Morthisal stood before the hotel room's window, hands clasped behind his back, and stared in the direction of the Hollywood hills, at least where it would be if this motel were located in a different part of town. He was instead subjected to a busy intersection, with cars honking at each other and people strolling along the road as the afternoon faded into evening.

  So Yvette Sterling was coming to him. This development was fortuitous indeed. It meant he still retained an opportunity to salvage the situation, to bend circumstances back to his advantage. While confidence in his eventual Hollywood success remained unshaken, it certainly didn't hurt to maintain a strategic alliance with a billionaire. A breathtakingly beautiful billionaire with piercing blue eyes. A billionaire who, against all logic and reason, seemed genuinely drawn to him.

  This represented power, and Morthisal had always craved nothing more than absolute control over his destiny, as well as the destiny of others. The resources she commanded, the connections she wielded, the doors she could open, all of it was again within reach.

  He paced to the end of the room, hands still clasped behind his back, spun, and marched to the opposite corner.

  Still, if he dared to examine the depths of his heart, he recognized there was something else beneath the surface. There was a warmth there, which was sometimes foreign and unsettling. It was weakness, this feeling, this strange flutter in his chest when he remembered how she'd looked at him over dinner, how her laugh had made something inside him soften involuntarily.

  Yvette had somehow made him feel...human. Vulnerable. As if there were things in this world more valuable than conquest and domination. The sensation was as alien as it was disturbing.

  How would this play against his desire to become a famous actor? That would remain to be seen.

  He shook his head and looked over the small supply of clothes he had brought, almost all of which were short-sleeved shirts and jeans, plus a pair of nice slacks and a dress shirt, as well as a single tie and belt. He needed shorts and more appropriate shirts for this weather. Morthisal dug in his suitcase and withdrew his trusty 'Dark Lord Energy' t-shirt and put it on.

  Morthisal descended the stairs and made his way across the hot concrete walkway to the Hollywood Hacienda's lobby. The office door stood open. Jazz sat behind the desk, pecking at an ancient keyboard with two fingers. A silver radio with a single antenna sat behind the desk. Warbling music spilled forth, sounding like it was being played underwater.

  "Mr. Finley," Morthisal said.

  Jazz looked up and grinned. "Call me Jazz, man. Everyone does."

  "Very well. Jazz, I have decided to extend my stay for the week."

  Jazz stood and spread his arms wide. "I knew it! One of us. One of us!"

  Morthisal took a step back. "Pardon?"

  "You got the look, brother. That shell-shocked expression every new actor gets when they get to this town. Or maybe you realized Marty Klein ain't exactly Steven Spielberg." Jazz chuckled and shook his head. "You're here to pursue the dream. We all are, or were. You think you're the one. Maybe you are? I'll tell you one thing. This is a great place to learn about the biz."

  "Hollywood was not kind to you?"

  "Let me tell you something. When I was twelve years old, right after season three of Neptune wrapped, my parents, who were in charge of my money, accidentally mentioned I'd made almost five million dollars."

  "That is an excellent sum," Morthisal said, and glanced around the office. "Why do you work in this hovel if you are rich?"

  He leaned against the desk, and his smile faded. "Brother, I ask myself that every day. See, my parents bought a mansion in Malibu. Three Ferraris. A yacht they named after me. The Jazzy J." He snorted. "By the time I turned eighteen and could legally access my money, there was forty-three dollars and sixteen cents left in the account. They kicked me out, man."

  Morthisal studied the man's face. No trace of bitterness remained, just weary acceptance.

  "They told the judge it was all for my career. The parties were 'networking opportunities.' The cars were to 'maintain my image.' The yacht? That was for 'business meetings with producers.'" Jazz laughed, but the sound held no humor. "My dad actually convinced the court that the cocaine they’d bought was a business expense because Hollywood parties expected it."

  "And the court allowed this?"

  "Jackie Coogan law wasn't what it is now. Parents could touch fifteen percent legally, but creative accounting made that number real flexible." Jazz returned to his chair. "Anywho, that'll be four-seventy-five for the week. If you stay another week your rate goes down. It's hard out there, I know. Actors come and go…. which reminds me. You pay upfront each week or month if you decide to stay longer. No excuses, no promises of getting a big check next month. Upfront, or walk. Cool? Cool."

  "That is acceptable." Morthisal handed over his debit card. "You present a cautionary tale."

  "Nah, baby. Just Tuesday in Hollywood." Jazz ran the card. He pulled out a sheet of paper covered in small script and dropped it on the desk. "But hey, least I got stories. You can't buy stories. At least real stories. Wait. Yeah you can. But you can't buy my story. Not til it's done.

  "Now this right here is a one-week contract. It mainly says that you will pay for any and all damages. It's pretty detailed, but you can read it. It goes over the details I just told ya. Pay first, or your shit's out on the sidewalk. I will not accept any excuses. Fell for that one too many times."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Morthisal thought back to his first arrival in this strange world. He had thought that reading contracts and licences for software products was meant to be done before agreeing. He'd learned that most people clicked "accept" without reading the words. The same seemed to hold with contracts. However, he felt it prudent to read this one from top to bottom.

  A moment later, Jazz said, "Hey, you memorizing that for a role?"

  Morthisal shook his head. The details of the contract were just as Jazz had stated, but it was all buried in legalese. He signed it and handed it over.

  "I agree to your terms."

  Jazz handed the card back to Morthisal.

  "Good. You're gonna love it here. Now go stop by the pool and meet the others. Good people. Weird as hell, but good people."

  Morthisal nodded and escaped before Jazz could launch into another tale. The California sun assaulted him as he crossed the courtyard again. Several figures lounged on faded deck chairs around the kidney-shaped pool.

  A large man occupied two chairs pushed together. His hairy stomach spilled over a red Speedo that left little to the imagination. A pair of gold chains nested in his chest hair. He raised a beer in greeting.

  "New guy! Come meet the gang." His voice boomed across the courtyard. "I'm Big Eddie Torrino. You probably seen me in stuff."

  He had not.

  Morthisal approached. Up close, Big Eddie appeared even larger. The man had to weigh three hundred pounds, but he wore his tiny bathing suit with confidence.

  "Greetings. I am Vince Logan."

  "Great name, Vinnie." Big Eddie winked. "I'm Eddie Torrino." He gestured to the twins. "These beauties are Kristol and Kenadee. Don't ask me which is which. I been here two years and still can't tell." Eddie laughed.

  The twins turned in perfect synchronization. They waved in nearly identical movements, then turned to Eddie and flipped him off.

  Up close, Morthisal realized that Kenadee had a body that was jacked—a term Morthisal had heard on many of the reality TV shows he enjoyed. They had been a wonderful source for learning the slang of this world. Kenadee's chest bore ideally raised pecs, and his abdomen was slim with six-pack abs. His arms were equally muscled. Morthisal made a note to speak with this man later and learn how to look this way.

  "Siblings?" Morthisal asked.

  "Ew. God, no. We used to be a thing, but now we just share a room for convenience," Kristol said. "We're totally just roomies now. Right, Ken?"

  "Absolutely," Kenadee chimed in. He struck a pose that would have made an actual Ken doll jealous, all sharp jawlines and perfectly tousled hair. "Purely platonic cohabitation for economic reasons."

  "Yeah. Pure convenience. Nothing to see here. Just two ridiculously hot people sharing a pad because, like, rent in this city is literally insane." Kristol's voice carried that particular rising inflection that made every statement sound like a question. She adjusted her oversized designer sunglasses and gestured dramatically with manicured nails. "Like, why is that weird?"

  The way they looked at each other suggested their arrangement was anything but purely platonic. Big Eddie snorted, clearly not buying their act for a second, then sputtered laughter behind his hand.

  Kristol's mouth dropped open. She lowered her glasses and sharply stared at Eddie. "What?"

  "Nothin', nothin'."

  "What. Ever!" She dramatically rolled her eyes, pushed her glasses back up, and turned her attention to Morthisal. "I like your shirt. What does it mean?"

  "Ah. It is a shirt that represents how I feel."

  "Oh. That's fun." She glanced down and tugged her already skimpy bikini top down to expose a little more skin to the sun.

  Morthisal's eyes fell on her chest, then he looked away, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Eddie did not look away and practically leered.

  Kristol looked back at Morthisal. "You can look. It's not like everyone hasn't already seen them. I'm on OnlyFans. I'm not shy. Besides, it took a lot of money to make them perfect. If you're nice, I'll give you a free account."

  "Where's my free account?" Eddie boomed.

  Kristol shook a finger at him. "You have to pay just like everyone else."

  "I already do," Eddie grinned.

  "I know." Kristol leaned her head back and stared upward.

  Eddie's laughter echoed around the courtyard. He reached into a Coleman cooler beside his chair. Ice sloshed as he extracted a dripping beer can. "Want one? It's the good stuff. Coors Light."

  Morthisal accepted the can, though beer ranked high among his least favorite beverages. He cracked it open and took a small sip. Watery bitterness filled his mouth. At least it was cold. He drank half of the beer, trying to get the worst part over with. Big Eddie nodded appreciatively.

  "Let me guess. Fresh off the bus from Ohio. Gonna be the next Brad Pitt. You're almost handsome enough. Might need some work. What do you think, Kristol?"

  "Nah. He's fine."

  "I am from Seattle, where I recently left a corporate job. I have been acting in a movie there. However, I have been assured that to make it as an actor, I should resign my position and move to Hollywood."

  Big Eddie's expression shifted. Sympathy mixed with resignation. Kristol and Kenadee exchanged glances.

  "Yeah? Who's making the movie? What studio you workin' with?" Eddie asked.

  "I am working for Marty Klein. Are you familiar with his work?"

  Kenadee and Eddie let out groans, while Kristol's perfectly glossed lips quirked sideways, one corner lifting just enough to dimple her cheek in a smirk.

  Big Eddie nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I worked with Marty. Undead Strippers From Mars. I played corpse number six, corpse number nine. I wore makeup. And I played a cop on the red planet. It was a hoot." He took a long pull from his beer. "Made scale plus two percent. Never saw the two percent."

  "At least you got a big role. I keep getting cast as background characters," Kenadee said and sat up.

  Were these people being truthful? Morthisal sent out a thin thread of power. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to test their mental defenses. Big Eddie's mind felt like Swiss cheese. It was full of holes but surprisingly resilient. Oddly, the twins were the strongest of the bunch. He sensed that it might involve controlling them both at the same time. Derek's consciousness swirled with bitterness and paranoia. What he learned was troubling. They were either telling the truth, or they believed the tales they were telling. This sent a warning shiver down his spine. He had agreed to a percentage of the movie. Would it be paid?

  There was another here. Someone Morthisal had not noticed. He was a short man wearing a sweat-stained, plain white t-shirt and a pair of shorts that had long faded from the sun. He sat near the entrance, staring at his phone. His eyes darted to Morthisal, then back to his device. Before Morthisal could send out a thread of power, the man in sunglasses stood abruptly. He'd been so still that the movement startled everyone. Without a word, he walked to the stairs, glanced back at Morthisal one more time, then jogged up the steps.

  Eddie caught Morthisal's eyes following the man. "Ignore Aiden. He's a weirdo. His favorite pastime is sitting out here ogling legs over there." Eddie jerked his finger in Kristol's direction.

  The problem was that the man had not been staring at Kristol. He had been staring at Morthisal.