Page 62 of Exrated
“No, it’s not. It’s not fair to you. He never should have put you in this position, Jemma.” I toss my head against the seat and drag my hands down my face, groaning.
“Really,” Heather says. “What really pisses me off is that he didn’t say anything to you to begin with. That’s just disrespectful. Then he is going to take you to dinner…I mean, how long do you think it would have taken him to say something to you about it. And why…” she pauses to check the lane before merging onto the interstate. “Why is he still trying? Fucking asshole.”
“It’s complicated, Heather.”
She groans. “I mean, do you want to be with him?”
I drag in a breath and stare out of the window at the cars we’re whirring past. “The thing is, IwishI could be with him.”
“Well, shit, Jemma. Just shit.”
We sit in silence the rest of the way home. I go over and over in my head why I can’t be with him. Every time one of those memories of him tugs at my heart, I force myself to see him slamming into one of the girls at work. Everyone has that one that got away, the one they daydream will waltz back into their life and swoop them up into their arms. I have that chance right now, but can’t take it. And that really sucks.
Groaning, I toss the covers off of me. That is the third time my phone has rang in the last thirty minutes. I’ve been too lazy to crawl out of bed and mute it and now I’ve given up on trying to go back to sleep.
I stumble across the room to the cluttered dresser and snatch the phone from the top of a box of tampons, but it’s already stopped ringing. Three missed calls from David. The phone chimes with voicemail. I’m attempting to not get excited, but something must be going on if he’s calling me back to back this early in the morning.
Inhaling, I pull the phone to my ear to listen to the message.
“Hey Jemma, great news! I just got a call from Stefan Goldberg, and he wants you to audition for a lead role in a new TV series. Filming will be in Atlanta. Call me back. If you can, they want you in Warren Studios late tomorrow afternoon. Short notice, but it’s fucking Stefan Goldberg for fucks sake.”
My mouth is literally hanging open. A fly could zip down my throat right now, and I don’t think even that could make me close my mouth. Stefan Goldberg is one of the biggest TV directors to ever exist. He called to have me audition. I let that sink in. And when it really hits me, I drop the phone and squeal, hopping up and down in place.
The next afternoon I’m in front of the camera with my heart in my chest. My back hits the wall just as my shrill screampiercesmyears. And now,I'm trapped.His cold blue eyes narrow on me as he approaches.
Cowering away, I whisper,"Please,"as his hand reaches for my throat.
"That's enough!" The director shouts, and the guy steps back across the room. "Thank you, Ms..." Stefanthumbs through the papers in his lap, "Ms...."
"Morgan." I clear my throatas Ipushaway from the wall. "Jemma Morgan."
"Yes, Morgan." He jots something down on my resume, not bothering to look up at me."We'll be doing callbacks in a week."
Stefan called David to ask if I’d be interested, and he can’t even remember my name? What an ass. "Thank you," I say as I grab my purse from the chair in the corner of the room. My stomach churns as I cross the room. "I'll look forward to a call."
He nods, his eyes still trained on the papers he's shuffling through. A role like this could take me out of the innocent princess turned whore category. Working on his show would force people to take me serious as an actress. If I could land this, my entire life could change, but like I said, he couldn’t even recall my name.
The entire drive home, all I can do is criticize the inflection in my voice when I read my lines, the way I positioned my body, the fact that the scream was too weak. By the time I’m walking into my apartment, I’ve decided that this is my plot in life—being a dildo handler. And that’s fine, but at some point, one wants to believe there is more meaning to their life than sterilizing sex toys.
“Bitch tits,” I yell as I slam the door behind me. “You home?”
I drop my purse on the floor next to the sofa and flop back onto the well-worn cushions before grabbing the remote.
The toilet flushes and seconds later Heather’s standing at the end of the couch with her jeans still unbuttoned. “Fucking periods. Look at this shit!” She flicks her open fly. “I can’t even button them because I’m so bloated. This is bullshit.” She fights with the button for a moment. “So, how did the audition go?”
“Like shit.”
“What?”
I shake my head. “He couldn’t even remember my name.”
“Wait, didn’t he request you to do an audition.”
I nod.
“Well, fuck him.” I can tell by the concentrated look on her face that she’s trying to devise a way to distract me. “Get dressed. We’ll do dinner and then we’re going to a strip club.”
“I’ll do dinner…”
