Chapter Text
“Cut!”
The word echoed throughout the production lot for what seemed like the millionth time that day, groans of the various staff members not lingering far behind. It was one of the warmest days in recent Los Santos memory, leaving everyone sweaty, hot, and just plain exhausted – so of course, this would be the day when her co-star, Milton McIlroy, would choose to try and pull privileges from his Vinewood star status.
“Alright everyone, good work for the day. We'll see all of you first thing in the morning, bright and early – and I swear to Christ that if we have to delay filming because you can't act like adults, I'm gonna start docking someone's pay......and it AIN'T gonna be mine!”
Charlotte found herself rolling her eyes at the director's words. The guy was one of the skeesiest directors left in Los Santos, but her grandfather, the old school man that he was, swore his loyalty to the director and had hired him on to every job in the last ten years. It certainly didn't hurt that this project was already on it's last leg before it even got off of the ground; Directors weren't exactly tripping over each other, clamoring for a chance to claim this latest film.
“Sweetpea, why don't you come on over here for a minute?”, the director beckoned, leaving Charlotte wishing that a piece of the set would somehow collapse directly on top of him, crushing him and finally freeing the entire movie cast from dealing with his tyrannical methods any longer. 'It'd honestly be doing the entirety of the world a favor', she mused, chuckling under her breath.
“Look”, he began as soon as she was within earshot. “I get that you're Solomon's grandkid and that your Daddy is the one bankrolling this entire lot – congratu-fuck-lations. That won't earn you any favors on my set.”
Popping her jaw from side to side, Charlotte struggled to maintain her temper. Letting her temper run free, no matter how warranted, would not be the kind of public image she wanted to carry for the rest of her career – although, if she had her way, this wouldn't be her career at all. Her mother's mantra (“play nice, Charlie girl. You'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar") echoed through her head, forcing a stiff smile to appear on her face.
“You don't have to worry about me, Mr. Kent. I'll try and do better, I promise.”
The director's responding grin and muttered 'good girl' had her stomach turning, wondering if taking on this role was worth all of the stress and digusting comments.
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“Don't forget that I have a tennis lesson tonight, so I won't be home for dinner!”
“Oh, don't you worry! How in the hell could I even dare to forget about your left hand potentially going weak if you weren't constantly jerkin' your instructor off with it??”, Michael shouted back in Amanda's general direction, knowing well that she wasn't listening to a sentence that didn't include the offer of money or a new Prada handbag.
Things in the De Santa household had been less than idyllic since their therapist's latest attempt to get the couple to 'work things out'. Amanda pulled it together for a few weeks, long enough for Tracey to go off to college (where Michael could only assume she was getting herself into some kind of trouble that would require his credit card to save her) – but as soon as that front door slammed shut behind her, the snide comments and rude remarks started right back up again. Sighing to himself over the never-ending drama, he moved the phone back up to his ear, waiting for the shocked man on the other end of the line to begin speaking again.
“Yo, is that your wife again? I gotta be honest with you, man, I don't know what you see in her.”, Franklin spoke incredulously, well aware of the fact that he was toeing a line when discussing his friend's wife and her less-than-appropriate behavior. This was his friend and he wanted to be there for Michael; It's just that his distaste for the less-than-ideal home life was hard to contain after awhile.
In the recesses of his mind, Michael was well aware of the fact that, as her husband, he should stand up for Amanda, should defend her honor and dignity. After over ten years of the same bullshit, though, he just wasn't sure he had the fight left in him anymore. It wasn't as if it was a lie – Amanda changed sexual partners almost as often as most people changed their underwear, barely even bothering to hide it from plain sight anymore. The sexy stripper that he had convinced himself that he loved nearly 20 years ago had been replaced over time with a shrewd, harping, money-grubbing shell of a person who cared more about what others thought of her than what she thought of herself. The kids were the only things that had held the marriage together for so long, and now, even that was beginning to crumble.
“I don't know, man. Do yourself a favor, F – avoid getting married until you've already lost your will to live.”