Chapter 4 Beck, the Sporty One #2
“Thanks,” Beck said. “This is Mr. Littlejeans, the love of my life.” Mr. Littlejeans gave Andy a narrow-eyed stare, the fur rising on his back.
Beck went into the kitchen to make the coffee.
Andy followed her in, spun her around and kissed her, quite passionately, she thought.
More passionately than was warranted, really, as they’d known each other a total of five hours.
But still. They went into the bedroom, and sixteen minutes later, that was that.
The sex wasn’t bad, if brief. She would’ve given him a C+. Maybe a B- if she was feeling generous.
“That was incredible,” Andy said, fake-panting. Hey. She was a casting director. Of course she knew fake-panting when she saw it. That third eye twitched a little.
“Mm,” she said. “Well. This was very nice.” The thought of another similar evening made her feel a little .
. . weary. Sure, she’d had a passable orgasm, but the work of it all .
. . taking off the clothes, remembering to compliment, the whole condom ritual .
. . The siren song of a night spent on her new couch, watching movies, was far more alluring than the thought of another date with Andy.
Also, Mr. Littlejeans was sitting on the chair in the corner, looking on with clear disapproval.
She’d have to break out some tuna later to win back his goodwill.
“Hey, you know what I’ve always wanted to do?
” Andy said, propping himself up on his elbow and looking at her.
Oh, God. Typically, this was when a guy would say have a threesome or wear a Hillary Clinton mask or call you Mummy and have you smash my willy (that last one had come from a British writer of lush period dramas).
“What’s that?” she asked, not trying to keep the no out of her voice. She had to get some sleep. She had a breakfast meeting downtown in the morning.
“Be an actor.”
Shit. It was worse than all the above. “Oh,” she said with all the enthusiasm of old dirt.
“Yeah. Funny, right? You said you worked as a casting director.” She had definitely not said that.
She’d been very careful not to say that, for just this reason.
She remembered how he had beelined for her at the wrap party.
The little toad. “So maybe you could point me in the right direction. Introduce me around.”
“Well, I . . . I can keep you in mind.”
“Wanna hear my monologue?”
She did not. Andy did not have the spark. It was her job to know. He was generically attractive, a little too convinced of his own appeal. The kind of guy who thought that his skin color and gender alone meant he was owed opportunities, advancement and accolades.
“I have an early meeting,” she said, grappling for her phone to signal that she needed to do very important things. Mr. Littlejeans wore a get rid of him expression.
I’m trying, she said telepathically.
Mr. Littlejeans glared. Try harder.
Sushi-grade tuna for you later. Hang in there.
“Please?” Andy said. “It’ll just take a minute.”
It would probably take less time to hear the monologue than to convince him he wasn’t the next Timothée Chalamet. She sighed. “Okay. But I do have to get some sleep, so we should call it a night after that, okay?”
“No problem!” He leaped out of bed, naked on her carpet, and launched into the whole Colonel Jessup monologue from A Few Good Men.
Dear God. By the time he was growling, spittle flying, about how much she needed him on that wall, the only thing she needed was him gone.
Mr. Littlejeans walked out of the room.
“Well?” Andy asked.
She grimaced. “It’s too iconic. Steer away from it in auditions.”
“But I’m good, right?”
“Um . . . I mean, I could tell you were imitating Jack Nicholson, sort of. But it lacked a certain, um”—talent—“authenticity. Anyway. Thanks for a lovely night.”
“Will you take me on as a client?” Andy asked.
She suppressed a sigh. “That’s not really how it works, I’m afraid.” A lie. Sometimes it worked exactly that way. “Maybe try getting an agent first.”
“I’ve been trying, but nobody’s called me back.” The whine in his voice reminded her of Mr. Littlejeans when he had a urinary tract infection.
“Keep at it. There are so many great stories of actors who were rejected at first. Gary Oldman. Mindy Kaling.”
“So you won’t hook me up with a director?” Andy asked. “I feel like I just need a chance. Five minutes. Just get me in front of Tarantino and I’ll take it from there.”
She suppressed a snort. “I lack that power. Sorry. But keep trying. Maybe take some acting classes.”
His mouth fell open in astonishment, and she noticed a string of saliva stretching from his canine tooth to his lower lip. “I can’t fucking believe this! I bought you dinner!” he said, yanking on his pants.
“I didn’t realize it was a business transaction. Otherwise, I would’ve said no.”
He shot her a sneer. “What? You think I just asked you out because you’re pretty? Please.”
Her jaw locked. “You know what, Andy? You’re right.
I could cast you. If I needed, say, ‘white male, late thirties to early forties, average build, forgettable looks. Smug. Unaware. Entitled.’ But I don’t need that, and we have hundreds of your type who can do more than a shitty Jack Nicholson impression.
Now. Do you remember where the door is?”
He left with a huff and a door slam. “Lesson learned, Mr. Littlejeans,” she said, getting out of bed. “Come on. I’ll call out for your sashimi.”