Chapter One #2
“I can do you a Canadian Mist, and that’s as fine as it gets.”
The man laughs, revealing two rows of very straight, very white teeth. Teeth that look like money. “That’ll do.”
I offer a generous pour, in hopes of scoring a generous tip. “So, what brings you to this illustrious establishment this evening?” The old fellas always like it when I’m cheeky.
The Silver Fox takes a sniff of the cheap whisky and shudders, steeling himself for it. “I’m in town on business.” He takes a sip and winces. “My assistant, she’s new. I told her to book me at the Venetian, but she booked me at—”
“The Tahitian Motel and Efficiency Units, across the street?”
“How’d you know?” His dark eyes twinkle.
“Believe it or not, it’s happened before.”
He chuckles. “I believe it.” He swirls his glass, the ice cubes tinkling as they collide. “So, how about yourself ?”
“I’m glad you asked,” I say, leaning on my elbows, taking a conspiratorial tone. “I do this thing called work, where I bring drinks to people and get paid for it.” I flutter my eyelashes and smile so he knows I’m not being snarky. He rewards me with a hearty laugh.
“What I mean,” he says, pushing his glass toward me for a refill, “is that I assume that a bright, beautiful, young woman like yourself aspires to more than—” he pauses, waving his hand to indicate the nearly empty bar “—all of this.”
My turn to laugh. “Yes, well.”
“Well?”
“Well, it’s just a temporary measure until—” I stop.
Until I pay back the landlord for four months of missed rent on a place I don’t even live, until I pay off the Visa that Dylan put into overdraft, until I can get my head around finding something better.
“Until I figure out my next move. And they let me steal as much toilet paper as I like, so that’s a perk. ”
“I see,” he says, one eyebrow cocked, like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“I’m actually an actress,” I say, suddenly feeling the need to compensate for having said the words ‘toilet paper’ to this classy stranger. “Or, at least, I was one in a past life.”
His barstool creaks as he leans back. “And now?”
I groan. “Well, this isn’t exactly Hollywood.”
“Ah, Hollywood.” He smiles in a way that makes me wonder if he’s making fun of me. “A girl with dreams.”
“I guess.” I definitely used to be a girl with dreams. And then I became a girl who has to check her bank balance before buying tampons.
“So, why don’t you go, then? To Hollywood. Follow your dreams.”
“That was the plan,” I say, with a shrug.
“And then?”
“And then…life.” I don’t feel like getting into it.
“Ah. Life can be tricky.”
“Yup.” I drum my fingers on the bar, desperate to redirect the conversation. “How’s that whisky going down?”
“Smooth,” he says, grimacing. “But I’ll have one more, all the same.”
I pour him another drink, then one of the Frat Bros stumbles up to the bar.
His face is flushed, and his tie is loose.
He slurs his order— another round for the boys.
This is probably the last time I can serve him in good conscience, so I make the most of it, telling him a total that is more than twice what he actually owes.
He furrows his brow as he fumbles around in his wallet, examining each bill like it’s a foreign currency, but he doesn’t ask any questions.
I deliver the tray of bottles to the Frat Bros, and then the Silver Fox clears his throat. He nods, beckoning me over.
“I was thinking,” he says, stroking his beard. “I might have something for you. A job, of sorts.”
Of sorts, which is code for stripping. “I can’t dance, and—”
He chuckles. “Not like that. An acting job.”
“In an adult film?”
He shakes his head. “I’m helping out this kid—an associate of mine— with a new production, and I think you’d be perfect for it.”
“You’re a producer?”
“Something like that.” He pauses, swipes his hand through his thick mane. “It’s a reality dating show.”
“Reality TV? That’s not acting.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
“Touché. But I can’t do a dating show.”
“You have a boyfriend.” He says it like a statement, not a question.
“No.”
“You’re married?”
“Hell no.”
“Gay?”
“Not your business, but also no.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
I pause. The truth is that I think men aren’t to be trusted, and that I consider it my greatest personal weakness that I continue to be attracted to them. But I can’t—I shouldn’t—say that.
“I’m done with dating,” I say, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. But the Silver Fox is unbothered. He considers my statement.
“Don’t you think you’re a bit young for that?” he says, a bemused smile teasing his lips.
“I’m old enough to know not to waste my time and energy.”
He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay,” he says. A long beat passes. He drags his finger around the rim of his almost empty glass. “It’s just,” he says, eyeing me, “it’s a really good opportunity, this show.”
I shrug. “For some other sucker.”
He nods, like he’s going to drop it. But then he drops a bomb. “The prize money is $250,000.” My heart stops. “Do you think that might make it worth your time and energy?”
I swallow. My throat is suddenly bone dry, so I pour myself a splash of whisky and throw it back. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“But there’s this thing where I hate men. Wouldn’t that put me at a disadvantage?”
He leans forward. “Well, that depends.” He’s close enough that I can see the creases around his eyes. Laugh lines, as they’re so generously called for men.
“On what?”
“How good an actress you are.” He holds my gaze before breaking the moment with a swig of his drink.
One of the Slot Zombies, a bald man with a head so shiny it’s practically reflective, has left his perch in front of the Rainbow Riches machine to get a drink, so I leave this statement to hang.
I uncap his light beer and try to make witty banter, but the thought of the prize money clouds my brain, beating in the background of every moment like a drum.
I wipe the bar, dragging the cloth back and forth in long arcs. Could I actually do a reality dating show? No, not possible. I’m a decent actress, but am I good enough to pretend to fall in love? To make viewers fall in love with me?
Maybe before, back when I was Mary Fucking Sunshine, in love and full of hope and optimism. But that bitch is gone. I’ll have to find another way to make my name, because simping for some Chad on national TV is not the move for me.
The Silver Fox is still at the end of the bar, his glass empty except for a slush of ice.
“I’m sorry,” I say, hurrying back to my post. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Just one more,” he says, with a wry smile. “Wouldn’t want to end up like that.” He nods toward the Frat Bros, who are now crowded in consolation around one guy, who is crying loudly.
I watch them as I scoop ice into a fresh glass. The almost hot guy is hanging back. He looks up at me and grimaces, his eyes darting to the blubbering bro. I laugh. He’s cute. If it weren’t for that ponytail, I might consider going home with him tonight.
I bring the Silver Fox his drink.
“Have you given it any thought?” he asks.
“Given what any thought?” I’m watching the bros, how the almost hot guy is helping the sad one put on his jacket, how he’s being awfully kind and gentle to a guy he barely knows.
“The show. The money.”
“Oh. No, still not for me. Thanks, though.”
He regards me through slightly squinted eyes. “I tell you what. I’m going to write down a number you can call, just in case you change your mind.”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Just in case.” He smiles and pulls his wallet out of his lapel pocket. “Have you a pen?”
The bros are shuffling out. The almost hot guy gives me a wave and a warm smile, and I watch as his ponytail disappears out the door.
The Silver Fox has scribbled something on the back of a business card. “Auditions are almost over, so time is of the essence,” he says, “but I know they’re still looking for someone special.” He slides the card across the bar to me. “Tell Tyler I sent you.”
He has scrawled the words Camp Couple-Up, which sounds more like a bad joke than the name of a hit reality TV show. Underneath, there is a phone number with a 323 area code. Los Angeles.
There’s something about the tangible proof of this opportunity that gives me pause.
Could I? No, it feels too good to be true.
Opportunities like this don’t just fall into my lap—that shit’s for other people, the ones with the charmed lives.
But maybe I’m due a bit of good luck. Haven’t I worked hard enough, been through enough, to finally get a break?
Nah. That’s not how the world works. It’s probably just a scam. I mean, what kind of dating show has a quarter-million-dollar payout? Sounds fake.
But I shove the card in the pocket of my apron, just in case.