Moving to LA was both the best and worst decision of my life.

The best because I’m finally out of that Podunk Georgia town, living the life I always dreamed of, auditioning almost weekly for what I know will eventually be my breakout role. Living in LA means connections. It means access to the hottest producers, directors, and actors around.

That brings us to the worst part of the scenario.

LA means connections—for everyone but me. I’ve been here for almost three years now, and I’m still exactly where I started. The only semi-acting-related jobs I’ve been able to land are a few modeling gigs for a swanky downtown boutique. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate every bit of the work and exposure. But my face has been on mailers and catalogs all around town for months, and it hasn’t resulted in anything other than the occasional, “You look familiar,” from a passerby.

So, yeah, I’m still waiting for my big break.

Throughout it all though, I’ve managed to remain hopeful while working two jobs to pay the exorbitant rent this city entails. By day, I wait tables at a small bistro, the meager wage and minimal tips barely giving me enough to pay my phone bill most months. But, at night, I’m a bartender at one of the hottest nightclubs in downtown LA—Ascent. Business is good, the tips are bangin’, and the talent in this town is unreal. I’m a lucky bastard, having an in at a place like Ascent. Most people would kill for my job.

The only problem?

The club owner and my all-powerful boss is the biggest homophobe on the planet. And, seeing as how my sexual preferences swing toward the penile variety, the two of us don’t exactly see eye to eye.

Not that he knows that, of course.

Every night I go in, dressed in the standard-issue tailored black slacks and fitted black V-neck T-shirt—cut about two sizes too small to show off the bulging biceps each of the male bartenders has and the silicone implants every female within eyeshot possesses—I have to hide who I really am. I can flirt with customers. Hell, it is even encouraged. A happy bar patron is much more likely to order more booze, so we are told to make them feel special. Wanted. Sexy.

Only I can’t flirt with the people I am actually attracted to. The man of my dreams could walk through that door, and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it for fear of losing my job.

Because, if Rick found out I was gay, I’d be out on my ass faster than he could call me a faggot—his favorite term out of all the offensive slurs in his arsenal.

Losing my job would mean losing my apartment. And losing my apartment would be the first step on the downward spiral that would end with me on my mom’s doorstep, tail tucked between my legs, having to admit this dream of mine was silly from the get-go, just like everyone had tried to tell me.

Fuck if I ever let that happen.

As it is, I’m a week late with the rent. I’m hoping tonight will be busy enough to cover the amount I’m short, so Alec doesn’t find out that we’re behind. Again.

I sigh, pouting at myself in the bathroom mirror, as I get ready for another fun-filled evening of being ogled by women. And pretending to ogle them right back.

It’s only temporary, I remind myself. Just stick it out until Hollywood calls. Then, you can tell Rick to go fuck himself.

As I look at my reflection, I take in the slightly shaggy ends of my hair, making a mental note to call and schedule an appointment for a cut. Rick has told me several times to grow it out.

“Chicks dig long hair. Have you seen how wet their panties get for that Sons of Anarchy motherfucker? Grow that shit out, man. Double your tips; double my profit. It’s a win for everyone. And get yourself some pussy while you’re at it.”

And, while I do like the way I look with my hair a little grown out—I dig that whole bad-boy image, hence the leather jacket, black knit beanie, and dark aviator shades I wear every time I leave the house—I’ll be damned if I let him think he has any influence on the way I look other than the stupid clothes he makes me wear. So, ever since he suggested it, I’ve made it a point to keep my hair closely cropped.

As I shake my head though, the dirty-blond locks falling ever-so slightly onto my forehead, I think maybe it wouldn’t hurt to leave the top a little shaggy. I wouldn’t mind the feel of someone’s hands running through it every now and again. A little hair pulling could be fun.

I’m spritzing on some cologne when I hear the front door slam shut. Not thinking anything of it, I finish up my last-minute preparations for work, not pausing until I see a dark shadow fill my doorway. Turning to face it, I see Alec, my roommate, leaning against the frame, his posture stiff, as he folds his arms across his chest.

“What’s up, man?” I ask, my brow lifting in question at the irritation radiating off him in waves.

“The super just cornered me in the hallway,” he says, his lips tight with annoyance.

Fuck.

“Care to explain to me why rent is almost two weeks late, Quinn?”

I start to count backward in my head. It can’t be two weeks already. Rent is due on the first. And today is…what? The ninth? Tenth? Remembering a stupid meme I saw on Facebook this morning, it dawns on me that today is Friday the thirteenth. Some dumb shit shared a pic of Jason, all decked out with his hockey mask and machete, standing next to Michael Myers, asking if he knew what day it was, like that stupid fucking camel from the car insurance commercials.

Double fuck.

How did I get so far behind? I thought I was only a week late with the rent.

No wonder Alec looks pissed. I can only imagine what our super had to say to him.

“Sorry, man. Must’ve slipped my mind. I’ll get it over to him first thing in the morning, I swear,” I say.

I give him my signature smile, the one that has talked my way out of more skirmishes than I care to admit. It doesn’t work on him though.

“I gave you my half three weeks ago. You said you’d pay it by the first. What the fuck is going on, Quinn?” He seethes, continuing to glare at me.

I glance up at him from under my furrowed brow, my hand absently going to the back of my neck to rub the sensitive skin there. It’s always been a nervous habit of mine. When the going gets tough, the hand gets rubbing.

“I didn’t have the cash. I was hoping to get it paid before now. But don’t worry. After my tips tonight, I should be able to cover it. Fridays are always good nights. You know that.”

Alec used to work at Ascent before he landed his job as a stuntman. He’d been an aspiring actor right alongside me, the two of us standing together in long audition lines week after week, talking one another through our nerves. But, when the opportunity presented itself, he dropped those ambitions and took the job that actually paid. I know it’s not what he wants. And, as I get ready for auditions each week, I can see the envy in his eyes, longing for the days when he was right there with me. But I’ve got to admit, I envy him just as much sometimes. A steady paycheck would be nice. I’m just not ready to go there.

Yet.

But having worked at Ascent, he knows how up and down it can be. Yes, even on the worst nights, I still make more than I do at the bistro. But LA is expensive as fuck. What would be considered a decent wage anywhere else barely gets you by in this town. And, lately, I have been having trouble making ends meet. Hell, I have been having trouble even getting them on the same block.

Alec shakes his head as he regards me, his face falling in defeat. My heartbeat kicks up a notch in my chest because I know that look. It’s the look he gives me whenever he’s about to give me bad news.

“Quinn, the casting director called. You didn’t get the part.”

“Quinn, the audition was canceled. I guess Mark Wahlberg called the director and expressed interest. We never even stood a chance.”

“Quinn, Greg was at the bar last night. With Jake. I’m sorry, dude.”

“Quinn, you know you’re the closest thing I’ve got to a friend in this town,” he says.

This causes me to raise an eyebrow. This is news to me. As far as I knew, I was his best friend. Not just the closest thing he had to one. I’m half-tempted to call him out on what he just said, but his next words cause my voice to stick in my throat.

“But I can’t do this anymore, man. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to move out. I need someone more reliable. Someone who can actually pay the fucking rent on time,” he adds, shoving off from where he was braced against the doorframe and turning on his heel.

I follow him out of the bathroom. “Wait, what? Because I’m a few days late with the rent, you’re kicking me out?” I shout after him, grabbing him by the arm in an attempt to halt his movement.

He whirls around and glares at me. “Two weeks late with the rent. Two. Fucking. Weeks.”

My mouth falls open as I try to come up with the right words, but no sound comes out. Alec waits for a second to see what excuse I’ll come up with, but after it becomes clear that I’ve got nothing, he jerks his arm out of my grasp and takes off again.

Sympathy, I decide. I’ll play the sympathy card.

“C’mon, Alec. Don’t be like this. It’s been a rough month. You know I’m good for it. It’s never been a problem before. You know me. You know I’m reliable. Rick has been riding my ass hard lately. It’s all I can do to make it through a shift without decking the fucker. I might’ve been a little surly at work, causing tips to not be as good. But you know me. It’s just a phase. I’ll snap out of it. Once I get back on my feet and back out there on the audition circuit, things will start looking up. It’s just a bad month. You know how it is.”

His face softens for just a moment as he looks at me. It’s too bad he’s not gay; otherwise, I might offer to blow him in exchange for a second chance. He looks like he could use a good rim job right about now. As it is, I’ll just have to give him my best puppy-dog eyes and hope he takes pity on me.

The moment doesn’t last long though.

His jaw clenches as his features harden back into a frown. “It isn’t just this month though, is it, Quinn? Jack told me that you’ve been late getting him the rent for the past three months. He said he’s tried to be lenient. But the owner is riding his ass. He won’t put up with it much longer. It isn’t fair to Jack to ask him to keep covering for us. And it isn’t fair to me for you to keep asking me to bail your ass out.”

I rear back, as if I were punched. And that’s exactly how it feels. It feels like he just punched me right in the gut. I might have had my shit out of whack the past few months, but I’ve never once asked him to bail me out.

Not. Once.

Anger floods through my veins as his words sink in deeper. Judging by the slight look of guilt mixed with a fair amount of haughtiness in his eyes, he knows exactly what those words did to me. And that fucking pisses me off.

I shove him against the wall, pinning him there with my forearm as I get right in his face. His eyes are defiant, but I can see a hint of fear hidden in their depths. He knows I’m not going to hit him. I’m the least violent person on the planet. But he needs to know he can’t just say whatever he wants to me and get away with it. So, as soon as his eyes stop darting around the room and settle on mine, I speak.

“I might be a lot of things, Alec. A queer. A bum. A joke. I might be the laughingstock of this town in my attempts to rise to the top. But there’s one thing I’m not. And that is a fuckup. I never leave someone else to clean up my messes. If I get myself into one, you can be damn sure I’m going to get myself out. So, fuck you with your bail-your-ass-out shit. You’ve never had to bail me out. And you never will.

“But now? Now, you’ve just ensured that I’ll never be there for you when your ass needs bailing out. Because, Alec? It’s going to happen. I’ve seen it over and over again. Guys like you don’t make it in this town. You’re going to get injured. Or, hell, just dumped on your ass when someone younger and stronger comes along. And I won’t be there to help pick you back up and dust your ass off. And, when that day comes, you’ll see me. I’ll be there, on Hollywood Boulevard, signing autographs, surrounded by people who are there for me. You’ll see me. And I might even look over at you. But you can bet your ass I won’t see you. Because you will be nothing to me.”

Harsh? Yes. A little self-centered? Fuck yes.

But I am tired of people treating me like dirt. If this is what I have to do to get people to take me seriously in this town, then so be it.

I drop my hold on him without another word, storming out of the living room and slamming my bedroom door. I look around at the disaster that is my room—the clothes tossed haphazardly across the bed and the floor, the mountains of books from the library that are probably months overdue, the pile of God knows what over in the corner.

Fuck me.

I need to pack.