I shift, looking at him more clearly. “Oh, yeah?”
“It’s not a national commercial or anything,” he says, “but it is a decent paying job if you’re interested.”
I feel a spark of hope flare inside my chest, but try to keep my calm. I’ve had way too many close calls and disappointments since I came to L.A., and this might just be one more.
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely interested.”
“It’s…a little different than what you’re probably used to,” he begins.
“This is L.A.,” I say. “I’m used to different.”
“Yes, well, even so,” he says. “This is sort of an acting job but not quite. I work for a company called Stand In Girlfriend.”
“What is that? Like a reality show?” It’s the last thing I want to do, but right now I can’t afford to be snobby about paying gigs.
“It’s not reality TV,” Damien says. “No cameras. We just…send girls out on dates with wealthy clients.”
I feel like I’m going to throw up. I turn and start walking away. “Uh, no thanks, buddy,” I say over my shoulder. “I’m not a freaking prostitute.”
“No, no,” he says, scrambling to catch up to me. “It’s not that. Not at all. Trust me. This has nothing to do with sex or any of that. You don’t have to so much as give the guy a peck on the cheek. You don’t even have to hold his hand if you don’t want to.”
Despite myself, I stop walking. Call it morbid curiosity. “So then what is it, exactly?”
“We are not an escort service, not by any means,” he says, wiping more sweat from the side of his face. “We cast real girls, down to earth, innocent, sweet girls. And what can I say—you seem to fit the bill.”
“Glad to know I fit someone’s bill,” I mutter.
“Our clients are wealthy, like I said,” Damien continues. “They’re very powerful, busy men. They just want basic companionship and conversation from bright young women and they’re willing to pay good money for it. And they trust our company to provide them with intelligent, sweet girls who are not looking to take advantage of their wealth.”
“It sounds dicey. I’m looking for real acting gigs, not getting paid for pretending to like some creepy old guy.”
Damien takes out his phone and pulls up a photo. He shows it to me. “This is the man I had in mind for you. His name is Rex Croft.”
I look at the photo to see a man not much older than me—maybe twenty-five—who has dark hair and strong features, and hazel eyes that seem to pierce through the picture, as if he’s looking right at me.
My heartbeat speeds up more than a fraction.
He is not good looking. He is gorgeous.
But there’s no way a guy like him goes for a girl like me. And in this town, a rich, super hot looking dude can have his pick of models and actresses.
I stand in the warm sunlight in my khaki pants that I wore this morning thinking I’d look like a relatable every-girl for the audition. What a fail.
This gig doesn’t sound even remotely right. I’ve heard of girls falling into stuff like this when they come to L.A. and here I am, standing in a parking lot about to let it happen to me.
So I tell Damien I won’t do it. “But if you have any actual acting jobs, let me know.” I start to walk away again.
“It’s a thousand dollars,” Damien replies coolly. “That’s for one evening’s work. And sex is absolutely, positively not expected, required or part of the deal. The men—like Rex here—understand that. Addison, it’s just companionship. Just hanging out with a good-looking rich guy for an evening. Don’t overthink it.”
“A thousand dollars?” I repeat. That’ll cover my rent and buy me some time to do more auditions. To be honest, I’m not ready to give up on my dream yet. “And you swear there’s nothing sexual?”
“On my mother’s grave,” he says. “This is just the promise of companionship for these guys. Just be warm and fun and friendly like I know you are, and you’ll be a success. Rex is going to love you.”
“And how do I know this is really the guy I’m going to meet? How do I know I’m not going to get murdered and chopped up?” I ask, and I can’t believe I’m actually considering doing this.
Damien grins. “Google Rex Croft. He’s a real guy, and he’s the person you’ll be seeing tonight. As for me, I’m a real person too, with a name in our industry and ties to the community. If I was doing something crazy, it would be very easy for you to tell the cops all about me. Right?”
“Right.” I purse my lips and think about it.
But all I can really think about is how much breathing room a thousand dollars would give me right now…
Rex Croft is handsome and wealthy.
If the picture is true to the actual man, how bad could it be? Maybe some boring conversation and then I go home and collect my pay.
“Say yes and I’ll give you the first third right now,” Damien says. He pulls a checkbook out of his breast pocket and leans on the back of a Honda and starts writing. Addison…Gilmore?”
Maybe I can do this one thing. I can treat it like an acting job. I will act the part of the fun, intelligent, warm girl this Rex guy wants to hang with for the evening. And then tomorrow, I’ll hit the ground again taking auditions.
“Gilmour with an o-u,” I say, and spell it out for him. My heart is pounding, and I can’t believe I’m doing this.
He rips the check out of the book and hands it to me. “There you go. You’ll get the rest upon the completion of your evening with Rex. Here’s his address,” Damien continues, writing it down on slip of paper. “You’ll show up this evening at eight. Please don’t be late. Rex will be expecting you.” He looks at me and flashes a smile. “And have a good time, Addison.”
As I drive home I try not to freak out. This is definitely the oddest thing I have ever done—stranger even than the time I gave a monologue about death while squirting mustard into the audience, when I did that experimental theatre group awhile back.
The first thing I do when I get into my tiny studio apartment is rummage through my equally tiny closet.
What am I going to wear? Damien didn’t say where Rex and I were going. Dinner, I suppose?
If he’s rich he’s probably conservative…but then again he looks pretty young so maybe he’s a little looser. I certainly don’t want him to take one look at me and call Damien to ask him what the hell he was thinking. I don’t want to look like I don’t have aspirations but I also don’t want to look like a call girl.
There’s nothing I can do about the weight part between now and tonight, either.
I find a full skirt and fitted sweater blouse that I wore when I played a secretary on a drama. I didn’t have any lines but I pretended to answer phones and write messages for three days.
I shower and redo my hair and makeup. I take a look at myself in the warped full-length mirror I literally found on the sidewalk not far from my studio and think, Well, this is as good as it’s going to get. I’ll just be pleasant and get the rest of that money. Which reminds me…