he saw the check inside, his eyes widened.

"Whoa. I think you added an extra zero by mistake."

"I didn't," I said. "Tell your mom to take some time off. Spend some time with her."

With that, I turned to leave, but before stepping out the door, I glanced back.

"And for God's sake—go see a therapist. You need help."

(Break)

As I walked onto the Paramount studio lot, I felt a flicker of nerves. Stepping onto a new film set always came with a fresh set of challenges, especially when I didn't know anyone.

All my recent films had either been produced by Dad or me, so I was used to working with a familiar crew. [Little Miss Sunshine] had been an exception, but at least there, I knew Toni—and I wasn't exactly socializing much in the beginning due to my vow of silence. Plus, I wasn't the lead, so the pressure hadn't been nearly as intense.

Here, though? Different story. The weight of the film rested squarely on my shoulders. Sure, I was being paid accordingly—more than anyone else in the cast—but I doubted anyone would argue when my face was the one selling the movie.

Per my deal with Paramount, I was getting $5 million upfront plus 10% of the gross revenue. They'd also offered me a flat $20 million with no residuals, but I preferred the percentage deal with a lower fixed salary. It kept the budget from ballooning unnecessarily, and if, for some bizarre reason, the film flopped, I wouldn't be walking away with a paycheck equal to the entire production cost.

If I wanted to foster a long-term relationship with Paramount, I had to keep in mind their profitability as well. Initially, the film's budget had been set at $20 million, but after my involvement, it was bumped up to $25 million.

Let's hope I can justify that increase.

"Looking forward to this one?" Benji asked as he walked beside me.

"Not really," I admitted with a grin. "I don't think I had enough time to prepare for the role."

"You worry too much." He clapped me lightly on the back. "You always make your roles work somehow."

"That's mostly good direction," I pointed out. "Most of the directors I've worked with are masters of their craft. But this time… I'm not so sure. The director isn't exactly known for his exceptional skills."

"And Rian Johnson was a household name when you made [Brick]?" Benji countered. "Or Stephen Chbosky? You took risks there, and they paid off. The same thing will happen here—I'm sure of it."

That was different. I had known both of them from my future. D.J. Caruso? I had no idea who he was.

Thankfully, if he screwed up, I had a safety net—I had final cut approval.

I'd also suggested a few alternate scenes for the movie, which DreamWorks' dedicated team of writers was currently working on. Both versions—the original and my revisions—would be shot, and a test audience would decide which played better.

Before long, we arrived at the set—a very real-looking suburban house where my character was supposed to live under house arrest.

"So, you're finally here," a male voice called out.

The speaker was a man in his early to mid-thirties, slim, with a receding hairline. D.J. Caruso.

"I thought we'd have to start without you," he added, his tone light, but his words pointed.

We'd only met once before today, but it was clear he wasn't thrilled about me hijacking his film. He didn't show outright hostility, but I could tell. His words were sharp, yet the easy-going grin on his face would make anyone else doubt whether he was joking or not.

I knew he wasn't joking. But I also knew that no director would openly challenge me—not when the studios favored me over them.

"I'm five minutes late," I deadpanned.

"Of course, I'm just kidding," Caruso said, that fake smile still in place. "Why don't you go meet your fellow actors in the meantime?"

Not wanting to escalate things, I followed his suggestion.

On the way over, Benji leaned over and whispered, "Was it just me or were things really tense back there?"

"That's putting it lightly," I scoffed. "This was another reason I was dreading this shoot."

Neither of us spoke anything else as I reached where I was supposed to be. Two women stood nearby, engrossed in a lively discussion. I recognized both of them immediately—Carrie-Anne Moss and Viola Davis.

While the former became an international star thanks to [The Matrix], her career didn't soar to the heights it could have. Viola Davis, on the other hand, was a critically acclaimed actress, one of the best of the 21st century. Her recognition would come a little late in her career. That's why she was doing such a forgettable supporting role in this film. But once she got the recognition, everyone wanted her in every film they made.

"Hey ladies," I said upon reaching them. "Mind if I join you?"

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