“That’s how us untalented upstarts get jobs, you know,” I tell that cocky jerk with the sweetest smile I can muster.
“In which case, kiddo,” I bristle and he smiles even wider, “I’ll be looking forward to hearing you call me daddy soon.”
My jaw drops open and I take a step toward his broad chest.
“I would sooner choke.” The smile never leaves my face, but I can feel my eyes narrow so he knows I’m not kidding. I will never, ever sleep with this cocksure snob.
Even if he is even hotter in person.
“You might. I’m pretty proportional.” He winks. Winks. As if I would ever even consider—
Oops. I looked. I didn’t mean to look. But he mentioned it and I couldn’t help myself. And now I can’t look away, because I think he’s actually enjoying this conversation, if you know what I mean.
Like, for all his badmouthing me, he seems pretty happy to see me just now.
I think he is proportional, and I am sort of choking already.
On my anger.
“Like what you see?” he asks me.
“I’m just curious. What’s happening here?”
“Oh, I think you know what’s happening. And what could happen as a result, in the bathroom down the hall after we nail this screen test.” He moves even closer in, using his body to overwhelm my senses with all those muscles filling out his shirt, that cologne that smells like juniper and leather, the rumble in his throat that becomes a low chuckle at his own cleverness.
“Oh, you misunderstand me,” I tell him, not backing down an inch. “I was wondering if you talked shit on me because you pretty clearly have a big crush? Or if you just get off on having women put you down, because I think you can pay people to do that and leave your colleagues out of it.”
He blinks.
But it doesn’t stop him for long.
“If you like to get paid for it… well, that’s a new kink for me, but I’ve got lots of money, kiddo. Name your price.”
That’s one step too far for me.
“Asshole,” I utter, and then I stand up on the tippiest of my tiptoes, haul off, and slap him as hard as I can across the face. Except that I’m pretty short, and he’s pretty tall, so I mostly just smack the shit out of part of his chin.
As my heels clack back down on the ground, I remember where I am. Oh, no, I did not just slap one of Hollywood’s biggest A-listers while trying to get cast opposite him in what would be my first ever feature film.
But oh yes, I did.
All this runs through my head in the split second before I pivot to face the director who is definitely screwing his assistant, the smile still glued on, perfectly matching Huck’s.
He, the assistant, the casting director Corinne, and a few PA’s are standing as frozen as my face.
Then they burst into applause.
“That was amazing!” says Corinne.
“The chemistry was spot-on,” says Daddy, as his assistant nods eagerly.
“I don’t think we even need you two to run lines. We’ve got our leads! Welcome to Miss Match, you two. Our people will be in touch with your people.”
My chest hasn’t stopped heaving from my anger, and now I can’t catch my breath because holy shit, I’m a fucking movie star. I have to call my roommate Kami. I have to call my mom. I have to go be alone and scream and jump up and down.
I have no idea what to do with myself, but Huck is stepping forward to shake everyone’s hands and thank them and that seems like a pretty good meantime thing to be doing.
I’m perhaps a little overly effusive with Corinne and Daddy, but when Huck turns to me I have to let him know that this changes nothing.
“Congratulations, kiddo,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I tell him, my hand completely swallowed up by his proportionately large one as we shake.
“Bathroom down the hall?” he asks.
“Only this once.”
Two
Huck
She was right, of course. I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts about Jaya Brazill since the first time I watched her webseries two years ago. It pissed me off how good she was, honestly.
Not that I was ever going to tell her that.
I worked my ass off to get the kind of classical theater training that Benedict Cumberbatch would envy, sometimes subsisting on three hours of sleep a night so I could work the night shift to afford just a few more lessons after classes were over for the day.
I can do eight different regional British accents to match any Shakespearean character you name, I can read Beowulf in Middle English, and all those assholes who say they “just want to direct”? Well, I actually won an award for one of my student films. Yeah, I know what the fuck I’m doing when it comes to acting.
Naturally, I’m known for being the sexy Viking god on Northlanders, where I spent six entire seasons brooding into the camera, flexing my muscles, and occasionally making a loud proclamation.
My IMBD is also populated with roles like Dumb Musclebound Car Racer, Yelling Muscley Roman General, Ripped Football Player With Heart of Gold (Who Dies).
To say I’ve been typecast is an understatement.
So, yeah, I’m more than a little pissed off that this hot little Midwesterner with zero acting pedigree can just show up in Los Angeles, bat her stupidly long lashes, and get rave reviews for her indie character roles.
My only solace is that I’m positive I’m worth at least eighty-three of her, financially.
And I want my chance in an indie character role. I even have a script. I wrote it myself, which is why no one will read it.
Who wants to read a script by Heroic Buff Cop in Disaster Movie? Answer: my mother is so far the only volunteer.
She thought it should be lightened up a little, though.
I tried to explain that it’s difficult to lighten up a story about a widower struggling with depression. She suggested I rewrite it as a cozy mystery with a feline co-star.
She was right about one thing, which is that I do need to be seen as more than a gym rat. So, baby steps, here I am starring in a romantic comedy. Opposite a social media upstart who had the nerve to slap my chin.
I grab her hand and pull her into the bathroom before dragging the trashcan in front of the door as a makeshift lock.
“God, you’re an idiot,” she breathes, just before I grab her by the ass (it’s luscious) and set her down on the sink. There really is something wrong with me for being this turned on by her hatred. It’s not a normal thing for me. But for some reason, I don’t want her to like me because I spend three hours a day working out and take my shirt off a lot onscreen.
I do, however, want her to maul my body as I make her come.
She’s going to hate it.
I grab a handful of her dark hair and pull her head back as I nibble on her cherry-and-rose scented neck. She smells like the sweetest little kitten but hisses and arches her back like the hellcat I hoped she’d be when I was jerking off to her on my computer.
I start to pull back and she shoves my head back into her.
“Don’t kiss me,” she groans. Oh, I wasn’t planning on it. This is not that kind of a hook-up.
Instead I double down on kissing and sucking a line up and down, from the sensitive spot just under her ear down to her clavicle and back up again. She’s going to be marked up tomorrow, unable to pretend this didn’t happen.
I bite down just out of spite.
She’s going to remember this.
I’m so hard it’s painful when she finally recovers her wits and starts ripping my shirt off. Buttons fly through the air. I help out by pulling it off, and her nails rake down my chest in response. She’s not the only one who’s going to wake up marked in the morning.
My cock is pressed up against her and she’s rocking her hips. Even through our pants I can feel the heat of her and fuck, this is so good.
But this isn’t how I want her. I pull her back down, rough, spin her around and lean her over the counter.
“You want me?” I groan, wanting to hear the way my name sounds in her mouth.
“No,” she pants, and I freeze. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “I only want the proportional parts of you. Hurry up.”