Page 49 of The Casting Couch

By the time I made it outside, the afternoon sun felt too bright.Too fake.Like someone had cranked up the saturation on my life just to mock me.I stood at the curb, staring at the traffic.Watching cars blur past like they were all late for something important.

And for a second—just one dark, bitter second—I wondered how it would feel to just… step out.

End scene.

Roll credits.

Bradley Mitchell, age twenty-six, tragically flattened by a food delivery guy on a moped.

It’d be poetic, in a gross, low-budget kind of way.

I took one slow step forward, toes just barely over the edge of the sidewalk.

Another step, and maybe…

A hand grabbed my arm.

Hard enough to yank me back like I was a toddler about to chase a ball into traffic.

I gasped, heart slamming against my ribs, and turned around, ready to punch whoever it was in the face.

It was Nico.

“Whoa there, buddy,” he said, keeping hold of my arm like he didn’t fully trust me not to make another run for it.“Let’s not make today worse, okay?”

I blinked at him.“What… what are you doing?”

He shrugged, casual as hell.“Saw you doing your best impression of human roadkill bait.Figured you could use some company.”

I opened my mouth.Closed it.Looked back at the street.

Yeah… company sounded better than tire tracks.

Nico’s smile got just a little softer.“Wanna grab a drink with me?My treat.”

I hesitated for exactly half a second before nodding.

“Yeah,” I said, voice low and scratchy.“Yeah… okay.”

Because honestly?What the hell else was I gonna do?

* * *

The inside of the Stonewall Inn was dim and cool.I hadn’t been inside a gay bar in years, not since before prison.Not that I was some nightlife regular before that, either.Usually, I only went out to find people to buy my drugs.I always felt out of place in places like this, like I’d shown up to a party I wasn’t cool enough to be invited to.

But this… this wasn’t that.

There was a softness to the place.Worn barstools.Faded pride flags.The echo of a song I didn’t recognize bleeding out of a dusty jukebox.I followed Nico to the bar, feeling like I was walking into something sacred and mildly haunted.

He slid onto a stool and gestured to the bartender.“Two gin and tonics, please.And make his extra strong.Bradley’s about to star in a porno horror show.”

I sank onto the stool next to him.“Can we not call it that?”

He smirked.“You’re right.It’s more of an avant-garde expression of semen-based performance art.”

I dropped my head onto the bar with a groan.“God.”

The bartender set our drinks down without even blinking.Probably heard worse.

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