Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
So much for that.
My first big shot, and I slept with the director for the gig.
Oh, well. I’m not the first girl to do that, and I won’t be the last.
Still, my career will be forever tainted with what I did with Mr. Shippe.
His warm onions-and-cigarette-smoke breath as he kissed me, wormed his tongue into my mouth. The way he groped at my breasts until I worried they would burst. The way his untamed forest of pubes scratched at me as he fucked me on top of the audition panel’s table.
At least his dick was small. It barely felt like a pinprick as he made his way into me.
But sucking it, on the other hand, was a chore. I’ve brushed my teeth at least a dozen times in the forty-eight hours since, but I can’t get the stale taste of him out of my mouth.
I’ll never do it again.
And at least I’ll get the gig. I should be hearing from them any day now. That’s what Mr. Shippe said as he was putting his boxers back on.
They have to wait a few days before they make the offer. Make it look like they took every girl into consideration. Otherwise it’ll look weird.
All I’ve done since I got home from the callback is cry in the shower and lie on my bed staring into space.
When I get the email from the production company, I’ll feel better.
At least there will be some tat for my tit.
My computer dings across the room.
Could this be it? My heart skips a beat, even though I know what the email is going to say.
It’s from Skylight Productions.
Moment of truth.
I open it.
Dear Bianca,
We were quite impressed with your audition and callback for Reflections. We want to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to perform for us.
Yeah, yeah. Get to the good stuff. I continue reading.
As of this afternoon, all offers for the show have been made. We are sorry that we don’t have a place for you in this production but wish you all the best in your career.
Cordially,
Lawrence Shippe
What?
I read through the message again.
And again.
This must be a mistake.
I slept with the fucking producer. And they still cast someone else?
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
I’m so fucking stupid. A stupid little slut who gave her body to the top bidder who then came up short when it was time to pony up.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
It’s not like I can email him back and tell him that he owes me this for sleeping with him.
He’s a powerful man. Loads of people—women included—would come to his defense if I made a big stink about this.
And it’s not like I have any evidence. He used a condom. None of his DNA is in me.
I consented anyway. I wasn’t raped.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
That’s it. Career over. I slept with the producer, and even that wasn’t enough to land me a gig.
I throw myself onto my bed and cry. Have an actual tantrum. Flail my body about like a damned toddler.
I hate this. I hate my life. I hate this city where the apartments are too small and rent is too high. I hate this industry that I thought I could break into. I hate all the other girls who look just like me but have just enough more talent to get chosen over me.
My phone rings.
I wipe my eyes.
Rouge is calling me.
What the hell?
She’s the last person I want to hear from right now. I’ll let it roll to voicemail. I can call her back when I’m good and cried out.
It rings again. I let it go again.
She calls me a third time.
Okay, this could be something serious. Rouge never calls me three times in a row.
Dad has been on a decline. She could be calling about him.
I take a deep breath, wipe the tears off my face, and accept the call. “Hello?” I answer with as steady a voice as I can muster.
“Bianca. It’s Rouge. How have you been doing?”
“I’m fine.”
Biggest lie I’ve ever told.
“Excellent. Do you have a moment?”
“Sure. Is this about Dad?”
“Dad? Oh heavens, no. I mean, he’s not long for this world, but he’s still with us for now. But, as you know, he’s handed me the reins to Aces.”
Yeah. I know. It was on the front cover of the Tribune. Mom sent me a copy in the mail. Rouge gaining control to the club was the biggest news that year since Henry Hathaway’s upset election as mayor.
“Yes, congrats on that, by the way. Sorry I didn’t call.”
It wasn’t a big surprise. Dad had been grooming Rouge to take over for him since she could talk.
“Oh, don’t you worry. But I was wondering. Have you ever considered leaving New York?”
I swallow. I was just throwing the idea around.
Rouge always seems to have a sixth sense about things like this. The timing is eerie.