“Do you know him?”
“I knowofhim.”
“Well, what have you heard?”
“You’re not going to like it,” he warns.
“Just tell me, Cassius.”
He sighs like he’s about to deliver the most terrible news. “Rumor is that he lures young actors into his home and drugs them, then fucks them and makes them sign non-disclosure agreements in exchange for a part.”
“What? I can’t believe these sicko perverts. Are you sure?”
“That’s the word on the street.”
How in the hell…“If that’s true, how has he gotten away with it for so long?”
Cassius gives me a sympathetic look, which I suppose means that I’m asking a silly question. “Moviemaking can be a slimy business, dovey. You know how Brad Pitt got his start don’t you?”
“No, how?”
He makes a motion with his fist and tongue to simulate a blowie, and I gasp in astonishment.
“But Brad Pitt is areallygood actor,” I moan. If someone with his talent and hotness had to prostitute himself for a role, where does that leave me?
“He was one of Skid Row’s finest before he got discovered. In fact, that’s probably how he got his first big break.”
“Well, fuck, Cassius, what the hell am I going to do? I don’t really want to get drugged and raped, but I’d almost rather do that than go to any more of these soul-crushing auditions. They’re fucking brutal.”
Cassius smiles and ruffles my hair, and I spontaneously wrap my arms around him and squeeze. When he doesn’t react, I say to him, “Hug me,” and he does, sort of reluctantly, like he’s never done it before.
“You need to work on that,” I say when we finally part. I’m getting used to giving him notes too. “What am I going to do, Cassius? I really want this part.”
He shakes his head just like Victoria Childs onSunset Covewhen confronted with aterrible dilemma. “All right, Adam. How about this? Why don’t I go with you as your manager, and I’ll suss out this Barry Behrakis character for myself? At the very least, I can make sure you don’t get drugged or raped.”
“Would you, Cassius?”
“I would. After all, I have to protect my assets.”
“You can say boyfriend, you know?” I tease with an exaggerated eye roll.
“My adorably clueless and irresistibly sexy boyfriend.”
* * *
“Tellme the premise of this show again,” Cassius says on our way to Bel Air where the show’s producer lives.
“Basically, these prep school kids who are about to graduate go on a booze cruise out of Long Beach and they all get totally blitzed, then wake up on a deserted island where their ship has run aground. I’m not sure when the zombies come in. Maybe in the second season?”
“And what part did you audition for?” Cassius asks.
“Tristan Walter Ramsey III. Goes by Tris. It’s a minor part, but at least he has an actual name, as opposed to Dead Teen #5.”
“And what’s your character like?” he asks.
“Rich, preppy, kind of an asshole. I thought about you when I was reading for him. Not that you’re an asshole or anything.”
Cassius chuckles heartily. “I’m flattered. The admirer becomes the muse.” He pulls up to a wrought-iron gate and relays through the intercom who we are and who we’re here to see. The gate opens, and he follows the winding cobblestone drive to where a gorgeous mansion rises from the hill like a three-tiered wedding cake.
