“I should’ve known you’d be cougar bait. Did you like her? Or was it, like, skeevy?”
“I mean, the first thing she said to me was a sex joke,” Jem admitted. “But she was funny about it. It wasn’t pushy or anything. I did like her.”
“Amazing. So you’re going through with it?”
“Uh. No.”
“Why not?”
“Tori, that lady would’ve rode me hard and put me away dead.”
“You mean wet?”
“I meant what I said. I was gonna be calling in at the start of every week ’cause I would’ve been too sore to get out of bed.”
Tori cackled. “Jem, she was like fifty years old. You don’t think you could keep up?”
“Without performance-enhancing drugs? She was gonna have my dick twice for breakfast and follow up with my shin bone for brunch if she couldn’t get a third helping.” Jem was more than happy to be of service, but he wasn’t sure his ego could handle that.
“Jem! Gross!” The cackles turned into breathless wheezes. “College Jem would’ve gone for it.”
He snorted. “College Jem would’ve done it for free and called it part of his education. But College Jem didn’t have to wrangle twenty five-year-olds come Monday morning.”
The smile in her voice was obvious when she said, “You’re still tempted, huh?”
“Oh my God, yes. For one night she could use me however she wanted. It’s the commitment to excellence that’s freaking me out.”
She laughed at him again. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t get ax-murdered, at least. Better luck next time, eh?”
As if on cue, his phone beeped with a notification—the sugar-baby app, someone else wanting to set up a meeting.“Speaking of next time, it looks like I have another date.” He paused. “Should I change the pants, or—”
“It pains me to say this, but if you got it, flaunt it.”
Because lifecould never cut him a break, Jem’s next date was in Silver Lake, which would’ve been fine if the previous one hadn’t been halfway to Malibu. He followed the directions to a nondescript commercial building off Sunset and hoped he wasn’t about to die horribly.
But the inside of the building was clean and bright, tastefully decorated in neutrals with aqua accents. Aside from the person at the reception desk, there was one other person in the lobby, a man with a surf-bro haircut and a face that looked vaguely familiar. Jem ignored him and walked up to the desk.
“Hi… Deb.”
Behind the desk, Deb raised her eyes and flashed him a smile. “Welcome to Seventh Circle Management. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yeah, uh, my name is Jem Anderson. I’m here to see Amanda Moore?”
“Oh, you’re her three o’clock.” Deb smiled and stood from the desk. “Follow me, please. She’s reserved the conference room on the second floor.”
God, Jem hoped this wasn’t a panel interview. He’d thought the last one seemed overwhelming. “Sure.”
He followed Deb down a hall lined with framed pictures, records, magazine covers, and articles—athletes, actors, musicians, even screenwriters. He wondered which one AmandaMoore was. Writer, probably, since the name didn’t ring any bells.
Upstairs, Deb deposited him in a cozy room with a handful of chairs and a low coffee table, a mini fridge, and a Nespresso machine. “I’ll let Amanda know you’re here,” she promised, and then, with a cute little smile, she was gone.
“Sure, yeah,” Jem said out loud to the empty room. “I’ll just make myself at home.” He opened the mini fridge. Jesus, there were little cocktail cans in there. Apparently the people Seventh Circle managed included raging alcoholics.
Well, this was LA. That tracked.
Jem snagged a bottle of Perrier, twisted the cap off, and took a deep sip. The bottle gave him something to do with his hands while he waited.
At least he’d made it here on time. The conference room was empty, and Deb had only mentioned Amanda, so—
