His phone buzzed and he reached over to check it.
“Sorry, it’s a work thing,” he said, tapping away on his phone. I didn’t know if this was also a ruse to impress me, or if he really was such a workaholic he had to check his email every time a new one hit his inbox. What did he do, anyway? Some kind of sales job at one of the major studios, I vaguely remembered. His dad had gotten him the job. And the car to go with it.
Most people in Hollywood slept around with people who worked at studios. They used sex to get a better audition, a better part, a better paycheck. The main problem with sleeping around in Hollywood is that people think you’re sleeping around for the wrong reasons, not just to, you know, sleep around. But I liked sex. Sometimes I’d be talking about my latest date, and the friend listening to me would nod their head knowingly. They all thought I went to bed with men to get ahead.
Truth of it was, I’d never had sex with anyone I didn’t want to have sex with. I wouldn’t let myself do that, not ever.
But none of the guys I slept with impressed me. Not that they were all porn stars doing crazy kinky shit. If anything, the guys in Hollywood were too vanilla for me. I wanted the real kind of good sex, the kind where you explore all the ways to make each other feel good. The guys in L.A. were weirdly hung up about sex, though. They only wanted to fuck in positions that made them look good. They didn’t want to get messy. They needed their hair to stay styled and perfect. That was more important to them than good sex.
Take Blaise here. He could be a sex god. That’s why I had let him pick me up at the club, anyway. He had the looks and the physique, and a face that wasn’t movie-star handsome, but better than most. And really big hands. I’d hoped that meant what it usually meant.
I imagined those bulging muscles, naked and oiled, his chest broad and heavy, writhing in silk sheets as we twisted around each other. His thick hands gripping me around the wrists and pinning me down as he fucked me so hard the plaster rained down from the ceiling.
Three dates in, and he hadn’t made a move other than kissing me goodnight last time. I’d tried to get more from him. I’d let my hand brush against the front of his pants, hoping that there would be a thick erection there just waiting to burst out of his underwear. But nope. Nothing. Nada. One kiss and a goodnight.
Such a letdown. I know I wasn’t as perfect looking as most of the girls in L.A.—the technical term for a plain Jane like me is “character actor”—but I had a lot to offer guys, or so I thought. But I guessed for Blaise I was just the backup girl he could take out to one of his dad’s clubs whenever he needed somebody on his arm.
I picked up my phone and checked my email as I sipped the Pinot Noir and waited for Blaise to stop impressing me with his dedication to work. One new email. I checked the sender.
The casting director for MGM! It must be a message about my last audition. I had done super well. My agent had landed me this sweet audition for a supporting role in a new TV police drama. The role was for a sassy undercover agent out on the streets of Chicago. I’d nailed it. It was such a good part, too!
My heart began to beat faster as I opened the email.
Dear Sara Everett, we are sorry to inform you…
Fuck.
Double fuck.
I slumped back in my seat as my eyes skimmed the rest of the form rejection. A sigh escaped my lips.
“What’s the matter?” Blaise asked, putting his phone down and shoving a forkful of strawberry goat cheese salad into his mouth. “Gomf some bad newsh?”
“Close your mouth when you chew, why don’t you,” I said, irritated all over. He raised his eyebrows and swallowed the goat cheese.
“Don’t scowl,” he said. “It makes your forehead wrinkle. Got some bad news?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I said, setting down my wine. “I didn’t get this part for a TV show. I really wanted it. The script needed some work, but damn, I really wanted it.”
“Everybody really wants it. You know what I mean?”
“No shit, but I thought I did really well. I can’t believe I didn’t get it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Everybody thinks—”
“Fuck you,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to listen to any of his bullshit right now.
“What?” Blaise let his fork clatter to his plate. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”
“You know what?” I said. “The next time you’re gonna say something to make me feel better, stick a cock in your mouth instead.”
His mouth dropped open.
“Just like that,” I said. “Only with a big fat cock right… there.”