Page 2 of Nathan

Bernard turns his furious gaze on me. “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he snaps, his voice colder than having a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

I don’t get to answer. Instead, Nate interjects with, “I’ll bet you did,” with a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Bernard ushers the woman out of his office and, with another enraged glance at me, slams the door in my face.

Shit.

Chapter 2

Nate

“Tut tut, Bernard. What would Marjorie say?”

I can’t keep the glee out of my voice. Bernard’s wife will kill him if she finds out he’s screwing his starlets. And, considering Marjorie holds the purse strings, as well as Bernard’s balls, he may find himself sleeping rough on Santa Monica Boulevard if she gets wind of this escapade. I have no doubt the blonde wannabe isn’t the first starlet Bernard has buried his cock in, but she’s the first I’ve caught him with. And by God, I’m going to turn this situation to my advantage.

Horror leaches across Bernard’s flabby face, his jowls as droopy as his man boobs. “You won’t say anything, right? I mean, she meant nothing. Another grabby little whore looking for representation for a talent that doesn’t exist. I only did what any red-blooded male would do and took what was on offer.”

I hide my disgust behind the hint of a smile. I loathe men like Bernard who use their power to abuse those desperate for a helping hand in corrupt industries like Hollywood. Still, I’m about to deliver a valuable lesson to Bernard and his minuscule cock—one he’ll do well to remember.

“Well, that depends,” I drawl, rubbing my chin.

“On what?” Fear turns Bernard’s voice thick and heavy, and a sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead, despite the efficient air conditioning.

I rise from the chair and head over to the corner of the office to open the cabinet where my agent keeps the good bourbon, then I pour myself a drink and stroll back to my chair. Bernard has schooled his expression into one of apathy. He doesn’t fool me, though. He’s one of the best agents in town, but he’s not a good guy. He only does things which benefit himself. If I wasn’t hot property, thanks to my hit show The Liar—a title that is a brilliant irony to my own sorry excuse of a life—Bernard would have dropped me by now.

Still, I have to give him some credit. It was Bernard who persuaded the executive producer of The Liar to let me audition. As a relative unknown at the time, getting my foot in the door had been a constant battle, but once I got that initial break, it was my talent and hard work that landed me the part. It came at a price, though—a twenty percent cut for Bernard, rather than the industry standard of ten percent for agent fees.

I’d remained patient, bided my time. Life has taught me that patience usually brings rewards, and here is mine.

I sip my drink and eye Bernard over the rim of my glass. “Ten percent,” I say.

“Of what?” Bernard scratches his flabby cheek, the burst blood vessels caused by years of alcohol abuse giving him a red, blotchy appearance.

“That’s your new fee.”

Bernard’s eyes widen as he catches on. “You have got to be joking.”

I shake my head. “Do I look like I’m joking? Your time of fleecing me is up, Bernard.”

“Without me, you’d be earning two-fifths of fuck all. I deserve my cut.”

“And you’ve had it. For four years. Ten percent,” I repeat.

“I’ll pull the Stefan Lowe audition. Tell him you’re not interested.”

My leg muscles quiver, and I clench my teeth. Stefan Lowe is Hollywood’s most successful director. Everyone who is anyone wants to work with him. Bernard called me yesterday to drop the news he’s gotten me an audition for Stefan’s upcoming blockbuster, and now he thinks he can use it as leverage to keep his inflated share of my fucking income. Poor Bernard. He still thinks of me as the green kid who floundered as the lead in a hit TV show.

Time to enlighten him.

“That’s fine, and once you’ve done that, I’ll swing by your place to see Marjorie. I haven’t seen her in a while. I’m sure she wants to hear all my news.”

Bernard’s eyes pop out of his head. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I bark a hollow, single note laugh. “Don’t push me. It would be a mistake.”

Bernard leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, resting them on his heart-attack-waiting-to-happen stomach. “You might think you’re a hotshot in this town, but I can ruin your career like that.” He clicks his fingers.

I place my palms on Bernard’s desk and lean forward. “Try it,” I say, my tone lethal. “Here’s something you don’t know about me, Bernard. I’m not like the majority of power-hungry people in this town. Sure, I love acting, and I like the money, but the fame? Nah, that does nothing for me. So if I don’t work in this town…” I shrug. “Who gives a shit? I’ll go get a job on Broadway. My whole family is in New York. Maybe it’s time I went home, anyway.”

---