Page 107 of The Casting Couch

“You were great,” Ruth declared.“Like a young Scott Baio.Before he lost his damn mind.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping that was a compliment.

Brian shook my hand again.Still clammy.

“We’ll add graphics, maybe some b-roll of detention centers or...I don’t know, locked doors.”

“Sounds cheerful.”

They both waved me off, and I headed for Brooke’s office.Still fighting a grin, still tasting laughter in my mouth, and thinking for maybe the tenth time that morning how stupidly grateful I was not to be doing this whole mess alone anymore.

Brooke’s office looked the same.Part DMV, part guidance counselor’s lounge, part minimalist panic room.The walls were a sad beige, the desk was metal and probably from the Reagan era, and the only personal touch was a mug that said“Ask Me About My Trauma Response”holding a few chewed-up pens.

She didn’t even look up when I walked in.

“Close the door, Mitchell.”

I shut the door behind me and dropped into the chair across from her desk, which creaked like it resented my existence.Brooke scribbled something on a file—probably “Subject may have laughed too much in PSA.Potential sociopath.”

Then she looked up, resting her chin in her hand.“So.Filming go okay?”

I nodded.“Yeah.I channeled my inner troubled teen.Think I’m ready for a reboot of Scared Straight.”

She cracked the tiniest smirk.“You weren’t late.You didn’t show up high.And Brian hasn’t stormed in here crying.So… that’s a win.”

“I try to set the bar low,” I said.“That way, I surprise everyone.”

She flipped a page in my file.“Let’s talk about the last week.Any incidents?Fights?Weird behavior?Drug use?”

“I did emotionally spiral after a bukkake shoot,” I offered, “but I think that’s within the realm of normal.”

She blinked at me.

I blinked back.

“…I’m not gonna ask,” she said eventually, flipping another page.“What about drugs?Anything harder than ibuprofen?”

“Nope.I haven’t touched anything.Oh, sorry.I took another um, performance-enhancing drug for um, my job.But it’s perfectly legal.I’ve even been trying oat milk, if that counts as punishment.”

She checked a box.

“Police contact?”

“Nope.”

“Travel outside the city?”

“Only in my dreams.”

Brooke leaned back in her chair and let out a sigh that sounded like she’d aged two years since I walked in.Then she gave me the Look.The one that came right before a stern speech or a surprise drug test or a laminated brochure on anger management.

“Look, Bradley.You’ve been doing noticeably better.But don’t mistake forward motion for invincibility.”

“I don’t,” I said.“I’m not trying to screw this up.”

“I believe you,” she said.“But belief doesn’t count for shit if you break the rules.”

There it was.The Parole Talk™.

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