Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m not ready. But what choice do I have? I can’t stay home, lying on a couch and crying all day. On top of paying household bills, I have grain and hay to buy. Phoenix has hefty vet bills, and I’m already getting a cut on the costs. I have to do it for them. Sundance and Phoenix can’t get their second chance if I let grief consume me.

I feel like I’ll never be happy again, like I’ll never be able to move on from the fire and the guilt and start life again. I lift my head and look at my reflection. I look like Mom. I have her green eyes, her high cheekbones. My hair is a shade darker, but there is no mistaking I’m her daughter. I realize that I’ve lost weight since the accident, a result of not eating I’m sure. It makes my cheekbones more defined, making me look even more like Mom. I tuck my thick hair behind my ears and study the face looking back at me. She’s almost unrecognizable. Dark circles, uncovered by makeup, contrast with the vivid green surrounding my pupils. The ends of my hair are a bit ragged and in need of cutting, but nothing inside of me drives me to put effort into my appearance anymore. It’s just not worth it.

I close my eyes and swallow the thick lump in my throat. I have to do it for Mom, to continue her life’s work of making life better for others. You can’t save them all, she used to say. You won’t change the world, but you can change the world for one horse at a time.

And that is exactly what I’m going to do. No matter what, I’m not giving up. I’ll make it work somehow. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my own second chance.

Chapter 3

“I think it would be a great move,” my agent says, handing me a script.

I raise an eyebrow as I look it over. “You’re fucking joking, right?”

“I’m not fucking joking. Do you want to get typecast? You just finished the Batman remakes. You’ve got two more seasons of Shadowland. Don’t get me wrong, Aiden; you’re good playing the misunderstood hero. It’s time for a change before that’s all you can get. You’ll get old someday, and old actors don’t play superheroes,” he says back without missing a beat. After four years as my agent, Thomas doesn’t put up with my shit.

“I know.” I plow my hand through my hair. It’s down to my ears and annoys the fuck out of me. I keep it like that only for my character in Shadowland.

“Look.” Thomas takes off his glasses and leans forward, and I know he’s about to say something blunt. “You want to be a household name, right?”

“Of course,” I say back. “I am—”

“No,” he interrupts. “You’re well known with the action genre fans, but not with everyone. Not yet.”

I flick my eyes back to the script in my hands. “Go on.”

“This movie puts you in a whole new category.”

I can’t refute that. “But…” I start, and read the title, feeling something die inside of me. Is it my manhood? “It’s a chick flick. I mean, come on. I’ve never even heard of this guy,” I say as I tap the name of the author whose book is being adapted to the film.

Thomas shakes his head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. And I suggest you step into a bookstore. His books—and the film adaptations—do well. Read the script. I’m calling you in the morning, and you’ll tell me you want this so I can tell the director you’ll be there for the screen-test.”

I huff but curl the script in my hand. “Fine. But don’t hold your breath. This guy…this cowboy…isn’t me.”

“None of the characters you play are you,” Thomas says in a dry tone. Yep, he’s done with my shit. I can’t blame him, really. I got my start in acting right out of school and landed the leading role in a trashy musical in West End. It was poorly written and could have ruined my career, but I fucking loved it.

Being on stage, being under the spotlight, and being someone else…it’s everything I’ve ever wanted. For a few hours I can stop being Aiden Shepherd and be someone else. My real life dissipates into oblivion when I’m on stage. I become my character. I don’t have to be Aiden, don’t have to deal with whatever the hell I should be dealing with.

On a whim (okay, I was slightly drunk), I went to an open casting for a leading role in Shadowland, and holy fuck, I got a call back. Things moved from there. I got an agent, another call back, the role, moved from London to California, then got more roles. Over the course of four years, I went from not making enough to get by to more money than I knew what to do with.

Playing the villain-turned-hero in Shadowland has changed my life. There is no mistake about that. I live and breathe that show. Knowing that it will wrap up after this current season is terrifying. I haven’t admitted that to anyone, and I don’t ever plan to. I’m Aiden Shepherd. Young, talented, attractive…I shouldn’t have fears this early in my career.

I leave the café in sunny L.A. and drive to my house, thinking over Thomas’ words. Typecast. It was a four-letter word among actors. It wasn’t something I wanted to be. But fuck, I like dark, badass characters. I like the underdog coming through, against the odds, kicking ass and taking names.

The last four years passed so fast, sometimes I wonder if they were real. We filmed three seasons of Shadowland and I did the Batman movies. It kept me in the here and now and out of the past.

I can’t go back there. I can’t think about the shit that happened. I can’t. If I do…well, it isn’t fucking pretty.

I haven’t gone there in years. It’s been blocked out, locked away in some fucked-up vault in my mind. It’s a ticking time bomb, but hey, that’s a problem for anther day.

The next day, I leave the screen-test with a new role. I should be ecstatic, but I’m not. At all. I unlock the door to my L.A. house and step into the large foyer. It’s two stories tall, with a curved staircase leading up to the second level. The house is empty, and every single one of its eleven-thousand square feet jeers at me, reminding me how alone I am in this monstrous house. I’ve lived here for two and a half years, but it doesn’t feel like my house. Nothing in it fits me, really.

I paid someone to decorate it. There are rooms I never use, rooms I hardly even go in. My favorite part of the house is outside. The patio was made for parties. Actually, I need to have one. I trudge up the curved staircase, footsteps echoing with no one to hear them, and go into my room. I should spend the weekend sleeping and resting, since I’m leaving for that fucking cowboy movie on Monday.

I get out my phone, send a few quick messages, and go into the master bathroom. I have time for a few hours of sleep as long as I get some assistance. I break a Tramadol in half and swallow it dry. I take a quick shower then take a shot of vodka from the bottle I keep in the top drawer of my nightstand. I lay down, waiting for the drugs to take over and pull me into a dull sleep.

I wake up three hours later and still feel tired. The bedroom door is open, and I can hear people downstairs setting things up for the party. I roll over on my stomach and try to go back to sleep, but the alcohol is out of my system and my mind turns on me, reminding me of all the things I try so hard to forget.

I sigh and mentally debate what to do. There’s still enough time for more sleep, but I don’t want to take anything else and not have it wear off before the party starts. I need an hour or two of good, sober behavior before hells breaks loose. If I take the rest of the pain pill, I might be in a fog when my friends come over. I have Adderall, but I hate taking that shit. It makes me anxious as fuck.

I get up, knowing there is stuff I should be doing, like going over lines. Instead, I open my MacBook and scroll through comments on my Facebook fan page, replying to just enough to give me good fan interaction but not too many to appear needy. Basically, I give them something to make them want more.