Page 52 of The Casting Couch

ChapterTwelve

Nico

Iwalked fast, but not because I was late.It was just nerves.That low-key, vibrating kind you feel before a set, like your whole body is an unopened soda can that someone’s been shaking for the last ten minutes.I shoved my hands in my hoodie pockets as I cut through the Brooklyn streets, the neon sign of Little Bastard just barely visible in the distance.

I wasn’t sure if Bradley would show up.Hell, I wasn’t sure why I even wanted him to.It’s not like I had a shortage of friends.But the way he’d looked earlier that day, standing on the sidewalk like he was negotiating with the universe about whether it was worth it to keep going, that shit stuck with me.

The guy had just agreed to get jizzed on by a bunch of dudes for half his soul and a fat paycheck.I mean, welcome to the industry, right?But still.Prison to porn was a whiplash transition, even by our standards.And I’d seen some wild résumés.One guy I worked with used to be a pet psychic.

I laughed to myself, then realized I looked like a crazy person walking alone and chuckling.Whatever.Maybe I was crazy.Or maybe I just wanted to make someone else laugh tonight—someone who clearly needed it more than most.

As I reached the corner, a tiny old lady, like, barely five-foot and wearing a puffy coat even though it was July, walked straight up to me.No words.Just pantomimed twisting the cap off a bottle.Then she actually handed me a cold glass bottle of Coca-Cola like this was some kind of fairy tale side quest.

I blinked, opened it for her, and handed it back.She nodded like I’d passed a test or unlocked a secret level.

A hand landed on my shoulder.

“Shit!”I spun, heart launching into my throat, ready to square up with a mugger or something worse.

It was Bradley.

Holy hell.

We were eye to eye.His face was flushed from the walk, hair windblown, eyes all sharp and sad and impossible not to get pulled into.A shiver ran up my spine, but it wasn’t fear.More like the fizzy electricity right before your name gets called on stage.He looked good.Too good.Like prison hadn’t broken him, just reshaped him into something lean and rough and way too attractive for my current mental state.

I grinned like a dumbass.“Hey.You made it.”

He shrugged one shoulder, half-defensive.“Free entertainment.Couldn’t say no.”

“Well, prepare to be moderately underwhelmed,” I said, then immediately regretted it.“I mean, I’m funny, I swear.I just, sometimes I try out new stuff and it’s not always—like, last week I had this bit about raccoons that bombed so hard I got a drink thrown at me by a woman in a crop top that said ‘Live, Laugh, Lube.’”

Bradley smirked.Not a full smile, but close enough.“Sounds like a quality crowd.”

“You have no idea,” I said, still talking way too fast as we fell into step together, walking the last block to the bar.“But hey, the drinks are cheap, and if the comedy sucks, the drag queens save the night.Just wait.The emcee tonight is a queen named Candy McSlutsky.She once did a whole set about being banned from Etsy for selling homemade butt plugs.”

Bradley actually laughed at that.A real one.I filed the sound away in my mental vault under Treasure This Forever.

Inside, Little Bastard was already humming—dim lights, mismatched furniture, and a small stage at the far end of the room with a glitter curtain and a pink neon sign that said “SPILL IT.”We grabbed a table dead center, probably the worst place for anonymity and the best for attention.I didn’t care.I wanted to see his face if I made him laugh again.

A waitress in a crop top and fishnets came over, snapping gum and spinning a pen between her fingers like a baton.“What’ll it be, sluts?”

“Whiskey ginger,” I said.

Bradley looked at her like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or about to steal his soul.“Just a beer.Whatever’s cold.”

“Two drinks, comin’ up,” she said, pivoting hard enough to nearly knock over a chair.

The lights dimmed, and the mic squealed as Candy McSlutsky strutted out onto the stage in eight-inch platforms, a sequined leotard, and a wig that could double as a flotation device.

“Good evening, you beautiful bisexual disasters!”she bellowed, getting immediate applause.“Welcome to Little Bastard’s Open Mic Night!Where your dreams go to die, and your drinks are strong enough to revive them!”

I glanced at Bradley.He was smiling.Then Bambi dropped a punchline about her ex being shaped like a beanbag and how she didn’t know he wasn’t breathing until three days later.Bradley laughed.Loud.

I could’ve melted into the sticky floor with joy.

The waitress reappeared and plunked our drinks down in front of us.“Next up,” Candy announced, “we’ve got a lady comic with the body of a Barbie and the rage of a Jersey divorcee.Give it up for Barbie Malibu!”

And this woman stepped up to the mic wearing pink head-to-toe, platinum-blonde hair, and the world’s most unsettlingly cheerful smile.

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