Which means it’s my God-given duty to kick this douchebag’s ass at work.
“So. Tell me some of your brilliant ideas,” Suze says, waving for another margarita. I down the rest of my whiskey. Always polite to keep up.
“Um. Zero gravity romance? Love and science aboard the international space station?” Why does my head hurt?
“You’re not trying,” Suze says. She leans forward, a concerned look on her face. “Listen, I can see about getting you hired on Love Lorne in Melbourne, if you want.”
She doesn’t believe I can do it. “I’m trying! I am! It just feels like Tyler sucked all the good out of me.” Which is pretty much all he was good at sucking…heh. Okay, I probably shouldn’t have another drink. “I’m going to lose this, aren’t I?” I want to curl up into a ball and let the world go by without me. I hate this despairing feeling. That’s not who I am. Am I really going to let Tyler the jackwad win again? Do I want to admit defeat? Never.
“Think about what inspires you,” Suze says, giving me her best comforting smile. “What makes you unable to turn away from the screen?”
I groan. “That’s just it. Tyler’s what Reel World wants. It’s all about big boobs and low IQs. How am I supposed to compete with that?” I have this gross, nauseous feeling. Though a lot of that may be because of the whiskey. “Screw it!” I slam my fist on the table. “I won’t let him win. I’ll chase him ‘round the moons of Nibia before I give this pitch up,” I say, completely bastardizing Wrath of Khan. I get to my feet, stumble a little, and grab my phone to call for Uber.
“Where are you going?” Suze asks, looking alarmed.
“I’m going back to the office. There’s gold in them thar old casting submission tapes, and I’m going to find a nugget if it kills me.” So saying, I stride purposefully out of the bar, then come back a minute later to get my purse off the chair. I only forgot it for a second, dammit.
“Why did I think this was a good idea?” I mutter, chin in my hand as I click through digital file after digital file. Oh, right, whiskey can make anything look golden. A couple of hours and a cup of coffee later, and suddenly common sense bows back into the picture. I keep watching the auditions, shaking my head in disbelief. Can just anyone send us a tape? Some of these are normal, young women sitting and talking to the camera about their sordid love lives. Others are just peculiar.
One video starts with a man in bib overalls, a straw hat, and nothing else. He grins at the camera. “My name’s Ignatius Butterstock, the king of the Pig Mambo.” I watch as he gets his three prize hogs out, turns on the soundtrack to The Mambo Kings, and starts dancing with the first pig. It looks as confused as I feel. Skip.
One video shows a guy with his shirt off and a greased and glittering six-pack of abs on prominent display. I perk up. He winks at the camera. All right, sexy and geared towards the female gaze. Off to a good start.
“Juggling chainsaws has always been my passion,” he says, and picks one up from off camera. As he revs it, he says, “Drunken Chainsaw Juggling would be a great show—” I click off really, really fast.
“Why are there so many weirdos in the world?” I push back from my desk and rub my pounding head. The office at two AM is a terrifying place. Rows and rows of empty cubicles, with the only sound the click and whirr of the air conditioning coming on and off. What am I doing? I should call it a night, Uber it home, and sleep with a bottle of aspirin right next to my bed for tomorrow’s epic hangover.
I’m slinging my purse from off the back of my chair when I notice one more file, just sitting there and waiting for me to click on it. Oh, why the hell not? Maybe it’ll be something more amusing than the hog mambo guy. Though that would be pretty hard to top. I click play and sit back, feeling my eyes beginning to slowly close.
And that’s when I get a glimpse of the hottest man I have ever seen in my life.
“Are you taping?” he asks the person behind the camera. He’s standing there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, as casual as anything. A worn, red flannel shirt is absolutely hugging his broad shoulders. The sleeves are rolled, revealing the rock-hard contours of arms that look like they could be sculpted from marble. He looks at the camera with a quiet ease, like he knows he’s got this, whatever this is. God, those eyes. They’re a warm golden brown, glowing with intensity as he stares at me—er, the camera, he’s staring at the camera.
His jaw is square and rock hard, with a distinguished cleft in the chin. I can make out the outline of his jaw through the stubble, which he rubs the back of his hand across. His hair is a chestnut brown, with glints of red that spark like embers in a fire when he catches the light in the perfect way. I think any way he caught the light would have to be perfect.