Page 76 of The Casting Couch

We entered the men’s room.

He stood near the sink.I stood at the urinal.Unzipped.Tried to forget there was a man watching me like this was the finale of America’s Next Top Urinator.

Nothing happened.

I closed my eyes.Breathed deep.Thought about water.

Rivers.Rain.Lube.God help me, the squelching noises from earlier.

Finally—finally—my bladder cooperated.

And mid-stream, I laughed.

Not cute laughter.Not like “teehee” laughter.Unhinged laughter.Full-body, snort-wheezing laughter.

Schmidt didn’t move.

When I finally got control over myself, I muttered, “Sorry.It’s just… I had a day.”

Still silence.

I finished.Capped the cup.Washed my hands like they were covered in my poor decisions.

And when I looked at myself in the mirror, all I could think was:

Well, it’s official.I’m a porn actor who pees in cups for the state.And I have never felt sexier.

* * *

We walked out into the thick summer air, the kind that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like wet paper.The sidewalk buzzed with people, cars honking, some dude yelling about salvation two blocks away.I could barely hear any of it over the sound of my heart still slamming around my chest like it was trying to break parole, too.

“How’d it go?”Nico asked, gently, like he already knew it hadn’t gone great.

I held up the manila folder Brooke had given me, smacking it once for dramatic effect.“Well, I peed in a cup while a cop watched, admitted to taking a boner pill, and was told that if I’m ever late again, I can start picking out an orange jumpsuit.”

“Jesus,” Nico muttered.

“She said it really politely,” I added.“Like ‘We’d hate to lose you back to the system, Bradley,’ which is parole officer code for, ‘I’ve already filled out the form and I’m just waiting for an excuse.’”

We passed a Halal cart, and the smell of grilled meat made my stomach growl.I’d forgotten to eat today.Couldn’t eat, to be honest.

“And then,” I added, “because the hits just keep on coming, I need to get employment paperwork signed by Jack or Liam.For the official record.And, wait for it, I have to film a PSA next week.”

Nico looked over.“Like, a public service announcement?”

“Oh yeah.For teens.About crime.Like I’m gonna stare into the camera and say, ‘Hi, I’m Bradley Mitchell, and I used to sell drugs but now I get facialed for rent money.Don’t do crime, kids.’”

Nico stifled a laugh.“Stop.You’re gonna give yourself a stroke.”

I let out a humorless snort.“It’s just funny, right?How I used to hate cameras?And now I’m apparently their bitch.One minute I’m the cautionary tale in a government video, the next I’m in some cherry blossom hentai nightmare being jizzed on by twenty dudes named things like Chad and Blade.”

He nudged me with his shoulder.“You’re doing the best you can.”

I didn’t answer.I just stared down at the pavement, watching the cracks slip past under my boots like they were waiting to trip me.

Then we turned the corner, and the hostel came into view.

Tan brick.Peeling green trim.A buzzing window unit rattling in one of the upper floors.And standing at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed, was her.

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