Junkfood Sexlife. Jessamyn Violet

them well enough to be fluffy. The casting directors seemed impressed. Paul said, “Go back to Wylie and tell us more about your alibi, why it couldn’t have been you who killed Marjorie.”

      Automatically he slipped into his Brit rocker’s mind frame.

      “I was out at the club until just past 2am, then I went home with this one model who’s shooting the cover of Vogue next month, Vanessa Butterfield. Just ask her, we spent a fabulous night together that night. Besides, I could never kill a birdie. I love them all so much. They’re like pillows from the Devine Mother. Why would we ever slash something that brings us the most comfort in the world? They’re what we live for, yeah. It could never have been me, you see, I only touch women in ways that feel damn dirty good for them. It’s a bloody tragedy, that’s what it is. I’d kill the bastard myself if I knew him.”

      The casting directors gave him a short round of applause. He hadn’t heard them do that for anyone else. He left the room gliding on a slanted ray of light, glowing brighter with each of the jealous glares cast his way by the waiting room competition on his way out.

      Traffic to Hollywood was the usual nightmare. When he arrived at the Mexican restaurant, it appeared Jimmy and Matt Bogart were already at least a pitcher and a half into margaritas.

      “Traffic was unbelievable,” he said, sliding into the tall black booth.

      Jimmy gave him a hard pat on the back and filled a margarita glass for him.

      “That’s why we rarely see each other, you wannabe west-sider. Gerard, meet Matt Bogart.”

      Gerard shook his hand enthusiastically. “Great to meet you, Matt. I love your show.”

      “Thanks!” Matt grinned a sloppy, puppyish grin. “I’m a west-sider too. Where do you live?”

      “Venice, just Rentarooming in a house on the canals.”

      “I’m in Venice, too. Right behind Abbot Kinney. Little house I got a great deal on back when Venice was a place for gang bangers and broke-ass artists. Which tells you how old I am and how long I’ve lived there.”

      Gerard nodded. He already knew all of this, as he’d listened to enough of Matt’s podcasts to win an I Slept With Them First trivia night.

      Jimmy motioned to the waiter for another pitcher. “We gotta get you on our level. Nobody should be in El Compadre stone-cold sober. Place is a legend.”

      Matt looked around. “Can’t believe it’s still standing. What a cucaracha. Gotta say, I dig this TBD 3000. Little robotic fucker has me feeling hope for the first time in a long time.”

      “Is TBD going to be on your show?” Gerard asked, slurping at his margarita.

      “That’s hilarious. I tried, actually. They have a strict no-entertainment policy. The New Constitution doesn’t allow it to do anything non-related to politics. But,” Matt leaned in, his dirty blond hair peeking out from his Rams hat, “I have an inside connection that assures me I’ll get selected for The Interviews.”

      “Your father’s connection, I assume?” Jimmy asked.

      “No,” Matt said defensively, but didn’t bother to elaborate.

      “Hey, how’d the audition go, star man?” Jimmy asked.

      Gerard hated when Jimmy called him that, but it was better than the occasional “little star man” his agent used when he was really drunk.

      “It went really well, actually. I even got applause.”

      “That’s my boy. You’re my golden ticket.”

      Matt looked vaguely interested. “So you’re an actor? What was the audition for?”

      “This TV series called Time’s Up. I’d be playing 5 different characters like a crazy person does in real life,” Gerard said.

      Matt studied him. “Well, you must be good. I know Jimmy doesn’t take on many actors.”

      Jimmy smirked. “I don’t have time for anything less than top-shelf. But listen, I wanted you two to meet for reasons other than the fact that you’re two of my favorite dudes. Matt, Gerard has a story for you that’s definitely good enough to place him as a guest on your show.”

      Gerard paused from catching up on his margarita and stared at Jimmy. Then he looked at Matt. Matt raised an eyebrow and let out a girly giggle.

      “Must be a good one,” he said, “because you look scared shitless.”

      Gerard’s mind scanned and reviewed. When had he told Jimmy that story? Damn. She would probably murder him for telling that story. But he’d dreamed of being on the podcast from the start, and he’d always known he’d had the goods. It never felt right, though, no matter how many angles he’d tried to justify it from.

      “Who do you have?” Matt asked Gerard. Gerard stared back, tongue sitting on the bottom of his mouth, motionless. Matt looked at Jimmy. “Who the fuck does he have?”

      “Kristina Brightside,” Jimmy said, as seductively as Gerard had ever heard the bastard say anything.

      Matt’s eyes grew huge. “Holy FUCK.” He stared at Gerard. “Seriously? This could be the most-listened to episode of my career. Seriously? You slept with Kristina?!?”

      Gerard nodded slowly while deep inside his own head, hitting his brain with a sledge hammer, feeling almost free of his conscience. The damned thing was putting up an unusual amount of fight. He kicked back the rest of his drink to hasten the demise.

      “When?! How?!” Matt stuttered on. “Well, we’ll get to that. Jesus Christ, kid, you’re a regular hero. I’ve never even heard of anyone who knows of someone who even got her to look their way. I can’t wait to hear this fucking story. Let’s take a car back to my place right now. I could streamline this thing to air tomorrow. Fuck.”

      Gerard took a big, long, deep breath. They always said there was no telling how far anyone would go to get themselves ahead in this town.

      And now it seemed he was about to find out.

      Matt Bogart::

      Probably no one loved their job as much as Matt did.

      When they arrived at his studio, the alcohol had settled deep into their systems, causing them to pause before entering to smoke cigarettes like their lives depended on it. Matt couldn’t believe his good fortune. After a month of particularly uninspiring interviews about sleeping with B-list celebrities, he’d landed a story about a woman who was, according to exactly everyone’s radars, the hottest actress in the game right now. Turned Up was reviewed as “the best non-blockbuster to hit the silver screen for years.” They were promoting it like it alone would save the dying independent movie industry, which had long been pummeled by re-hashed big-budget 3-D action or superhero flicks. There was a buzz around town that Hollywood was actually going to start green-lighting more relatable, original material again. This movie was supposedly so good it gave people hope that there were still unique movies to be made that could get people to the theaters and make money, proof that there were still indie flicks out there could beat playing virtual reality games or streaming online content at home.

      And there were rumors that it was because of Kristina Brightside that this movie was so good.

      It was a very big claim to make. Enough that she would probably end up winning Hottest Actress Right Now.

      “Nice place,” Gerard muttered, observing the rustic backyard Matt had paid someone to design.

      “Thanks, it reminds me of Kentucky, chickens and rabbits and all. Those two big, fluffy bunny buddies of mine really get me laid a lot. Especially when they have babies. No line has ever worked better for me than ‘Hey, wanna come see my baby bunnies?’”

      “Yeah right, Matt,” Gerard said. “Like you need help reeling ‘em in.”