Last time on L.A. Connections…

Natalie met an agent at her waitressing job who agreed to give her a screen test, then directed her to a photographer for updated head shots. At her appointment, the photographer unnerved Natalie when she felt he was leering at her. Kelly and Eddie identified Riley using the footage from Miranda’s birthday party, but when Kelly arrived at his last known address, the landlord said he’d moved and left no forwarding address. Riley grew jealous by how fast Natalie and Steve connected.

* * *

Riley wiped sweat from his brow and sat up from the incline bench, chest heaving. His t-shirt clung to his back, soaked almost completely through. Somewhere overhead, the tinny speaker system piped in Gaga’s The Dead Dance.

He grabbed his water bottle and took a long swig, then glanced over at Steve, who was adjusting the bench press.

“You off carbs again?” Riley muttered.

Steve smirked as he slid another plate onto each end of the barbell. “When was I on them again?” he asked. “That modeling scout’s been sniffing around the club lately. Figured I’d do what I could to keep the window open.”

“You should,” Riley said, wiping his hands on a towel. He gave Steve an encouraging nod. “Wouldn’t be a bad gig. Better than valet shift manager.”

Steve grunted and lay back on the bench, exhaling before gripping the bar. Riley moved behind him, standing at the head to spot him. Steve pushed out three reps, then struggled through a fourth before returning the bar with a groan.

“Who needs the stress?” Steve said as he tried to catch his breath. “Besides, I’ve been thinking maybe I’d follow your lead. Make money the easy way on that app.”

Riley raised an eyebrow.  “It’s not that easy, trust me,” he said.

Steve laughed under his breath, more amused than convinced. “How bad can it be?” he asked. “Fuck some rich broad and get paid. Where’s the problem?”

Riley shot him a look. “That’s not what all of them want,” he said quietly. “And even the ones who say they do… sometimes it turns into something else.”

Steve tilted his head with curiosity.  “Something else like what?”

Riley hesitated but never answered him.

After another set, Steve smirked again. He grabbed his water bottle from the floor and stood up, slapping Riley on the shoulder as he passed.

“Whatever, man. All I’m saying is if you ever want to tag-team a gig, I clean up well. You get tired of the weirdos, throw one my way.”

“Jeanie still pissed at you?” Riley asked as he took Steve’s spot on the bench.

“Man,” Steve muttered, spotting him, “She’s mad at everything lately. I leave a spoon in the sink and she acts like I burned the place down. Yesterday I came home five minutes late from the club and she locked me out. Literally dead-bolted the door for half an hour.”

“That’s insane.”

“I might need to crash on your couch for a few days,” Steve said. 

“It’s that bad?” Riley asked while catching his breath. “And technically, it’s your couch.”

“Think Natalie would mind?”

Riley did four quick reps and set the bar down with a clang that echoed off the walls. He sat up and glanced at Steve with a smirk.

“Probably not,” he said. “You two seemed to be getting along okay the other day. Just don’t get any ideas.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, towel slung across his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Riley rose from the bench and, without answering, snapped him with his towel. “Nothing,” he said, grinning as he turned away, shaking off the image of Natalie, laughing in the pool, water glistening off her skin. Steve floating too close beside her, making jokes, touching her playfully.

Not that he had any excuse to be jealous after some of the things he’d done lately. But Natalie’s car needed a new transmission. He accidentally overdrew his checking account and got pummeled with late fees and overdraft fees. Natalie wanted a haircut and manicure before she got her new headshots. Living in L.A. was expensive enough. He had no choice but to continue his foray into Noir Companions.

* * *

The house was situated high atop Mulholland and was starkly modern. It felt less like a home and more like an architectural experiment. The woman answered the door not wearing any clothes. She was tall, blonde, and had a sadness about her. She led Riley through a maze of rooms—none of which containing a single piece of furniture.

When they finally arrived in what she referred to as the TV room, he relaxed a bit. There was no television that he could see, but there was a motorcycle oddly placed in the center of the room before an oversized sectional.  What caught his attention, though, were the framed photos covering one full wall. They all seemed to feature the same man—usually on a motorcycle, launching mid-air over dirt ramps or at the edge of a canyon. Some were on a track, helmet pulled over his head or tucked under his arm while staring into the camera.

He remembered hearing something a few months back about a motocross legend who’d died not long ago. Some freak accident off Piuma Ridge. The guy had been very young and had supposedly lived like a king in the hills.

The woman returned with two drinks and handed one to Riley. She saw him looking at the wall and smiled faintly. “My husband,” she said, as if it still surprised her. 

After instructing him to remove his shirt, she handed him a matte black helmet with a mirrored visor. 

“Put it on,” she said, her tone light but firm. “Visor down.”

Riley did as he was told.

She gestured toward the motorcycle. “Sit on it,” she said. “Both hands on the handlebars.”

He settled into the position as she circled around him. He’d learned early on in his venture with Noir Companions that wealthy women had very specific tastes. Specific fantasies. Specific grief. This was one of them. He was no longer Riley. He was something else now—like a vessel.

She stepped back and looked at him. “You don’t look like him,” she said softly. “But the shape is close enough.”

Riley didn’t reply. He simply gripped the handlebars, visor down.

Then she lied back on the sectional, her fingers making their way to her clit as she looked at him. She moaned as she pleasured herself. 

Next, she instructed him to take off his shorts but leave his underwear on, then get back on the bike. Her hips gyrated wildly as she dug her fingers deeper inside, her free hand tweaking her nipples. She came hard, crying out the name Justin. 

Justin. That was him.

The woman lay on the sofa, exhausted and crying.

“Please go,” she said softly and without looking at him.  

Quickly, Riley removed the helmet and pulled on his clothes. He found his way to the front door and stepped out into the night air a thousand dollars richer. And for what? Simply for letting a grieving widow pretend for a few minutes. 

He didn’t feel shame, but the feeling that he had on the ride home wasn’t pride either.  Just silence and gloom. It was Halloween after all—only no masks were needed.

* * *

4Voyeurs lived on the top floor of a high-rise on Wilshire. When Riley arrived, she answered the door in a silk robe and nothing else.

“You’re early,” she said. “That’s good. I like men who are eager.”

She handed him a drink, then pointed to the terrace. “Out there,” she said. “Lights on. Curtains open. I want them to see, if they’re watching.”

Riley nodded, already unbuttoning his shirt as he stepped out onto the terrace. The city stretched as far as the eye could see. There were several buildings in close proximity, windows blinking like a power grid. She followed behind, tracing a finger slowly down the center of his back.

The woman was attractive. Probably mid-fifties. Had a lot of work done, including on her taut, tanned body. But something about the idea of someone seeing them in the act made him nervous. Performance anxiety maybe. Steve had suggested he take a viagra before a gig just in case he needed help rising to the occasion. He wished he’d listened. 

When she unzipped his pants, he focused on her breasts, kneading them in his hands and licking her pert nipples. He noticed a telescope a couple of feet away and realized this voyeur thing must be a whole lifestyle for her.   

She took him into her mouth and Riley felt something trying to spark to life—tiny pangs of sensation that he willed to happen.  He opened his eyes.  Across the way, something caught his attention—a flicker of light from a window. He nodded toward the telescope perched nearby.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low.

She pulled the telescope toward him and nudged it into position before sinking to her knees again and picking up where she left off.

Riley brought it to his eye, adjusting the lens with one hand, the other resting on the balcony railing for balance. The view came into focus slowly. He saw a woman in her apartment, naked, pleasuring herself as she watched through her own telescope. 

Something in Riley clicked into place. A jolt surged through him, suddenly aroused at the prospect of being watched. He made slow, rhythmic thrusts into her mouth as he felt himself finally rise to full mast. 

She rose slowly and stood facing the city lights. Without a word, she turned, gripped the cold steel railing of the terrace, and lowered her robe.

Riley stepped in behind her, one hand steadying himself on the rail, the other guiding himself inside her. He entered her hard, mechanical and necessary.

As he pumped, he saw more reflections of light from other windows. Two, three, four—then he lost count. He moved the telescope from window to window and saw them watching him. A voyeuristic couple kissing as they spied through their telescope. A man jacking off on his balcony wearing a Ghostface mask. Then two men watching, and then another lone woman. 

It then dawned on him he was giving a live sex performance. Only this one wasn’t some robotic virtual livestream. It was like they were there, in the room, watching them fuck, and it was wild. Before long, Riley was putting on a show. He pulled the woman’s hair, changed positions, flexed his biceps and pushed out his chest. He knew what people wanted and he knew how to give it to them.

* * *

JoanneWithaZ must have been a very successful—not to mention desperate—woman because she sent Riley a tuxedo to wear and was sitting in the back of a stretch limousine when she arrived to pick him up at work. The ratty old tux of Steve’s he’d worn to the party at the Blackthorne mansion wouldn’t do in this case. His eyes had bulged when he saw the price-tag. She made sure to tell him it wasn’t his to keep when he climbed into the back seat where she was perched with a glass of champagne in hand, dressed in a gold sparkly outfit with plenty of jewelry. 

“You don’t strike me as someone who could afford to be a member,” the woman remarked, nodding to the porte cochere of the Wilshire Country Club.  

He shook his head with a slight chuckle. “It’s actually my day job. I park cars.” 

“Well, your job tonight’s very simple,” she said when the limo lurched forward. “Stay by my side, arm locked through mine, and don’t speak unless I tell you to.”  

Her directive was very clear, and it occurred to Riley that this wasn’t like the other jobs he’d taken since joining Noir Companions. Instead of wanting to take his clothes off, she wanted him dolled up to impress. He could play that part just fine. He was an actor, after all. 

As soon as the limo pulled up in front of the El Capitan Theatre, Riley knew this was big.

Crowds packed behind barricades screamed at the sight of every arriving car. Spotlights crossed the night sky. Cameras flashed nonstop. Actors, producers, and influencers stepped onto the red carpet looking like walking magazine covers.

It was a film premiere, no doubt. A big-budget, high-profile one at that. It was incredible.

Beside him, his client adjusted her metallic gown and checked her reflection for the fifth time. Riley straightened his cuffs and took a breath. When the driver opened the back door, the woman stepped out like she’d done it a thousand times. Riley followed a step behind, slipping into position beside her, their arms linked just as she’d instructed.

For a moment, the flashes aimed in his direction, blinding and chaotic. Only then did he realize he’d forgotten one thing. 

Natalie.

What if she saw footage of the premiere and saw him escorting a woman down the red carpet?  

Expertly, he turned his face to avoid the cameras. They were just about to step off the press line when a man approached.

“There she is,” he said smoothly, his eyes fixed on Riley’s client. “If it isn’t FlickFix’s talented VP of talent.  How are you, Zoanne?”

“Vaughan,” she replied, her tone fake. “I should’ve known you’d be circling the carpet like a hawk. Looking for new prey?”

Riley listened, absorbing the scene. He recognized the man by name as one of Hollywood’s leading talent agents. And the woman—his client—Zoanne? Now her screen name made sense to him. Joanne with a Z. Very clever. But the real point of interest was that he referred to her as FlickFix’s VP of talent.  He wondered if she’d been the one to bring Natalie on board when she got the role in The Bride’s Maids. Nevertheless, he’d managed to stumble on a client who could actually do things for him.

They continued into the theatre, Zoanne proudly walking in on the arm of a much younger man. She stopped and spoke to a woman whom he recognized from the party at the Blackthorne mansion. 

“Miranda, how lovely to see you,” Zoanne said, kissing her once on each cheek. 

Miranda Blackthorne, Riley surmised. Another agent. The party had been in her honor. He remembered that her husband, who was standing behind her, had given the toast. 

“Zoanne, you look amazing,” Miranda said, then nodded toward Riley. “And who is your handsome date this evening? I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

Zoanne did a quick introduction using the fake name he used on Noir Companions. “This is Nick,” she said. “An up and comer in the industry.”

Of course she didn’t mean it, but what would it take to get her to actually believe that about him? 

He and Miranda shook hands, her husband deeply embroiled in a conversation with someone nearby. 

When a photographer approached and signified his desire to get a photo op with the three women, Riley panicked. He waited until the shutter was about to click and then lifted his hand to discreetly hide his face. 

He was too focused on keeping his head down and his face hidden to take in much of the premiere. The famous crowd and the grandeur of the El Capitan blurred as they were quickly ushered to their seats. Only when the lights dimmed did he finally relax. In the dark, no one could see him.

The film—Dominion Protocol—was a loud blur of explosions, spies, and exciting stunts. Zoanne seemed bored.  Riley dreamed of the day he’d be attending one of his own premieres.

When it ended, the applause was polite, the crowd already halfway out the door. Outside, the camera flashes were fewer, the frenzy quickly dying down. By the time they slid into the back of the limo, Riley let out a breath. At least Natalie wouldn’t find out this way.

On the way back to the country club, Zoanne transferred two thousand dollars into his app account. He’d asked for more than his other jobs since it took up an entire night. She told him to keep the tuxedo. Said it fit him well and that he’d sweat through it anyway.

The last thing she said to him before the limo pulled up to its destination triggered Riley and caused him to grow sick with contempt for himself. 

“Your profile said you were an actor,” she said. “I thought you’d have taken more of an opportunity to network tonight. Instead, your head was turned to the ground for most of it. Not interested in self promotion?” 

He was quick to correct her. “No, I am! I just—”

A phone ringing interrupted him and Zoanne hastily went to answer it.

“Alex, darling, how nice to hear from you,” she said, her face lighting up. She lowered the phone for a second and redirected her gaze onto Riley, emotionless. “Thank you for your services. Have a good night.”  Then she immediately went back to her call.  

Before he knew it, the driver was opening the back door.  Riley stepped out, wishing he could say something—anything to make her understand why he hadn’t taken the opportunity he’d been given. That he had a wife at home and she—

What was the use?  It was done and over. He might have made two grand, but blew a great opportunity.  All because of his lies.  All because of the app that owned him now.  

* * *

The next morning, Riley’s profile got a hit from a woman who was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Just once more, he told himself. After that, he’d be done with Noir Companions. It was starting to depress him more than anything.

The client was an attractive woman in her sixties, currently on tour promoting a string of self-help books. Riley thought she looked familiar like maybe she’d once been an actress or a regular on daytime TV. He couldn’t quite place her, but there was something vaguely cinematic about her posture and smile.

The job itself was routine. She requested he wear swim trunks—bright blue ones she’d set out on the bed. The sex was vigorous and athletic. It lasted about an hour. Like many wealthy women Riley had encountered, she had her own triggers. She kept calling him Brett. An old flame, he figured. Maybe an unrequited love.

When he got home to his and Natalie’s apartment, the door was open and there was a duffel bag on the ground preventing it from shutting.  With a frown, he stepped closer and peered inside the apartment. 

“Nat?” he called out.

Then just behind, he heard the front gate clang shut. He turned and saw Steve and Natalie, deep in conversation and laughing. Steve had another bag slung over his shoulder while Natalie carried a box in her hands. 

“Hey, Ry!” Natalie called, brushing a kiss across his cheek as she passed on her way into the apartment. “Thought you had to work?”

“Uh, no,” Riley said, still trying to piece things together. “Got my days mixed up, I guess. What’s going on?”

“Just moving my stuff in,” Steve said breezily, hauling a duffel bag over one shoulder. “Well, not everything. Just the basics till Jeanie lets me back.”

“Oh,” Riley said, the pieces coming together. “You’re moving in.”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, turning back. “You sound surprised. We talked about this, remember?”

Riley nodded a little too quickly. “Right, I just didn’t know it was, like… happening today.”

“It is okay, isn’t it, Ry?” Natalie asked, reappearing from inside.

“I told her you’d be cool with it,” Steve cut in. “You are cool with it, right?”

Riley raked a hand through his hair, forcing a grin. “Yeah, man. Of course. Our place is your place.” He patted Steve’s shoulder a little too hard. “I mean… literally.”

Natalie lit up. “It’ll be fun!” she said, already halfway to the bathroom. “Anyway, I hope no one needs the shower because I have to start getting ready for…” She paused dramatically. “…my meeting with the Hal Bedford Agency!”

“That’s today?” Riley asked, shifting gears and starting toward her. “Hon, you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want to jinx it,” Natalie said, practically glowing. “I got my headshots back early and made the appointment. Guess that photographer was ok after all. Isn’t it great?”

“Congrats, Nat,” Steve said, stepping in to give her a warm hug.

Riley hesitated just short of her, a flicker of something tightening in his chest. Steve was the first to hug her? “Yeah,” he added, recovering. “I’m so proud of you, hon.”

She wrapped her arms around him tightly, her eyes locking on his. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you, Ry.”

And just like that, she was off again, disappearing into the apartment in a flutter of excitement. Steve lingered a second longer, then dropped his hands to his sides with a smirk.

“Well, guess I better find somewhere to stash my stuff,” he said. “Hey, mind if I snag a drawer?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—just started walking toward the door. Then he stopped, turned back, and leaned in, his voice low and secretive. “Oh, and nice going, bro. Got your days mixed up, huh? Sure you did, you dog.” He gave Riley a playful slap to the chest. “Can’t wait to hear all about her once Nat’s outta earshot.”

With that, he vanished inside.

Riley stood there, his stomach doing flips. He was suddenly worried. Steve knowing about his extracurricular activities and joking about them wasn’t just uncomfortable. It was dangerous.

* * *

Kelly sat cross-legged on the couch of her cozy Hancock Park bungalow, sipping from a mug in a tank top and shorts. The late morning sun streamed through open windows, the scent of coffee lingering in the air from her espresso maker. Her mother, Leilani, had left earlier for the farmers market, leaving the place quiet except for the soft chatter on the TV.

Current Weekly played in the background, running its usual red-carpet recap.

Bored, Kelly opened her laptop and typed “Riley Weir” into Google.

Not much came up. A few scattered links. His only IMDB credit was his brief stint on the soap Empire Crest. No social media. No real digital footprint at all.

She frowned, then glanced at the TV.  Footage from the Dominion Protocol premiere was airing.  And there, as clear as day, was Riley in a tux on the red carpet standing stiffly beside a woman in a metallic gown, like he didn’t want to be seen.

Kelly blinked and sat up straighter. “That’s him!” she exclaimed, jumping off the sofa and searching for the television remote. 

She rewound the clip, pausing on his face. Same guy. Same eyes.

When the door opened and Leilani entered, two mesh bags of fruits and vegetables in her hands, Kelly leapt toward her.  “Mom, I found him,” she exclaimed. “Can you believe it?”

“Who did you find?” Leilani asked as she padded toward the kitchen.

Lifting blankets and magazines out of the way in search of her phone, Kelly didn’t answer her. “I have to call Miranda!”

* * *

In the reception area of the Hal Bedford Agency, Natalie sat rigidly, her new headshots resting in a white envelope on her lap. She’d dressed carefully in a simple white blouse, a flowy skirt, and her hair cascading over her shoulders. Very L.A., she thought.  She kept hearing Hal’s voice in her head from when she waited on him at the Smoke House: You’ve got that spark, Natalie. I can see it already.  She’d replayed it a thousand times in her head since then, fueling her hope for a break. 

As the receptionist led her down the hallway past framed Variety covers and vintage movie posters, Natalie tried to hold on to that optimism.

Hal stood to greet her, smooth as ever in a navy suit and polished leather shoes. “Natalie,” he said, offering a practiced smile. “Look at you. On time, prepared—off to a good start.”

“I brought the new headshots,” she said, handing him the envelope.

He flipped through them quickly, nodding with approval. “Very clean. You’ve got strong looks, especially this one,” he said, holding up a three-quarter shot where she wore a soft smile. “Briggs always does a good job.” 

“Thank you,” she said, her heart pounding in her chest. “I really took your advice to heart after we met.”

Hal glanced at her with a smile and then gestured toward a small side room with a screen already queued up. “Let’s take a look at your reel.”

Natalie followed him in, hands in her lap as the room dimmed. Her reel played. A yogurt commercial they wound up reshooting with another actress, a dramatic monologue from a student short, and a montage of scenes from The Bride’s Maids. She watched herself silently, trying to see what he saw. 

When it ended, Hal leaned back in his chair. “You’ve definitely got presence,” he said. “There’s something there.”

“Thank you,” she said eagerly.

“Thing is, we’re being very selective right now. I’m not quite ready to bring anyone new on officially.”

Natalie blinked. “Oh,” she said. “It’s just… at the Smoke House, I got the impression—”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Natalie, you’re talented. I meant what I said.” 

She swallowed hard. “Right. Of course.”

“I’d like to keep you in my orbit. Let’s stay in touch. Check back in a few months once you’ve booked a couple more things.” He stood, and she rose with him, though her legs felt heavier than they had before. “Thank you for your time,” she managed.

Outside, the sunlight hit her like a spotlight. The noise of Beverly Boulevard surrounded her. She walked slowly to her car, the envelope tucked under one arm, the headshots inside suddenly feeling foolish. At the Smoke House, he’d looked her in the eye and told her she had it.  Today, he couldn’t even say maybe.

* * *

The sun beat down hard as Riley lay stretched out on a pool lounger, arms behind his head, chest bare, a half-empty bottle of Topo Chico sweating beside him. He’d been out there a while, letting the sun burn off everything he didn’t want to think about.

Steve dropped into the chair next to him, a water bottle in hand and his hair still damp from a swim. “Man, I forgot how good I had it here,” he said, sunglasses already on. “The pool at Jeanie’s is a fucking pond. Seriously, like bath water.” 

Riley didn’t respond.

“Okay,” Steve continued, propping himself up on one elbow.  “You have to tell me about that last client. The one who let you keep the tux. Where’d you even put it, anyway?”

Riley didn’t move. “I took it to the dry cleaners until I can figure out a story to tell Natalie,” he said flatly. “Valet drivers don’t often need four-thousand-dollar tuxedos.”

“Was she good in the sack?”

Riley exhaled through his nose. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Bullshit,” Steve said, grinning. “Come on, man. I live for this stuff. Was she someone famous?”

Riley adjusted his sunglasses. “She wanted someone to escort her to a film premiere. That’s it.”

“And you didn’t get to fuck her?” 

Riley sat up suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Listen, dude, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Steve blinked. “Alright. Sorry. I just thought…”

“Well, don’t,” Riley snapped, then immediately softened. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

Steve gave it a minute, then said, “Okay, now you have to tell me what’s going on. You’re being weird.”

Riley reached for his drink and took a long sip before finally saying, “I’m thinking about quitting the app.”

Steve sat up, frowning. “What? Why? That app’s basically your bread and butter right now.”

“I came out here to act, Steve. Not be the cabana boy to rich women’s fantasies,” Riley said. “Every time I take one of those gigs, I feel like I’m slipping further away from what I actually want to do. Natalie’s got a meeting with Hal Bedford. You’re getting scouted by modeling agencies now. Everyone’s got something real happening. Meanwhile, I’m being booked like a prop.”

“Rented like a prop,” Steve corrected, trying to make light of it. “And a well-paid one.”

Riley didn’t laugh. He stared out at the pool.  “It’s not the sex that gets to me. It’s the way they look at me like I’m a product and not a person. I’d never get used to it.”

Steve looked at him sideways. “You’ve really been sitting in this, huh?”

Riley nodded. “I thought I was doing it for me and Nat—you know, for our future. To give us some cushion. But it’s not helping anything. And I can’t keep lying to her.”

Steve paused, then nodded slowly. “You’re a good guy, Riley. She’s lucky to have you.”

Riley gave a weak smile and leaned back on his lounger, eyes closing again behind his sunglasses. 

Steve shifted in his seat. He glanced at Riley to make sure his eyes were still closed, then he reached for his phone, turning his body just enough to shield the screen. Quickly, he tapped out a text to Natalie. 

Hey! How’d it go with Hal?

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

He passed. Said maybe later. Said he’d “keep me in orbit.”

Steve grimaced and started typing again.

He’s an asshole. You looked incredible this morning. You’ll get something better.

Another pause.

Thx. Just sitting in my car processing it.

Steve hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, then tapped again.

I’m sorry. See you when you get home.

He hit send.  A second later, he locked the phone and slid it face-down on the chair, turning back toward the pool like nothing had happened.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath while glancing over at Riley. “Lucky.”

* * *

Natalie dropped her phone onto the driver’s seat and wiped the tears from her eyes. She had been crying her eyes out since leaving Hal Bedford’s office and would have continued to if Steve hadn’t texted her.

Finally, she decided to pull herself together and go home. She turned the key only to hear a clicking sound. Then nothing.

She tried again—same thing. The engine wouldn’t turn over.

Her head thudded gently back against the headrest. “Come on,” she whispered. “Not today. First the transmission, now this…”

Then came a tap on her window. She looked over, startled.

Briggs. The photographer from her headshot session. His black henley clung in the right places, his camera strap slung across his shoulder. His smile was reassuring.

“Need a hand?” he asked.

She rolled the window down, embarrassed but relieved. “Hey. Yeah, I guess my car’s being dramatic.”

“I saw you coming out of Bedford’s office,” Briggs said, circling around the front of her car. “Tough meeting?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Let’s just say… it wasn’t what I expected.”

“Well,” he said, lifting her hood with casual confidence, “agents don’t always see the full picture. But I do.”

She smiled softly, watching him move around the front of her car like he’d done this a hundred times.

“It’s just a loose battery connection,” he said after a moment. “Super common. These older models are touchy.”

She hadn’t told him what kind of car it was. But she chalked it up to observation.

He twisted something, gave the terminal a quick tap, and closed the hood. “Try it now.”

She turned the key and the engine started immediately.

Her shoulders dropped with relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped to her window again. “Guess it’s a good thing I was in the building.”

Natalie laughed again, a little warmer this time. “You always hang around agency parking lots rescuing actresses in distress?”

“Only the ones who should’ve gotten signed,” he said, holding her gaze.

She blushed, looking away.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he said. “Maybe we cook up a few things on our own. You’ve got a great face for campaign work. Indie fashion. Luxury lifestyle. Real stuff.”

She nodded, already feeling better than she had ten minutes ago. “Maybe. Yeah. I’d like that.”

He pointed to her phone on the passenger seat. “Let me see that,” he said.

Natalie hesitated, then picked it up and handed it to him.

He tapped it against his own. “There. Now you’ve got my personal cell. Call me when you get home, alright? Just so I know you made it.”

She nodded. “Okay… sure.”

He gave her a quick smile and then turned and walked off toward his black Bronco, the lens of the camera slung casually across his shoulder.

* * *

The afternoon sun shined over the quiet Hancock Park neighborhood as Miranda and Eddie pulled into Kelly’s driveway. 

Eddie shut the passenger door and stretched. “She didn’t sound panicked, right? Just… weirdly insistent?”

Miranda smirked. “You’re acting like she asked us to disarm a bomb. It’s probably gossip.”

They rang the bell, and Kelly opened the door a second later, barefoot and holding a half-drunk iced tea. She looked more excited than worried.

“Hey! Come in. I want to show you something.”

Miranda exchanged a glance with Eddie. “Okay,” she said slowly. “You’re not dying. That’s a good start.”

Kelly waved them inside. “No, nothing like that. It’s just… you won’t believe who I found.”

They followed her into the living room. The TV was paused mid-frame on the red carpet broadcast from the Dominion Protocol premiere. 

“There,” Kelly said, pointing. “That’s Riley. Right?”

Eddie leaned closer, squinting. “Looks like him.”

Miranda tilted her head at the screen, then narrowed her eyes. “That’s not Riley.”

Kelly looked at her, surprised. “It’s not?”

“No. That’s Nick,” Miranda said with certainty. “I met him the other night at the premiere. He was Zoanne Voss’s date. Look, that’s her next to him.”

Kelly’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, I don’t care what name he gave you. That’s Riley—the same guy from your birthday party.”

Eddie nodded, arms folded. “Could’ve been using an alias,” he said. “But I’m in agreement with Kelly on this. That’s the guy from your party. I’m sure of it.” 

Miranda let out a slow sigh and reached for her phone. “Well, there’s only one way to get to the bottom of this.”

Kelly tilted her head. “Who are you calling?”

“Zoanne,” Miranda said simply, already scrolling. “If that was Riley—or Nick, or whoever he is—at the premiere with her, she’s got to know where to find him.”

* * *

When Natalie arrived home, she pulled up to the apartment building, clipped the curb, and slammed the car door harder than she meant to. The headshots were still in her bag, untouched since Hal handed them back with that polite, practiced smile.

Inside, Riley was sitting on the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table as he thumbed through a slew of new messages he’d gotten on Noir Companions. 

“Hey, how’d it go?” he asked, hopeful. 

Natalie didn’t answer right away. She dropped her tote onto the bench near the door and stood there, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her lips were pressed into a flat, unreadable line.

Riley wiped his hands and moved toward her. “Nat?”

She shook her head. “Don’t ask me that,” she said sharply. “Just—don’t.”

He stepped back a little. “Okay. Sorry. I was just—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped. “It was a waste of time.”

Riley hesitated, then tried again. “But I thought he was interested. When you waited on him at the Smoke House—didn’t he say—?”

“Yeah, well, guess I misread that one,” she muttered, pulling off her earrings and tossing them onto the coffee table. “He made it sound like I had a shot, and then today it’s all, ‘maybe later’ and ‘check back in a few months.’”

“I’m sorry,” Riley said quietly. “That really sucks.”

She turned toward him, her expression sullen. “You know what really sucks? Feeling stupid. Walking in there like I was already halfway signed because some smooth-talking agent wanted to show off in front of his friend over lunch.”

“You’re not stupid,” Riley said. “You’re trying. You’re in it.”

“I’m not in anything, Riley. I’m spinning. We’re burning money on headshots and manicures and new transmissions. And you—” she paused, flustered, eyes narrowing, “—you just stand there like it’s all fine, like it’s normal that some guy I barely know tells me one thing one night and something totally different the next.”

“I was just trying to be supportive.”

Natalie turned away, biting her lip. “Well, don’t. Not right now.”

She grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, and took a long sip, her back still to him. Riley didn’t say anything else. He just turned back to the sofa and sat down.

Then the bathroom door swung open with a light thud, followed by the soft padding of bare feet on tile.

Steve emerged, towel around his waist, droplets still clinging to his chest and shoulders, his hair wet and pushed back off his forehead. He stretched lazily as he moved across the hall, the muscles shifting in his back.

Natalie’s gaze landed on Steve for a second too long. She caught herself and turned away quickly, her face flushing as she took another long sip from the glass.

Steve, oblivious or playing dumb, scratched at the back of his neck and walked toward the bedroom. “Don’t mind me,” he said breezily. “Just grabbing some dry clothes.”

Natalie set her glass down a little too loudly. “I’m gonna take a walk,” she said. “Clear my head.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before slipping outside onto the pool deck.

After she’d gone, Riley and Steve exchanged glances. Neither said anything. 

* * *

Miranda and Kelly moved through the glass-walled corridors of FlickFix with purpose, past assistants who whispered behind coffee cups and receptionists who knew better than to ask who they were. 

Zoanne’s office was a corner suite. She looked up from her laptop as they entered, smoothing her hair with one hand and offering a faint smile.

“Well,” she said. “This is a surprise.”

Miranda gave a diplomatic smile in return. “We’re not here about Siobahn this time,” she said.  “We’re hoping you can help us identify someone.”

Kelly pulled out her phone. She tapped open the paused still from the Dominion Protocol premiere. 

Zoanne took the phone and stared at the screen. Her expression didn’t change immediately, but something behind her eyes flickered. She cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s Nick.  He was my date to the premiere.”

Kelly leaned forward. “This isn’t Riley Weir?”

“I don’t know a Riley Weir. I only know this man as Nick. No last name given.”

Miranda and Kelly regarded her curiously.  

Zoanne handed the phone back to Kelly and sunk to the chair behind her desk. “Off the record?”

“Yeah,” Miranda replied, eyebrows arched.

“He was an escort,” Zoanne confessed, apparently feeling the need to explain herself.  “I’m between relationships and needed a buffer from a particularly aggressive ex. A friend put me on to an app—Noir Companions. He fit the bill.”

Kelly folded her arm as she listened, but said nothing.

Zoanne gave a small, strained laugh. “I didn’t ask many questions. He was polished, handsome, perfectly well-behaved. Played the part like he’d done it a hundred times. And then the limo dropped him off and that was that.”  

“So you know where he lives?” Kelly asked.  

“No,” Zoanne replied.  “But I do know where he works.”  

* * *

It was dark by the time Natalie returned from her walk. She went inside the apartment—dim, the kitchen empty—Riley nowhere in sight. In a way she was relieved. She wasn’t sure how she was going to face him after the tantrum she had earlier.  

Then Steve emerged from the bedroom, shirtless, wearing only a pair of dressy navy shorts and white sneakers. He held a LaCroix in one hand and leaned casually against the frame.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

Natalie gave a tired smile, trying to hold herself together. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”

He nodded. “Riley went to pick up dinner. Thai, I think.”

“Okay.”

Steve stepped into the kitchen, opened the fridge, then glanced back at her. “I can get you something to drink if you want. Sit down and take a load off.”  

“I’m fine,” she said softly.

He closed the fridge and leaned on the counter, watching her. “You don’t look fine.”

Natalie turned away, arms crossing over her chest. “It’s nothing. I just… I don’t know. Everything’s harder than it should be lately.”

Steve’s voice was soft. “That meeting with the agent was rough, huh?”

She nodded. “God, I thought I’d be better at reading these situations by now.”

Steve stepped closer. “If he couldn’t see your talent, then he’s an idiot.”

Natalie looked at him with tears in her eyes.

“You’re gorgeous, Nat. Trust me, someone else will see it first—a better agent.” He reached out and touched her elbow lightly. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t know anything anymore,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Not about my career, not about Riley, not about me.”

Steve moved closer. “Riley’s a good guy, but… he doesn’t always see what’s right in front of him.”

Natalie swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close Steve’s bare chest was and how quiet the apartment had become.

“Sometimes I don’t think he knows what he wants,” she said.

Steve brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her cheek. “I do.”

And then he leaned in. His hand found her waist as his mouth neared hers—slow as if he were testing the situation. Natalie turned her head away.

His lips brushed her cheek instead of her mouth, and she stepped back, her hand coming up lightly against his chest.

“Steve,” she said, breathless. “Don’t.”

He froze, his hand still at her waist, suddenly awkward. “Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling back. “Shit. I’m sorry. That was… I wasn’t trying to make things weird.”

Natalie avoided his eyes, stepping away further. “Well, you did.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly all nerves. “I didn’t mean to take advantage. I just—when I saw you upset, and that argument you had with Riley today—I guess I misread the moment.”

She gave a hollow laugh, more hurt than amused. “Yeah. You did.”

Steve nodded, backing off completely now. “I won’t say anything. I swear. Let’s just… pretend it didn’t happen.”

Natalie crossed her arms and turned toward the window, eyes scanning the street for Riley’s car. “It did happen,” she said quietly. “But Riley doesn’t need to know.”

The room grew silent. Steve opened the fridge again just to have something to do, the clink of bottles masking the awkward stillness.

* * *

Riley stood outside the apartment building just off Franklin Avenue as he checked the address again on his phone. Unit 1B.

He rang and the door quickly opened. A woman stood there, leaning against the frame. Mid-forties, polished, with a blowout and a satin robe that didn’t quite close all the way.

“Nick,” she said, smiling faintly. “Right on time.”

He gave the practiced smile. “Always.”

She stepped aside to let him in.

The apartment was dim, shades drawn against the setting sun. On the far side of the room, an older man—mid-fifties, stood silently beside a leather armchair. Presumably the husband the woman had mentioned that liked to watch her with other men. Who was Riley to argue? Since his performance on the woman’s terrace a few nights ago, he’d come to be unbothered by an audience.

This was just another script. Another role to slip into.

And while just a few hours ago he was telling Steve he was done with escorting, that changed when Natalie came back from her meeting with Hal Bedford, looking hollow and defeated. He felt that way too.

Maybe this is all I’ll ever be.

The woman slipped off her robe and led Riley toward the green, overstuffed sofa. She unzipped his shorts and slid them down along with his underwear. He was already hard—he’d taken a Viagra earlier, just in case, on Steve’s suggestion.

She pushed him gently onto the cushions and lowered herself between his legs, taking him into her mouth without a word. A moment later, her husband sat at the opposite end of the sofa, silent, his gaze locked onto the unfolding act with unsettling focus.

A few minutes later, she was straddling Riley, moving with growing urgency as soft squeals escaped her lips. Her hands cupped her breasts, eyes fluttering closed as she lost herself in the rhythm. 

Riley’s head felt stuffy, a dull congestion settling behind his eyes—no doubt a side effect of the Viagra. There was a warmth too, spreading across his face, like a flush he couldn’t shake. It was disorienting, but he tried to focus on the task at hand, though the woman seemed to be doing all the work. 

Her husband had inched closer to them on the sofa, his pants unbuttoned as he stroked his semi-hard dick. Every once and a while he’d reach over and cup one of the woman’s breasts.

Then he got verbal. 

“You like fucking this guy, babe?” he asked her. Then he directed his attention at Riley. “She’s good, isn’t she?” 

Riley could only grunt out a breathless, “Oh yeah.”

“You better not cum inside her, man,” the husband went on to say. “I’m not cool with that.”

Riley nodded in agreement, barely able to focus. His face burned with heat, and for a moment he felt like he might pass out—whether from the Viagra or sheer excitement, he couldn’t tell. He gripped the woman’s waist, holding on as she rode him hard, her movements wild, gyrating her hips every so often as she screamed with pleasure. 

“Jesus, I can’t believe how much you’re fucking enjoying this,” the man said to her after a while, his voice rising up an octave. “Is he that good, Sara? Huh? You like that young dick, don’t you?”

This apparently made Sara lose control.  She cried out in ecstasy as she orgasmed, her juices squirting over Riley’s cock like a tsunami. 

“Don’t stop,” Sara said when she recovered, slowing her pace only slightly.  “I want to come again.” 

Riley felt himself edging closer to climax so he squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated hard, willing himself to stay the course. 

“Don’t fucking cum in her man,” the husband said. “I’m fucking serious.” 

“Okay,” Riley managed between grunts.

The husband quickened his pace, working his still-flaccid penis with intensity, his expression contorted and his head tossed back in what looked like a mix of agony and ecstasy as he watched the scene unfold before him.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” he said. 

Riley didn’t know if he was talking to him or to Sara, but he had started to phase out the man’s voice—too caught up in trying to go the distance. 

Sara came again and Riley nearly lost it.  

“Should I finish?” he asked, hoping for a yes. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.

“No, I want to see how many times you can get her off,” Sara’s husband said. “What is it—twice, three times? Jesus, Sarah. You never do this with me.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” the woman said, eyes closed, staring at the ceiling as she cried out again, her body shaking. 

Riley’s eyes bulged. Again?  He had never wanted to cum so bad in his life. 

“Jesus, Sara, what the fuck?” the man raged.  “I can’t believe I agreed to this.  Get off him. Now.” 

“I’m sorry, Danny, honey,” Sara said. “You know I love you.”

“Then get the fuck off him,” Danny said, zipping up his pants. 

Riley saw the crazed look in the man’s eyes and realized the tone in the room had shifted. Buyers remorse, he suspected.  Before Sara could dismount, he felt himself losing control. 

“Oh fuck,” Riley uttered as waves of pleasure consumed him one after the other.  

“Did you—” Danny said, rising from the sofa in one swift movement. “Did you fucking cum in her, dude?”

“I’m sorry,” Riley said, still mid-orgasm. “I tried to—”

Danny yanked his wife off of him and tossed her onto the sofa with a soft thud, her legs still trembling. She gasped, stunned, as he stormed to the end table on the far wall and yanked open the drawer.

Riley shot upright, naked, disoriented, heart beating wildly in his chest and his cock still twitching.

Danny pulled out a revolver and began fumbling for bullets from a small velvet pouch.

“You fucker,” he growled, eyes locked on Riley. “I said don’t cum in her, and what did you fucking do?”

Riley dove for the small pile of his clothes near the foot of the sofa. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—honestly—I didn’t think—”

“Clearly,” Danny snapped, sliding the chamber open as his hands shook.

Riley turned to run but nearly collided with Danny, who had somehow moved to block the hallway, arms out, expression furious. “Don’t do this,” Riley said, panic rising. “Move.”

Danny didn’t budge.

With no other option, Riley spun to the side, bolted toward the open window in the dining nook, and launched himself through it without a second thought. His bare legs scraped against the sill, and he crashed into the shrubs outside, thorns tearing at his skin as he hit the ground.

He lay there for a second, naked, branches in his hair, dirt on his hands, body still hot and aching from the Viagra and adrenaline.

Then, from inside, he heard the unmistakable sound of a chamber being loaded.

Riley scrambled to his feet, grabbing his clothes and running naked across the front lawn. As he ran to his car parked down the street, he fumbled in his jeans pockets for his keys, unlocking the car and launching himself into the front seat.  

When he looked up, Riley saw Danny burst from the front of the apartment building, gun still drawn, wild-eyed and yelling something he couldn’t hear.

Without hesitation, Riley started the Mustang, floored the gas, and spun the car into a one-eighty. It wasn’t until he was several blocks away, the apartment fading in the rearview, that he finally exhaled.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his heart still racing.

His fingers reached for his phone in the console. Swiping through the home screen, he paused on the Noir Companions icon—the sleek, black eyemask glowing faintly against the silver background.

He stared at it for a beat, then without another thought, he pressed down.

Delete App?

He tapped Yes.

The icon vanished.

“Not worth it,” he said under his breath, dropping the phone onto the passenger seat with a hollow thud. “Not fucking worth it.” 

* * *

The next morning, Riley stood in front of his mirror, tying the black bowtie on his valet uniform with more care than usual. He took a long look at himself—clean-shaven, sober-eyed, tired—and gave a single nod.

This is fine, he told himself. This is real, honest work. 

He drove to the Wilshire Country Club with the windows down, the early sun cutting through the morning haze. The security guard at the gate gave him a nod. Riley nodded back.

By the time he stepped onto the circular drive, he felt even better. He stood by the valet stand, breathing in the scent of cut grass, trying to let the chaos of the night before fade from his thoughts.

The first car of the day pulled up—a sleek black convertible, engine humming.

Riley stepped forward automatically, adjusting his blazer as he reached for the door handle.

The passenger door opened and out stepped a black-haired knockout.

“Riley Weir?” she asked, peering at him over the rim of her sunglasses.

Riley blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah?”

She slid the glasses off entirely, tucking them into her bag with a smile  “My name is Kelly Kahoano. I work for the Miranda Blackthorne Agency,” she said. “And I’ve been looking all over for you.”

His forehead creased. “You have?”

“Yes,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And if it’s okay with you, I’d like to make you a star.”

Riley stood there, one gloved hand still resting on the car door.  “…Seriously?” he asked.

Kelly just smiled wider. “Dead serious.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Riley had a good feeling about his future.