2. Ella
2
ELLA
ALMOST SIX MONTHS LATER…
“I’m going to make you a star,” my interviewer says with a smile that’s more like a snarl.
Chills. Down my spine. And also vomit. Rising in my throat.
I’ve heard horror stories about these kinds of people in the movie industry, but I’ve never come face to face with a living, breathing monstrosity of a human being. Everything about this man makes my skin crawl. With a bulbous nose, bloated face, thick jowls, and a beard that’s as patchy as the top of his head, this man looks more orc than human. And the more I look at him and— gag —smell him, the more I’m convinced that he led the charge for the forces of Mordor in The Lord of the Rings .
Newsflash: I’m not your “Precious,” and if “making me a star” includes you putting one of your slimy, sausage-link fingers on me, then I DON’T WANT TO BE A STAR.
Jesus, are there rotting cabbages in his desk drawer?! That smell! Woof.
I should’ve turned around when I saw a young woman rush out of his office, red-cheeked and furious. I should’ve kept on walking when I saw the orc in an ill-fitting suit appear in the doorway after her, eyeing my body like it was his next meal while he sucked in labored breaths and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. I should’ve said ‘Nope,’ turned around, and walked back to the elevator, leaving BlackeThorne Entertainment behind when he said ‘Morning, sweets. You next?’
There was a string of red flags waving wildly in the wind but I plucked each one out of the air and banished them to the darkest corners of my mind because I needed this job. And I needed it badly.
I’ve spent the last few months failing miserably at getting my acting career off the ground. I’ve had audition after audition. Some with callbacks, some without. But each time I was about to cross the finish line, no matter how minor the role, someone swooped in at the last minute and beat me for the spot.
A friend of the director. A girlfriend of a producer. A gaffer’s maid’s daughter’s friend who once looked after a cat that brushed against the leg of the barista who served the executive producer their latte each morning. Okay, that last one might be a slight exaggeration, but my point stands: Connections, no matter how tenuous, get you roles. And after eight months in this city, I had neither connections nor roles. Time, along with my money, was running out.
That’s where this interview from hell comes in—a production assistant job. It’s supposed to get me out of two binds: The money I sorely needed to continue chasing my dream, and most importantly, connections. But as much as I need them, I’m not sure they’re worth enduring another minute— scratch that —second with this man. Guhguhguhguhghelpme.
I don’t respond to his comment about making me a star. Instead, sink deeper into my seat as I try my best to make myself smaller and less noticeable. Can an orc see its prey if it doesn’t move, or is that a T. Rex ? Or…
Unfortunately, I have my answer a few moments later.
“You’ve got the look,” he says, eyes scanning me up and down. “If only you smiled a little more,” he adds, winking as he clicks his tongue.
Kill. Me. Now . I no longer want to live in a world where this man breathes.
“But do you have the temperament?” he says after a few moments of my refusing to smile on command.
I gag a little in my mouth. “Temperament?”
Does this man think I’m a stray dog being evaluated for adoption?
“I’m sorry, but I thought I was applying for a production assistant job. What do looks or… ahem , temperament have to do with anything? Have you read my résumé?”
Is this real life? I have no idea what’s going on.
“Of course, but we both know the real reason you’re applying.” He waves my résumé in the air. “You’re a theater major fresh out of college. And you have a string of waitressing jobs, multiple concurrently.” He clicks his tongue, and it makes my skin crawl all over again. “And this city isn’t cheap, sweets.” More eye-fucking. Good GOD! This man has no shame. “And I’m sure rent is eating up your money at an alarming rate.”
I hate how much this man understands my predicament, but it’s not surprising. You can’t rise to this level at BlackeThorne without understanding the business.
“And a quick scan shows that you haven’t landed a single acting job recently. Time’s running out, darling. Tick tock. Tick Tock.”
Darling. Sweets? Hearing those words roll across this man’s swollen lips and slug-like tongue makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I’m going to burn these clothes and scrub my body from head to toe for a week straight to cleanse this creep from my pores.
“Forget the production assistant job,” he continues. “What you’re after are connections. Become my personal assistant, and I can offer that and so much more.” He emphasizes the word personal in a way that makes me even more uncomfortable than I already am. He takes in a deep, labored breath. “I can make you a star.”
What… The what?
“I don’t want to be a star. I want the production assistant job. I’d appreciate it if we could get back to the original job interview.”
My attempt to redirect the conversation back to somewhat safer grounds is useless. I thought I might be able to reason with him, but he has only one thing on his mind, and I want no part of it.
Gri’zi’ok, Orc Destroyer of Worlds, stands up and stumbles around his desk, thick rolls undulating as he repositions himself in front of me. I don’t know how much longer I can take this man and his putrid stench—a mixture of ground beef, sprouted mung beans, boiled cabbage, and stale sweat. How can someone worth so much money smell so awful? Deodorant costs what, a few bucks? And a shower? Jeeeeeesuuuuus take the wheel and steer this man to the nearest bathtub.
He reaches for his coffee mug, brings it to his lips, and takes one long slurp as he stares directly at my tits. There’s not a single thing about this interview that could make it any worse. Except that.
And by that I mean the coffee he sprays out of his mouth following a sneeze, landing on my forehead, cheek, and lips. Dear lord, it’s on my lips. I don’t think there are antibiotics strong enough to kill whatever disease I was just inoculated with. I’m so stunned that I can’t bring myself to wipe it off.
He wipes his nose on his sleeve and sets down his mug, turning his head toward the door. “Ashley!” Brown spittle foams at the corner of his lips. “Ashley, get in here!”
He turns to me as a woman opens the door and walks into the office. “Is it so hard to get a hot cup of coffee? You could do that for me, couldn’t you, sweets?”
He slides the cup across his desk towards her. I glance at the woman, but she’s in another world based on the dazed expression plastered on her face.
This is not what I expected. BlackeThorne Entertainment is supposed to be a market disruptor. A shiny new star in the movie industry. But right now it’s not living up to the image in my head.
Maybe my parents were right. I’m not cut out for this business. The thought makes me sick. This job was supposed to help me, not kill my dreams of becoming an actress.
He rests his bloated fingers on his beachball of a belly as he leans back, his desk moaning under his weight as though pleading for me to save it. “As I was saying, we’re family at BlackeThorne. We treat each other with respect. Dignity.”
I blink at him. Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke? Respect? Dignity? There hasn’t been a shred of humanity in his words or actions. And what sick, twisted family treats a member like that? Yeah, no. I no longer care if I get this job or not. And if this is what I have to look forward to, then bye-bye acting dreams. It’s not worth it.
“That was horrible,” I say, finally. “If you call that respect, I’d hate to see what disrespect looks like around here. And family? I’m sorry. No, scratch that. I’m not sorry. I want nothing to do with the BlackeThorne family.”
I’m almost surprised when the words come out of my mouth. I’m not usually combative, but right now, I have nothing to lose. I’m pretty sure this man doesn’t even remember my name. Hell, the only way he’d only be able to identify me out of a lineup would be by staring at my tits.
I’m done with this interview. I’m done with this company. I. Am. Done!
“Temperament,” he says, tsking me again. “It’s a real shame you don’t have it. But I’m willing to forget what you said. I’m willing to give you the job. On one condition.”
Nope. Not doing this. I stand up, flattening out my skirt with my palms. “Consider this my withdrawal.”
I turn to walk out the door, but he grabs my arm. “You’re making a mistake, sweetheart.”
I shake free from his grasp and head for the door. The only mistake I made was waiting this long to leave. This was not at all what I signed up for when I moved here, and I’m not selling myself to make it work.
“You’ll never work in this town again,” he calls after me.
“I never worked in this town to begin with,” I retort, cringing as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Oh well. I’m never seeing that man or anyone else in this office again.
When I round the corner out of his office, all I want to do is scrub my body clean from this encounter, crawl into bed, and watch a rom-com with a mug of hot chocolate. There’s nothing else in this world that could possibly turn this horrific day around.
Until I crash into something hard. Something that smells like heaven. But as I look up, all I see is an impending sin in a stylish suit. And he has a hold of me, and I’m not going anywhere.
Ho-ly. Hell .