We require only 87 additional Power Stone donors, only 5 more reviews, and 300 more collections and newly added Discord 90 more members to unlock the next bonus chapters.
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
Join my Patreon
GodofPleasure
(dot)com/GodofPleasure
****
The magazine had returned to newsstands earlier that year under feminist ownership and was deliberately trying to remain relevant to a younger generation of women while maintaining its political voice.
> Ms. Magazine: "Whatever precisely happened between Ben Affleck and Marvin Meyers at the Miramax celebration, the part of the story worth remembering is not the size of the men involved or how far one reportedly flew across a ballroom. It is that, according to several witnesses, Meyers stepped between Affleck and Charlize Theron when the situation became aggressive.
Hollywood has spent decades teaching women that their safety is somebody else's problem—until the cameras arrive, at which point their humiliation becomes entertainment. Meyers appears to have understood the simpler principle: when someone is being intimidated, you don't stand around calculating the public-relations consequences of helping her.
There is something almost absurd about having to praise a thirteen-year-old boy for understanding this. Yet perhaps we should. Marvin Meyers has already acquired a reputation for writing women as complicated human beings rather than decorative objects in his films. His intervention last night suggests that the principle may extend beyond his scripts.
And perhaps his mother, Linda Meyers, deserves a word as well. Whatever else one may think of the extraordinary circumstances surrounding her son's life, she appears to have raised a young man who understands that strength is not measured by how many people one can intimidate, but by whom one chooses to protect."
That particular passage caused its own little storm.
Radio hosts debated it. Columnists mocked it.
Women wrote letters defending it.
Some men accused Ms. of turning a celebrity fight into a political statement.
Others pointed out that the magazine had done exactly what it had always done—taken an incident involving a woman and asked what the incident revealed about the culture surrounding her.
And Linda Meyers suddenly found herself mentioned in articles she'd never expected to see.
"The Mother Behind Hollywood's Wonder Boy."
"What Did Linda Meyers Teach Her Son?"
"Raising Marvin: The Woman Behind the Phenomenon."
The family name had become part of the story.
Meanwhile, Hollywood had already moved on to the next question.
Not whether Marvin could fight. That had apparently been answered.
The question was why.
If the kid really had spent years learning martial arts simply because he refused to write about something he hadn't studied, then the incident revealed something far more interesting than a secret talent.
It meant Marvin wasn't pretending.
He was one of those obsessive people who wanted to understand things all the way down.
If he wrote about swords, he studied swords. If he wrote about martial arts, he studied movement.
If he wrote about music, he understood composition. And if he wrote women, apparently he listened to them.
That was the interpretation some people found most unsettling.
Because Hollywood could understand a gifted teenager. It could understand a rich teenager.
It could even understand a freakishly successful one.
What it didn't know what to do with was someone who seemed determined to become an expert at everything he touched.
By the end of the day, the fight had become another piece of the Marvin Meyers mythology.
The celebration had produced a box-office story. The confrontation had produced a legend.
And somewhere underneath all the headlines, Charlize Theron knew what most of the people talking about it didn't.
Morning light filled the Meyers breakfast room, spilling across the long table and catching on the silverware. Grant sat at the head of the table, morning papers and magazines spread around him in increasingly untidy piles. He'd gone through the Times, the trades, and finally the New York Post.
By the time he reached the photograph of Marvin standing beside the wreckage of a hotel ballroom, his coffee had gone cold.
His expression darkened. Finally, he slapped the Post onto the table hard enough to make the cups jump.
"Who the hell is this Ben Affleck?"
Marvin, seated several places down, barely looked up from his bacon and egg sandwich. "An actor."
"I know he's an actor." Grant jabbed a finger at the photograph. "He's bigger than you. What the hell was he thinking? And why are you on the front page looking like somebody drove him through a restaurant?"
Linda glanced over her newspaper from the other end of the table. "Grant, you're making the coffee jump."
"Good. Maybe it'll wake me up." Grant stared at his son. "Your mother and I get up this morning and find out our thirteen-year-old is throwing actors across ballrooms. You're not even going to explain?"
Marvin swallowed his bite of sandwich. "I didn't throw him across the ballroom."
Grant stopped. Linda slowly lowered her paper.
"That is the part you want to correct?" Grant asked.
"They made it sound worse than it was," Marvin said casually. "They left out the part where he tried it twice."
Grant rubbed his forehead. "Jesus. I'd prefer my son not become the guy Hollywood calls when somebody needs to be beaten up."
A faint smile tugged at Marvin's mouth. "I don't think that's going to happen."
Grant looked at the photograph again, the irritation fading into a quieter, sharper concern. "Did Charlize get hurt?"
Marvin's expression changed instantly. "No."
"Good." Grant's voice softened. "That was the first thing I wanted to know. I don't care what Affleck was doing. If he put his hands on women, he deserved what he got."
Linda looked at him. "That's a surprisingly uncomplicated opinion from you."
"I have complicated opinions about taxes. Not this."
That drew a small laugh from Marvin.
"Don't worry about it, Dad," Marvin replied, picking his sandwich back up. "He's just an arrogant, hot-headed young actor who drank too much of Harvey's free champagne. I already gave him a thorough life lesson, a mild concussion, and quite possibly permanent PTSD. It's handled. And then he blamed ghost possession."
Grant stared at him. Linda blinked. "He said what?"
"Possession," Marvin said, his mouth twitching.
"That's his defense?" Grant shook his head in disbelief. "That's not a defense. That's a career suicide note."
Linda, who had been listening with escalating worry, couldn't take it anymore. She abandoned her newspaper, crossed the kitchen, and gently but pulled Marvin's head into a suffocating embrace against her chest. "Oh, my poor, sweet little pumpkin! You swear you weren't hurt? Why on earth didn't you tell us what happened the second you came home last night?"
"It was late when I finally got back, Mom," Marvin said, his voice slightly muffled by her robe. "Even though I left the Miramax party early after the incident, I met up with Chris, and together we visited Creature Effects, Inc. out in the Valley. We needed to see the final touch-ups on the dragon skeleton practical models. We had a late dinner with the owner, Mark Rappaport. He's a pragmatic guy, and we had a productive conversation."
He smoothly extracted himself from his mother's iron grip, rolling his eyes with practiced exasperation. "And the party thing really wasn't a big deal. The other guy's the one who had to be dragged out to find an ice pack. Mom, we've talked about this. I'm not a kid anymore. You can't keep treating me like a fragile porcelain doll."
"I'm checking anyway," Linda insisted. She stepped back, her sharp eyes scanning him clinically. "Ribs?"
"Fine."
"Head?"
"Also fine."
"Hands?"
"Mom, I'm really okay."
Seeing him perfectly unharmed and glowing with health, her face finally softened. She let out a long, dramatic sigh, bringing a hand to her cheek. "Oh my God. My little Marvin has truly grown up. Look at those shoulders. He's not my little pumpkin anymore. My heart is breaking!"
Marvin took a sip of his orange juice, an amused smirk creeping onto his face. "That's so dramatic. Mom, you're a tenured film theory professor and a studio producer. Melodramatic acting is not really your strong suit."
"Oh, yeah? Is that so?" Linda challenged, her worry evaporating into playful, competitive banter. With a lightning-fast movement, she reached out and twisted Marvin's ear, a sly smile on her lips. "I personally think I'm a pretty damn good actress, kiddo. Especially when I'm starring in action movies."
"Ah! It hurts! Mom, why do you always resort to this?" Marvin squealed, acting out the role of the beleaguered son. In the safety of this room, all the imposing aura—completely vanished.
Grant stayed silent at the end of the table, safely hiding behind his coffee mug, fearful of inadvertently provoking his wife's wrath. He muttered softly under his breath, "What action movie? The way she twists ears, it's more like a horror film."
"What's wrong with this classic move?" Linda laughed brightly, releasing the pressure but keeping her fingers lightly on his earlobe. "It's highly effective! It works on both of you, father and son."
"It is terrifyingly effective," Marvin conceded dramatically, rubbing his ear. "My mother is infinitely wise and universally powerful, and I willingly submit to her reign. Please, spare me."
"Humph," Linda said, crossing her arms and looking down at him. "You may do all you still your mother's little pumpkin, or are you too big and tough for me now?"
Marvin looked up, his eyes softening with genuine affection. "Always."
"Do you want me to permanently stop rubbing your head or giving you hugs when you walk through the door?"
Marvin sighed, giving up the fight entirely, and leaned against her hip. "Well. You can rub my head and hug me as much as you want."
"Good boy!" Linda smiled triumphantly, kissing the top of his head. She released him, proud of her leverage.
Grant watched them for a moment, his expression softening entirely. He picked up the Post again, muttering, "Still don't like the part where my son is apparently better at throwing actors than most stuntmen."
Marvin smiled into his glass. "Maybe you should be proud."
"I'm working on it."
Linda laughed. "That's my boy. You're getting so big so fast."
"I'm thirteen."
"Exactly. Practically ancient."
Grant snorted.
Linda turned on him. "Don't encourage him."
"I didn't say anything."
"You made a noise."
"I breathed."
"You know what you did."
Grant wisely returned to his newspaper.
Marvin shook his head. "You two are impossible."
Linda leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "You're still my baby."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm running a studio."
"You can run ten studios."
"I've negotiated distribution deals."
"Wonderful."
"I own intellectual property."
"Very impressive."
"I've already beaten a grown man in a fight."
Linda smiled sweetly.
"And you're still my baby."
Marvin opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Grant looked over the top of his newspaper.
"She got you."
Marvin sighed. "Traitor."
Linda laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Come here."
"Again?"
"Yes."
"I was already hugged."
"And now you're being hugged again."
Marvin gave up and leaned against her.
For all the power he carried outside these walls, there was no point fighting this particular battle.
Linda kissed his hair again. "There. Much better."
Grant watched Linda fuss over Marvin for another moment before finally speaking. "Okay. All right. Enough."
Linda looked over. "Enough what?"
"I've watched you hug the kid three times."
"Four."
Grant stared at her. "You're counting?"
"Of course I'm counting."
Marvin laughed under his breath, safely extracting himself from his mother's arms.
Grant shook his head, his voice dropping an octave into his serious, protective register. "Jokes aside. Do you want me to make a few quiet phone calls? I can easily make sure the right people know what happened. Find someone to teach that Affleck a lasting lesson in manners. Make sure he never works in this town again."
Marvin picked up his fork. "No."
Grant raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"I already told his friend, Matt, that I'd let it go," Marvin said calmly. "We handled it exactly like men last night. He put his hands on me; I put him to sleep on the floor. The debt is paid. I don't want to break my word or look petty in the trades."
Grant took a slow, thoughtful sip of his black coffee. "All right. Your call. You earned the right."
He studied his son over the rim of his cup. A year ago, Grant would have stepped in before Marvin ever had the chance to deal with someone like Ben. Now, Marvin, looking visibly older and independent, had already made the decision, given his word, and moved on. It simultaneously relieved Grant, knowing his son could survive the wolves, and slightly disappointed him, knowing his son rarely needed his father's protection anymore.
Grant set his mug down and neatly folded the morning paper, his demeanor shifting into the sharp, calculating edge of a seasoned banker.
****
Join my Discord...
(Discord dot gg slash 2MfM9J7dBj)
Join my Patreon
GodofPleasure
(dot)com slash GodofPleasure