organize a festival to celebrate the fact that Holly Nash does indeed have a life outside of work.”
“You’re a bitch,” I turned away from him and pretended to work on my computer.
“A bitch who’s right. Now give me all the dirty details! How was the party? Did you get gang-banged while dozens of creepers stood around the room jerking off and filming it with their phones?”
I deadpanned him. He knew how ridiculous his question was and I wasn’t going to warrant it with a response. Instead of balking as I had hoped, he waved a perfectly manicured hand at me and continued.
“Did you at least get to see one of the Princes of Porn get his freak on? I mean, those parties are pretty legendary. I have this friend whose cousin knew this guy that went to one of them and totally got banged by Roman in the middle of the kitchen. Not a single appetizer was spared from their bout of pornographic passion. Rumor has it there’s a tape of it out there somewhere.”
“You’re disgusting,” it took everything I had not to smile at him, “I imagine there’s a reason you came in here beyond just grilling me about the Hale brothers and their sexual practices.”
“Nope,” he rose from the chair he had draped himself across and made his way back into the hallway, “You should really work on your storytelling, Holly. It’d make my life much more interesting.”
The soles of his steel gray Cole Haans snapped sharply on the marble hallway as he sashayed his way back to his desk. Moments later, the phone on my desk lit up and his voice boomed from the speaker, “Your two o’clock is cancelled, your two-thirty has rescheduled to three, and the producer for the new Michael Bay flick wants you to call him as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, darling. I’d be lost without you.”
“Don’t you forget it!” The line went dead.
I absently scrolled through my emails and compulsively rearranged everything on my desk in an effort to convince myself that I was too busy to call the producer. Talking to the people behind the cameras is my least favorite part of the job. I get the scripts, I attend the meetings, I find the faces. That’s my job and I’m damn good at it. I don’t need some overbearing, half-psychotic perfectionist flaunting his budget in my face and telling me how to do the one thing I’m really good at.
When I had organized the crumpled up headshots in the garbage can under my desk, I finally admitted to myself that I couldn’t justify putting the call off any longer. If I was going to get to my lunch break at a decent hour, I’d have to get it over with sooner rather than later.
I should’ve called sooner.
After three hours of being lectured on the importance of the eye and hair color for the leading man and how it was imperative for the leading lady to have an impossibly tiny waist, it was a quarter after two. I had thirty minutes to find food, devour said food, and get my ass back to the office to prepare for the meeting I had at three.
I was nudging my way toward hangry and knew better than to go into a meeting with a potential client in that state of mind.
I had just bent to grab my purse and sprint for the parking garage when Mitch came strolling back into my office with a Styrofoam container in his hands.
He set it on my desk and walked away without a word.
I opened the container to find a BLT on whole wheat bread with a grilled chicken salad on the side.
I mashed the intercom button on my phone, “Remind me to give you a raise.”
If he responded, I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the perfectly cooked bacon being crunched between my teeth.
After devouring the entire sandwich and half the salad, I started to feel human again. I stopped shoveling food into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten in days and took a more civilized approach to the last half of my lettuce and chicken. I picked up my fork and used that as a shovel instead of my fingers.
I sat back, sated and borderline
“You’re a bitch,” I turned away from him and pretended to work on my computer.
“A bitch who’s right. Now give me all the dirty details! How was the party? Did you get gang-banged while dozens of creepers stood around the room jerking off and filming it with their phones?”
I deadpanned him. He knew how ridiculous his question was and I wasn’t going to warrant it with a response. Instead of balking as I had hoped, he waved a perfectly manicured hand at me and continued.
“Did you at least get to see one of the Princes of Porn get his freak on? I mean, those parties are pretty legendary. I have this friend whose cousin knew this guy that went to one of them and totally got banged by Roman in the middle of the kitchen. Not a single appetizer was spared from their bout of pornographic passion. Rumor has it there’s a tape of it out there somewhere.”
“You’re disgusting,” it took everything I had not to smile at him, “I imagine there’s a reason you came in here beyond just grilling me about the Hale brothers and their sexual practices.”
“Nope,” he rose from the chair he had draped himself across and made his way back into the hallway, “You should really work on your storytelling, Holly. It’d make my life much more interesting.”
The soles of his steel gray Cole Haans snapped sharply on the marble hallway as he sashayed his way back to his desk. Moments later, the phone on my desk lit up and his voice boomed from the speaker, “Your two o’clock is cancelled, your two-thirty has rescheduled to three, and the producer for the new Michael Bay flick wants you to call him as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, darling. I’d be lost without you.”
“Don’t you forget it!” The line went dead.
I absently scrolled through my emails and compulsively rearranged everything on my desk in an effort to convince myself that I was too busy to call the producer. Talking to the people behind the cameras is my least favorite part of the job. I get the scripts, I attend the meetings, I find the faces. That’s my job and I’m damn good at it. I don’t need some overbearing, half-psychotic perfectionist flaunting his budget in my face and telling me how to do the one thing I’m really good at.
When I had organized the crumpled up headshots in the garbage can under my desk, I finally admitted to myself that I couldn’t justify putting the call off any longer. If I was going to get to my lunch break at a decent hour, I’d have to get it over with sooner rather than later.
I should’ve called sooner.
After three hours of being lectured on the importance of the eye and hair color for the leading man and how it was imperative for the leading lady to have an impossibly tiny waist, it was a quarter after two. I had thirty minutes to find food, devour said food, and get my ass back to the office to prepare for the meeting I had at three.
I was nudging my way toward hangry and knew better than to go into a meeting with a potential client in that state of mind.
I had just bent to grab my purse and sprint for the parking garage when Mitch came strolling back into my office with a Styrofoam container in his hands.
He set it on my desk and walked away without a word.
I opened the container to find a BLT on whole wheat bread with a grilled chicken salad on the side.
I mashed the intercom button on my phone, “Remind me to give you a raise.”
If he responded, I couldn’t hear him over the sound of the perfectly cooked bacon being crunched between my teeth.
After devouring the entire sandwich and half the salad, I started to feel human again. I stopped shoveling food into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten in days and took a more civilized approach to the last half of my lettuce and chicken. I picked up my fork and used that as a shovel instead of my fingers.
I sat back, sated and borderline
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