When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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I scrolled through unread emails while my cab driver zigzagged around Saturday evening traffic on the way to DeShauna's dinner party. Tonight my best friend was anticipating being promoted to partner at her firm.
These types of Upper East Side events with ultra-wealthy New York aristocrats reminded me of the soirées my mother regularly threw at her penthouse apartment. Critics and choreographers, along with screenwriters and showrunners, could all be found drinking with New York's premiere talent agent on Saturday night, long after the final curtain closed.
Hard as I'd tried, I never fit in. Despite being born on the Upper East Side and attending the best private schools, I was more Prince Harry than William.
I was always wearing the wrong dress or laughing too loud, or talking too much. During parties, I'd be skirting my mother's disappointed glances before being pulled aside and told I wasn't being professional enough.
"I don't understand you," my mother would say through pursed lips. "You're just too much, Maren."
Too much, yet still not enough.
Even though I didn't want to believe her words could hurt me, they did. Looking back, I realized she'd been waiting for the perfect moment to cast me off like last season's shoes.
The cab driver hit a pothole, and my phone nearly flew out of my hands. I forced myself to concentrate on my email, ignoring the thick feeling in my throat, when my attention snagged on an email from my favorite astrologist announcing that Mercury was officially retrograde.
I rolled my eyes, muttering as I locked the screen. "Well, that explains everything." I leaned my head against the leather seat and closed my eyes. "Good job, Mercury."
Two secondslater—as if Mercury heard my disdain—my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, and adrenaline flooded every single cell in my body.
It was Eleanor.
I read my mother's text as the taxi came to an abrupt stop. Heart racing. Hairline sweating.
Eleanor Mitchell: It appears we both have clients auditioning for Dante next week. Perhaps I'll see you there.
I stared at the text for a full thirty seconds, trying to process what this passive-aggressive message meant. Eleanor never came to low-budget auditions. She would send my sister, Christiane, or another intern.
I couldn't help but wonder why she would go out of her way to annoy me.
I worried my lower lip, tasting matte lipstick. My mother must have a calculated reason for coming to this audition, and I had a sinking feeling I knew why.
West.
Just the thought of his name had sweat dripping down my neck. My body missed the memo that we weren't supposed to be crushing on him anymore.
