Not Another Diva

1 - Testosterone Showdown

I'm delusional.

I realize I must be as I pull up to my crap-hole apartment complex in a questionable part of Hollywood. Glaring through the cracked front windshield of my truck at the crumbling beige stucco building I now call home, I ask myself the question I tend to avoid:   

What the hell was I thinking?

Moving from a Podunk ranching town, with only one actual restaurant, to the bright lights of Hollywood, did I seriously think I could make it big?

Yeah, I did.

I'm a fucking idiot.

The need to get out of my hometown was bigger than my brain. It's the only explanation for why I'd put myself through the toll of auditions over and over again. Today's casting call to play the part of man meat in some music video is a new all-time low. At least that part's over, and the traffic getting home wasn't horrendous. The only win of the day.

I actually found parking on the street outside my building too. Another anomaly in this city where parking is ridiculous. If I had a better vehicle, I might be mad about not having a secured parking garage, but my truck barely runs as it is. No one's going to steal it.

I drag myself up to the place I share with Jacob. Meeting him at one of my first auditions was the only time I've caught a break so far. The timing was perfect. I needed out of the hostel I was staying in to save money, and he needed a co-renter who wouldn't throw wild house parties every weekend and get him kicked out like his last asshole roommate. If either of us ever get discovered, we might be able to afford a nicer place with clean carpets and reliable heat. Until then, this dump is it.

It's not that I don't have my family's support. My parents are rich ranch owners, for God's sake—they would've bankrolled me if I'd asked them to. But no, I had to "go it alone" and prove to the world I could succeed. I'm sure my older sisters have some kind of bet going on how long I'll stay out here without cracking. That day might be here sooner than I thought.

I shake off the daily sense of failure and grab my house keys. The musty aesthetic of home dump home is calling.

"That you?" Jacob shouts from the kitchen. He's always in the kitchen. I'm pretty sure it's his favorite room in the apartment. I have no clue how he stays as fit as he is, always eating and hardly ever working out.

"Who else would it be? You got another roommate I don't know about?" I laugh.

My voice carries through the place. It's pretty small, but it was still the biggest place we could get on our budget. After today's audition, I'm not holding my breath for extra income anytime soon. "Starving artist" isn't just a figure of speech; some months we can barely afford cereal. But you wouldn't know it from the way Jacob's always stuffing his face.

He offers a fake laugh at my joke. "Hardy-har-har. Your wit astounds me, dude." He points the tip of his cold pizza at me. "How'd this one go?"

I blow out a breath. "The usual. A room full of guys who look practically identical sizing each other up."

I walk past Jacob and make a direct line to the fridge, where I take a long guzzle of a cold zero-sugar electrolyte drink. Swallowing and wiping my mouth at the same time, I picture the fifteen or so guys I was up against, all of us in our early twenties, with lean muscles and athletic physiques. A basic testosterone showdown. God, what a nightmare. It was like walking into a clone factory.

"You're trying for some kind of commercial, right?" Jacob asks, mouth now full of the day-old pizza he used as a pointer finger a second ago.

"Nah, music video."