by Aubrey Dark
“Mmmhmm. Are you fake, too?”
“Me?” Blaise looked offended. “I hope not. What do you think?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t think I know you well enough to tell if you’re fake.”
“Sara! I’m hurt.”
“Why? It’s only our third date.”
“You can’t tell the difference between me and a total phony? I would think you’d be able to know that right off the bat. I know I can spot a phony in this town right away. My dad works with so many phonies. All of them trying to get something from you. All total fakes.”
“I don’t know,” I said, swirling the wine around in my glass. After losing the one job that paid regularly, I was starting to wonder if I should have come to L.A. in the first place. Every guy I’d met here reminded me of Blaise. “Can you ever really know someone?”
“Is that the aspiring actress in you talking? Aren’t we all just wearing masks?”
“Well yeah, kinda,” I said. “I mean, aren’t you?”
“Is that serious? Are you asking that question seriously?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Why not?” Blaise sputtered. “I am not fake.”
I thought it was stupid for him to deny something so obvious. Most people in Hollywood were fake. Hell, I hadn’t done anything real in years. No real relationships. No real friendships. Even the potted plant on my balcony was fake. I didn’t hide it. Hollywood wasn’t about reality.
“You never pretend?” I asked. “Not even when you pretend to like someone? Or when you act like you’re not hurt?”
“No! That’s the same thing as lying!”
“So when that seagull shit in my hair on our second date and you said it didn’t bother you after I wiped it off, even though you kept staring at that spot on my head the whole time and it obviously bothered you…”
“That was different. Being nice is different than faking.”
“Not if you’re faking being nice.”
“You know what I mean!” he cried in exasperation.
Okay, so Blaise was an idiot. For the first couple of dates, I’d thought that maybe his offhand insults and idiotic remarks were just him being nervous. This was our… third? date, though, and he hadn’t gotten any better. Shame, too. The guy was cute. Arrogant and stupid, but cute.
His phone buzzed and he reached over to check it.
“Sorry, it’s a work thing,” he said, tapping away on his phone. I didn’t know if this was also a ruse to impress me, or if he really was such a workaholic he had to check his email every time a new one hit his inbox. What did he do, anyway? Some kind of sales job at one of the major studios, I vaguely remembered. His dad had gotten him the job. And the car to go with it.
Most people in Hollywood slept around with people who worked at studios. They used sex to get a better audition, a better part, a better paycheck. The main problem with sleeping around in Hollywood is that people think you’re sleeping around for the wrong reasons, not just to, you know, sleep around. But I liked sex. Sometimes I’d be talking about my latest date, and the friend listening to me would nod their head knowingly. They all thought I went to bed with men to get ahead.
Truth of it was, I’d never had sex with anyone I didn’t want to have sex with. I wouldn’t let myself do that, not ever.
But none of the guys I slept with impressed me. Not that they were all porn stars doing crazy kinky shit. If anything, the guys in Hollywood were too vanilla for me. I wanted the real kind of good sex, the kind where you explore all the ways to make each other feel good. The guys in L.A. were weirdly hung up about sex, though. They only wanted to fuck in positions that made them look good. They didn’t want to get messy. They needed their hair to stay styled and perfect. That was more important to them than good sex.
Take Blaise here. He could be a sex god. That’s why I had let him pick me up at the club, anyway. He had the looks and the physique, and a face that wasn’t movie-star handsome, but better than most. And really big hands. I’d hoped that meant what it usually meant.
I imagined those bulging muscles, naked and oiled, his chest broad and heavy, writhing in silk sheets as we twisted around each other. His thick hands gripping me around the wrists and pinning me down as he fucked me so hard the plaster rained down from the ceiling.
Three dates in, and he hadn’t made a move other than kissing me goodnight last time. I’d tried to get more from him. I’d let my hand brush against the front of his pants, hoping that there would be a thick erection there just waiting to burst out of his underwear. But nope. Nothing. Nada. One kiss and a goodnight.
Such a letdown. I know I wasn’t as perfect looking as most of the girls in L.A.—the technical term for a plain Jane like me is “character actor”—but I had a lot to offer guys, or so I thought. But I guessed for Blaise I was just the backup girl he could take out to one of his dad’s clubs whenever he needed somebody on his arm.
I picked up my phone and checked my email as I sipped the Pinot Noir and waited for Blaise to stop impressing me with his dedication to work. One new email. I checked the sender.
The casting director for MGM! It must be a message about my last audition. I had done super well. My agent had landed me this sweet audition for a supporting role in a new TV police drama. The role was for a sassy undercover agent out on the streets of Chicago. I’d nailed it. It was such a good part, too!
My heart began to beat faster as I opened the email.
Dear Sara Everett, we are sorry to inform you…
Fuck.
Double fuck.
I slumped back in my seat as my eyes skimmed the rest of the form rejection. A sigh escaped my lips.
“What’s the matter?” Blaise asked, putting his phone down and shoving a forkful of strawberry goat cheese salad into his mouth. “Gomf some bad newsh?”
“Close your mouth when you chew, why don’t you,” I said, irritated all over. He raised his eyebrows and swallowed the goat cheese.
“Don’t scowl,” he said. “It makes your forehead wrinkle. Got some bad news?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I said, setting down my wine. “I didn’t get this part for a TV show. I really wanted it. The script needed some work, but damn, I really wanted it.”
“Everybody really wants it. You know what I mean?”
“No shit, but I thought I did really well. I can’t believe I didn’t get it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Everybody thinks—”
“Fuck you,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to listen to any of his bullshit right now.
“What?” Blaise let his fork clatter to his plate. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”
“You know what?” I said. “The next time you’re gonna say something to make me feel better, stick a cock in your mouth instead.”
His mouth dropped open.
“Just like that,” I said. “Only with a big fat cock right… there.”
He closed his mouth with an audible snap. I shoveled salad into my mouth and took another bread roll from the center of the table. If this date was going off the tracks, I needed to eat quickly. I didn’t have any food in my shithole apartment for a dinner tonight.
“Maybe if you got a decent agent, you’d get some parts,” Blaise said, a frown creasing his face. He didn’t look nearly as handsome when he frowned.
“I have an agent.”
“You have a washed-up old man who calls you when the casting directors can’t get anyone off the D-list to come to their auditions.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “Roger is great.” I wished I hadn’t told Blaise about my agent. Or the audition. Or anything. This date was a disaster from the beginning.
“Roger is a has-been. Everybody in Hollywood knows that.”
“He’s a great agent.”
He wasn’t a great agent. I knew that. But Roger had taken me in when I first arrived in California, and he’d given me advice and a place to stay while I got on my feet. I owed him. Af
ter this audition, though, I was beginning to think that maybe I should switch to another agent. I just didn’t know how to tell Roger. It would break his heart.
“Maybe you should go fuck him, then,” Blaise said.
“Maybe I will, since your dick doesn’t ever seem to be working.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The veins on his temples were throbbing.
“Are you?”
“So it’s my fault? Just because I don’t assume I’m getting laid? Just because I try to treat you like a lady? Or did you want me to fuck you on our first date like a classless whore?”
That word. I gripped the table, trying not to slap him.
“I can make my own decisions about whether or not to fuck you on the first date. Or the second. Or the third. Right now, I’m not sure you even have the proper equipment down there.”
“Fine! See if I ever try to take you to dinner again!” Blaise said, throwing his napkin on the table. The wine sommelier had come over with the next bottle of wine Blaise had ordered for us. Hearing our conversation, he started to turn away. I grabbed his coattails and he turned right back.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I was about to leave, but I’m sure Blaise would love to have the bottle to himself. Maybe you two could chat about the vintages, just the two of you.”
“Fuck you,” Blaise hissed. “You’re a shitty wanna-be actress with a wanna-be agent who can’t wait to whore herself out.”
“Keep buying expensive wines,” I said. “Maybe all the antioxidants will make your dick grow longer. Or maybe you’ll just drink your tears away.”
“Ah… ahem,” the sommelier said.
“Bye. I hope the two of you have a long and happy life together,” I said.
“You’re just as fake as the rest of Hollywood,” Blaise sputtered. His face was beet-red, and his hands clutched the tablecloth. I leaned over and plucked a dinner roll from the bread basket and tucked it into my purse. Breakfast for tomorrow.
“We’re all fake,” I said. “Me, I’m the only one who doesn’t pretend to be real.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Sara
I was most of the way through the bottle of Jack Daniels when my phone rang. I squinted hard at the screen. It was my agent, Roger.
I didn’t really want to talk to him right then, but maybe it was for the best. That audition had been the last thing I had going for me in the past month. If he couldn’t find me any parts, maybe it was time to move onto another agent. As dumb as he was, maybe Blaise was right about that. I took a deep breath and answered the phone.
“Hey, Roger, what’s up?” I asked.
“Sara, my darling!” he said, with an overenthused joyfulness that I could tell was fake. His voice was whiskey-grizzled, and I wondered if he was drunk right now. “How did that audition go?”
“I didn’t get it,” I said. “I mean, the audition went well. I guess it just wasn’t my part. The dialogue was clunky, anyway. Listen, Roger—”
“Never mind that,” he said. “I have another part for you. Guaranteed.”
“Guaranteed?” I tried not to let the skepticism show in my voice. And I tried not to let the tiny flicker of hope in my heart grow. If there was one thing in this city that was poison, it was hopes and dreams.
“The studio contacted me directly,” he said. “Asked if I had a girl meeting a certain criteria. And you would fit the part perfectly!”
“What was the criteria?”
“They wanted the best Method actor I had,” he said. “You have to sink into this role completely. It’s an improv-type thing, they said, and you have to be willing to commit to the part for a full day. I thought to myself: who does Method acting like a champ? Sara! It has to be her!”
“Only a day?” I asked suspiciously.
“Tomorrow. That’s why they contacted me. Wanted someone who would be able to jump right into the role.”
You mean they wanted someone desperate, I thought. They must be filling in for someone who dropped out. Well, I was desperate.
“I can do tomorrow,” I said. “What time?”
“Eight in the morning. You’ll meet the client at the Starbucks right near Paramount. You know the one on Van Ness Avenue?”
“Is it a Paramount movie part?”
“They didn’t say, but that’s the guy who called me. He works there.”
The little flicker of hope inside me began to flame up. I took a swig of Jack to dampen it back down.
“What kind of a part is it? Do you have any other information? What should I wear?”
“Sorry, they didn’t give me much about it. Sounds like a one-shot thing. Nothing long term.”
“Ah. Boo.”
“If you’re not interested—”
“No, I am! I am,” I said. “I was just hoping to go there prepared.”
“They said they’d prepare you on-set,” Roger said, sounding so confident that I actually began to think that this was a job I would get if I just showed up. Hell, even if it was a walk-on role as an extra, they’d pay me fifty dollars and I’d get to scavenge the snack table for lunch. A warmth spread through my chest that could have been a newfound sense of hopefulness. It could also have been the Jack Daniels. I didn’t mind either way.
“Thank you so much, Roger!” I said. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, his attention already waning. “I’ll be out next week for an agent conference, but I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
“Thanks again,” I said. “You’re the best.”
“Of course I am, kid. Hey. Break a leg.”
Rien
It was the next morning before I dealt with the cleanup. I always sleep better when there’s a body in the house. Even if it’s dead.
I checked my watch. It was only ten. If I worked quickly, I could crack this guy’s skull open and still have time to watch an episode of Sherlock while I ate lunch. Excellent. Humming along to the bass line, I picked up my mallet and tossed it up in a spin, catching it again on the downbeat. Ready to go.
Jazz is good for killing, but the cleanup afterwards always puts me in more of a post-rock sort of mood. Something with a weird beat, something to keep my head bobbing.
Most serial killers save trophies from their victims. Gav never did, the damn quitter, but most of us do. Some of us take the victim’s jewelry. Some of us keep locks of hair, or fingernails, or fingers. I heard of one guy who clipped the Garfield comic from that day’s copy of the New York Times every time he killed.
Me, I’m working on a sculpture.
It’s in the front of my waiting room inside of a glass globe. I’m sure my patients have no idea what it is, and none of them have ever commented on it. I suppose when you’re getting ready to have your face cut open, there’s no time to waste looking at art.
If they looked closer, though, they would see that the plastic sculpture is made out of smaller parts, almost like a fractal. Each part is a thin sheet of tissue.
Specifically, human tissue.
Even more specifically, the tissue that makes up the part of the brain known as the claustrum, the little bit of gray matter in our skulls that turns our consciousness on and off.
That’s right. I’m making brain art.
The man’s skull was already exposed at the hairline where Gav had made his first cut. I peeled that layer back and pinned it down. I could see the ridge where I wanted to put the chisel. I set the pointed edge into the crack between the skull plates and whacked it with the mallet. The pop! sound of the skull cracking into two was so satisfying. Like cracking open a walnut.
I had to move fast. This part was what kids call gross, even for a surgeon. Brain matter is hard to work with. It falls apart in your hands like the cheap knockoff Jello they serve in hospitals. But the skull plates pulled back easily, and now I was close. The feds might want the teeth back, for proof. But I didn’t want teeth.
I wanted my trophy.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sara
The coffeeshops near Paramount are filled with hack writers churning out their next screenplay. Everybody thinks they’re going to be the next big thing, and everybody is wrong. Eighty percent of movies nowadays are sequels or adaptations. Nothing’s new under the sun. Original and daring doesn’t sell. It’s depressing, but I try not to think about it too much. I always figured that if I got a part in Fast and Furious 23: Faster Than Peregrine Falcons, I’d be able to convince the writers to do some real dialogue. Not that terrible one-liner shit that passes for writing nowadays.
As I walked through the tables filled with Apple laptops and jackets with elbow patches sewn on for looks, I tugged on the hem of my dress, looking around for the man I was supposed to meet. I hoped he would buy me a coffee; I couldn’t afford overpriced lattes.
I spotted him in the back of the coffeeshop instantly. He was the only one dressed in a business suit, and he had a black leather bag sitting on the table in front of him. Definitely not a writer. I plastered on a smile and headed back.
“Hi, I’m Sara,” I said. I slid into the chair opposite him. He looked nervous, almost angry.
“Stand back up,” he ordered.
“Um, sure,” I said. Awkwardly, I stood up again, hands at my sides. He looked me up and down, squinting at me like I was a cantaloupe he had been sent to pick up from the grocery store.
“Did you want me to read some lines?” I asked, after a couple of seconds.
“What color are your eyes?”
“Green,” I said. As if he couldn’t see for himself.
“Brown hair, green eyes. I asked for blue eyes. You don’t have blue eyes.”
“Sorry,” I said. “If it’s that important for the part, I can get contact lenses.”
“Yes,” he said, seemingly distracted. He didn’t stop looking at me, evaluating every part. “Yes, we’ll have to do that. I asked for big, but… you’re bigger than her. Wider. In the hips.”
Roger hadn’t told me they asked for a fat chick. I guess it made sense, though.
“Thanks,” I said, pressing my lips together so that I didn’t blurt out something sarcastic that would cost me the part. I was used to casting directors commenting on my body, even for roles that asked for curvy girls. “I can act, too.”