Free Fall Apart by SE Culpepper Page A

silent. “So there is truth to the rumors?” I ask, and Pershall’s ready laugh rises once more.
    “ No king reigns forever,” he eventually answers, his eyes taking in the bar from floor to ceiling. We’ve occupied our booth for more than an hour and been interrupted five times for Pershall to sign autographs. “Stars fall. I could be that fresh perspective the world never knew it wanted until it arrived…”
    It remains to be seen if we, the public, are witnesses on the sidelines to the next big Hollywood coup.
     
    “Rubbish,” Alarik growled. “Zane is at home laughing his arse off over you, Pershall.” He thought of Zane’s performance in Sacrifice , a stunning film from start to finish that would certainly get the nod from the Hollywood Foreign Press, the Screen Actors Guild and The Academy. When compared to Pershall’s latest—a laughable attempt at film noir that only those truly committed to the actor’s good looks could stomach for more than five minutes—it was clear where the talent really lay.
    The article reminded him that he hadn’t seen Zane since the Entertainment Weekly photo shoot for Sacrifice —Alarik hadn’t been the photographer, but a scheduling fluke landed him in the studio a day before he was actually supposed to be there. He’d ended up having dinner with Zane and Mark. That was nearly six months ago.
    On the road to Ventura, he put in his earpiece and dialed Zane. He thought he was going to have to leave a message when on the fifth ring, the famous, throaty voice answered.
    “Are you kidding me? Is this phone call really happening?”
    Alarik smiled. “Tis I, your long lost friend. Note the emphasis.”
    “Oh, I noted it,” Zane answered softly, like he was trying to keep his voice down. The sound of a TV filtered over the phone from the background. “Where the hell are you?”
    “Truth?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’m in my very sensible compact rental car driving the lone road from Santa Barbara to Ventura. I am on the hunt.”
    “For work?”
    “On the contrary. For pleasure.”
    Zane let out a hum of interest. “Who do you know in Ventura?”
    “It’s rather about who I want to get to know in Ventura.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder to switch lanes. “I was at a friend’s wedding in Santa Barbara yesterday and a member of the wedding party caught my eye.”
    “It wasn’t the groom, was it?”
    “The Best Man.”
    “Nice,” Zane laughed. “Was this the wedding for your girlfriend from New York? The one you were living with when we met?”
    Alarik was impressed. “You remember everything, Whit. Yes, she married an All-American something or other. Quite nice. I can never remember what he does for a living, but I think it has to do with legal stuff when taking other people’s money and making it work for them. The Best Man—Damon, I shall call him—works with his family in Ventura.”
    “Does he know you’re planning a visit?”
    Alarik made a face because he knew Zane couldn’t see it and call him out. “No.”
    Zane chuckled and Alarik heard him telling someone, probably Mark, who was on the phone. “Well, well, well. This isn’t like you, Alarik. Last I recall; you had a waiting list.”
    “You know my rule,” Alarik said pointedly. “Never trust that they mean what they say when you’re behind the camera and they’re in front of it.” If anyone could understand what being used felt like, it would be Zane.
    “I know the rule, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a waiting list.”
    Alarik didn’t quite harrumph because harrumphing was something his uncle did. “I want to see him again. I’ll leave it at that.”
    Zane, considerate as ever, changed the subject. “If you’re going to be in the area, you should have dinner with us. Mark’s got the flu, but it looks like he’s making a recovery. Maybe once he’s on his feet?”
    “My schedule is pretty open for the next few weeks, so it might actually work.”
    “You can try