The Roommate Equation
“Date Crashers is important to Dylan,” I continue. “He created the algorithm. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds like a lot of work.”
Sloan’s head snaps in my direction, his focus entirely on me. He opens his mouth, as if he’s about to speak, and then drinks from his beer. Okay, I guess he’s in the mood to listen.
“I’ve written dozens of screenplays no one has ever seen,” I admit. “Do you know why I won’t let anyone read them?”
He shakes his head.
“Because once I put myself out there, my words are no longer mine. They will belong to the people consuming them. To Dylan, his code is like my screenplays. It’s personal for him.”
“Then, why did he share it in the first place?”
“You guys own the rights to the code. Once you sell it, Max and his idiot brothers can do whatever they want. Why would you want to give it to them if it’s that important to Dylan?”
“It’s a good deal,” Sloan says. “We can get into the dating market without any friction.”
“You’re already in the dating market,” I point out. “Why couldn’t you expand Date Crashers into an online dating service. I’m sure Boy Genius has some ideas for how to make it work.”
He laughs at my reference to Dylan. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Duh, stupid. I’m always right.”
Sloan balls his hand into a fist and taps me on the arm. “Thanks.”
I nod and then sip from my beer. “You can start calling me Dr. Ash.”
Sloan slides his long legs off the chair. “Log in to my DoorDash account and order whatever you want for dinner. My treat.”
“You’re paying me for my services in food? I can get used to this.”
He pats the top of my head and smiles before heading inside the house.
Long after my brother is gone, I stare out at the ocean, listening to the waves break, considering my next move with Dylan. He asked me about us last night. When he finally comes around, I’ll be ready to give him an answer.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ash
My hands tremble as I approach Dominic Deville’s front door. His estate is larger than the grounds of my apartment complex. Even my brother’s house seems tiny in comparison to this place. High walls of thick shrubs shroud the stone mansion from the outside world, providing the perfect escape.
I wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my skirt, attempting to gain control of myself. This is the biggest day of my life. If I nail this audition, I can drop the word aspiring and finally call myself an actress.
When I got into UCLA Film and Theater School, I thought doors would open for me. I had so many expectations that have only led to disappointment.
As I approach the house, a middle-aged man with blond hair opens the door for me. “Welcome, Miss Riley. Mr. Deville is waiting for you in his office.”
My throat feels as if it’s closing up as we walk down the long tiled hallway. Pictures of Dominic Deville, both in color and black and white, don the walls. Once we reach the office, the butler announces me and then leaves me alone with Dominic. He’s sitting behind an oversized mahogany desk in an executive leather chair, with his thick arms resting on the wood.
“Ash,” he says with a sly grin. “I’m glad you could make it.” He tips his head to the chair in front of his desk. “I was surprised to get the call from Vinnie. You should have mentioned you work for him.”
I sit across from him, running my hands down the front of my skirt for the millionth time. “It didn’t come up.”
“Vinnie’s an old friend,” he says in a deep voice that sounds like a growl.
His lecherous gaze sends a tremor down my arms. Dylan often looks at me this way, but when he does, it elicits a different response. I’m alone with Dominic, in his house, and on his turf, and now I’m shaking for an entirely different reason. He looks like he wants to devour me.
Vinnie said he was a pig and warned me to be careful. The rumors around Hollywood paint him as a dirty older man who makes women work for the roles in his movies.
“What’s the part you had in mind for me?”
He leans forward, his palms flat against the desk, and his intense gaze terrifies me. “Are you comfortable taking off your clothes?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse me?”
“The role will require you to strip.”
“I thought you said cabaret.”
He rolls his shoulders. “Same thing.”
Not quite. Burlesque is stripping on a stage, where most cabaret shows are song and dance numbers in a nightclub or bar.
“No, I’m not comfortable taking off my clothes on screen.”
His expression is unreadable. A moment passes, where we stare at each other, my heart pounding in my chest. I can barely breathe when he presses his lips together, disappointed by my response. I should have known better. This is the way of the business, Vinnie would say if he were here.