Los Angeles, August 14, 1994
Steve Harrington gasped as he woke up, his chest heaving like he'd just surfaced from a deep dive.
For a terrifying split second, his hand scrambled across the cheap board nightstand, fingers twitching for the cool glass of an iPhone 16 that wasn't there. When his knuckles rapped against the hard plastic of a wind-up alarm clock, the reality of the situation crashed down on him harder than the stunt he'd pulled yesterday.
He wasn't in his apartment in 2026, he wasn't 42 years old with a bad back and a worse credit score.
Now he was eighteen trapped in a bungalow in Silver Lake that felt more like a kiln than a home.
He sat up, the room was spinning slightly, a hangover from the time jump he had day before yesterday or maybe just dehydration. It was only seven in the morning, but the Los Angeles heat was already pressing against the windows, daring the struggling air conditioner unit to try and keep up.
He walked to the bathroom, avoiding the loose floorboard near the door out of habit, and splashed water on his face.
The guy in the mirror stared back with a look of pure exhaustion. Steve touched the purple bruise blooming on his ribcage, wincing as his fingers pressed the tender skin.
Being an eighteen-year-old stuntman sounded like a dream to anyone who hadn't actually done it, but the reality was just pain management and waiting for the phone to ring.
He looked good, he knew that much. He had the kind of face that belonged on a screen, with a sharp jawline and blue eyes that could look dangerous or vulnerable depending on the lighting, but right now, those eyes were bloodshot.
He grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen from the cabinet and dry-swallowed three pills, praying they would kick in before he had to move anything heavy.
He walked back into the bedroom and picked up his wallet from the dresser and counted the cash slowly, thumbing through the bills.....512$.
That was his life, that was gas, food and electricity, as well as the property tax bill that was currently sitting on the kitchen counter like a ticking time bomb.
In his old life, five hundred bucks was a grocery run but here in the ninties, it was the only thing keeping him off the street.
He lit a Marlboro Red, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke settle his nerves.
He knew the future, he knew Amazon was going to be huge and he knew Apple was going to bounce back but you couldn't buy stocks with pocket lint and good intentions, right? He needed capital and he needed it fast.
The phone on the wall screamed, a harsh, mechanical ring that made him jump. He stared at it for a second, debating letting it go to the machine, but desperation won out. He picked up the receiver.
"Harrington," he answered, his voice rough with smoke.
"You alive, kid?" It was Mike, the dispatcher from the agency. He sounded bored, chewing on something loud.
"I got a gig downtown, non-union sci-fi garbage. The lead double twisted his ankle trying to look cool for the script supervisor. They need a stair-fall and a window jump."
Steve rubbed his temple.
"What's the rate?"
"Two-fifty, Cash. But you gotta be there in forty minutes or I call the next guy."
250 dollars, It was barely worth the inevitable bruising, but Steve looked at his empty wallet again. "I'll be there."
The set was a converted meatpacking warehouse that smelled really bad, It was chaotic, loud, and hot.
Steve spent three hours standing around in his gear, sweating through his t-shirt, watching a director who looked like he hadn't slept in a week scream at a terrified production assistant.
When they finally called him up, it wasn't glamorous, there were no trailers, no makeup chairs.
Just a guy named Larry pointing at a metal staircase and telling him to make it look like he got shot.
Steve did the fall and hit his elbow hard on the railing, a sharp crack of pain that shot all the way up to his neck, but he tucked his chin and rolled at the bottom just like he was trained.
He laid there on the dirty mat for a second, staring up at the rusty ceiling beams, waiting for the cut.
"Moving on!" Larry yelled, not even asking if Steve was okay.
Steve limped over to the payroll table an hour later, took his envelope of cash, and got the hell out of there.
He sat in his beat-up Ford Bronco for a long time, just breathing, letting the adrenaline fade into a dull ache in his hip.
He was tired of being the meat, was tired of breaking his body so other people could get rich.
He lit another cigarette, his hand shaking slightly, and put the Bronco in gear. He needed to get to the bank before it closed.
The branch on Sunset Boulevard was crowded, the air conditioning blasting a welcome relief from the outside heat.
Steve got in line behind a woman arguing about a deposit slip, zoning out as he waited.
He was doing the math in his head, if he skipped lunch for the next week, he could maybe afford to fix the car's radiator. He was so deep in his own misery that he almost didn't hear the commotion at the front of the line.
"I don't understand!" a voice shouted. It was shrill, panicked, and thick with an accent. "It is a check! It is money! Why won't you take it?"
Steve leaned out to look. At the teller window, a girl was falling apart.
She was tall, wearing a faded floral dress that looked like it had been washed in a sink a hundred times.
Her blonde hair was messy, pulled back in a fraying elastic, and her face was flushed bright red.
She was waving a check at the teller, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Miss, I told you," the teller said, her voice monotone and annoyed. "It's an out-of-state check. There's a hold so I can't give you cash today."
"But I have nothing!" the girl cried, her voice cracking. "My mother sent this! I haven't eaten! Please, I just need to eat!"
Steve froze as he carefully observed her, he knew that face, he'd seen it on fifty-foot billboards in his old life and seen it holding an Oscar.
It was Charlize Theron but this wasn't the seductive superstar of the future, Just a lost kid who looked nineteen, maybe younger. She looked terrified and completely alone. She was practically vibrating with anxiety, humiliated in front of a room full of strangers who were just staring at her like she was crazy.
Steve felt a jolt in his chest, It wasn't charity, it was his future, he knew what he had to do now.
In his older life he could only watch those beautiful sexy starlets showing off their curves and those powerful Hollywood moguls enjoying those beauties.
Now he wanted it all, he looked at the envelope in his pocket, the two hundred and fifty dollars he had just broken his body for, plus the rent money.
It was everything he had. If he gave it up, he was eating ramen for a month.
But looking at her, at the raw, young beauty who was a superstar who he could only watch afar from in his life.....he knew it was the only play.
He stepped out of line and walked up to the counter, ignoring the pain in his hip and stood next to her, imposing and dusty in his work boots.
"Is there a problem?" Steve asked, his voice low.
Charlize spun around, her green eyes wide and wet. She looked at him with the feral intensity of a cornered animal. "They won't take it, they won't give me the money."
The teller sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Sir, please step back."
Steve pulled his wallet out and took out four hundred dollars. He slid the bills under the glass partition.
"Cash the check," Steve said. "I'll cover the hold. If it bounces, you keep my money. If it clears, you credit her account."
The teller blinked, looking from the cash to Steve's bruised face. "Sir, are you sure? You don't even know her."
Charlize stopped crying and stared at the money on the counter, then slowly looked up at Steve. She didn't trust him, he could see it in her eyes. She was waiting for the catch.
"Why?" she whispered, clutching her bag to her chest.
Steve didn't smile and didn't try to charm her. He just looked at her, tired and sore, and shrugged.
"Because talent shouldn't starve," he lied. He knew exactly what he was buying. "And because I hate banks."
The teller stamped the check and handed Charlize the cash. Charlize took it with shaking hands, holding it like it was a bomb that might go off.
"Come on," Steve said, guiding her away from the counter before she could make a scene. "Let's get you out of here."
He walked her out to the sidewalk. The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows down Sunset Boulevard. Charlize stood there, clutching the money, looking at him like she couldn't decide if he was an angel or a predator.
"I'm Charlize," she said, her voice small.
"Steve," he replied. He opened the passenger door of his Bronco. The hinges squeaked. "You look like you need a drink to calm down, Charlize."
She hesitated, looking at the dark interior of the car, then back at the empty street. Hunger won out and she climbed in. Steve shut the door, and as he walked around to the driver's side, he allowed himself a small, grim smile.
He had just spent his rent money on a beauty he couldn't even dream of before.
Authors Note:-
Well Dearies, as I promised a Hollywood novel with smut which , I could count on my one hand had done before, steve harrington for fun.....😁.
Just enjoy and comment the actresses names or help me with some low budget high collections movies or niches which could be used in that time other than blair the witch....it's cliche.
Also as usual support with power stones and collections.