Nobody

This one turned into a pretty emotional story set very near the real world. Expect a slow burn with some wild F/F stranger sex in the middle. Enjoy!

Trigger warning: non-glorifying, non-graphic mentions of self-destructive impulses.

***

"Bree! Come on in, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"Please," I answered Chris and nodded to his secretary, Jan. I felt a quiet rush of pride at the fact that she no longer needed to ask how I liked it.

I had a standing coffee order in the office of Chris Fucking Jameson. How many people could say that?

"A couple of things have come up that we need to go over," he said, turning to tap away the lockscreen on his computer.

"Yeah, of course," I said. "Thanks," I added to Jan, who was already setting the coffee cup down on the desk.

There was something odd about the way she nodded. Not at all jealous of me. It wasn't that Ilikedjealous expressions -- they actually made me really uncomfortable -- but the absence of one stood out in an unsettling way.

"First thing's first, the pilot came out amazing!" he said.

"Thanks! It did, right?"

It was only the proudest thing I've ever done. I felt like an exposed nerve every time it came up.

"You really put it all out there, honey. Powerful stuff."

"Thanks." I took a sip of the hot coffee, giving myself an excuse for how warm my face was.

"So, Fairmont has decided not to release the show," Chris said, and his lips kept moving for a while afterward, as if those were words that could be digested on the fly, with room for more.

"Wait, what?" I interrupted him, probably for the first time ever.

"What now?" he asked, forcing me to point out the important part of what he'd just said.

"We'renotpicked up?"

"They did decide to go a different direction with their final lineup," said Chris.

"But... but you said it was a done deal," I said.

"Yeah, I know, it's a bitch," he shrugged easily.

"So... but... so what does that mean?" I asked. "Are we looking at other studios?"

"Oh, no, no, Fairmont's still technically picking up the rights," he explained, "they're just shelving it as a tax write-off and suspending further production indefinitely."

"Suspending," I repeated. "So, there's a chance they might still...?"

I couldn't get out any more than that through my collapsing throat.

Chris shrugged with what might have been a tiny flicker of pity. Or maybe it was just impatience. "That's the spirit. Anything's possible. But for now, let's look to the future."

"Okay," I croaked and nodded vigorously, eager to hear that I still had one of those. "Yes. Yes, please."

"You're a champ, Bree," said Chris. "So, I've got a few exciting leads for you. There's an adaptation in the works for that comic book with the duck."

One side of my paper coffee cup dented inward under my fingers, pulling away from the plastic lid and spilling a trickle of scalding heat down my fingers.

"Uh-huh," I acknowledged.

"I think you'd be great for the part of Laura. She's kind of messy, fun, free, right up your alley. She's the main character's stepmother, and they have this wonderfully tense relationship that evolves over two or three scenes in the current draft."

"Uh-huh."

"Filming starts late next year," said Chris. "We'll get you scheduled for the audition. It'snotan open call. You'll probably only be up against a few dozen other candidates."

"What's the other one?" I asked.

Chris blinked. "The other one?"

"You said you had leads, plural?"

"Sure, sure," he said, still looking at me oddly. "This one's a little further down the line, which is good, because it's apocalyptic, so it'd help your chances if you use the time to drop a few pounds."

"No."

The word came out so soft, so thin, and yet, it filled the entire room, imposing a silence I had never in my life prompted from Chris.

"Okay..." he finally said. He would have been giving side-eye if there had been anyone in the room besides me to give it to. "We'll focus on the comic book movie."

"No," I repeated. It went easier this time, like pushing a car once it's already rolling.

"No what, Bree?" Chris sighed.

I took a breath, preparing for another push. "A one in a few dozen chance... at a bit mom part... to start filming in a year and a half... if it even gets that far. And if it does, it might get trashed for a tax break before anyone ever sees it."

"What can I tell you, hun? That's just the business these days," said Chris.

"Is there anything you can do for me sooner?" I asked.

"AnythingIcan do foryou?" he repeated, like he didn't supposedly work for me.

"Commercials? Anything?"

"You're the one who decided to stop doing those," he reminded me. "You didn't like making commitments you couldn't break without getting blacklisted, in case a 'real opportunity' came along."

"Yeah, well," I said. "If I could do it steady for a while--"

Chris laughed. "Ain't nothing steady in this town. You know that. Even the TV series hire for like eight episodes at a time these days. No, I agree with you on the commercials. I think the best thing to do is stay the course. I'll set up the auditions and see if I can't drum up a few more--"

"You don't understand," I said. "The pilot was it for me. That's all I've got."

I'd been trying not to even think those words for so long, not to acknowledge the existence of any loss condition, any point so low that there was no path upward for a determined enough soul.

"I can see you're upset," said Chris. "I can understand that. I think we should hit pause and pick this up another day. You're doing great, you really are. You've got the goods, the hunger, the can-do attitude. Something will work out. Go home, have a drink and a good cry--"

"You're not listening to me," I said. "I can't keep 'doing great' like this. This is me all in and letting it ride. I've tapped out every resource I have. I've slept on every couch. Worn out every welcome. Maxed out every card. All so I could train and show up everywhere you tell me to, every time, can-do. I've put everything into giving myself the best shot, as many shots...."

Tears were trying to sneak in at the corner of my eyes, but I had learned pretty well how to control their comings and goings. They weren't in danger of falling without my permission, not yet.

Chris's face had hardened. His lower lip had thinned where the inner side of it had retracted between his teeth.

It was a cardinal sin to mention needing money. Suggesting that youdeservedmoney, that was iffy enough. Sometimes it came across as confident, sometimes over-confident.

But if youneededmoney, that was your own unforgivably vulgar problem.

Chris pried his mouth open. "Honey--"

With one jerk of my arm -- such a small, easy motion -- I tossed the nearly full cup of coffee in his face.

"What thefuck?!" he screamed. At least, I was pretty sure that was what he was screaming. It was mostly just sounds of shock and rage.

He looked so far away, cursing and spitting, gripping his face with one hand and groping blindly for his desk tissue box with the other. His aim was off by about a foot.

I didn't help him.

So, this was how my life ended.

There was a laugh, alaugh, nudging feebly at the underside of the thick numbness in my chest, because all I could think about was how, at least, I'd never have to hear Chris Jameson call me 'Honey' ever again.

I stood up, letting the chair scrape the floor, and was out the office door before he could get his eyes open again.

I never said goodbye to Jan.

#

I'd rideshared to the office, not knowing at the time exactly how I was going to get back. I set aside the idea of "back" and just walked along the cracked, crowded sidewalks of Hollywood -- well, technically Toluca Lake -- until I found a slightly less-traveled overpass.

It wasn't over a freeway. No drivers to traumatize or inconvenience. Just the currently empty concrete trench of the LA River some forty feet below.

I put my hands on the railing, feeling every edge of the peeling band stickers that coated the rough metal. When no one yelled at me, I whipped my legs casually up onto the railing to sit.

I could just sit right here, until the moment felt right, and then the rest would be instant.

"It's a hot one today."

I yelped and gripped the metal beneath me in surprise, as the woman who'd spoken leaned both her forearms against the railing next to me.

She looked to be in her early thirties, maybe a shade younger than me. Stray lines of tattoos I couldn't see in their entirety swirled across her dark skin, peeking out from under the collar and long sleeves of her leather jacket. Her hair was short and asymmetrical, tinted with the remains of several different colors. Her huge, bright eyes and magnificently sharp jaw were altogether unfair to exist on the same face. An hour ago, I would have been annoyed to see someone with such a natural gift of a face waste it with career-killing body mods, but given where my years of doing everything the right way had led, what did I know?

"The ice cream shop over there is doing a half-priced scoop happy hour thing." The woman nodded toward the other side of the street. "And they've got air conditioning."

I hadn't had ice cream in five years. And now I couldn't afford it anyway.

"I'm good, thanks," I said.

The woman didn't move.

"Really?" she asked, tilting her head toward me and raising an eyebrow. "You're good?"

Those eyes were tough to look away from.

"No," I admitted. "Not really."

She nodded and patted the guardrail, sending a vibration down the line under my thighs. "Is it as bad as this?" she asked.

I felt a flicker of embarrassment at how obvious my intentions apparently were. The trapped laugh bubbled up weakly through my numbness. "It's pretty bad."

"How urgent?" she asked.

I let out an inarticulate "Huh?"

"What'll happen if you don't check out today?" she asked. "Someone coming for your family?"

The question sank in slowly, and I shook my head. "My family's in Ohio. And not talking to me."

"Cool. So, what, then?" the woman asked. "Unbearable cancer pains? Irresistible urges to send embarrassing texts to your ex?"

"Um... I might get arrested." In spite of myself, I started taking stock of the situation I'd had my heart set on not sorting out. "And I definitely can't go home. My roommate won't give me any more credit when she finds out I'm not...."

"...Gainfully employed?" the woman pieced together.

I nodded.

She clapped her hands once, pleased. "Fantastic. That's the easiest one to fix."

I stared at her blankly. She looked far away, too, and just barely interesting enough to keep squinting at.

"When did you lose your job?" she asked.

I had no desire to explain to her that I'd never really had all that firm a grip on it in the first place. But she seemed to be able to hear something in my silence.

"Ah," she said. "What were you? Musician? Actress?"

"Actress," I admitted.

What Iwas.

"How far did you get?"

I swallowed. "Union," I said. "Dozen legit credits or so. Big-time agent, who I just... fired."

She nodded along. "Tough break. Bet they had it coming, though."

Another laugh chipped its way out of me, dragging a shrug with it. "I don't know. I might have just been shooting the messenger."

The woman mirrored my shrug. "Well, either way, I've got a job I could really use some help on. It pays, you can stay with me, and no one has to know where you are, law enforcement included. Might be a good chance to think things over. When we're done, if you still feel the same, I'll drive you back up here myself. What do you say?"

I looked back over the edge of the overpass, at the hard, gray finality below. No worries. No hopes.

It wasn't going anywhere.

"What kind of job?" I asked.

"Does it matter? You were going to throw that time in the trash anyway."

"It's mine to throw," I said. "If you want it, give me the pitch."

She smiled. Apparently, she was of the, it-shows-confidence school of thought. "I need someone to go to a party and pick up a package," she said. "It's not legal, or safe, but it's a whole lot safer than what you had planned for this afternoon. One night's work. Two nights' lodging, five hundred bucks."

Five hundred. Enough for an apology to my roommate. And maybe one last scoop of pistachio ice cream for me.

I pulled my legs back over onto the walkway side of the railing, one at a time.

The woman held out an arm for me to steady myself with. "I'm Webster, by the way."

"Bree," I said.

Webster jerked her head toward one end of the overpass and stepped toward it, walking backwards until she was sure I was following her. She tapped a key, and a perfectly generic black hatchback, low-end but new, beeped as it unlocked.

I slid into the front seat, feeling strangely small there, even though Webster was shorter than I was sitting down. She shifted into gear almost as soon as her ass touched the driver's seat.

"Are you one of those bait girls?" I asked.

"One of those what now?" she asked.

"One of those ladies of the night who make out like they're independent and successful, but they're really just selling an illusion to recruit for some pimp?"

She smiled grimly. "You've been sold a lot of illusions, haven't you?"

I just waited for a real answer.

"No," she said. "That's not what we do. Not mainly, anyway. And no one's expecting you to fuck anyone you don't want to."

"We?" I asked.

Her smile warmed and widened. "We're a select group of individuals with loosely like minds and unlike skills."

#

Webster took us to one of the back streets of dilapidated mansions, surrounded by equally dilapidated tenements. The tenements were clearly still occupied, but the mansions -- well, I guess no one who could afford this much square footage this close to Hollywood wanted to live with shattered sidewalks and hundred-year-old plumbing.

No one except... Webster?

No, she probably didn't own it. Maybe didn't own it. I wasn't sure which raised fewer questions, honestly.

She led the way right up between the Grecian columns of the porch and opened the door, without needing a key.

"Hey, team!" she shouted. "We're back!"

Three people glanced up from their spots sprawled out around the large, sparsely furnished front room.

"This is Bree." Webster clapped me on the back.

"That was quick," said a young woman with feathery pink tips to her dark hair, studying me from behind her laptop.

"Bree, this is Christina."

Webester pointed to the woman who'd spoken.

"Liam."

She indicated a solid wall of muscle and stubble who waved and then returned to scratching behind the ears of a tiny tabby cat -- or maybe the cat only looked tiny in his arms.

"Ken."

She had barely finished the one syllable of his name before Ken crossed the room and shook my hand.

He was Asian and a little older than me, with the grip of a salesman but a surprisingly genuine-looking smile.

And a gun. Just casually hanging there in an armpit holster.

He followed my gaze downward and laughed apologetically. "Sorry, you caught me coming in from my other job."

He unfastened the top few buttons of his collared office shirt, slipped off the holster, and walked it over to a safe with handle like a ship's wheel, retrofitted into the brick of the wall. He turned the wheel to show me it was latched, and I smiled at him, since I was obviously supposed to be assured by this.

"I don't mean to put you out," I told him. "I won't be here long."

The room suddenly filled with knowing smiles, like I'd said something adorable and childish and wrong, something that had sent everyone into fits of nostalgia for their own ignorant pasts.

"Of course." Ken nodded. "But we'd be bad hosts if we didn't make you comfortable. For however long."

"Right..." I said. "So, anyway, is it a good time to ask again what exactly you want me to do?"

"Oh, it's a fun one," said Ken. "You just have to go to a fancy Hollywood party and steal a picture."

"A picture?" I asked.

"It's a framed picture, probably of a woman, or a couple," Christina took over, her attention suddenly shifting to the conversation as the topic turned this way. She set her laptop aside and tented her fingers in front of her, gazing at me over the tops of them. "It should be on a desk in the upstairs office, third door on the right. Just get in, get it, and get out."

"Oh, uh, okay..." I said, reminding myself that I was already probably wanted for a worse crime than burglary. "What if someone asks who I am?"

"Just try not to draw attention," said Webster. "The party's going to be packed with people who are trying to talk to somebody who'ssomebody, and nobody there knows your face, right?"

Great. The one role someone was willing to cast me in was "invisible person no one talks to at a Hollywood party."

I shifted my weight, trying to shake off the hurt. "Sure, but what if? Who am I? Who invited me? Why am I going upstairs?"

"You're whoever the fuck you want," said Christina. "You're crashing, just like half the other people there. You're going upstairs to do something other than steal a picture from a scumbag. Sound good?"

"Not much of an actor's director, are you?" I asked.

She stared at me, her expression blank with a hint of annoyance. Anyone would think I'd begged to be here.

"Never mind," I said. "I've got it."

She nodded. "Good. Eight o'clock tonight. Be party ready."

I glanced around at my total lack of possessions and transportation. "I mean, I'll be here. The rest is kind of up to you guys."

Webster put a hand promptly on my shoulder and escorted me up to one of the bedrooms. It was unfurnished except for a cot and half a dozen boxes of clothes, most of which had definitely never been her own. There were all different sizes and styles, every piece crumpled and bearing a faint, musty odor. I picked out a beaded purse, a slitted skirt, and a simple blouse with the fabric flatteringly gathered on the sides, which disguised the wrinkles nicely.

When I'd settled on all that, she walked me back downstairs, where Liam was scooping scrambled eggs and hotdogs onto mismatched plates.

He handed me one without a pause, and I wasn't too proud, or too principled, to take it without bringing up that I had brought nothing to contribute.

The eggs were perfectly fluffy. Not bad at all for a bonus meal.

"Hey, Christina!" Ken called. "Meatspace check-in time. Running on low battery, yet?"

Christina sniffed the air and glanced down, as if only just then remembering that she owned a stomach.

"I could use a top-up," she admitted.

Christina's edgy focus aside, the niceness of these people was intoxicating and unsettling, like the unnamed strain of weed my cousin used to grow in his closet.

They seemed to know what they were doing, and yet there was an optimism to the mood in here that couldn't possibly exist without a hefty dose of naivety to keep it alive. There had to be some horrible disappointment looming over the lot of them, waiting to crash down, and the thought of that happening to them gave me no satisfaction whatsoever.

My nerves surprised me when they arrived, as the sun went down and the party approached.

That was the first thing I'd learned in my first ever acting class. Nerves mean that you care.

Fuck.

#

Webster dropped me off a quarter mile away from a massive house in the hills, even bigger and, of course, a whole lot more polished than her own base of operations.

The steep walk gave me plenty of time to think about why exactly my anonymity was so important. What had Webster and the rest of them done that they couldn't go unnoticed in a place like this just as well as I could? Who were they afraid of being seen by? Who wasIabout to be seen by, if not necessarily noticed?