Even this late in the day, the heat lingered, and it was exacerbated by the pool, which contributed to the humidity. Morthisal would find a store tomorrow, after he spoke to Marty, and purchase more suitable clothing for this climate. His face itched, as did his arms. He glanced at the skin there and found it pinkish. Odd.

  Another resident wandered over, his flip-flops slapping against the cracked concrete with each step. This one wore faded board shorts that hung low on his hips, revealing the waistband of designer underwear that was pulling apart at the seams. A Chinese dragon tattoo wrapped around his muscular right bicep, the colors dulled by years of sun exposure.

  The man appeared to be in his late forties, with the kind of weathered good looks that suggested he'd once been handsome enough for leading roles but had aged into character parts. His sandy hair was thinning at the crown and going gray, though he'd styled it forward in an attempt to hide this fact. He was very handsome and Morthisal could see him in leading roles.

  "This is Nathan," Big Eddie said. "He's been here since the Clinton administration."

  Nathan nodded. "'Clinton? It ain't been that long." Derek scratched his head. "Or has it? Anywho. Call me Nate."

  Morthisal inclined his head in greeting. He was familiar with the former president, Bill Clinton, and wondered if the time frame was accurate. Morthisal had devoted considerable hours to studying this realm during his stay at his former residence, biding his time until relocation. Lacking employment and having exhausted his preferred television programs, he'd chosen to absorb knowledge he'd successfully overlooked throughout his initial months in this realm.

  "Tell Vince about your big pilot that was stolen," Big Eddie prompted.

  Nathan's face darkened. "Which one? The one where they stole my idea and made it into Friends? Or the one where they stole my idea and made it into How I Met Your Mother?"

  "Neither of those shows resembles the other," Morthisal observed.

  "That's what the lawyers said." Derek grabbed a beer without asking. "This town, man. It's all about who you know and who you blow."

  "Nathan. You're so full of shit it's coming out of your ears," Eddie chided his friend.

  "It happened, man. I swear to god. It happened. I pitched both shows. I had the Friends details down to the apartment in New York. The coffee place. Yeah. I had that show pegged. They stole it."

  Eddie shook his head and slurped down another beer. "Cool story, bro."

  Marcus appeared from the entryway. "WiFi's still down at Starbucks. Mind if I join?"

  "Pull up some concrete," Big Eddie said.

  Marcus sat cross-legged on the ground. "You settling in okay, Vince?"

  "Adequately."

  "Yeah. So. We're about to break through," Kristol loudly announced out of nowhere. She adjusted her bikini top again, taking her time to tug it up, then down, probably because she now had a full audience. "Since no one asked. Our manager says we're perfect for the new reality show about ex's who run a dog grooming business."

  "We don't know how to groom dogs," Kenadee added. "But. Like. How hard is it?

  "And we're learning," they said together.

  "How long have you all lived here?" Morthisal asked.

  The question sparked an uncomfortable silence.

  "Time works differently at the Hacienda," Derek said finally. "You show up for a week. Maybe a month. Just until the next big break." He gestured around the pool. "Then you wake up and realize you've been here for years."

  Kristol squinted at Morthisal's face, picked up a nearby spray can, and held it out. "You're new in LA, right? Do you have sunscreen? You're already on your way to a sunburn."

  "I did not. How thoughtless of me," Morthisal said, reaching for the bottle and turning it around to read the back. It promised a deep tan while also protecting skin from the sun. He had read of such things and had stupidly overlooked the fact that Vince's skin was white, made doubly so from living in a rainy city. He read the can's directions and sprayed some on his arms, hands, and then closed his eyes and shot his face. The sunscreen smelled of coconut.

  "Rub it in. You might need another coat." Kristol instructed.

  Morthisal followed her directions.

  "Thank you," Morthisal told Kristol. "Might I keep this? I shall purchase a new one for you. I must buy new clothing and will add it to my shopping list."

  "No problemo. If you want to go clothes shopping, I know a few thrift stores around here that will blow. Your. Mind. The things the rich throw away around here are a tragedy."

  "Yes. I would like to join you on such an excursion."

  "Cool. Cool, cool."

  Morthisal sent a gentle probe out to test Kristol for any deception in her offer. There was none, but she had a curious reaction. Her head whipped back and forth. "Was that a bunch of flies? Where'd they go?"

  Kenadee turned his head toward her. "I didn't see any."

  "Sounded like two or three."

  Morthisal studied her and sent out another probe. Kristol reacted by sitting straight up and batting around her head. He wondered what it was about Kristol that allowed her to sense his power. This one would require some study.

  "You okay?" Kenadee asked.

  "Yeah," Kristol's head whipped back and forth before she focused on Kenadee. "That's enough pool talk for me. We should probably work on our audition."

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "The dog grooming one?" Kenadee asked.

  "No, the boutique fitness instructor one."

  "I thought that was in two days."

  "No, that's the personal shopping one. The boutique fitness is the other one. Then we have the dog grooming gig."

  "Okay," Kenadee said, sat up, pulled a towel off the chair, and wrapped it around Kristol’s shoulders.

  They rose in unison and walked toward the stairs, hips swaying in perfect synchronization.

  "Sweet kids," Big Eddie said once they'd gone. "Dumb as boxes of rocks, but sweet."

  He considered Kenadee's physique, then rose and dashed after the man. Kenadee must have heard him coming. He stopped and turned around. 'Hey, man."

  Kristol also stopped. She turned, and her eyes slowly roved over Morthisal from head to toe.

  "I would like to make a request."

  "We don't do threesomes, man."

  Kristol shrugged lightly and pursed her lips. "We haven't done threesomes until now."

  "Nope. Not gonna happen."

  "Spoilsport," Kristol said. Her hand swung around and cracked across Kenadee's ass.

  He jumped and turned on her. "Hey. I told you not to do that anymore!" Then lowered his voice. "In public."

  Kristol rolled her eyes.

  Morthisal ignored the banter. "Kenadee. If I may, you seem to be in excellent physical condition. I would like to learn how to also get into this…" He waved his hand at Kenadee's chest. "This condition."

  "You being serious right now? Dude. I'd love to pump iron with you." He turned to Kristol. "I can practice on this guy for the show."

  "Good idea, Kenadee." Krisol smiled brightly.

  "You got running shoes?"

  Morthisal looked down at his tennis shoes. "Yes."

  "Cool. Cool! Wanna get started tomorrow morning?"

  Morthisal nodded. "The sooner the better. I must get into peak physical condition."

  "Great, man. Great. You're in 204, right?"

  "That is correct."

  "Right on. See you in the morning."

  Kenadee and Kristol strutted up the stairs to their room.

  Morthisal returned to the pool area. His skin was slick with sunscreen, and the smell was a little overwhelming. "You said you're in Marty's new one?" Derek asked after Morthisal rejoined the others at the poolside.

  "Correct."

  Derek laughed. It sounded like breaking glass. "I auditioned for one of his movies a few years ago. Marty said I was too tall. Then he cast some guy who's six-two."

  "I am five-ten."

  "Exactly." Derek crushed his empty beer can. "Nothing makes sense here. Up is down. Black is white. Talent means nothing."

  "Talent means less than nothing," Big Eddie corrected. "It's a liability. Makes you difficult. Nobody wants difficult."

  Marcus stood. "Speaking of difficult, I should grab more beer. We're running low."

  He disappeared into the building. Big Eddie shifted his massive bulk, making the chairs creak.

  "Let me give you some advice, Vince. Free of charge." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Get out. Now. Today. Before this place gets its hooks in you."

  "You are still here."

  "Yeah, well." Big Eddie looked at the pool. "I got reasons."

  "Which are?"

  "Rent's cheap. Pool's nice. And where else am I gonna go? Back to Toledo?" He shook his head. "At least here I can pretend I'm somebody. Even if that somebody is 'Fat Guy at Bar.' Don't turn into me, man."

  Morthisal had far greater plans. He nodded

  Marcus returned with a twelve-pack of cheap beer. "Found these in my emergency stash."

  "You beautiful bastard." Big Eddie made grabbing motions. "Gimme."

  They distributed the beers. Even warm and cheap, alcohol helped dull the sharp edges of failure that permeated this place. Morthisal found their defeatism oddly comfortable. He sipped another beer and considered turning in for the night.

  "You know what the real joke is?" Derek asked no one in particular. "We all came here thinking we were special. Thinking we had something nobody else did."

  "We were special," Big Eddie countered. "Back home, I was the star of every community theater production. I played Stanley Kowalski. I played Willy Loman. Here? I'm a vending machine that breathes."

  "At least a vending machine gets residuals," Marcus said.

  They all laughed.

  Morthisal did not know the characters Big Eddie had just mentioned, but he would look them up later.

  "This city," Derek continued, "it doesn't just take your money. It takes your soul. Piece by piece. Audition by audition. Promise by broken promise."

  "Promises." Big Eddie spat the word. "My first agent promised me I'd be the next John Goodman. You know where that guy is now? Prison. Fraud."

  "Mine's in real estate," Marcus added. "Says he's happier."

  "Is this true of every agent?" Morthisal asked them.

  "Yeah. Sure. If you're big enough, you got the goods. Sure. They'll find you."

  Morthisal didn't mention that he had almost a dozen agents interested in representing him. He found the people here to be odd, but also good to be around. He had no illusions about Hollywood. The so-called glitz and glamour were all a front. This had been reinforced by the denizens of this dreadful place, which he was already growing quite fond of.

  They fell into silence. The pool filter gurgled. Traffic zipped up the streets beyond the walls. Horns honked. Somewhere, a siren wailed, police or ambulance, it didn't matter.

  Morthisal finished his beer.

  "I should go," Morthisal announced.

  "Turning in early? Have a good one, Vince. It's your turn to bring beer the next time."

  "I will do that."

  Morthisal stood and turned toward the stairs, but a disturbance near the motel entrance caught his attention.

  A pair of cars rolled into the Hollywood Hacienda's parking lot. They skidded to stops at odd angles, but at least had the good sense not to block the entryway. Morthisal cocked his head to the side. Was this a robbery? A movie shoot?

  Four men emerged from the vehicles. They wore wrinkled shirts and cargo pants with bulging pockets. Each carried a small camera mounted on a metal stick. One man had a telephoto lens strapped across his chest.

  The men swept their cameras across the courtyard. They moved like hunters. Morthisal tensed.

  A door slammed above. The man from earlier, the one who had watched Morthisal at the pool, appeared on the balcony. Their gazes locked for a second. The man's face went pale. He walked left and headed toward the back stairs. His footsteps were heavy on the metal walkway.

  The photographers hadn't noticed Morthisal yet. They continued scanning the motel.

  "Holy shit," Big Eddie said behind Morthisal. "Paparazzi. The hell they doin' here, of all places?"

  "Interesting," Morthisal muttered.

  One photographer spotted him and nudged his companion.

  "There," the first one said. "That's him?"

  "I don't know. Let me recheck the photo."

  Morthisal kept walking. The photographers fumbled with their phones, comparing images.

  This would not do. Paparazzi would ruin this location for him. Yvette would never step foot on the grounds if she knew they had been here. He would have to move, and he had just paid for a week. No. This would not do.

  The one with the telephoto lens looked up. "Hey! You! Stop right there!"

  Morthisal reached for his power.