Page 25 of The Casting Couch

Then he was gone.

I sat there… heart pounding, skin flushed, still half-hard… and very aware that my entire life had just taken a left turn into what the actual hell was happening.

ChapterSix

Nico

Ihad exactly three things on my Saturday afternoon to-do list: pay bills, hate-watch bad stand-up, and spiral into existential despair about my career choices.Two out of three were already underway.

The comic on TV was bombing.Not literally.He was in some sold-out theater, basking under lights, wearing one of those pseudo-casual flannel shirts rich white guys love when they want to seem relatable.His name was Chip McKenna, and apparently, the entire internet thought he was the second coming of George Carlin.

I didn’t see it.

He paced the stage like a Roomba with commitment issues, waving his arms around like that counted as delivery.

“So I’m at Starbucks, right?”Chip said, grinning like he’d just cured cancer.“And the barista writes my name as ‘Chad.’CHAD.Can you believe that?I’m like, do I look like a Chad?I mean, I drive a Prius, bro.I’m not out here doing keg stands and date raping!”

The audience roared.Actual screams.One woman in the front row slapped her thigh like she was witnessing peak Richard Pryor.

I paused mid-click on my Con Ed payment portal and just… stared at the screen like it had offended me.

“That’s the joke?”I muttered to myself.“You got a name mix-up at Starbucks and somehow that turned into frat boy assault humor?Groundbreaking stuff, Chip.Really pushing the envelope.”

I pulled up his Wikipedia page on my phone just to punish myself further.Net worth: 3.2 million dollars.Three Netflix specials.Upcoming tour.Sold-out shows in every major city.

Meanwhile, here I was… shaking my ass in porn, trying to land gigs at dive bars sandwiched between a guy doing puppet comedy and a girl with a ukulele singing songs about her yeast infections.

The bitter taste in my throat settled like a shot of bad tequila.

I finished paying the last of my bills, electric, internet, credit card minimums, and closed my laptop with a little more force than necessary.The screen dimmed and my crappy reflection stared back at me for a second before fading out.

Right on cue, my phone rang.

I didn’t need to look.I already knew.

MOM.

A groan crawled out of me like it had been waiting backstage for its cue.

I should’ve let it go to voicemail.I should’ve.Normal people with boundaries would’ve.

But I never did.Not with her.

I swiped to answer and put the phone on speaker, mostly so I could roll my eyes freely.

“Hello?”

Her voice came through thick as gravy, all Georgia molasses and passive aggression.“Well, if it ain’t my long-lost son.I was startin’ to think you got too fancy up there in New York to answer your own mama.”

There it was.The opening number of the same tired show.

“Hi, Ma,” I said flatly.

She launched right in, giving me the Tifton, Georgia gossip rundown like she’d been rehearsing.

“Your cousin Ronnie’s back in jail again.Stole a riding mower from Walmart, if you can believe that.And your Aunt Jeanette’s got herself another boyfriend, some trucker with three ex-wives and a drinking problem.And guess who got diagnosed with gout?Pastor Davis!Swear to God, he’s hobblin’ around church like Tiny Tim, bless his heart.”

I didn’t respond.I just sat there, chewing the inside of my cheek, staring at the wall.

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