David looks pissed, well, wait. Maybe that’s not pissed. I narrow my gaze on him as he taps over the keyboard. His brow is scrunched, his eyes focused—the right one twitching a little, but he keeps chewing on his bottom lip and wiping his hand over his face like he’s sweating. Shit, that’s not pissed that’s, that’s… not a good look.
“Jemma, damn.” Shaking his head, he drops his chin to his chest. “Damn.”
“What?”
“Three years of work down the fucking drain.”
“What!” My heart’s in my throat now because he’s dragging his hands down his face and David only does that when something really terrible has happened—when he’s just lost money. “What are you talking about?”
He shoves the keyboard away, leans back in his chair, and drags his hands down his face again.
“David, what the hell is going on?” I’m in a complete panic.
I hear a giggle over the computer speakers. Then a guy groans. “Yeah, suck it. Suck my cock.” And every last muscle tenses because I know that voice. It’s my ex. And I really hope this isn’t what I think it is.
David sits up, grabs the monitor, and spins it around. I gasp. My eyes go wide, and a little piece of me dies. I’m staring at the screen, and there, on the fucking internet is a video of me shoving Stone Steele’s dick down my throat.
“Oh, my fucking God!” I shoot out of the chair and grab the monitor with both hands, lowering my face down to it. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
“Jemma, why?”
I’m so mortified right now; I can’t even answer him. I just stare at the computer, watching myself on screen as I look up at the camera and smile.
“Man, you’re fucking good at that,” Stone says. And I giggle—I. Giggle. Like a dirty, dirty little slut.
“Oh, Jesus.” The memory of that night is still salient in my mind, and that video is only going to get more vulgar because Stone’s a fucking rock star with a camera and I’m about to fuck him like a cheap, two-dollar hooker. “Turn it off.” I point at the screen, shaking my finger furiously. “Turn it off, David!”
David reaches for the mouse, spins the monitor back around, and the slurping and gagging sound of me choking on Stone’s dick silences.
“The producer called me about this earlier today.” Exhaling, he places his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers over his nose. “The company is not happy about this, of course.”
“That was six months ago,” I argue. “We’ve been broken up for five months!” I pace in front of his desk. “Where did that come from?” I swear to God, Stone can be a dick, but he’s not that big of an asshole.
“Hell if I know, but it’s on fucking YouTube, and about an hour ago Rush Wilder tweeted about it. I’m sure before long the entire Pandemic Sorrow community will be retweeting that shit, so those four-hundred thousand likes are about to shoot through the goddamn roof.”
“Shit.” All I can think about is how many people are going to see that. “Shit!”
“It doesn’t matter how long ago that was. That video is about to be every-fucking-where.” There’s a ding on his phone. He grabs it from the desk, reads over a text, then tosses his hands into the air. “Well, fuck. They just terminated your contract.”
“What? They can’t do that…”
“They can, and they just did.”
“Oh, my God.” I bury my hands in my face, fighting tears. For the past two years, I’ve played Elsa in some spin off sitcom series of that Frozen movie. The thing is…I work for a kid’s station, and they have this thing about morals and well, dating Stone was a big enough issue, this—this takes it to a whole new level. Image. It’s all about the image. “This cannot be happening,” I say in a groan.
“What the hell possessed you to do that?”
I shrug. “I don’t fucking know. I mean, who hasn’t made a sex tape with their boyfriend before?”
“You don’t make sex tapes with slutty rock stars.” He shakes his head. “Well…we just have to find a new market for you.” He sighs. “Maybe HBO or something, I don’t know, but until then you’re shit out of luck.”
I fall back in the chair, fighting the tears that want to break out. Not only am I embarrassed, but I'm also fucking pissed. Angry to the point of bawling. Three years of auditions, of call backs and “you’re not right for the role”. Three years of starving myself and busting my ass in a gym to look the part of the girl next door because as far as Hollywood is concerned even the girl next door looks like a fucking glamour queen. And after all that, I end up settling for some kids show. I didn’t want to do a kids show, but shit, it’s a start. I’m making money. I am—was actually a television actress. And ONE blow job to a rock star has ruined it all. I push up from the chair.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Where else? I don’t have a fucking job anymore.”
“We’ll get you some new headshots. Go for a sluttier look. It’s fine. Hell, this may help…who knows? I mean really, why would you want to get stuck in that good girl genre anyway.”
“Thanks, David,” I say, reaching for the door.