SLEAZE: A Hollywood Comeback Story (Book #1)

Chapter 14

Not only did Michael get a call about Sophie’s audition the next morning, it came straight from Mr. Thorne’s private line. According to Michael, who recapped their discussion to me over coffee later that day, Thorne Corp’s casting director had been so impressed by Sophie’s reading of the script—and frankly, surprised that she’d shown up—that they were bypassing any sort of callback in order to go straight to filming. It was a compliment and a risk, Mr. Thorne had said, and warned Michael that although it was a gamble he was willing to take, he was also ready to fold on the entire campaign at the first sign of the project turning south.

“Sanctimonious bastard,” Michael muttered as he downed his double-shot of espresso. “No wonder Phil’s such an ass.”

I agreed with Michael, of course, but that didn’t stop me from texting Phil with the promise of buying him a few rounds of beer the next time that I saw him.

Within hours of Sophie signing the contract with Thorne, every major gossip magazine and website had a headline featuring the news. Some were kind and offered her encouragement, but most articulated the decline in her career with varying degrees of scorn and ridicule. For her part, Sophie didn’t seem to be affected by what was printed, and if she was, she kept whatever emotions she had bottled up inside throughout the first commercial’s shoot.

Things were starting to look up for her, especially after one tabloid quoted the ad’s director as having said that Sophie was ‘delightful to work with, an absolute gem on the set.’ Producers were starting to return my calls, directors’ assistants didn’t hang up on me quite as often, and Sophie was getting jobs—small ones and primarily in advertising, but it was a start. In two short weeks, everything seemed to be turning around. In fact, it almost felt like things were too good to be true and that was why I wasn’t terribly surprised when everything came crashing down three days after Thanksgiving.

Slumped against the passenger’s side window of Melanie’s car, I groaned each time the sedan's wheels rumbled over a pothole. My head was throbbing, I felt like I was going to be sick, and after four days with the Schroeder family, I never wanted to see, smell, or drink alcohol again.

“You didn’t have to agree to whiskey night with my dad, you know,” Melanie said, glancing at me with a sympathetic smile.

“Are you kidding me? Your dad is awesome,” I mumbled, shutting my eyes as the clouds finally broke and sunlight began filtering into the car.

After spending Thanksgiving Day in a semi-coherent food coma, Mr. Schroeder and the other men of the family had taken me to play golf at the Pelican Hill country club while the women of the house spent Black Friday raiding stores at the nearby Fashion Island shopping center. After a few hours with Melanie’s dad, it was easy to see where she got her sense of humor, as well as her startling red hair. It was also pretty apparent that alcoholism ran rampant in her father’s side of the family, as her cousin Murphy had passed out before the ninth hole with an empty flask clutched in his hand.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, my entire family adores you—even Kevin’s kids, and I’m pretty sure they don’t even like him that much.”

“Great,” I said, as I remembered the five painful hours that I’d spent dressing Barbies with her brother’s twin daughters and wrestling with his son. I didn’t know if I was more embarrassed to admit that I could now identify nearly all of Barbie’s work outfits or that every rib in my body was likely bruised thanks to the surprise body slam that I’d received while lying in bed.  “Really wonderful.”

Silence settled over the car as I lowered the back of my seat in order to take a nap. I matched the pace of my breathing to the beat of the pulsating ache that coursed through my body, grateful when I began drifting off. I had probably been out for ten minutes when my back pocket vibrated aggressively.