The extra series 1, p.27
The Extra Series, #1, page 27
When I leave the bathroom, a cloud of steam trailing out behind me, I see that Josh is sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee and flipping through my script.
“You’re really getting back together with Vincenzo?” he asks, raising a dark eyebrow at me. “Didn’t he steal your baby or something?”
“My character Maeve is getting back together with Vincenzo. Which, yeah, seems like an oversight, given the baby thing. But Maeve has a weakness for cute Latino men.”
“Clearly something Anna-Marie and Maeve have in common.”
I grin, and let my gaze linger on his bare, toned chest. “Clearly.” Then I walk over to him and grab the script from his hands. “Besides, you aren’t supposed to be reading that. I have clauses against this kind of thing. You’re an agent. You should know better.” My scolding tone is all for show. I’m supposed to keep spoilers from getting out in the world, but it’s not like I’m carrying around the script for the latest Star Wars or something. And I’m pretty sure Josh doesn’t even watch Southern Heat.
“Hey, you left it out on my bed. I didn’t sign anything about not reading it.” He gives me that smile, just the teeniest bit crooked and all kinds of mischievous, and then pulls me back down to the bed on top of him.
I don’t resist at all. The script falls to the floor as we kiss. He tastes like hazelnut roast and heat, and I suddenly wish I didn’t have to go into work today.
But I do, because Maeve needs to reconnect with Vincenzo, and I need to not lose another soap opera gig. I’ve been at Southern Heat now for just over a year, which is definitely better than my short tenure on Passion Medical, but after that incident, I am well aware I’m only one framed awards statue theft away from my character dying a tragic poisoning death—or worse, being recast by some actress with bigger boobs than me.
Josh seems happy enough with my boob size; his hands are already making their way up my shirt when I pull back, and he gives me a sad little sigh. “Fine, I get it. You’ve got another hot guy to go make out with. Meanwhile, I have a meeting with a client who wants a rider in his contract that will allow his cats to have their own trailer on set. One of us is clearly going to enjoy the day more.”
I laugh. I know Josh well enough to know the put-upon agent thing is an act—he loves his job, even when it annoys the hell out of him. “Well, if you really want to make out with Vincenzo instead, I could probably arrange that.”
He tickles my waist and his grin widens when I can’t help but giggle. I roll off him so that I’m stretched out along his side. “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he says. “Besides, if I’m going to go after one of Maeve’s boyfriends, Ben tells me the better catch is Bruce.”
“Ben watches Southern Heat?” I’ve never met Josh’s best friend, a guy he’s known since childhood, but I’ve heard about him plenty. And nothing Josh has ever said about Ben—other than the fact that he’s gay—indicated he’s a soap-opera kind of guy. More like a guy who yells at the screen while watching hockey games and eating cereal in his sweatpants.
“No, but Wyatt does. And Ben tells me he’s a super-fan of Maeve and Bruce. Posts on the message boards and everything.”
“Really.” The thought that Josh’s best friend’s husband is a fan makes me surprisingly happy. Then again, I’m still new enough to the industry that I have to hold in a little squee noise every time someone recognizes me from TV. “Well, Braeve is the more popular ship of the two, that’s for sure. The solid choice.”
“Brave?” Josh raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you know, like a combination of Bruce and Maeve. Braeve.” I swat at him when he continues to eye me skeptically. “Hey, I didn’t make it up. Blame the fans.”
“Yes, blaming the fans. Always good PR advice. But why Braeve? Why not . . .” He pauses for a few seconds, squinting his eyes as he thinks. “Muce?”
The sudden, unexpected hilarity of that—which he pronounces like “Moose”—makes me let out one of my infamous (and thankfully rare) snort-laughs, which sounds like a small weed-whacker has briefly taken up residence in my nose. I feel my soul actually leave my body as I die inside.
Josh Rios has never heard my snort-laugh before, and I would have happily gone on with my life content to keep it that way. But instead of giving me a half-pitying/half-horrified look (trust me, I’ve gotten that before), Josh’s grin gets bigger than I’ve ever seen it. And he doesn’t say anything to call attention to my embarrassment, which I appreciate.
He does roll over on his side to face me, propping his head up with his hand. It gives his bicep a nice shape, and I know I should encourage him to get clothes on so I’m not late for work, but damn if I don’t think he should just stay shirtless and in bed with me all day.
“So which guy do you think Maeve should be with?” he asks. “Solid Bruce or Bad Boy Vincenzo?”
I purse my lips thoughtfully. “Neither. I don’t think Maeve has found the right person yet.” I pause. “Neither of them really get her, you know? It’s like each of them is perfect for a part of her, but Maeve needs more than that. She needs someone more whole, more real.”
The moment the words have left my mouth, a kind of warning alarm sounds in my head:
Danger. Danger. Serious relationship talk indicators ahead. Prepare escape vessel.
As if on cue, Josh’s amused expression slips, and his dark brown eyes study me carefully. “So is any of Maeve drawn from real life?”
Shit.
Josh and I have been seeing each other for two months now, and this is the closest we’ve ever come to these dangerous waters—probably because he feels the same way I do, that nothing good ever comes from these talks. He asked the original question jokingly, and then I turned it all . . . serious. And now that I’ve done that, he feels the need to suss out the threat level himself, make sure I’m not some commitment-hungry agent poacher. Which I am most definitely not.
I’ve unintentionally led us here; it’s up to me to guide us back to safer shores.
I give him my best disarming smile. “Only the part about my newborn child being stolen in the hospital by my jealous lover.”
“Only that part?” His lips quirk up in a smile again, and my chest stops feeling quite so tight.
“Real life doesn’t come into play very often for Maeve, I’m afraid. Since she’s a soap opera character,” I say with more derision toward the genre than I actually feel. I sit up. “A soap opera I’m going to be late for if we don’t eventually get out of bed.” I lean in and give him a long, lingering kiss to soften the words.
He makes a little groaning noise when I pull away. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.” He slides out of bed and digs around in his dresser drawer until he finds a pair of basketball shorts and one of those sweat-wicking shirts to throw on, then disappears into his closet to gather his work clothes. Josh doesn’t need to be at work for a couple hours yet, so after dropping me off on set, he hits the gym and gets ready for work from there.
Despite his hatred of the pre-dawn hours, Josh has never hesitated about taking me to work when I spend the night here, even though it would be far easier if I just drove to his condo in the first place rather than having him pick me up for our dates. I assume he thinks I just like riding around in his Porsche—which, to be fair, is really nice. What he doesn’t actually know, because I’m not about volunteer this information, is that I’m irrationally terrified of driving in Los Angeles and don’t even own a car. I survive on rides from Gabby or whatever guy I’m currently dating, or, failing that, Uber.
I spend a lot of money on Uber.
I’m in the middle of doing a quick calculation of how many pairs of Gucci heels I could afford if I sweet-talk one of my co-stars into driving me home from set a couple times a week, when I hear Josh’s voice, muffled from the closet.
“So do you enjoy working on a soap opera? Like, is that where you ultimately want to be?”
He walks out, carrying a slim-fitted navy blue suit and a pair of brown oxfords. I know this suit; it looks incredibly sexy on him, and it takes me a second to get my mind back on his question.
I shrug. “I mean, not forever. But my agent says I’m in a good place for now.”
Josh looks up sharply from the garment bag he’s putting his suit into. “Are you serious? He says that to you? He doesn’t have you auditioning anywhere else?”
“No. He thinks I should work for a while here, build up some more experience—”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re an actress. Unless you actually want a lifelong career in soaps, you need to be auditioning.” He zips the garment bag up with a sense of finality. “What you need is a better agent.”
“Brent’s a good agent,” I say, feeling slightly defensive of the man who took a chance on me when my acting experience had been limited to high school theater. In Wyoming. “He got me this job, which is pretty damn great for how long I’ve been in Hollywood.”
Josh’s expression softens, and he sits on the bed next to me. “Brent got you an audition. You were the one that got the part, which is pretty damn great. But just because you’re grateful for what you have doesn’t mean you can’t be ambitious.” He pauses. “You should let me represent you.”
My heart stops beating for long enough I should probably be worried.
But all I can think is, Josh Rios wants to be my agent.
It’s not like this possibility has never entered my mind before. I’m a newbie actress, after all, and Josh is an agent with a capital A. He’s not quite at the very top echelon yet, but for being only twenty-eight, he’s really close. He represents Chad Montgomery and Asia Phillips and a heaping handful of others who are breaking out, big-time.
The things he could do for my career . . .
And yet.
I like Josh. And though I clearly have no problem using guys for car rides, the thought of leveraging the fun I have with him into some stepping stone—like so many in Hollywood do as naturally as popping pills—makes me faintly nauseated.
This thing we have has an expiration date, and the last thing I want is some super awkward agent/client relationship with Josh once it sours.
“That sounds a lot like mixing business with pleasure,” I finally manage. “Which I hear isn’t a great idea.”
Josh leans in close enough that his hair brushes against my forehead. “Lots of agents sleep with their clients. It’s really not a big deal.”
Suddenly I can’t help but wonder if—and how often—Asia Phillips rolls around on these same Egyptian cotton sheets. The image of that gives me a pit in my gut like after Gabby talks me into eating at Fong’s.
Which is stupid. Who he sleeps with isn’t any of my business. We’re super casual, Josh and me, and that works for us.
“Thanks,” I say, even though part of me is wailing in disbelief at what I’m about to say. “But I’m going to stay with Brent.”
Josh winces in mock pain. “You’re breaking my heart, Halsey.”
I run my foot up his leg, under the basketball shorts. “I know one way to ease the pain of my rejection.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to be late for work.”
“I don’t.” I hold up my phone, showing him the time. “Turns out we have a few extra minutes. Seems like we always do, don’t we?”
A sly smile spreads across his face. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that even as you’re rushing me out of bed, you build in time for this? Every morning?”
I grin back at him. “Took you long enough to catch on, Rios.”
He chuckles, and then his hands are in my hair and his lips are on mine, and I lose myself happily in all things Josh.
That expiration date could happen any day now, and I’m determined to enjoy this while it lasts.
Two
I’m sitting in the cramped backseat of a Ford Focus on the way home from work, listening to the middle-aged Uber driver up front as she hums tunelessly to radio music turned so low only she can hear it, when my dad calls.
I grimace at the phone. I love my dad, but we only ever call each other if there’s a Reason.
And I have a pretty good idea what that is.
I answer the phone. “Hi, Daddy,” I say, my voice far more cheerful than I myself feel.
The Uber driver gives me a look in the rearview mirror and I glare back at her. Yes, I call my dad “Daddy.” No, I do not call any of the guys I sleep with that.
I’m not sure if she can read all that from my expression, but she goes back to her humming.
“Hi, Pumpkin,” my dad says. “We missed you today.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral, my work schedule is so—”
“It’s fine! I get it. You’re a successful actress, and you have work commitments.” He says this with no small amount of pride. “And besides, I know you weren’t ever all that close to Aunt Ida.”
That’s kind of an understatement. Aunt Ida is—was—actually my dad’s aunt, a crotchety old woman with the fragile bone structure of a baby bird and a habit of saying whatever crossed her mind. And the things that crossed her mind grew increasingly meaner—and shockingly anti-Semitic—as the years went on.
“Well, the last time I talked with her, she called my soap opera ‘an ad for legalized prostitution’ and ranted about relations with Israel. So there’s that.”
My dad laughs. “Yeah, I kept expecting her to sit up in the coffin and chew us all out one last time.”
“If that had happened, then I really would have been sorry to miss it.”
There’s a pause of heavy silence, and I know the Reason is coming now, and it wasn’t the funeral of my great-aunt. “You’re still coming to the reunion, though, right?” Dad asks. “I know how busy you are, but I’d love for you to meet Tanya.”
And there it is, the thing I’ve been avoiding thinking about ever since I asked for the time off of work a few months ago: the Halsey Family Reunion, in my hometown of Everett, Wyoming. A yearly event, and one I’ve managed to avoid since I left for LA, four years ago.
But my dad’s getting married again, and I know if I don’t show up, it’ll look like I’m making some kind of stand against this woman I’ve never met and my dad’s happiness. Which would make me a total bitch, if it were true.
The truth is, I don’t have any problem with Tanya. What I do have a problem with is the thought of being back in Wyoming. With all of the rest of them.
Which puts me at only semi-bitch level, I’d like to think.
“I’ll be there. I promise,” I say, curling and uncurling my toes in my new red Fendi slingbacks, which were already growing uncomfortable at the restaurant last night with Josh and are now slowly turning my feet into two giant throbbing blisters. But they are adorable.
“Good. Good.” My dad tends to repeat himself when he’s nervous, and it hits me then how worried he was that I’d bail. Which makes me feel like the worst daughter ever.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I say. “Driving. So I’ll be there in a few days.”
Dad doesn’t question the driving part; he also doesn’t know about my aversion to doing so in Los Angeles. “I’m so glad, Pumpkin. I can’t wait to have both my favorite girls with me.”
I’m not sure he realizes how many times he’s lumped me in as one of his “favorite girls” over the years with women who have very quickly lost that title. But I know he means it, every time.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, and with the Reason taken care of, we quickly end the call.
We get to my apartment not long after, and the moment I’m inside and close the door behind me, I kick off my beautiful designer feet tenderizers with a low moan of relief.
“Oh, damn,” Gabby says, poking her head out from the kitchen and startling me enough that I jump. “For a second there I thought maybe you’d finally brought Josh here.”
“And while I’m making that noise, that’s really when you want to meet a guy I’m seeing?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
She’s not wrong. She’s walked in on no small number of my make-out sessions with guys over the years, until I finally just started taking them straight to my bedroom rather than bothering with the living room couch pre-show.
But Josh . . . I look around our cramped apartment, with its thrift store furniture and only semi-functional appliances and the threadbare carpet with that wine stain that looks like a Rorschach test, and I think: no way. Not that I don’t love our apartment. It’s been my home ever since I came to Los Angeles. It’s like a part of me. And it’s not that I think Josh would be a jerk about how much nicer his place is than mine—he’s too good a guy for that. But Josh is a rich boy from Bel-Air who became a rich agent in Hollywood. He’s a man of fancy restaurants and Porsches and coffee machines that don’t have to have a “personality” to make up for the fact they can’t actually make coffee.
I can’t imagine him sleeping over in my bed that’s raised up on cinder blocks so it can fit my ever-growing shoe collection underneath. Or taking a shower in the stall so small and dimly lit you feel like you’re getting washed in an MRI machine.
