Uncharted(69)

I should know. I used to be like them. I used to give a shit.

Slumping down so my neck is braced against the curved back of my aluminum chair, I fight the waves of nausea coursing through my veins. God, I’m hungover. I haven’t felt this crappy since last April, when Harper and I did mushrooms at Coachella. Fun at the time; not so fun the next morning, when I woke up naked in a stranger’s tent covered in glitter, missing both my panties and my dignity.

An abrasive tapping sound intrudes on my recollections, followed shortly by an impatient cough. I open my eyes to find the stony-faced PA staring down at me, her clipboard clutched so tightly it’s a wonder her acrylic fingernails don’t pop off with the force of her grip. When our stares meet, her lip curls in a hint of disdain.

“Katharine Firestone?”

I blink. “Guilty.”

“You’re up,” she says coolly, turning on a heel and marching toward the double doors without another word. I push to my feet and follow her at a leisurely pace, feeling the heat of glares from the rest of the girls in the room burning into me from all sides, an inferno of female contempt. Just before I reach the doors, I turn and blow them a goodbye kiss.

“They’re waiting,” the PA informs me testily, tapping her pencil again.

I push down the urge to reach out and break it in half. Denying her a snappy retort will spoil her dramatic little power trip, so I simply arch my brows and wait patiently, a small smile playing on my lips, until she shoves open the doors and ushers me inside.

There’s a table set up across the room, about twenty feet from where I’m standing, its surface littered with empty iced coffee cups and stacks of notes. Sitting behind it are three people, none of whom bother to glance up when the door closes behind me with a resounding click. I hear the PA take a seat somewhere out of sight.

“Stand on the X in the middle of the floor, please,” one of the women says in a tired voice.

I walk soundlessly to the spot marked with masking tape.

“Name?”

The woman at the center of the table is speaking again. She seems to be in charge. There’s something insectile about the way she moves that reminds me of a large praying mantis — too thin, too jerky, highly inclined to bite your head off. Every strand of hair in her bleached blonde bob stays perfectly in place when she tilts her head to scan the sheet in front of her.

“Katharine,” I say, my voice parched and cracking. Cynthia always says I have a voice made for radio, but my hangover has made me sound even huskier than usual. I clear my throat and try again. “Katharine Firestone. But I go by Kat.”

The man on the right looks up when I speak, interest written plainly on his angular features. He’s in his early thirties and strikingly handsome — tall with an athletic build, his blondish-brown hair pulled back in a man-bun. I usually hate that look, but he somehow pulls it off effortlessly. I suppose, if you’re attractive enough, it doesn’t much matter what you do with your hair.

He looks like a Viking. Or maybe an Instagram model.

His eyes rake me from my messy pony-tail down to my battered Doc Martin boots. Surprise flickers in his dark blue irises as he takes me in.

“You’re here to read for the part of Beth?”

There’s an unmistakable note of incredulity in the question, fired at me from the other woman at the table — a middle-aged brunette with an air of superiority wrapped around her like an afghan. It’s clear she’s wondering what a girl like me, who sounds like a sex-line operator and dresses like a punk rocker, is doing here.

“Yes.”

“I see.” She glances down at the sheet in front of her and I see a flash of comprehension on her face. “Oh. Firestone. You’re Cynthia’s client.”

“I am,” I agree, forcing myself not to fidget under their unwavering stares. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating — the implication that my mother had to make a call to get me this audition, or that she is so eager to be seen as my manager instead of the woman who physically pushed me from her womb twenty-two years ago.

The brunette murmurs something under her breath. It sounds suspiciously like I should’ve known.

“Why do you want this part?”

This time, the man is speaking. There is none of the brunette’s arrogance or the blonde’s apathy in his tone; he radiates a quiet intensity that commands attention. His voice is crisp and clear — it hits me like a splash of water and trickles down my spine in a sensation that’s not altogether unpleasant.

I jerk my chin in his direction and hold his gaze. I contemplate mustering up some false enthusiasm, giving a fabricated answer about my passion for the role, but when my mouth opens I find myself answering honestly.

“My rent is due in two weeks and I currently have seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents left in my checking account.”

The blonde titters, as though I’ve made an uncouth joke. The brunette pretends I haven’t spoken. But the man shifts in his seat, the curious look in his eyes intensifying.

I try not to let it bother me. Men have been giving me that look for as long as I can remember. Like I was bred for sex and sin — a creature who exists only in the hours between midnight and dawn, when proper girls are sleeping. I’m not sure what makes them see me in that light, have never quite been able to pinpoint what part of me screams out to be degraded and deconstructed down to my basest parts.