Page 5

Chapter Four

Nico

I paced back and forth across my apartment, one sock on, one sock missing, muttering punchlines under my breath like a lunatic. The exposed brick walls echoed every bad joke back at me like a passive-aggressive open mic crowd.

“Dating in New York is like trying to find a parking spot in Brooklyn… all the good ones are taken, and the rest are under construction.”

I paused. Meh. Not terrible. Not great either.

I grabbed my notebook off the coffee table and scribbled it down, anyway. Bad jokes sometimes turned into excellent jokes with enough caffeine and self-loathing.

The floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the loft let in just enough sun to remind me I hadn’t showered yet.

The air smelled like cold pizza and laundry I meant to fold three days ago.

A half-empty iced coffee sat sweating on the counter next to a stack of unopened mail and one very expired coupon for laser hair removal.

But I wasn’t complaining. I loved this apartment. Exposed brick, high ceilings, overpriced as hell, but worth every penny. Especially considering how few of those pennies I actually had to earn.

God bless excellent genetics and a decent-sized dick.

I flopped down on my beat-up leather couch and flipped back through my notes. Half the page was scribbled nonsense. The other half was just single words I thought were funny at the time: salami, disappointment, IKEA, lube.

Honestly? Could be worse.

The set from last night at Brooklyn Comedy Collective had gone better than expected. The crowd actually laughed. Like genuine laughter. Not just the pity chuckles I got at open mics wedged between some dude screaming about crypto and another guy doing ironic bird calls for fifteen minutes.

No, last night felt different. Solid laughs. A few people even came up after and told me I was their favorite set of the night.

And then, icing on the anxiety cake, I got booked.

A real gig. Saturday night. Half-hour slot. Opening for Mikey Delgado.

Freaking Mikey Delgado!

The guy had an HBO special and an aggressively large TikTok following where he posted hot takes about dating while wearing questionable flannel. This was the kind of show agents went to. Bookers. People with clipboards and opinions.

If I didn’t bomb, this could lead to bigger gigs. Touring slots. Maybe even the holy grail, a manager.

If I did bomb…

Well. Back to fake orgasms and edited moans for rent money.

I sighed, tossing my notebook aside and running both hands through my hair.

That was the problem. The double life.

Nights like last night made me feel like I was finally crawling out of the porn hole.

That maybe I could finally leave it behind.

Then reality kicked in and reminded me that until comedy started paying more than drink tickets and exposure, I still had bills and rent.

Still had to pay for overpriced groceries and therapy I hadn’t gone to in months.

Porn was easy. Too easy. Fifteen hours a week, tops. And I made more than most finance bros, working eighty-hour weeks and losing hairlines by thirty.

But Jesus, it was eating me alive.

The performative grins and the mechanical sex with strangers. The camera zooming in like my internal crisis was good lighting.

I was halfway through mentally drafting a new bit about emotional detachment during doggy style when my phone rang.

I glanced at the screen.

Boys On Film- Liam Murphy

I groaned, like the building itself could hear me.

“Goddammit…”

For half a second, I considered letting it go to voicemail. Pretend I was dead. Or underground. Or in a silent meditation retreat somewhere in Big Sur.

But it was Liam’s name on the caller ID. And saying no to Liam was like trying to say no to a golden retriever asking for snacks.

With a resigned sigh, I answered. “Tell me you’re calling to offer me a job as your company therapist. I have zero qualifications and charge double.”

Liam laughed on the other end, light and sweet, like always. “Sorry, Nico. More like… we need your expertise in other areas.”

I let my head thud back against the couch. “That sounds dangerously close to work.”

“Technically, it is.”

I groaned again, louder this time.

“We think we’ve found your new scene partner,” Liam said quickly, like he was ripping off a Band-Aid. “He’s a personal friend of ours, but… he’s never worked on camera before. And we thought… maybe you could come in and help with his audition?”

I sat up straighter. “Audition? You mean… like… the actual casting couch?”

Liam hesitated. “…Yeah. The actual casting couch.”

“Wow.” I let out a dry laugh. “You want me to come down and play sexual Yoda for some poor lost soul?”

“If you don’t mind?” Liam’s voice softened. “I know it’s short notice, but… it would really help.”

I wanted to say no. I really wanted to say no.

But then I pictured Liam’s stupid hopeful face, the way he’d probably wring his hands and offer to buy me drinks afterward.

I sighed like the martyr I was. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be there soon.”

“Thank you, Nico! You’re the best.”

* * *

The second I pushed open the front door of Boys On Film, the duo of chaos and clipboard, Petyr and Dimitri, greeted me. Petyr was already scribbling furiously, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment just to ruin my day.

“You’re late,” he announced without looking up, tapping his pen against the board like a disappointed judge on a reality show.

“It’s a free country,” I shot back, rolling my eyes and striding past him like the diva I absolutely was. “Also, clocks are a social construct.”

Dimitri let out a low chuckle from behind the desk. “One day… Petyr will chase you down with that clipboard.”

“Tell him to wear something cute when he does,” I called over my shoulder.

I was halfway down the hall toward the back studios when I heard a sudden, dramatic gasp like someone had just witnessed a murder, or worse, a bad contour job.

“Nico!”

I groaned before even turning around. “Moira… please tell me you’re just here to compliment me.”

Moira stormed up, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through aluminum, wielding a makeup brush like it was a weapon. “I just heard you’re going on camera. You didn’t seriously think you were gonna do it without me getting my hands on your face first?”

“It’s not an actual scene,” I muttered, but I followed her anyway because… well… there were two universal truths in this life: Death and Moira insisting on makeup.

We detoured into the hair and wardrobe room, which smelled like hairspray, ambition, and broken dreams. I plopped down into the chair, letting my head fall back with a theatrical sigh. “Just make it quick, okay? Natural. Like… ‘I woke up like this’ but less… desperate.”

Moira was already patting some primer onto my face. “Relax, you’re getting light coverage. Just in case they decide to use any of the footage for social media.”

I peeked one eye open. “You’re assuming I’m about to have a photogenic meet-cute with Mr. Mystery Meat?”

She smirked, grabbing a brush and dusting translucent powder over my forehead. “Speaking of meat… you’ve got a waxing appointment with Lola next week. Don’t want you getting too bushy downstairs.”

I bolted upright. “I’m sorry, what? No! Absolutely not. Not again.”

Images of The Great Waxing Incident from last month flashed through my mind like a war montage. The screaming, and the sweating. The moment I genuinely thought my soul had left my body.

“She nearly killed me last time!” I protested. “There was blood. There was trauma. I had to sit on an ice pack for a week.”

Moira cackled and grabbed a pair of tweezers, yanking a couple of stray hairs from my brow with ruthless efficiency. “You’re fine. And you look good enough for now.”

I grumbled but stayed put, because fighting Moira on beauty decisions was like arguing with gravity.

Five minutes later, she declared me camera-ready and led me down the hallway toward one of the older studios near the back. The second I stepped inside, my stomach did a weird little flip.

Oh. Wow. This studio…

I hadn’t been in this room since my audition. The walls were still barebones and sad-looking, and the lighting was still a little too harsh. And the famous—notorious—couch was still in the center of the room, like it was about to make or break someone’s self-esteem.

There was also the standard sad little twin bed in the corner. A tiny side table stocked with lube, condoms, and enough awkward memories to fill a therapy session. Without even being told, I started peeling off my clothes.

Jacket off. T-shirt, gone. Jeans kicked to the side.

Down to nothing but my favorite pair of black briefs, the ones that sat low on my hips and made my ass look like it was carved by Greek gods on a deadline.

I fluffed my hair with both hands and glanced toward the door, silently begging the universe to not let this be another Bob.

Almost every guy they paired me with lately was a Bob.

Bob was code for “kind of a loser,” or “emotionally vacant gym bro with two facial expressions,” or worse… “chronic mouth breather.”

I sighed, stretching my arms behind my head, making sure my abs caught the overhead light just right. If I had to fake-lust after another Bob, at least I’d look good doing it.

The door creaked open and Laura walked in, clipboard in hand and Starbucks in the other.

I grinned. “Hey, Queen of Mean. Who’s my lucky co-star?”

Laura shrugged without looking up. “Hell if I know. I’m just here for the check.”

Classic.

And then…

They walked in.

Jack first. Then Liam. And trailing awkwardly behind them…

Holy. Shit.

My brain stalled mid-thought.

Him?

Tall. Lean, but not skinny. Big brown eyes, dark lashes, hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper cut in months but somehow worked. A little scruffy. A little messy. And a blush creeping up his cheeks like he’d just been caught watching porn on the library Wi-Fi.

Oh… this was interesting.

My grin curled before I could stop it.

Well, hello, New Guy.

The man’s eyes did a full sweep of me, and yeah, I clocked it. The wide-eyed stare, and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long at my chest, then flicked down to my hips like he was trying not to.

Cute.

Real cute.

Laura, meanwhile, froze like someone had sucker-punched her. She blinked at him, then pointed a very accusatory acrylic nail straight at his chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, her voice climbing an octave.

The poor guy turned redder than a fire hydrant. “Uh… long story.”

I bit back a laugh. God, I liked this already.

Liam stepped forward with his usual gentle smile. “Bradley, you’re in expert hands.”

Jack nodded. “Just act naturally. Don’t overthink it.”

Bradley stared at them like they’d both asked him to perform Hamlet in a thong. “Do I have to do this… in front of all of you?”

Laura grinned, all teeth and evil delight. “Better get used to it, sugar.”

Jack gave a lazy wave toward the camera setup. “We’re not gonna shoot anything too explicit. Just need to see how you photograph… and how you interact with Nico.”

At the sound of my name, Bradley glanced at me again. This time I held his gaze, slow and steady.

Yeah… this could be fun.

Jack clapped Liam on the shoulder. “We’ve got a meeting across town. We’ll review the footage and get back to you.”

And with that, they left—door clicking shut behind them.

I took a step toward Bradley, giving him my best crooked smile.

“Well…” I said, voice dropping low and warm, “…looks like it’s just you and me, rookie.”