Page 75 of The Casting Couch

I shuffled into her office and lowered myself into the chair across from her desk, trying not to look like someone who’d recently been used as a human canvas.

She eyed me.“You’re damp.”

“I showered.”

One eyebrow rose.“Before a parole meeting?”

“I, uh, was dirty.”

She nodded slowly, like she knew exactly what kind of dirty I meant.

Then: “Employment?”

“Yes,” I blurted.“I have a job.”

“Where?”

I considered faking a seizure.

When that didn’t happen naturally, I said, “It’s a media company.Custom videos.Very niche clientele.”

“Company name.”

I hesitated.

“Bradley,” she said flatly.

“Boys On Film.”

She started typing on her desktop computer, then her mouth dropped open and shut again.

I felt it.The judgment.The awareness.

“You’re a sex worker?”

“No!I mean, yes?But I’m an actor.”

Brooke tapped a few more keys.“A job is a job.”

Then she pulled open her desk drawer and took out the urine test cup.

“Drug use?”

I flushed.“No.I mean… I took a pill today.It was for work, um, a performance enhancing little blue pill.”

Brooke did not smile.

“Take the cup.Men’s room is down the hall.Officer Schmidt will accompany you.”

She handed it to me like it was a commemorative mug.

I nodded like a man who had accepted his fate.Walked to the door.Nico gave me a small thumbs-up as I passed.

“Killin’ it,” he whispered.

I raised the cup in reply.

Then Officer Schmidt appeared—built like a dump truck with a badge—and led me down the hall in silence.

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