Chapter 1
The Audition
Andrew
"Alright then, let's go!" Gary's voice cracks through the air like a whip, one finger jabbing upward as he shoves crew members into position.
"Where the hell is Vince?!" The words explode from his mouth, aimed at no one in particular yet somehow managing to hit everyone.
He scans the sea of bodies scrambling around us, his face a perfect mask of annoyance and agitation.
I watch him, and I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that this chaos is his element, his personal brand of heaven.
A grin spreads across my face despite myself, the corners of my mouth tugging upward in a way that feels foreign after hours of rigid tension.
Gary, with his wild gesticulations and perpetually frazzled energy, cracks me up.
There's something about the way he moves through this chaos like a conductor leading an orchestra of madness, his dark blue eyes darting from one crew member to another, his mouth firing off orders without pause.
It's mesmerizing, really. I find myself wondering, not for the first time, if I actually want this role just to keep watching him, just to see what he'll do next.
Gary's alright, I decide, as he nearly collides with a lighting technician while yelling into his headset.
It takes me a moment to realize when Vince has actually arrived in the studio, because he always seems to have at least four people circling around him.
Like a diagram of a molecule, or one of those solar system models from grade school, Vince is always at the center of his own universe.
The crew members orbit him, their movements precise yet frantic, like satellites caught in his gravitational pull.
Even Gary's manic energy seems to align with Vince's entrance, his voice suddenly calmer, his movements more purposeful.
Vince arrives looking like he just stepped out of a magazine, except for his feet.
His tailored pants hug his hips perfectly, the white dress shirt rolled precisely at his elbows to reveal forearms that look like they were carved from marble.
But then there are the shoes—a pair of beat-up white Chucks, the rubber at the toes splitting like old banana peels, the fabric faded to something that resembles dirt more than white.
I find myself staring at them, this strange juxtaposition of polished perfection and comfortable rebellion.
He probably chose them because no one will ever see his feet on camera, and comfort trumps aesthetics when you're sitting for hours under hot lights.
That thought hits me like a revelation. A damn good one, actually.
I shift my weight, my leather dress shoes squeezing my feet like vices.
The sweat pooling in my socks makes a squishing sound with every tiny movement I make.
I'd trade my soul for those ratty Chucks right now, for the freedom of my toes wiggling in open air instead of being suffocated in these torture devices masquerading as professional footwear.
Vince might be the star, but in this moment, he's also the smartest man in the room.
My thoughts drift to my feet, to the disgusting swamp that must be brewing inside these leather prisons.
Sweat-soaked socks squelch with every minute adjustment of my position, a symphony of moisture and discomfort that only I can hear.
It's a special kind of neurosis, I suppose, to be simultaneously obsessed with order and completely gross.
And then I realize I'm still slouched in this chair, my spine curved like a question mark.
My right leg bounces up and down, a frantic metronome counting out the seconds of my misery.
Each twitch sends vibrations through the floor, through the table, through the very air around me.
It's supposed to be a coping mechanism, this rhythmic motion, a way to bleed off the excess anxiety that threatens to drown me.
Instead, it's just another performance, another mask in this city of masks.
My spine snaps straight as if pulled by invisible strings, my attention yanked back to the present moment.
Vince is walking toward me, each step measured and deliberate, his shoulders back like he's carrying the weight of his own importance with ease.
The way he moves through the studio space reminds me of a lion surveying its territory—confident, assured, completely at home in this environment that feels like a foreign country to me.
His stride is casual, almost lazy, but there's an undercurrent of controlled energy there, a coiled readiness that suggests he could spring into action at any moment.
He isn't the one on trial here, hasn't been sitting in this chair for what feels like an eternity, sweat pooling in places I didn't know could sweat.
He has no reason to be nervous, no reason to feel like an imposter in this world of lights and cameras and judgmental glances.
But his confidence still strikes me, hits me like a physical blow to the chest.
On second thought, 'strikes me' isn't quite the right phrase for what I'm feeling as he approaches.
It's too gentle, too literary for the raw, visceral reaction coursing through my veins.
He actually intimidates the hell out of me.
With each step he takes closer to our table, I can feel my carefully constructed composure crumbling, piece by painful piece.
It isn't just his chiseled jawline or the way his dark hair falls across his forehead in that artfully casual way that probably takes hours to achieve.
It's not even the fact that when I stand up to shake his hand, I realize he's a little taller than me, and I'm already taller than most guys.
It's everything about the way he carries himself, this impossible aura of effortless confidence that seems to radiate from him like heat from a fire.
Every gesture, every micro-expression feels calculated yet natural, as if he was born knowing exactly how to navigate this world of cameras and scrutiny.
His hand grips mine firmly, not too hard, not too soft, just the perfect pressure that says "I'm in control here." I wonder what it's like to live like that, to move through life without the constant self-doubt that gnaws at me like a hungry dog.
His confidence is otherworldly, a language I've never learned but find myself desperately wanting to understand, even as it completely mesmerizes me.
I self-consciously rake a hand through my hair as I push my chair back and take his hand, shaking it. His grip is solid and assuring, and I make eye contact just like I know I'm supposed to for a good first impression, but I also somehow forget how to breathe. Nobody's perfect.
"I'm Andrew." The words tumble out of my mouth before my brain has time to process the thought.
Wait—am I Andrew?
My mind has turned to mush, a soupy mess of nerves and self-doubt.
The name feels foreign on my tongue, as if it belongs to someone else entirely.
For a terrifying second, I can't remember if that's actually my name or just one I picked up somewhere along the way.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, and I'm suddenly aware of every bead of sweat trickling down my spine.
His light brown eyes meet mine when I introduce myself, but I'm not even sure if he sees me.
I know he sees me in a literal sense, because he reciprocates my eye contact, but I don't think he actually sees me.
It's like looking through a window at someone who's watching a different world entirely.
His gaze is polite, practiced, but there's no recognition behind it—no spark of connection, no flicker of interest.
I feel like he's looking right through me, as if I don't exist. Like he's on autopilot, just as Gary had been only a few moments ago.
The similarity sends a shiver down my spine.
Is this how everyone in this city operates?
Moving through life on a predetermined track, eyes focused on some destination I can't see?
His hand is still in mine, firm and warm, but his attention has already drifted away, like a ship that's weighed anchor and is now sailing toward some distant shore I'll never reach.
The moment stretches, becoming uncomfortably long. I can feel the crew's eyes on us, can almost hear their silent judgments. My palm begins to sweat against his, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how long this handshake has lasted. Too long. Definitely too long.
I pull my hand back, the sudden release leaving mine feeling cold and empty.
As soon as my hand leaves his firm grip, I wonder if he has already forgotten my name.
The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, a painful reminder of Eddy, of how that professor of neuroscience looked right through me in the grocery store aisle, his eyes blank as newly fallen snow.
The memory stings, fresh as yesterday, and suddenly Vince's distant gaze feels less like Hollywood indifference and more like a personal attack.
Vince grins toward the camera, a perfect practice smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and takes a seat next to me.
The chair scrapes against the floor. He hasn't even bothered to introduce himself.
No "hello," no "nice to meet you," just the rustle of his expensive shirt as he settles into the chair, his attention already fixed on some invisible point just beyond the cameras.
What the hell is his problem?!
The question screams through my mind, hot and sharp.
I just waited over an hour for him to show up to this.
An hour of sweating in these torture devices masquerading as shoes, an hour of replaying every interaction I've had since moving to this godforsaken city, an hour of convincing myself I could actually do this.