Page 13 of The Casting Couch

This was it.

Jack and Liam’s office.

Nessa pointed at a cracked vinyl chair against the wall.“Sit your ass down and don’t move.I’m talking to them first.”

ChapterThree

Bradley

Isat down, every muscle in my body tensed and ready to bolt.My hands clenched in my lap, sweaty and shaking, while my heart did its best impression of a trapped bird smashing against my ribcage.

The office smelled like coffee, printer toner, and whatever cheap air freshener was fighting a losing battle.The little ficus plant by the filing cabinet looked about as close to death as I felt.Its leaves were brown at the edges, drooping like they, too, were over this entire situation.

Nessa had disappeared into the next room, a door labeled Production Planning, and shut it with a firm click that somehow sounded more like you’re screwed.

For about ten seconds, there was blessed, terrifying silence.

Then…

“Are you two outta your fucking minds?!”

Her voice blasted through the thin walls like a pipe bomb.I jumped, nearly knocking the chair over in the process.My palms went slick with sweat.

“You invited him here?!After everything?!Jesus tap-dancing Christ, have you both forgotten who we’re dealing with?This is Bradley Mitchell!The human cautionary tale!The walking red flag collection!If his lips are moving, he’s lying!And if he’s breathing?Guess what?He’s lying then too!”

I winced, and the rant didn’t stop.

“Do I need to staple a copy of his arrest record to your foreheads?!Or maybe tattoo it on your asses since apparently none of you can sit down and think for five goddamn minutes!”

Another voice, muffled, calmer, tried to cut in.Jack, maybe.Too soft to make out the words.

Nessa steamrolled right over it.

“I don’t care if he walked in here juggling flaming dildos and singing the national anthem!This is a bad idea!A terrible idea!Like ‘let’s put vodka in a humidifier’ levels of bad!”

My gut twisted hard enough to make me nauseous.Every cell in my body screamed at me to get up and run.I could practically see it: me bolting for the elevator, out the door, and right back to my moldy hostel bunk, where at least nobody was shouting at me.

But my legs wouldn’t move.Not because I didn’t want to—God, I wanted to—but because somehow, this was still better than giving up.Or admitting I had nowhere else to go.

The shouting continued.More words like liability and bad influence and ruined my reputation with the owners of the apartment building.

Then silence again.

Long enough for me to imagine all three of them Googling the nearest restraining order template.

I swiped my palms against my jeans for the thousandth time and glanced at the door like it might explode next.

It didn’t.

Instead, it swung open with the full drama of a soap opera entrance, and Nessa stomped out first, her expression set to “nuclear.”

She stopped dead in front of me, hands on her hips, glaring like she was willing me to combust on the spot.

“If you so much as breathe wrong while you’re in this building…” She jabbed one acrylic-tipped finger an inch from my face.“I’ll make your life a horror movie.And not the sexy kind.The low-budget, straight-to-streaming, everybody dies in the first ten minutes kind.”

I swallowed so hard my throat clicked.“Understood.”

“Good.”She pivoted on her heel and stormed off down the hall like a one-woman SWAT team.

---