Page 98 of The Casting Couch

ChapterTwenty-Three

Nico

Walking into the Brooklyn Comedy Collective felt like trying to breathe through a wool blanket soaked in beer.Cramped and vaguely damp, the space felt oppressive, lit only by crooked string lights and a single overhead spotlight that made everyone look like they were about to confess something awful.Exposed pipes snaked across the ceiling, the black-painted walls were covered in DIY murals and graffiti quotes about art, comedy, and trauma—and none of it matched.Chairs were scuffed.The tables were sticky.And I loved it here.

Usually.

Tonight, it felt like walking into a bear trap.

I could barely think straight.My mother’s voice kept echoing in my skull like a car alarm.“We’re just sightseeing.”Yeah.With a fucking thumb drive full of stalker data and blackmail threats.

Was she really in on it?

God, I wanted to believe she wasn’t.I wanted to believe she was just stupid.That she didn’t know what her new redneck boat salesman boyfriend was up to.But… she called me Nicholas.She ooh’ed and aah’ed at my apartment like she was shopping for it.And she let that slimy bastard be alone in my bathroom.

Still, the idea that she was deliberately trying to hurt me—again—made something in my chest clench.There was a kid's version of me inside somewhere, still dumb enough to hope she’d come around.That version of me was curled up in a ball and crying right now.

“Nico,” Bradley said from behind me, touching my arm.“You okay?”

I realized I’d just been standing there near the entrance, frozen, people squeezing past me with PBRs and hummus-stuffed pita pockets.Someone had graffitied “LAUGH OR ROT” in marker on the wall by the bathroom.

I turned and looked at him.He was calm.Steady.Beautiful, in this effortless kind of way that made me want to both kiss him and scream.I didn’t deserve him, but hell if I wasn’t glad he was here.

“I’m freaking the fuck out,” I admitted.

“Totally fair,” he said.

I exhaled shakily and led him through the narrow room to a small table near the back.The light above us buzzed faintly, and the legs of the chair screeched when I pulled it out for him.

“Stay here?”I asked, even though I didn’t want to leave his side.

He nodded.“You’ll kill it.”

I gave him a tight smile, then ducked behind the stage curtain and into the tiny backstage area.It was more of a glorified storage nook than anything—half a coat rack, a single mirror, two rickety stools, and a weird smell I couldn’t place.

Another comic was back there, scribbling in a notebook and bouncing his knee like a man on trial.He glanced up as I came in.Tall, black, mid-thirties, with a gap in his teeth and a T-shirt that said GOD HAS LEFT THE GROUP CHAT.

“You’re up before me?”he asked.

“Yeah.Nico Steele.”

“Right on.I’m Jamal.You good?”

I must’ve looked like I’d just crawled out of a sewer drain.“Not really.My mom showed up outta nowhere today with her weird-ass boyfriend, who might be trying to blackmail me.Oh, and this guy I really like just shot his first bukkake video, and, oh hell.My life is really fucked up right now.”

He blinked, then whistled low.“Bukkake?”

“Never mind,” I muttered.“I don’t even know what I’m gonna talk about.My brain’s a fucking soup bowl.”

He gave a half-shrug.“Then say that.Turn the soup into a bit.Use it.Audience doesn’t want polish, they want blood.”He grinned.“Bleed funny.”

I stared at him.

He wasn’t wrong.

Maybe tonight wasn’t about pretending I had my shit together.Maybe tonight was about showing up with all my broken pieces and making them laugh, anyway.Because if I didn’t laugh, I might scream.

My fingers curled into fists, then loosened.

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