Chapter Text
Bellamy’s fucked up again, and he can hear Raven’s voice in the living room, a low, frustrated tone. Harper’s arguing with her sweet voice, talking Raven down, and though he can’t make out the words he knows what Harper is saying:
“Give him time. It’s okay. Calm down.”
Their argument is basically a tradition, as constant as the tide.
Harper sounds different today, though. Tired, resigned.
Sick of his bullshit.
They’re done with him, probably.
It’s shocking they lasted this long.
Raven barrels into his bedroom like a freight train, kicking the bed fiercely, a command:
“Get up. Put your clothes on. Two fucking minutes, Blake, or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”
She’s not your prototype of a typical Hollywood publicist, all cell phones, sunglasses, and Starbucks, instead she’s a tough young woman in a leather jacket who rides motorcycles and takes no shit from any of the talent under her thumb. She peppers her sentences with liberal “fucks” but despite her jaded exterior, she always remembers Harper’s birthday, and she sat with Bellamy for hours on the anniversary of his mom’s death.
Raven’s the best in the business, all heart, no bullshit, and Bellamy’s got no idea why she puts up with him.
He considers her almost a friend.
So he struggles into a pair of jeans and pulls himself into the kitchen, dark hair wild, ready for Raven to rip him a new one, even though he can’t quite remember why.
Harper’s on the couch with her laptop, typing quickly, shoulders up, clearly pissed. Raven’s pacing the length of the glass doors that face the beach. There’s a half dozen tabloid rags on the table next to the green “recovery” smoothie that Harper brings him every morning, and he thinks:
What, exactly, was I doing last night?
Raven turns to him, perfect chestnut ponytail swinging, and her face is in conflict; she’s furious, but there’s something sad in the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t sit next to him at the table, instead sweeps the rags towards him, stabs a finger at a picture he can’t absorb:
“How high were you, and on what? You just auditioned for what could be the movie of your career, you’re trying to be considered a serious actor, and then you go out and get obliterated and have a gay threesome in public and in front of the paparazzi? And AFTER you got into a fight with Justin fucking Bieber at Belle Fleur ?”
“That guy’s an asshole.”
Bellamy would be yelling, if his head didn’t hurt so much.
“His publicist chewed me out for an hour this morning. You’re not famous enough for this level of bullshit, Bellamy. You’re not established.”
She shoves a tabloid at him, and pulls up TMZ on her phone. The photos are up close. Close enough that he should have seen the reporters, and probably would have, if he hadn’t been fucked up ten ways to Sunday. Close enough that he is instantly recognizable, shirtless and skin to skin with a man pushed up against a wall, Bellamy’s fingers hooked around the other man’s belt, clearly fumbling to undo it, their faces only a scant inch apart. In the shadows another man is clearly part of the scene, Bellamy’s free fist curled up in his shirt. He barely remembers them, only the heat of bodies, a flash of green-blue eyes, the taste of nicotine.
Bellamy groans and lays his head on the table. Raven is still towering over him, Harper throwing them worried, furtive glances.
“We’ve had this conversation before. Your reputation is bigger than your career at this point. You’re not going to get jobs--no one’s going to want to chance it that you’ll be more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Raven, I’ve heard the speech.”
He wants to be mad at her, but only feels resigned. This is how it goes every time: he fucks up, she gives him The Speech, he promises to do better and he does, for a while, until the next fight, or the next designer drug, or the next girl with her skirt hiked up in a dirty bathroom.
She slams her hand down on the table, snarls at him:
“Well, fucking hear it again, Blake, and let it sink in this time! You’re going to lose what you have! You’re talented, but at this rate you’re going to turn into a has-been, drugged-out, Hollywood wastoid! Is that what you want for yourself? It’s not what I want for you!”
His head snaps up, he’s furious, but her face is so close to his and he sees tears threatening in her eyes. From behind him, Harper says gently,
“It’s just that we’re worried about you, Bellamy.”
“Not you, too,” he complains, dropping his head into his hands. “What’s the solution, Raven? I’m not going to fucking rehab, so don’t bring that up again.”
Raven thumps into the seat next to him, and tries to sound even when she tells him:
“Bellamy, Kane’s involved. He considers you a personal investment, and he’s very concerned about your career.”
He wishes he could sink through the floor. Raven taps the table, hesitating.
“But...he had an idea?”
Raven rarely uses uptalk, but there’s a lilt to her words. Her voice is much too unsure. He cracks an eye at her, tries to read her facial expression.
“Do you know his stepdaughter? Clarke Griffin?”
“I don’t tend to cross a ton of paths with Disney Princesses,” he mutters sourly, “but I do know exactly who she is.”
Clarke Griffin: former child star whose momager-type had a pill problem, stepdad in the business. Her mom’s incredibly public breakdown was the stuff of nightmares. Clarke’s starred in so many Disney shows and movies and teenybopper romcoms that he can’t keep them all straight, and she’s currently laying low to whispers that she wants to break out in an art film and is looking for the right one, and even more whispers that she probably can’t actually act at all, really, since Disney stars are all loud delivery and forced smiles. Good luck to her, in Bellamy’s opinion. It isn’t easy to parlay child stardom into something real.
“She has an image problem, too. She wants to be perceived as adult and mature, distanced from her Disney days. And you want to be perceived as someone who can take life seriously, who will jump headfirst into exactly the right sorts of projects, and is better than just another…” here Raven rolls her eyes, “...vapid Hollywood B-lister.”
Raven cannot be suggesting what he thinks she’s suggesting.
“So Kane’s idea is...?”
“Fake long term relationship. You’ll appear to loosen her up, she’ll find her first real love. You’ll appear to be rehabbed by the love of a good woman. You’ll run with a different crowd. You’ll look softer, she’ll look harder. You’ll part ways after a year, year and a half, it’ll be bittersweet and you’ll both appear to have a heartbreak to draw on for your auditions. It’ll be fucking great.”
Raven sketches her points in the air with a finger. Now that she’s gotten it out she seems much more sure of herself, which is infuriating.
“You’ve got to be shitting me. You want me to pretend to be in love with someone I don’t know for a year? I’m not doing it.”
“Oh, you’re fucking doing it,” Raven says, leaning closer, eyes narrowed. “It’s not a suggestion. And yes, you’re going to pretend . You’re an actor, for Christ’s sake.”
“Raven, I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with here--”
“A spoiled drug addict who’s ruining his life--”
“Clarke’s nice!” Harper calls from her spot on the couch, interrupting them before things get too ugly. “Not LA nice. Actually nice.”
They both turn to her. Bellamy’s mouth snaps shut, Raven asks curiously:
“You know her?”
“Monty does.” Harper’s longtime boyfriend, Monty Green, is a talented scriptwriter and director. Bellamy’s sure that once people start actually seeing Monty’s movies, he’s going to be incredibly sought-after, but he’s not there yet. “Uh, he was really interested in her for a part in one of his movies--he practically wrote it for her--but she couldn’t take it because of contract stuff. She still came out to the house and gave him tons of character notes, and then she stayed for pizza. She’s super sweet, but very up-front about her opinions.”
“Monty contacted Clarke fucking Griffin to be in one of his movies, and she responded?” Raven’s mouth is hanging wide open.
“They have a mutual friend--he set them up.” Harper turns her focus to Bellamy. “You’ll like her. You’ll end up friends. It won’t be horrible.”
Bellamy wonders wildly if perhaps he actually took such an extensive range and amount of drugs last night that he’s imagining this entire goddamn conversation, and even imagining his own words when he asks,
“When do I meet her?”
Raven bites back a grin:
“You’re expected at a cookout at Kane’s in…” she glances at her watch, “an hour and a half.”
“You had a lot of fucking faith in yourself that you could talk me around in time to get me there.” Bellamy shoves back from the table, “Get out, Raven. I need a shower.”
She puts a hand on his chest, and her eyes are soft but she is tough as steel when she reminds him:
“Don’t fuck this up, Bellamy. People are losing patience. With you, and your sister, too.”
Harper makes a small noise of alarm. Bellamy can’t blame her--Octavia’s become so terrifying she commands fear even when she’s not in the room.
“I’ve talked to you about her before. You need to reach out and regain some control of the situation. She got arrested again last night. Harper bailed her out at 3AM when no one could get ahold of you. So, I’d say you probably owe Harper an apology and a raise, and your sister a good talking-to. After you meet Clarke and make nice with Kane.” Raven’s half out the door as if she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on Bellamy’s chest. “Thanks for the assist, Harper.”