Page 3 of Never Fake Date the Financier
“Well, I look forward to meeting her.”
I force a smile before patting him on the shoulder, wishing him well, and finally leaving the most exhausting lunch meeting in recent memory. Thankfully, my driver is already waiting for me. When I collapse into the back seat, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I’ve leaped over the first hurdle unscathed, and now I have six months to figure out the details.
But as I make it to my office, my phone buzzing with texts and missed calls from my mother, I have a feeling this won’t be as simple as I thought. And the next texts from my mother seal it.
Mom: Gabriella? Why haven’t you told me?!
Mom: When can I meet her?
I set my phone down as I recline in my chair. The leather creaks as I swivel and gaze lazily out at the city’s skyline.
As soon as I do.
2
ELLA
ALMOST SIX MONTHS LATER…
“I’m goingto make you a star,” my interviewer says with a smile that’s more like a snarl.
Chills. Down my spine. And also vomit. Rising in my throat.
I’ve heard horror stories about these kinds of people in the movie industry, but I’ve never come face to face with a living, breathing monstrosity of a human being. Everything about this man makes my skin crawl. With a bulbous nose, bloated face, thick jowls, and a beard that’s as patchy as the top of his head, this man looks more orc than human. And the more I look at him and—gag—smell him, the more I’m convinced that he led the charge for the forces of Mordor inTheLord of the Rings.
Newsflash: I’m not your “Precious,” and if “making me a star” includes you putting one of your slimy, sausage-link fingers on me, then I DON’T WANT TO BE A STAR.
Jesus, are there rotting cabbages in his desk drawer?! That smell! Woof.
I should’ve turned around when I saw a young woman rush out of his office, red-cheeked and furious. I should’ve kept on walking when I saw the orc in an ill-fitting suit appear in the doorway after her, eyeing my body like it was his next meal while he sucked in labored breaths and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. I should’ve said ‘Nope,’ turned around, and walked back to the elevator, leaving BlackeThorne Entertainment behind when he said ‘Morning, sweets. You next?’
There was a string of red flags waving wildly in the wind but I plucked each one out of the air and banished them to the darkest corners of my mind because I needed this job. And I needed it badly.
I’ve spent the last few months failing miserably at getting my acting career off the ground. I’ve had audition after audition. Some with callbacks, some without. But each time I was about to cross the finish line, no matter how minor the role, someone swooped in at the last minute and beat me for the spot.
A friend of the director. A girlfriend of a producer. A gaffer’s maid’s daughter’s friend who once looked after a cat that brushed against the leg of the barista who served the executive producer their latte each morning. Okay, that last one might be a slight exaggeration, but my point stands: Connections, no matter how tenuous, get you roles. And after eight months in this city, I had neither connections nor roles. Time, along with my money, was running out.
That’s where this interview from hell comes in—a production assistant job. It’s supposed to get me out of two binds: The money I sorely needed to continue chasing my dream, and most importantly, connections. But as much as I need them, I’m not sure they’re worth enduring another minute—scratch that—second with this man.Guhguhguhguhghelpme.
I don’t respond to his comment about making me a star. Instead, sink deeper into my seat as I try my best to make myself smaller and less noticeable. Can an orc see its prey if it doesn’t move, or is that aT. Rex? Or…
Unfortunately, I have my answer a few moments later.
“You’ve got the look,” he says, eyes scanning me up and down. “If only you smiled a little more,” he adds, winking as he clicks his tongue.
Kill. Me.Now. I no longer want to live in a world where this man breathes.
“But do you have the temperament?” he says after a few moments of my refusing to smile on command.
I gag a little in my mouth. “Temperament?”
Does this man think I’m a stray dog being evaluated for adoption?
“I’m sorry, but I thought I was applying for a production assistant job. What do looks or…ahem, temperament have to do with anything? Have you read my résumé?”
Is this real life? I have no idea what’s going on.
“Of course, but we both know the real reason you’re applying.” He waves my résumé in the air. “You’re a theater major fresh out of college. And you have a string of waitressing jobs, multiple concurrently.” He clicks his tongue, and it makes my skin crawl all over again. “And this city isn’t cheap, sweets.” More eye-fucking. GoodGOD!This man has no shame. “And I’m sure rent is eating up your money at an alarming rate.”
