Page 17 of The Book of Luke

“Had a network meeting,” Troy replied, instantly adopting the laconic dude-vibe, trading shades like a chameleon. “Hartt, this is—”

“Oh, I know this guy.” He wrapped me in a frat boy half hug, as if he’d known me for years. “Myforefather! Troy, I thought you were bullshitting when you said he was coming.”

“Luke, meet Hartt Thomas,” Troy said. “Hartt came toEndeavorfromThe Combine—”

“Oh, that followed the collegiate NFL prospects, right?” I supplied, recalling the ads.

“Yeah, man,” Hartt replied. “Went to the Pats for a spell but didn’t get the play I deserved. WhenEndeavorcalled, I couldn’t resist.”

“His first season the fans called him ‘Luke Junior,’” Troy added. “Football, black hair.”

I forced a smile. Maybe I’d bond with him over athletics?

“Let me get my girlfriend. You’ll love her.” Hartt loped off, shoving through the crowd.

“He’s being modest,” Troy said conspiratorially. “He got booted from the Patriots because he logged three cocaine possessions warming the bench.”

“Well, he’s young.”

“No judgment here. He kicks assandbrings drama. Speaking of which, there’s Chrissy Dixon, obviously.” Troy pointed to the leggy redhead Hartt was retrieving, tall as him in flats, clutching a massive Red Bull. I obliviously shook my head, and Troy groaned. “FromMason Dixon? The show about the two feuding oil families in Dallas? Luke, it’s been on eight years!”

“Heeeey, I’m Chrissy. Welcome baaaack,” she drawled upon arrival, her vocal fry sounding filtered through a shower curtain as we exchanged pleasantries.

“Hartt, I have to return some calls. You’ll acclimate Luke?” Troy asked.

Hartt smacked me across the back. “Ready to see what the high school cafeteria looks like these days, big dog?”

“You couldn’t be in better hands,” Troy assured me, and I didn’t have to wait long.

“I see my motherfucking supermodels, yo!” Hartt crowed when two more contestants arrived, both alumni of a fashion competition calledModel Citizens.

Draped in a sheer maroon tank top that might as well have been a dress and reeking of pot, Chase was lean and pale, copious tattoos along his taut arms. He monosyllabically admitted to catching me onEndeavorduring middle school.

The other model was Solana Destini, a former exotic dancer from New Orleans. Solana barely had anything covered and appeared molded from plastic. She cracked a smile, incisors looking sharp enough to cut glass, and insisted on selfies together. “I know we’re under a media ban, but we’ll post when the show airs!”

“I actually don’t have social media.”

“Oh, wow, you’re like arealcelebrity,” she replied, awestruck.

“She’s honest-to-God Cajun and fucks like a wildcat,” Hartt confided with a wicked smile. “Even a gay dude’s gotta admit she’s on the Mount Rushmore of tits, right?”

I could barely nod before the meet-and-greet marched on.

“There’s the corn child!” he declared, presenting me to Winston, a wispy farmgirl who’d done two seasons ofEndeavorafterRum Sprung, a docuseries following Amish teens on their Rumspringa escapades. Eyes wide at the sight of me, she stammered a greeting, then retreated to solitaire. Apparently my battered reputation preceded me even amongst the Amish. “Don’t bother with her, dude,” Hartt said. “Every season needs cannon fodder—”

“What the ever-loving fuck?!”

I whipped around to find a stocky Latino guy with a hot-pink faux-hawk and dark beard jeering at me like I was a war criminal before he stormed over to Troy.

“Ugh, him again,” Hartt muttered. “Balthazar Orgullo fromCastro Kings. The world’s least favorite ‘LGBTQ SJW.’ That virtue-signaling prick never met a letter he didn’t claim.”

I overheard fragments of Balthazar’s furious tirade with Troy—“You’re putting me on TV with a hate-monger? I’m a role model for the queer community!”—and I was honestly stunned I’d made it ten minutes before my presence provoked this reaction from someone.

“Let Troy work his magic,” Hartt advised when I made to intervene. “Bal’s not going anywhere. DoingEndeavoris the only way the network will promoteCastro Kings. As if anybody wants to watch a show about whiny gay tech bitches in San Francisco.”

I nodded, increasingly queasy about the soldiers in my trench. “So he’ll suffer through?”

“Exactly. Everybody’s got something baked into their contract. I mean, they’re giving you more than an appearance fee to get your hot commodity ass back here, yeah?”