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This is a work of
fiction, loosely based on the actor Russell Crowe.
This story is for
readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit sexual
situations ©2002/2003 by WILDBEARIES
TRUTH I was so damned lonely down in Baja filming the second O'Brian-based movie. I had Mark with me a lot of the time, and he basically kept me going, kept me from over-indulging in drink or women, and jollied me out of the black depression that seemed to dog me more and more as time went on since Reagan left. Two years now, and any attempts at relationships with other women had failed; not only failed, but failed in spectacular fashion. The press now nicknamed me "Unlucky Rusty" because I'd been dumped in several really creative ways. We won't go into those now - it's too fuckin' embarrassing. Even for me. Let's just say I apparently hadn't learned any lessons of value when it came to handling women and let it go at that. "Places!" the AD was yelling, as, with a loud shuffling of feet a group of forty or so blokes - looking very much like Napoleonic pirates rather than the British Naval sailors they were portraying, hit their marks. "Speed!" came the shout, followed shortly by the director's quieter command of, "Action!" I became Jack Aubrey, drew my sword, jumped up onto the gunwale of the HMS Surprise with the blade flashing in the sunlight, and delivered my lines with panache. Everyone else hit their lines right on the mark as well, and for once the director only re-did the take twice before declaring himself satisfied with it. "Satisfied?" Paul Bettany grumbled in his ultra-posh accent that sounds like very expensive whisky poured over very cold ice, "I'll show him 'satisfied' - he should bloody well be thanking God at how good that was." He made a face at me, fiddling with his script pages as the breeze off the ocean ruffled them. "Fucking lunatic." I grunted assent and together we wished for Peter Weir, although the first one, under his guiding hand, hadn't been a picnic either. This new guy saw Paul and me exchanging smiles and called out to us - me in particular - "If you're finished critiquing the last bits, Mister Crowe, would you condescend to join the rest of us for the next scene?" Paul winced and made a commiserating face. I just shrugged and walked over where I was supposed to be. "Ready at last, Mister Crowe?" I fixed the bloody idiot with a cool stare, drew myself up, became Aubrey and answered in words even he would have been proud of. The gist of them was that I fucking well was ready, prepared and in place, and he could fucking well get on with it. I stared down my nose at him with the wind whipping my shoulder-blade length yellow hair all over the place, and he must've thought I was going to come at him or something. He stepped back a pace, almost dropping his copy of the shooting script as he stumbled over a cable lying on the deck. "Bonden," I said in a calm, no-nonsense Jack voice, "catch hold of the lubber before he falls over the side and drowns himself." The actor portraying Barrett Bonden grabbed hold and drowning - at least for then - was avoided. Most everyone on the scene laughed, thinking I was joking. I wasn't. I'd as soon have pushed him off the fucking boat myself at that point. Instead, I smiled with fake sincerity and allowed everyone to think what they liked. "I'm dying here, dying. . . dying. . .Reagan. . ." The self-pity was coming more often lately, and almost destroyed my concentration completely by the end of that particular day. I went back to the hotel with Mark literally dragging me by one arm to make sure I went into my suite and didn't throw myself in front of the nearest speeding lorry out in front of Fox Studios. "I hate you," I informed myself in the bathroom mirror as I took off the Aubrey makeup. "I hate you right back," the mirror image informed me. "I'm dying here, dying. . . dying. . .Reagan. . ."
I missed him just as much as I had the day I got back to Texas two years earlier. I had thought I'd be well over him by this point in time, but I'd only been deluding myself. So, in typical fashion, I'd thrown myself into my work and kept myself so busy I didn't have time to think, much less moon over Russell. Reagan Wesley, bestselling author, produced a blockbuster romance/history novel and zinged it right into the top spot on all the bestseller lists. I was immediately off on a killer schedule of publicity events, book signings, book fairs, television talk shows and talks with people from Hollywood who began offering me millions of dollars for film rights. I refused and went back to Texas to rest before beginning my next book. All this time, Russell was with me every day. I woke expecting to find him beside me in bed, and I went to sleep at night wishing with almost painful intensity that he were there. "Just pick up the phone," I'd urge myself, "call him, ask if you can meet, see if things can be fixed," but then my calmer, more rationale, far more prideful self tamped those thoughts down firmly and I'd go through it all the following day. "I'm dying here," I said a lot of times. Dying of loneliness amongst the crowds. Dying on the vine. Dying for love. How very droll of me, the romance author! It was embarrassing beyond words.
Click the flowers for Chapter 20
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