At least his dick was small. It barely felt like a pinprick as he made his way into me.
But sucking it, on the other hand, was a chore. I’ve brushed my teeth at least a dozen times in the forty-eight hours since, but I can’t get the stale taste of him out of my mouth.
I’ll never do it again.
And at least I’ll get the gig. I should be hearing from them any day now. That’s what Mr. Shippe said as he was putting his boxers back on.
They have to wait a few days before they make the offer. Make it look like they took every girl into consideration. Otherwise it’ll look weird.
All I’ve done since I got home from the callback is cry in the shower and lie on my bed staring into space.
When I get the email from the production company, I’ll feel better.
At least there will be some tat for my tit.
My computer dings across the room.
Could this be it? My heart skips a beat, even though I know what the email is going to say.
It’s from Skylight Productions.
Moment of truth.
I open it.
Dear Bianca,
We were quite impressed with your audition and callback for Reflections. We want to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to perform for us.
Yeah, yeah. Get to the good stuff. I continue reading.
As of this afternoon, all offers for the show have been made. We are sorry that we don’t have a place for you in this production but wish you all the best in your career.
Cordially,
Lawrence Shippe
What?
I read through the message again.
And again.
This must be a mistake.
I slept with the fucking producer. And they still cast someone else?
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
I’m so fucking stupid. A stupid little slut who gave her body to the top bidder who then came up short when it was time to pony up.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
It’s not like I can email him back and tell him that he owes me this for sleeping with him.
He’s a powerful man. Loads of people—women included—would come to his defense if I made a big stink about this.
