STS Ch-61

“So, how is it?” the man asked with a wide grin as he slid into the passenger seat while I eased the car into my driveway.

“It’s great,” I said honestly, turning off the engine. “It glides like butter melting in a pan. But if I’m completely honest, it can’t beat my 911 Turbo.”

I stepped out of the red car and shut the door gently, almost reverently. Even if it was the lesser variant, it needed to be treated with care. A few feet away, parked neatly in the driveway, stood my silver Porsche 911 Turbo, the one I’d bought with my own money.

I walked over and ran a hand across its smooth hood.

“And that’s exactly why we want you as the face of our brand,” the man said happily as he joined me. “Earlier, Peter wanted you to promote just the 928. But after getting to know how much you love the 911 Turbo, we decided to expand the deal to include all our cars.”

I inclined my head in gratitude, though inside I was smiling for a completely different reason.

This had been one of my finer ideas after coming back in time.

(Flashback)

“You want me to do what?” Samuel Rivers raised an eyebrow in disbelief, leaning back in his chair. “Porsche will laugh at me if I even hint at the idea of a paid collaboration.”

I shrugged and leaned forward. “Maybe. But what’s the harm, besides your reputation among people who don’t even know you? And just imagine, if this deal works out, you won’t just get a significant portion of your revenue back. People at the top of the food chain will respect you for pulling this off. Especially Frank.”

Samuel fell silent, tapping a pen against the desk as he mulled it over. The ticking wall clock behind me suddenly sounded louder than usual. Finally, he nodded slowly.

“You’re right. What’s the harm? And I don’t really care about my reputation with strangers that much to begin with.”

I nodded seriously. “Tell them that if they don’t agree, we’ll go to Mercedes, BMW, Audi, or even Ford. Any brand that would let us promote their car in the movie for a price.”

“But didn’t you say Porsche is your favorite car?”

“It is,” I admitted without hesitation. “But I’ll always think of the film first, not my personal preferences. So if I have to drown a BMW for this, I will.”

After laying out the endorsement idea, I’d honestly forgotten about it.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. I just wanted the film to generate as much revenue as possible, because the more it earned, the higher my own earnings would be. That was the deal I’d signed with Columbia. It didn’t specify just box office revenue. It covered everything. And since product placement deals weren’t exactly common in Hollywood yet, no one had bothered to exclude that revenue from the pool they’d now have to share with me.

Then one fine day, Samuel called.

“The Porsche people want to meet you. Face to face. Before they agree to the deal.”

“Why?” I asked, cutting straight to the point. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

“You wrote the damn thing,” he snapped. “And you’ll be the face of the movie. Of course they want to meet you.”

I couldn’t argue with that, so I agreed.

I was running a little late that day. Traffic had been brutal, and I was half jogging by the time I exited the car. So, of course, I bumped straight into a man in a suit.

Since I was a movie star and a teen heartthrob at that, I had to look effortlessly cool. So I’d skipped the formal suit and gone with a fitted T-shirt, jeans, and a leather jacket instead. Casual. Confident. Calculated.

Unfortunately, that confidence lasted exactly until I collided with him.

“Excuse me!” the man snapped irritably. “Look where you’re go…”

He stopped mid sentence when he properly looked at me. His eyes narrowed slightly in recognition.

“You might be a movie star, but that gives you no right to walk without seeing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’ve got a huge meeting with the CEO, and I was running late for it.”

He studied me for a second, then gave a short nod. His gaze shifted past me to the silver Porsche 911 Turbo parked behind us, gleaming under the sunlight.

“Is that car just to impress the CEO?” he asked casually.

“I don’t care about his opinion,” I replied dismissively. “I drive that car because it’s a great car. The moment I had some money, that was the first major purchase I made, and I haven’t regretted it for a second. If someone asked me my opinion, I’d say buy it without thinking if you can afford it. When I’m driving at night, or even during the day, nothing beats that beast. I just love it.”

The man’s irritated expression softened into something else. Pride.

“I agree with you,” he said as we walked through the expansive lobby of the Volkswagen headquarters. “I love that car as well.”

We stepped into the same lift. The doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing us inside the quiet metal box. It was just the two of us, so I offered him a handshake. “Noah.”

“I know that, of course,” he said with a smile as he shook my hand firmly. “Peter.”

“So, Peter,” I said conversationally, leaning back against the wall, “how’s the CEO? Is he an asshole like most rich top managers are?”

Peter burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the steel walls.

“How did you know?” he asked between chuckles. “Have you met Schutz before?”

I shook my head. “I’ve met rich CEOs before. I know how they work.”

We made some more small talk as the elevator climbed floor after floor. When it finally dinged, I stepped out, only to realize Peter was stepping out with me.

We were getting off on the same floor.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I said, shaking his hand again before heading toward the waiting area. Samuel was already there, pacing like an anxious father outside an exam hall.

“Where have you been?” he hissed the moment he saw me. “Do you know how late you are? The CEO will absolutely…”

“Oh, it’s fine,” a familiar male voice interrupted smoothly. “Noah and I just had an amazing talk about how much he loves our cars.”

I turned around slowly.

Peter stood a few feet behind us, wearing that same wide grin. Then he extended his hand toward me again.

“Peter Schutz. The asshole CEO of Volkswagen USA.”

I accepted the handshake, trying not to laugh. “That’s true. You are an asshole for not telling me who you were.”

He laughed freely, the sound filling the corridor, before giving my back a friendly pat.

“And miss out on such honest feedback from an enthusiast? No chance. Come on, let’s talk more about this film of yours. I’ve never heard of something like it, and I’m very eager to see how we can incorporate our car into the movie.”

I noticed something immediately. He didn’t say if. He said how.

(Flashback End)

That meeting with Peter Schutz went amazingly well.

Despite popular opinion, he was a great guy. More importantly, he was a genuine car enthusiast. Volkswagen USA had multiple brands under it, including Volkswagen, Audi, and Porsche, but Peter loved the 911 Turbo the most. Just like me.

And it was that shared love for the car that led him to make an offer I hadn’t seen coming.

“I want you to promote Porsche,” he’d said, his tone turning serious as we sat across from each other in the sleek conference room overlooking the city.

“If you give favorable terms to Samuel, I will,” I replied cautiously.

He shook his head. “I’m not talking about the film deal. I’m talking about afterward. I want you to be the brand ambassador of Porsche as Noah, not as a character in a movie. The way you passionately talked about the car, you convinced me it’s the greatest car in the world. Now imagine what you could do to viewers at home.”

I leaned back slightly. “What exactly would I be expected to do?”

“You’ll appear in ads, both print and TV, and attend a few events. There are other terms too, like not driving any other car as long as our partnership continues. But given how much you love the 911, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

I’d been more than a little stunned.

Associating with a major luxury brand like Porsche would elevate my profile massively. People would start seeing me differently. Not just as the guy from cheap, borderline softcore films, but as a legitimate celebrity trusted to represent a global brand.

So of course I’d said yes.

Not immediately. I wasn’t that reckless.

I discussed everything with Michael Thorpe, my lawyer, who negotiated the contract on my behalf. He managed to lock in a staggering half a million dollars per year. After that period, they’d evaluate whether my presence had a positive or negative impact on sales before deciding on an extension.

One of the perks was that Porsche would always provide me with a car of my choice.

Since I already owned a 911 Turbo, I chose the 928 instead, its more practical cousin. Coincidentally, it was also the car that would feature in [Risky Business].

And that’s how I ended up shaking hands with a Porsche executive who personally delivered the brand new car to my beachfront house.

After a few final pleasantries, he left, and I stood there for a moment, staring at the 928 shining in my driveway beside the 911 Turbo.

Two Porsches.

Not bad for someone who was not even 20 yet.

The moment I stepped inside the house, the relaxed mood evaporated.

“You’re late,” Michelle said sharply.

She stood in the living room with her arms crossed, a script tucked under one elbow. The large windows behind her framed the rolling waves outside, but there was nothing calm about her expression.

“If you want to nail this role, we don’t have enough time to waste. Let’s get going. Chop chop.”

Since we needed extended prep time for the role, I’d asked her to move into one of the spare bedrooms until the shoot began.

A decision I was already regretting.

I dropped my keys onto the console table and sighed in resignation.

“Yes, ma’am.”

(Break)

It was a little awkward when I got on set that first day of shooting.

The suburban house chosen for the shoot was only a ten-minute drive from my place, which was perfect in theory. In reality, each of those ten minutes was spent dreading the fact that I’d have to take instructions from Paul Brickman, the same man I’d practically goaded into quitting the last time we’d met.

The driveway was packed with production vans and cables snaking across the lawn. Crew members moved briskly in and out of the house, carrying lights and sound equipment. The place looked less like a family home and more like a controlled battlefield.

I spotted Paul immediately. He was in the living room, gesturing toward the staircase while explaining the scene to the crew. The camera was set up at the far end of the hallway, pointed toward the entrance.

The moment his eyes locked on mine, he paused mid-sentence.

I didn’t want to apologize for something I believed was entirely his fault, so I just gave him a single neutral nod. He returned it just as briefly, then turned back to the crew and resumed explaining camera placements and how the scene would unfold.

The interesting part was that the major scene scheduled for today was going to become iconic.

That was, if everything went exactly as planned.

“Noah,” the first AD said, walking up to me with a clipboard in hand. “You need to change. We’ll begin principal photography shortly.”

I nodded and headed upstairs. Since we were shooting at a live location, there were no trailers. One of the upstairs bedrooms had been cleared out and converted into my temporary changing room. A clothing rack stood in the corner, and a full length mirror leaned against the wall.

I quickly changed into the costume.

A pink and white striped shirt, unbuttoned halfway down my chest. A pair of tighty whities. White socks.

And that was it.

No trousers. No jeans. Nothing to cover my legs.

On the bright side, at least my ass was covered this time.

I stared at my reflection for a moment. This scene was ridiculous. Bold. Risky. Memorable.

When I walked back downstairs, conversations died mid sentence. Crew members turned to look at me, some trying and failing to hide their smirks.

Paul gave me a quick once-over and nodded. “You look good. You know what to do, right? So get on with it.”

That was it?

What kind of direction was that? Was he trying to sabotage me?

“What do I do after sliding in?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “You never told me the dance moves for that part.”

He waved off my concern like it was nothing. “Improvise something. I know you’ll do great.”

And then he walked away, leaving me standing there in nothing but a half-open shirt and underwear, confused and irritated.

I looked around, hoping someone would step in with actual guidance. No one did.

Until I saw Michelle.

“We talked about this scene,” she said gently as she approached. Her tone was calm, grounding. “Keep your character’s motivations in your head when you do it, and I know you’ll nail it.”

Then she stepped back, giving me space.

I took a slow breath and centered myself.

In a way, this was exactly what I’d do if I were directing myself. Trust the character. Trust the moment.

With a small nod, I took my starting position just outside the frame.

A crew member hurried over with a bottle of talcum powder and sprayed the bottoms of my white socks generously so it wouldn’t show on camera. The fine mist clung to the fabric.

The room went quiet.

“Action!”

At the command, I ran forward, hit my mark, turned my back to the camera, and slid into the hallway with as much confidence as I could muster.

Only to slide way too far and shoot straight out of frame.

“Cut!” Paul called. “Let’s reset. I know this scene is difficult. It requires precise timing from our actor, so let’s be patient, everyone.”

Did he just imply I was about to waste everyone’s time?

Fine. I’ll show him. I’m nailing this in the very next take.

So of course, I didn’t.