Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 65643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
“I’m here, too, Lorraine,” she said. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”
The headache worsened as Lorraine told my mom that Geoffrey Dorsch had gotten caught connecting young actresses and models to billionaires’ parties. One of them was rumored to be me, making five million a night. That was hitting the news cycle hard because people had a weird obsession with seeing actresses go from playing middle schoolers to being on OnlyFans in three years or less.
“But I’m not having sex for money,” I lifted my head to say, then wondered how my life had gone so wrong that my mom looked relieved to hear it. “Won’t this die down?”
“It’s not going to die down,” Lorraine yelled through the phone. “He had underaged girls on those ships. This is going to be a big fucking deal.”
I dropped my face back into the pillow. “For him, sure, but I’m not underaged.”
“You think every time there’s an article about Geoff trafficking kids on the Solar Eclipse, there won’t be a link to an article about you?”
Lorraine wasn’t on Facetime, but I could still see her expression against the back of my eyelids as clearly as if she were. Her cheeks would be cherry red with rage, her white teeth gnashing together, making the veins throb at her temples.
“Were you on the Solar Eclipse?” my mom whispered, covering the receiver with her hand.
I shrugged. I had no idea. I’d fallen in with a group of girls that partied hard and partied everywhere. We’d been on more private planes, superyachts, and private compounds than I could count. The press called them The Socialite Squad. My friend Noemi had called them trouble and told me to steer clear. I hadn’t listened.
“It doesn’t matter,” Lorraine yelled, hearing my mom’s question despite the receiver being covered. “She’s been photographed doing enough partying on yachts that she doesn’t have much credibility if she tries to claim she wasn’t on this yacht.”
I pulled the pillow away from my face. Mistake. “It’s not illegal to be on a yacht!”
“It might as well be!”
I pushed my face back into the pillow, regretting choosing the one with all the needlework. God, my head hurt. Why was this happening now? I just wanted to watch Julia Roberts fall in love with Richard Gere and drink my Gatorade.
Lorraine continued to rail into the phone for a few minutes, then abruptly hung up. Oddly, it was the hang up that bothered me more than the yelling. Lorraine only yelled when she cared. Hanging up was Lorraine’s prelude to giving up. What if, right now, she was yelling at another client? One who was actually booking jobs? I raised my head slowly and found Rowena through the shimmering haze of what was absolutely going to be a full-on ocular migraine. She was staring out the window, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Great, I wasn’t just pissing off my agent–I was worrying my mother.
“I’m not a prostitute, Mom.”
She made a sad attempt at a laugh. “I know, honey.”
“So there’s nothing to worry about,” I tried again.
Rowena reached over and found my hand, squeezed. We sat in silence for a minute, then she asked, “Did you hear back about that guest star role?”
“They ended up going with a singer.” I tried to focus on her expression. “Mom, are you okay for money?”
It was a weird question to ask. Not because she was my mother–her living was a percentage of mine, so our financial situation had always been intertwined for the last twelve years. No, it was weird because we’d always had plenty of money. We might talk about whether there was enough to buy this car or go on this vacation, but we were always okay with what we had in the bank. Better than okay. Even as I’d watched my accounts dwindle, I’d assumed she was fine. She wasn’t paying a team like I was.
“I’m thinking about–” she hesitated.
Concern wrapped icy fingers around my heart, making it trip in my chest. “You’re thinking about what?” I asked, my voice spiking.
She looked at me, her eyes soft and gentle. “Honey, I’m thinking it might be smart for me to move back home and go back to teaching.”
My jaw literally dropped. I’d thought that was something only bad actresses did to express amazement, but the lower half of my face just unhinged itself from the top, and I gaped at my mother. Go back home? LA was home! Go back to teaching? Who would manage me?
“You can’t,” I managed to say after several seconds of opening and closing my mouth, feeling like a fish on the bottom of a canoe, hook piercing my cheek, gasping for air.
Rowena waved her hands, distressed by my distress. “I can still help manage you, but if I’m teaching again, I won’t have to take a percentage of the jobs you book.”