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“Don’t you go after her, now,” he said.

“What, to flirt with, or to kill?”

“Either.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Rien…”

“I won’t! I won’t. You know I only want you to be happy.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And sometimes cutting a man’s heart out is what makes you happy. What’s wrong with that?”

A squeal came from behind the gag.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to decide. Whether or not I need to keep on…doing what I do,” Gav said.

“I say do whatever makes you happy. Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life, you know? But if you ever need a break from being a good little boy, you’re welcome to come visit me here.”

“Thanks, Rien. That’s really thoughtful of you.”

I smiled.

“Anytime.”

CHAPTER TWO

Sara

God, I didn’t want to work today.

The bar I worked at to make ends meet was a shitty dive on the corner of La Brea and Sunset. It used to be a spot for rising actors to hang out, and the wood walls were covered in autographed prints of movie stars and rock musicians. Nowadays, though, there weren’t any rising actors, only people who pretended they were actors while working shitty jobs on the side. It was the cheapest place to get shots in West Hollywood, and so only the cheapest people came there.

I hated having to listen to their swaggering bullshit about how their next gig was going to be the big one. I hated acting like I cared, despite it being the only acting job I’d had in a while. Most of all, though, I hated cleaning up the puke off of the bathroom floor after all the fake Ernest Hemingways had tossed up their whiskey sours.

“Hey Mark,” I said, swinging around to the back of the bar. I surveyed the floor. There were a half-dozen people sipping on drinks at the bar, and only two tables were full.

“Sara, why are you here? Didn’t you get Marcy’s text?”

“What? What text?” I dug out my phone from my pocket. “No text.”

“Marcy, you were fucking supposed to text Sara!” Mark yelled back into the kitchen at his wife.

“I’m busy prepping!” Marcy yelled back.

“Prepping what? We have two tables full.”

“Fuck you, Mark!” Marcy yelled. “How about you do your own fucking job and let me do mine?”

“Whatever,” I said, not wanting to get them into another endless argument. “What was she supposed to text me?”

“We don’t need you tonight,” Mark said.

“What?” My heart sank. Had God heard me say I didn’t want to work? I didn’t mean it. I swear, God, I didn’t mean it. I had been counting on at least fifty bucks’ worth of tips to make rent at the end of the week.

Mark shook his rag at the customers.

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