She gives me a look—half envy, half terror—before melting back into the crowd.
"What's my job today?" I ask, trying to sound bored.
He smirks. "Look pretty. Take notes. Learn something."
I want to get snarky, but don't. "Why did you really bring me?" I ask instead.
He considers, then leans in so close his stubble grazes my ear. "Because there's no one else I trust to watch my back," he murmurs, then straightens, his mask snapping back into place.
The morning is a blur of introductions and awkward small talk. Asher sits at the head of the table, his attention laser-locked on every hopeful who crosses the stage. I expect him to be bored, but he's not. He watches each performance like it's life or death.
At the first break, he leans over. "See the redhead at table nine?" he says, his voice pitched low. "She's going to be huge. Remember her name."
I jot it down, because of course I do. I get the sense that, if I remembered all these little details, I could take over the world. He just has this instinct that's fascinating.
When the crowd thins out, an actor with the build of a UFC fighter and the smile of a sociopath approaches our table. He's in a tailored suit, but the way he moves says he'd rather be naked.
"Blackstock," he says, offering his hand. "Heard you were in town."
Asher takes his hand, squeezing just a bit harder. "Gordon," he says, something lethal in his voice.
The man turns to me, his gaze running up and down me in a way I don't like. "And who's this?"
"My assistant," Asher snaps, his hand back on my hip, tense in a way that has nothing to do with jealousy. It's like he views this man as a threat, not to himself, but to me. "She's not on the menu."
Gordon grins, his eyes raking over me again. "Shame. She's a stunner."
Asher's grip tightens, his jaw flexing. "You're here to audition, not harass my staff. Don't make me kick you out of here."
Gordon laughs, unfazed by the threat. "See you around," he says, then moves on.
Asher releases a breath, his hand sliding up my spine.
"I take it that you don't like Gordon?"
"I have no use for pricks like him."
"What'd he do?" I ask, genuinely curious. With Asher, it could be anything.
"Tried to rape an extra on his last movie," he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "Someone else walked in, which put an end to it. He's been trying to find new management ever since because no one is willing to touch him."
"Jesus," I mutter. That wasn't the answer I expected. Honestly, it isn't even close. I think I expected him to tell me something asinine, like Gordon insulted him or laughed too loudly or something equally as ridiculous. Instead, his hatred is genuine, borne of his distaste for predators.
"If he ever bothers you, tell me."
"Why? So you can kill him?"
"Worse," he growls. There's not a single hint of irony in it.
At lunch, an older executive with a red face and beady eyes sidles up to the table. "Asher! I see you've upgraded your taste in arm candy," he leers, his gaze glued to my tits like he's trying to see through my dress. "How much did you have to pay this one?"
Before I can react, Asher stands, looming over him. For a second, I think he's going to punch the guy. Instead, he just smiles at him, so coldly I shiver.
"Morrison," he snarls. "If you ever speak about her like that again, I'll rip your fucking throat out and have your balls in a jar on my desk by morning."
The exec tries to laugh off the threat, but I see the fear bloom in his eyes. He makes a quick exit, muttering an apology under his breath.
I stare at Asher. "That was… restrained," I say. "Are you sick?"
