Not Another Diva (Hollywood Stories #1)

1. Testosterone Showdown

ONE

testosterone showdown

I’m delusional.

I realize I must be as I pull up to my crap-hole apartment complex in a questionable part of Hollywood. Glaring through the cracked front windshield of my truck at the crumbling beige stucco building I now call home, I ask myself the question I tend to avoid:

What the hell was I thinking?

Moving from a Podunk ranching town, with only one actual restaurant, to the bright lights of Hollywood, did I seriously think I could make it big?

Yeah, I did.

I’m a fucking idiot.

The need to get out of my hometown was bigger than my brain. It’s the only explanation for why I’d put myself through the toll of auditions over and over again. Today’s casting call to play the part of man meat in some music video is a new all-time low. At least that part’s over, and the traffic getting home wasn’t horrendous. The only win of the day.

I actually found parking on the street outside my building too. Another anomaly in this city where parking is ridiculous. If I had a better vehicle, I might be mad about not having a secured parking garage, but my truck barely runs as it is. No one’s going to steal it.

I drag myself up to the place I share with Jacob. Meeting him at one of my first auditions was the only time I’ve caught a break so far. The timing was perfect. I needed out of the hostel I was staying in to save money, and he needed a co-renter who wouldn’t throw wild house parties every weekend and get him kicked out like his last asshole roommate. If either of us ever get discovered, we might be able to afford a nicer place with clean carpets and reliable heat. Until then, this dump is it.

It’s not that I don’t have my family’s support. My parents are rich ranch owners, for God’s sake—they would’ve bankrolled me if I’d asked them to. But no, I had to “go it alone” and prove to the world I could succeed. I’m sure my older sisters have some kind of bet going on how long I’ll stay out here without cracking. That day might be here sooner than I thought.

I shake off the daily sense of failure and grab my house keys. The musty aesthetic of home dump home is calling.

“That you?” Jacob shouts from the kitchen. He’s always in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure it’s his favorite room in the apartment. I have no clue how he stays as fit as he is, always eating and hardly ever working out.

“Who else would it be? You got another roommate I don’t know about?” I laugh.

My voice carries through the place. It’s pretty small, but it was still the biggest place we could get on our budget. After today’s audition, I’m not holding my breath for extra income anytime soon. “Starving artist” isn’t just a figure of speech; some months we can barely afford cereal. But you wouldn’t know it from the way Jacob’s always stuffing his face.

He offers a fake laugh at my joke. “Hardy-har-har. Your wit astounds me, dude.” He points the tip of his cold pizza at me. “How’d this one go? ”

I blow out a breath. “The usual. A room full of guys who look practically identical sizing each other up.”

I walk past Jacob and make a direct line to the fridge, where I take a long guzzle of a cold zero-sugar electrolyte drink. Swallowing and wiping my mouth at the same time, I picture the fifteen or so guys I was up against, all of us in our early twenties, with lean muscles and athletic physiques. A basic testosterone showdown. God, what a nightmare. It was like walking into a clone factory.

“You’re trying for some kind of commercial, right?” Jacob asks, mouth now full of the day-old pizza he used as a pointer finger a second ago.

“Nah, music video.”

Jacob chokes on the pizza. “Music video? Can you even dance?” He laughs with his mouth half-full.

I shake my head. “Nope. Can’t keep a beat to save my life.” I clear my throat. “The role is for a love interest.” Crossing my arms, I lean against the counter. “Your basic make-out scene. All we had to do was give the camera a smirk. Took about thirty seconds, but I still sat in that damn waiting room for two hours.”

I’m not expecting a callback on this job—not that I’ve had a callback on any job I’ve auditioned for. What the hell am I still doing in this town?

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got other skills to fall back on. You could be clearing raw fish off the plates of the rich and famous for a living,” Jacob says, taking a huge bite of food before continuing. “Bussing tables at the most famous sushi restaurant in Hollywood may sound glamorous, but it’s disgusting. Trust me.”

“Yeah, well, teaching karate to little kids isn’t very safe.” Do you have any idea how many times I’ve been kicked in the balls? You don’t wear a cup in a Gi, and having a black belt doesn’t help protect thatsituation at all . If I didn’t have the reflexes I do, it could have been double the nut crunches.”

It may be a hazard to my future as a family man, but thank God I was able to find a dojo in Hollywood that was hiring. Otherwise, I’m not sure what I’d be doing to pay the bills. Working the food service route sounds like torture.

“Is a Gi that robe you wear for karate?”

I roll my eyes instead of answering. Jacob loves telling me my uniform looks like a stiff bathrobe.

“I’ll be lucky if I’m able to have kids someday,” I say.

Jacob just laughs. “Looks like both our jobs suck. I’ll need to amp up my auditions if I want things to change.”

I nod, not exactly feeling the same. I’d almost rather go home to my family’s ranch and forget about the whole Hollywood thing. I barely remember why I came out here in the first place. Nothing has worked out like I thought.

Needing a distraction, I open the dry foods cabinet and take out a bag of almonds instead of the pizza Jacob’s eating. Grabbing a handful and popping a few into my mouth, I turn to leave the kitchen.

“How do you always eat so healthy?” Jacob calls after me. “I’m here scarfing cold pizza, and you’ve got zero body fat.”

“It’s a choice.” I shrug, looking over at him. Even I can admit my choice is closer to an obsession. I guess that’s what being chronically bullied as a kid will do to a guy. “I’m going to go to the gym. You can join me if you want to sweat out all the grease you just consumed.”

I continue down the hall to my room, not waiting for the excuse Jacob will give this time. The pressure in Hollywood to look fit hasn’t gotten to him yet, I guess. But he’s got one hell of a metabolism if his calorie count has anything to say about it.

“Can’t!” Jacob yells, obviously still in the kitchen. “Gotta go to work and scrape raw fish off John Legend’s dinner plate.”

I laugh. “Guess that means you’ll be scraping Chrissy’s too.” I shake my head at the thought while packing my gym bag with a towel and my shoes. I need to work off my excess energy after the male cattle call. That stuff always leaves me in a mood. And with a pounding freaking headache.

“Nah.” Jacob’s voice gets louder as he walks the hallway to my bedroom door. “She clears her plate. Every last bite.”He emphasizes his point by shoving the last bite of pizza into his mouth.

You’d think having a mouth full of food would put an end to his yammering, but no. He’s still talking.

“So, who’s the music video for?” he asks around the heap of bread stuck between his teeth. He leans against my doorframe.

“No idea. Didn’t ask.” I train my eyes on my gym bag. I’m already over this audition. I don’t want to keep talking about it.

“Bro, always ask. You could end up in a giant dog costume, dancing around for some preschool sing-along production.”

“You have a very active imagination.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. At least I’m not obsessed with the gym. I’ve never seen anyone work out as much as you without doing it for a role.” Jacob says this as if it’s an insult.

I side-eye my ignorant roommate. “When was your last gig? Or have I missed all the adult productions you’ve been in?”

Jacob waggles his eyebrows. “That’s what she said.”

I shake my head and return to packing my shit. Jacob’s hardly ever serious. Usually, I enjoy his unbothered attitude, but today I don’t have the energy for him.

He continues hovering in my doorway, watching over my shoulder while I repack my bag. I ignore him. If I do it long enough, he might go away. But no such luck, because that’s when my phone buzzes with an incoming call. I pull it out of my back pocket and glance at the caller ID.

“Oh shit!”

“What?” Jacob wonders, stepping into my room.

“It’s the studio. The one from the audition ...” My voice trails off in shock.

“Bro! Answer it!”

He’s right. I swipe the screen and pull the phone up to my ear.

“Zack Marin.” My hand is shaking, but I manage to keep my voice steady. This is a first. I have no idea what to expect.

“Zack! Hi! This is Char, Ms. Royce’s assistant!”

“Yeah, hi.” I don’t remember a Ms. Royce. I can’t remember any of the casting agents’ names, but I’m not about to admit that now.

“She’s seen your audition tape and your impressive resume, and she’d love to have a sit-down with you tomorrow. Can you meet in the afternoon?”

I feel tongue-tied for a second. What’s so impressive about my resume? There isn’t anything on it yet. “Um, yeah, sure. What time?” I’m instructing an evening class at the dojo tomorrow, but that isn’t until seven.

“Let’s say four. I’ll send you the address,” the woman says, and I hear papers rustling in the background.

“Great. Hey, listen, is there anything I should wear?” I’m still trying to figure out the whole Hollywood look—what these studio types are even looking for.

“Nope. Just bring your adorable self, and we’ll be all good. See you at four!” The call ends before I can say another word.

“Damn. I guess that’s what a callback is.”

“What did she say?” Jacob asks, still hovering.

“It was the agent’s assistant, and they want me to come in for a ‘sit-down’ tomorrow, whatever that is.”

“That means they want to grill you to see if you’ll crack or if you’re the type to spill all their secrets.”

“Perfect.” Jacob’s words crank my nerves up a notch. “I definitely need to hit the gym if Ms. Royce is grilling me tomorrow.”

Working out is the only way I’ve survived in Hollywood this long. I’m constantly nervous.

I turn back to Jacob to find my roommate’s jaw on the floor.

“Royce? As in, Brianna Royce?” he asks, wide-eyed.

“I have no clue.”

“Dude! Video for a pop star? Brianna Royce?” Jacob’s eyes are wild.

I just shrug. He tends to get worked up easily. He’s kind of a diva.

“ She’s the freaking pop star! Brianna Royce! How do you not know who she is? She’s fucking hot! ”

“I don’t listen to that stuff. I’m more of a country-western guy.” I turn back to my gym bag, my nerves electric with this new information. My “sit-down” is with the star of the thing, not the casting agent? Holy shit ...

“You’d better start listening. Bro, you might be making out with Brianna Royce! Every guy’s dream come true.” Jacob continues down the hall to his door, finally. “I’m gonna want all the intimate details, man.”

“There won’t be any!” I call back. It isn’t my style to dish out my love life.

Crap, how stupid am I? I shake my head. This has nothing to do with my love life. I’m not even sure I can manage a fake make-out scene. But I don’t have any other offers. Something like this could get my career going.

Thing is, I’m not sure this is the career I want anymore ... but I’m not sure I’m ready to give up yet either.

As I mull over the possibilities, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text, with the address and a little smile emoji.

I stare at the address. I could text the assistant back and say I’ve changed my mind, that I’m busy or sick or moving. Do I want to be a piece of man meat in some starlet’s video?

Instead of replying, I open my YouTube app and search for Brianna Royce. Her latest video has more than three hundred million views. And Jacob was right. She’s hot. Really, smoking hot. Long blonde hair curling over her shoulders and eyes the color of a big ranch sky. Her lips are the perfect heart shape: not so puffy I think she has filler, but not thin either. Hourglass figure with the perfect proportions to fit my grip. If she were a girl I’d met at school or in a normal setting, I’d want to talk to her, get to know her, maybe ask her out.

But this isn’t under normal circumstances, and I won’t be getting to know her. It’s an audition all about my beefcake status.

I tap the video cued up on my phone and turn up the volume. A smooth beat begins as Brianna rolls around on a bed with satin sheets. Her eyes fix on the camera, making it seem like she’s looking right at me. She’s wearing a form-fitting black lace dress that barely covers her up. Damn. It’s simultaneously hot and degrading. I watch her make that face girls make—the pout. I hate that pout. It’s too fake, only intended to get a guy’s attention, and it never works with me. I run the opposite direction fast when I see that pouty look.

She starts singing to the music—some love song about wishing she could have the guy she can’t have. Which is a huge joke. A hot, famous singer like her could probably snap her fingers and guys would come running. Like calling a dog.

I don’t want to be her dog.

The next scene is on the beach, Brianna in a bright pink bikini. Yeah, that’s hot. Then a guy—presumably the one she’s singing about—blond and muscular, tan, shimmering with oil and the weird golden filter they’ve used, grabs her by the waist and spins her around. He lifts her left leg and wraps it around his waist, running his other hand along her face as she continues to sing.

That could be me next. Do I want to put myself out there like that?

A cold chill runs through my body. I’m not sure whether it’s fear or excitement.

My eyes return to the screen. The song has ended, but now there’s an outtakes montage, all the flubs and mess-ups. Brianna slipping ... the guy getting splashed by a wave he didn’t expect ... Brianna laughing in her makeup chair. Then there’s one at the end: a silhouette of Brianna standing next to a window, looking at the ocean. The shot is only a split second, but something about it feels different to me.

I skip back and pause the frame, studying her profile.

I have the feeling she was caught off-guard for this one. She wasn’t acting. That’s real emotion on her face, and I wonder if anyone else notices what it is, because I do.

Fear.

Tapping through her other videos, I end up down the rabbit hole, chasing the need to see more images of Brianna, looking for that same emotion in her eyes. I find more than enough images of her to look at, but none have the same sense of fear. I’m starting to think I imagined it—until I finally see it once again.

This time it’s a paparazzi shot outside what looks like a red-carpet premiere. She’s standing alone against the backdrop, looking off to the side, but I see it there in her eyes again: the fear.

What is she so afraid of?

I look up the event, needing more angles, more shots. In every single one she’s wearing the same familiar expression. The expression of someone who wants to hide. I know the feeling behind that look—I’ve had it often enough myself. But why does she ?

I swipe out of YouTube and Google and open up my texts, sending a thumbs-up emoji to the assistant. Then I grab my gym bag and my headphones. My nerves have calmed down, but my curiosity is piqued. I want to see her for myself—see if there’s still that same look in her eye.

I’m suddenly completely sure I want to have that sit-down with Brianna Royce.