“In an adult film?”
He shakes his head. “I’m helping out this kid—an associate of mine— with a new production, and I think you’d be perfect for it.”
“You’re a producer?”
“Something like that.” He pauses, swipes his hand through his thick mane. “It’s a reality dating show.”
“Reality TV? That’s not acting.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
“Touché. But I can’t do a dating show.”
“You have a boyfriend.” He says it like a statement, not a question.
“No.”
“You’re married?”
“Hell no.”
“Gay?”
“Not your business, but also no.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
I pause. The truth is that I think men aren’t to be trusted, and that I consider it my greatest personal weakness that I continue to be attracted to them. But I can’t—I shouldn’t—say that.
“I’m done with dating,” I say, and I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. But the Silver Fox is unbothered. He considers my statement.
“Don’t you think you’re a bit young for that?” he says, a bemused smile teasing his lips.
“I’m old enough to know not to waste my time and energy.”
He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay,” he says. A long beat passes. He drags his finger around the rim of his almost empty glass. “It’s just,” he says, eyeing me, “it’s a really good opportunity, this show.”
I shrug. “For some other sucker.”
He nods, like he’s going to drop it. But then he drops a bomb. “The prize money is $250,000.” My heart stops. “Do you think that might make it worth your time and energy?”
I swallow. My throat is suddenly bone dry, so I pour myself a splash of whisky and throw it back. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
“But there’s this thing where I hate men. Wouldn’t that put me at a disadvantage?”
He leans forward. “Well, that depends.” He’s close enough that I can see the creases around his eyes. Laugh lines, as they’re so generously called for men.
“On what?”
“How good an actress you are.” He holds my gaze before breaking the moment with a swig of his drink.
One of the Slot Zombies, a bald man with a head so shiny it’s practically reflective, has left his perch in front of the Rainbow Riches machine to get a drink, so I leave this statement to hang. I uncap his light beer and try to make witty banter, but the thought of the prize money clouds my brain, beating in the background of every moment like a drum.
I wipe the bar, dragging the cloth back and forth in long arcs. Could I actually do a reality dating show? No, not possible. I’m a decent actress, but am I good enough to pretend to fall in love? To make viewers fall in love with me?
Maybe before, back when I was Mary Fucking Sunshine, in love and full of hope and optimism. But that bitch is gone. I’ll have to find another way to make my name, because simping for some Chad on national TV is not the move for me.
The Silver Fox is still at the end of the bar, his glass empty except for a slush of ice.
