When we walk up to the roped-off section, Royce Hudson, Jeremy Hill, and Paz — don’t even know if that’s his first name or last — are already there. Royce is sucking a cherry out of a redheaded waitress’s belly button, but when he sees us, he whips his head up. “Look who the fuck is finally good enough to come out with his boys!” he yells out, nearly choking on the cherry. “What’sa matter, Holloway? That girl dump your ass?”
Liam snorts. “Hudson, I almost forgot how charming you are when you’re drunk.” We each fist-bump Royce hello, then do the same with Jeremy and Paz. The waitress sits up slowly, sizing us up and smiling slowly as she does, then slides off the table like water and eases out of the section to make room.
“Hey, you chased away our entertainment,” says Royce, nodding toward the waitress.
“I didn’t tell her to go,” I say with a shrug, grabbing the nearest open bottle and taking a drink without bothering to check its contents.
“Yeah, but Holloway fucking radiates ‘taken.’ Bitches don’t wanna be around that.”
“Pretty sure what they don’t want is to be called ‘bitches,’ actually,” says Liam. I roll my eyes and take another drink. Whatever brand of vodka it is, it’s pretty smooth going down. “Plus, plenty of ’em don’t give a shit if you’re taken. Trust.”
He sounds so damn bitter — getting hit on pisses Liam off even more than it used to now that he’s with Ally — and Paz snorts. “Poor Holloway. You getting too much ass? Boo fucking hoo.”
“Oh, shut up.”
I let them bicker like little kids and scan the club to see if the hot waitress who blew me in the bathroom last time we were here is around. I don’t see her, but the waitress who was giving Royce her cherry when we walked in returns, carrying neon-green shots that are apparently on the house. She drapes herself back over Royce and we toast to I don’t even know what before drinking them down.
I glance at Liam as we toss the empty glasses back on her tray. He still looks pissed. Stressed. The other guys are distracted by the waitress, so I lean in. “Dude, what’s wrong with you?”
He grabs the vodka I hadn’t realized I was still holding and tosses it back. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He’s lying; it doesn’t take a PhD to guess he’s not taking Ally’s leaving as well as he wants to be. “How was the audition?”
“Shitty.” The bottle’s nearing empty, and the waitress is busy making out with Hudson. “Hey, Hill, you guys got any more booze?”
He looks up from his phone. “We had Patrón… somewhere. Might be under Hudson.”
Hudson reaches under what’s a little too close to his ass for comfort and pulls out a bottle without breaking mouth-to-mouth suction. I wipe the whole thing off on the corner of his shirt before uncapping it to pour shots for Liam and me.
“Sorry, man,” he says with a frown. “Got any more lined up?”
We clink shots and toss ‘em back. “Not yet. Going down to Miami for an Aspen shoot this weekend. Having dinner with Holly when I get back. And I have to figure out this shit with my parents.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been talking to your parents? About what?”
I forget how seriously Ally takes the whole discretion part of client privilege. “My mom got canned,” I mutter, taking a swig straight from the tequila bottle. “Now she wants to do some reality shit so she can pretend she was ever relevant.”
Liam barks out a laugh. “Your family. In a reality show. Seriously? And your dad is cool with this?”
“My dad was paying attention for approximately five seconds of the conversation. Anyway, he’s not the one that network gives a shit about. Lucky me.”
“I don’t get it. Just say no.”
“She’s blackmailing me with my house.” Man, talking about this shit is really ruining the buzz I’ve spent all day building. “Fuck this.” I yank Royce away from the waitress. “Hey,” I say to her. “Is Gia working tonight?”
“You mean Gina?” she asks, wiping her mouth.
“Yeah. Yeah, Gina. Right. She here?” I need a serious distraction, and the bottled variety just isn’t cutting it right now.
“I think she’s around. I’ll check. Can I get you boys anything else?”
Liam holds up the empty vodka bottle. “Another one of these, please.”
“Hey, is that Scott Lassiter?” Jeremy asks, keeping his voice low. We all look up, and see that it is indeed. Lassiter’s the fastest-rising young director in Hollywood right now, but he’s also picky and neurotic as balls. Getting an audition with him is next to impossible. The other guys all sit up a little straighter, like that’ll suddenly give them a shot in hell of getting noticed.
“Any of you guys auditioning for his Iraq movie?” Royce asks.
Jeremy snorts. “My agent’s been trying to get a meeting with him for months. No luck. He’s such a dick.”
“What about you, Chester?”
Royce’s mouth is curved up just enough for me to know he’s actively trying to be an asshole right now; he knows there’s no chance Holly could score me an audition. Lassiter’s impossible enough, and Holly’s a junior agent. If I could’ve gone with anyone else — and I mean, anyone—after getting dropped by Calvin, I probably would have.
“There’s not a single hot chick in that movie,” I say flatly. “No chance I’m going to sweat my balls off in the desert for that shit.”
“The asshole doesn’t even return my agent’s calls,” mutters Paz. “Self-righteous prick.”
“Paz, you’ve got like nine inches to grow in every fucking direction — including your dick — before you can play a soldier,” says Royce. “I’m perfect for that shit.”
“You’d look like an actual dick in a uniform,” Paz shoots back. “But Holloway…fuck, man, you’d be perfect. You auditioning?”
Liam doesn’t get a chance to answer, because suddenly, the man himself is standing before us.
“Mr. Lassiter.” Jeremy jumps up, sticking out his hand like an overeager tool. “Jeremy Hill. I’m a big fan.”
Lassiter looks at Jeremy’s hand, ignores it, glances around at all of us. His gaze settles on Liam. “You. You look familiar. Who are you?”
“Liam Holloway.” I swear, the way he says it, you’d think he was about to tack a “Sir” on the end. He really is kinda perfect to play a soldier, all respectful and disciplined and shit. “I was in James Gallagher’s last movie, The History of Us.” Sir.
“Oh yeah. Fuckin’ Jim. That movie was all right. Who’s your agent?”
“Evan Cooper, Sir.”
I knew it.
The rest of us laugh, and so does Lassiter, but he’s not walking away. “Lift up your shirt.”
Liam’s so stunned, he doesn’t even respond. Fortunately, I have no such problem with my reaction time, and at least one of us recognizes this for the opportunity it is. I yank up Liam’s shirt as far as I can, revealing his eight-pack to the entirety of Circuit.
Half the fucking club stops and whistles, and I grin as some girl calls out “Nice body!” from the front.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Lassiter says wryly. “Here, Sir. Tell Evan Cooper to give me a call.” He hands over a card, gives Liam’s abs another quick glance, then walks off toward the bar.
Liam whirls around to see us all gaping at him. “Did that shit seriously just happen?” he asks me.
“That shit seriously just happened,” I confirm, giving him a bro-five that nearly breaks my palm in two. “Scott fucking Lassiter! That’s a Fourth of July movie, man!”
Just like that, the goofy, bewildered smile on his face falls. “Right. A Fourth of July movie. Which means filming starts soon.”