Mr. Hollywood’s Secret by Adora Crooks
Chrys
I’m in the middle of a meeting with my agent when Nico calls.
The Bartlett Agency operates out of a small, hole-in-the-wall cement building on the outskirts of LA, right across the street from a Taco Bell. There’s a glass door that always seems to have a crack in it, a waiting room with plastic chairs, and a desk that constantly rotates through blonde, buxom secretaries.
The office I’m sitting in is a cramped space with a bookshelf filled with script binders, B-list movie posters on the wall, and an ornate desk.
Felix the Cat watches me from above, his eyes and tail swishing back and forth with each tick of the second hand on his belly.
My agent, Roger Barlett, thinks the cat clock is hip. Vintage. He thinks it makes him quirky and authentic. But a cat clock isn’t a personality.
It’s just a clock. And, frankly, it’s unnerving, and it puts me on edge every time I sit in his office. I fiddle with the hem of my dress. I feel exposed here, and I wish I’d worn something that goes down to my ankles instead of my knees.
Roger sits across from me on a worn, plush purple couch I’ve come to loathe. He’s a tall man with a widow’s peak and a mustache that he clearly loves more than he loves his own grandmother. He has an open script in his hands, and he’s gripping it like it’s the Holy Grail.
“I mean, it’s like this part was written for you,” he says.
“That’s great!” I try to sound enthusiastic.
“It is,” he agrees. He pets his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Except…”
Here we go.
“Well, the caliber of the people involved in this project…they’re up there, you know? But, good news for you, I know the casting director. Personally. We go way back.”
This is a common story for him. We go way back is his favorite phrase. I’ve come to take everything he says with a grain of salt. So far, the only parts he’s managed to book for me are a couple of commercials and unnamed characters on TV shows.
Not that I’m complaining. At least I’m booking something.
LA is swarming with redheaded, starry-eyed hopefuls just like me. I’ll take what I can get.
“Cool.” I smile. “Sounds like a match.”
“Yes.” He nods. He stares at me. He’s waiting.
Dear God, don’t make me say it.
This is the dance we do. I want the roles. He wants something else from me.
I pull on a practiced smile. “What do you need from me?”
I’ve said the right thing. A smirk curls the edge of his mouth, and he runs his hand up his thigh. “Well…I think you know the answer to that.”
My stomach churns. Bile in my throat.
This is what they didn’t teach you in acting school.
How to Avoid Unwanted Advances by Your Agent 101.
I’d take that class in a heartbeat, now.
Felix watches us from above, his siltted eyes leering.
Suddenly, my pocket starts vibrating.
Thank God.
I take out my phone quickly and check the caller ID.
Nico? I haven’t spoken to him in years.
But right now, he’s saving my dignity.
I lift the phone and give it a shake. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this—one second.”
Roger’s expression goes sour. “Opportunity won’t wait forever.”
Asshole.
I step outside his office building to take the call. Even with the exhaust from the nearby highway, the air smells better out here.
“Nico fucking Ortega,” I answer. “This better not be a butt dial.”
He laughs. The sound is achingly familiar, and immediately, I’m nostalgic. My nerves, which feel like a box of pins rattling around on top of a washing machine, immediately relax at the sound of his voice.
“Chrys fucking Hudson,” he responds, “it’s been much too long.”
We fall into easy conversation. He asks all of the polite questions one asks after too many years have gone by—how am I doing? Have I been in any shows lately? Married? Boyfriend? Kids?
I give him the CliffsNotes version of the last ten years of my life: I’m doing alright, nothing but the forever grind of auditions. No boyfriends at the moment (or for years, if we’re being honest), only a roommate and a shoe-box apartment and our shared cat.
We reminisce: our wild, wonderful college years. I’m thirty now and feel far older than I should, but talking to Nico takes me back.
“This is going to sound crazy,” Nico says, “but do you remember that time you took me to your parents for Thanksgiving?”
I laugh. “Uh, how could I forget? We pretended you were my boyfriend. Really threw them through a loop.”
We also did…uh…non-pretend boyfriend and girlfriend stuff on that trip, but neither of us mentions it now.
The memory does send a ripple of warmth through me, and I can’t tell if it’s his honey-smooth voice or the hot LA sun that makes me sweat.
“Right,” Nico continues. “And when we came back…you said that you owed me. And if I ever needed a favor, no matter what, I could cash it in.”
“I think I can see where this is going…what’s the favor?”
On the other end, I hear Nico take a deep breath.
“Well,” he says, “I need you to marry my boyfriend.”