Chapter 60. Backroom Casting Couch

I’m Kaylin, nineteen, still wearing the same cherry-flavored lip gloss I put on this morning for senior year pictures that never actually happened. My heart is hammering so hard I swear the tiny microphone clipped to my baby-pink bralette is picking it up. The living-room set is brighter than I expected—three softboxes blasting warm light, a cream sectional that smells like new leather, and two cameras on tripods pointed at me like they already know what I’m about to do.

Joseph, the interviewer, sits across from me in a director’s chair, legs crossed, clipboard balanced on one knee. He’s wearing a black tee that says “Backroom Casting Couch” in small white letters, and he’s smiling like your favorite uncle who secretly isn’t.

“So, Kaylin,” he starts, voice smooth, a little playful, “tell everybody at home how old you are and what brings a sweet little thing like you to our couch today.”

I tuck a strand of my honey-blonde hair behind my ear, “I’m nineteen,” I say, t