They claimed a sofa in a corner and were still talking four hours later. Working on yet another glass of wine, Cass was probably giving away trade secrets, but she didn’t mind.
“—not that there are any numbers for me to account, but having an accountant looks good on the business plan. Besides, it’s cool. This whole business is cool.” She sighed. She was too chicken to step into a bluebox or in front of a camera, didn’t have the gung-ho personality for production work, so here she was, making Hollywood magic the only way she knew how. And she loved it. Getting to work with people like Vim and Nathan at any level was worth it.
“Yeah, it is.”
If this were a movie, she’d jump him. She was in the perfect position, curled up on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, him reclining within arm’s reach. She could wrap herself around him, just like the heroine, just like she might in an interactive movie. Who was she kidding: just like she had in an interacti
ve movie.
But he was looking at her, her for real, and her stomach had awful butterflies. And she couldn’t do it.
“Cass!” Stacy from marketing yelled across the room. “Cass!”
She should have done it. If she’d been making out with Nick May, surely even Stacy would have known better than to interrupt.
Instead, she ran to Cass’s side and clutched her shoulder. Then she caught sight of Nick. She batted her eyelashes. Giggled. Batted them again before remembering her grip on Cass. “You’ve got to come help Vim. He’s in tears.”
There it was, a bill had come in that they couldn’t pay. She took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s having trouble figuring the tip for the catering staff.” She had a desperate, pleading grimace on her face, like she’d just asked Cass to talk Vim down off the roof.
“Tell him to move the decimal one and double it.”
“Come on, Cass—he’ll move the decimal the wrong way. You gotta come help.”
“Can’t his link do it for him?”
“He’s too drunk. His link’s gone hazy.”
“But—” Nick looked amused, wearing a dead-cute smile. Nick May, who wouldn’t be here when she got back because people like him didn’t sit alone on sofas waiting for accountants. Or she could sit here while Vim tipped the catering staff with the entire budget for costumes. “I have to go. It’ll just be a minute. I hope.”
“It’s okay. I should probably be going.” He stood and brushed off his slacks.
She had to do something. Say something, anything. Wasn’t this talking to boys you liked thing supposed to get easier after high school?
“It was really nice talking to you,” she said earnestly.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
He squeezed her hand before Stacy dragged her away. Cass smiled at him all the way across the room and held that hand to her chest.
“Cass was making out with Nick May on the sofa,” Stacy said for the ninetieth time. She had to tell everyone as soon as they came into the office Monday morning. “I’ve got the replay. Here, you can upload it.”
Cass had tried to correct her for the first dozen or so.
Vim stared off into space for a moment as he watched the replay on his link. “They’re not making out,” he said with a disappointed whine.
“Well, close enough.”
Vim looked over at Cass’s desk and grinned. “Good job, Cass.”
She winced.
The RealCity main offices were four rooms tucked in the back of an ancient building in Burbank. The front room was posh, with blue carpeting, a huge receptionist desk and Nathan Pauli’s awards on display in bullet-proof cases. The other three rooms looked like the set of a second-rate 1970s police drama: vinyl flooring, desks crammed together, substandard lighting, filing cabinets, all drenched in hope. Things usually stayed busy, or at least with the humming computers and files of paper scattered around, storyboards and headshots pinned to the wall, it seemed busy.
Nathan arrived and went straight from reception, through the main offices, to his own private office in the back, where he locked up his cameras.
“Hey Nathan, Cass was making out—”