Page 2 of Ruthless Passion

"Jett—" I pull up to the school, hanging back to make sure I'm not in the way of other parents dropping off their children. My arm reaches over to cradle the back of the passenger seat so he can see how much I love him. "I wish I could have picked better, but that's what I got to get you, kid. I love you. Please don't let that ass turd?—"

"Shit. Say it, Mom, it makes you feel good inside." He flashes me his boyish smile, forcing me to reach out and fluff his hair. The way he can cool his temper so quickly is enviable.

"It only makes you feel good because you're not supposed to say it. Please don't give the teachers hell today, and don't knock out all of your friends with those rancid socks."

Jett's face lights up. "MOM! They are lucky! Look what happened. First thing, before school even started, that shit cut himself out of our lives for good. It's gonna be a great day. Don't be late to your audition. Do you want to take the lucky socks? You can bring them back to me during lunch."

"No, kid, they're all yours. And you're right, it is going to be an awesome day. And that's your last ‘shit’ in front of me for at least two months, unless it’s absolutely necessary."

Jett nods, grabs his bag, and races inside to be with his friends. Once Jett's beyond the school doors, along with most of the students, I scream into the steering wheel. There's no way my eight-year-old son should be used to the monster, Duke Everett.

Duke Everett is the spitting image of a teenage girl's dream. He was my teenage dream until I let him pick me out of all the girls in my freshman year of high school. He made the rules, and of course, he's rewritten them along the way. It went from ‘I was the perfect girl for him’, to ‘we should never have met’.

A soft knock on my window jars me back to the drop offline in front of Jett's elementary school. A woman with a whistle and badge draping around her neck, is looking at me through my closed window.

"I'm sorry. I'm leaving now," I tell her, lowering the glass, with the hope my screams and tears don't show in my expression.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hansen?—"

"Miss." I correct her.

"Miss Hansen, there's a bake sale and the Spring Fling Carnival coming up. If you can check in with the PTA to select a volunteer job?—"

"I will, I will," I assure her, putting my window back up and driving off with a wave to her. It's not her fault the father of my kid is a piece of shit.

A loud sigh pushes from behind my lips. Jett's right. The word feels great. Still, as good as it feels, my mind needs to shift from the shit I let get me pregnant and back to this audition. The mortgage isn't going to be paid this month if I don't land something.

Dipping into my savings is the absolute last resort. My parents might help as long as no other emergencies pop up. It was easier when they lived here and paid all the bills for the house, however they relocated to Arizona.

But I wouldn't, no, I couldn't leave under my custody agreement with Duke. He nearly exploded when I mentioned my parents were moving, thinking I was going with them and taking Jett with me. He never wanted to be a father, but he does like controlling others whenever possible. I guess he's at the end of his rope when it comes to me and Jett.

To appease the tyrannical father of my child, I stayed in San Francisco, picking up the mortgage so my parents wouldn't have to foot the bill for two homes. The choice to stay behind so my younger brother, Collin, and Jett could stay in their schools was a risky one. For the last year, I've been making ends meet, but it's getting harder by the day.

I let the sounds of morning podcasts drown out thoughts of being a semi-responsible adult until I arrive at my destination, Luca Brisco Studios.

Luca Brisco Studios is set on a lot on the outskirts of the city, where a group of TV and movie studios turned empty warehouses and parking lots into a premiere set of stages. I don't remember the last audition I went to because steadier office temp gigs keep the lights on. Unfortunately, acting isn't consistent enough for me, but I have hope for this role.

After pulling my little hatchback into a parking spot, flashing my ID and email confirmation to at least six different security guards, I'm let into the building. It's rough on the outside with chipped red brick attached to a cinder block foundation wrapping around the lower quarter of the structure, but inside?

The smell of fresh coffee wafts through the air. There's a long desk about twenty feet center to the entrance, where receptionists greet each visitor. A wide interior window behind the desk lets me see onto a set which looks like a news anchor is ready to spout the latest on politics and crime. Three receptionists work in front of me while two buff security guards ensure no one sneaks around the desk.

"Good morning." One bubbly blonde beams with a piercing in her nose and an extravagant set of nails which move masterfully across a phone and keyboard. "How can I help you?"

"I'm Josephine Hansen. Everyone calls me Jo. I'm here to see Austin Hinkley about an audition."

"Right." The blonde taps on her keyboard. Her chair's sliding from side-to-side, and she grabs a visitor sticker and a marker. "You're going to head through that door. There's a long hallway and you're going to room 104. Have a seat when you get there and break a leg."

She scrawls 'Everyone Calls Me Jo' on the visitor’s badge before handing it to me. Humor is a good sign before an audition. It helps me relax.

The guard steps aside for me to push through a large swinging door that opens into a light gray corridor. There are about ten doors on the left, but only three on the right. The way my pulse pounds as the bright fluorescent lighting guides me to my destiny has me ready to forget this morning's emancipation from Duke Everett.

The door to Room 104 is open, showing a row of chairs lined up against the back wall. As soon as I step inside, the most awe-inspiring sight greets me. His towering height lets the impeccably tailored pinstripe suit hang off his sculpted frame like a model on a runway. I wonder if he's the leading man for this production.

My breath hitches when he turns around. Sapphire blue eyes stop me in my tracks. A salt and pepper mustache and beard are lighter than the full head of dark brown hair sweeping toward the back of his head. His striking features ensure I ignore the other two people beside him.

I finally find my voice, pushing myself forward with my hand extended to greet everyone in the room. "Morning everybody, I'm Josephine Hansen. You can call me, Jo."

"Hi, Jo. I'm Daphne, the director." The young woman grins as she shakes my hand. "Uh, I have your headshot and resume here from Monique Shewster?"

---