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him? He still had daddy issues, still couldn’t get a fucking movie greenlit.
    “I’m looking for a TV idea,” he said.
    “That’s smart,” she said.
    “Right, I know it’s smart.” Larry said, feeling good about himself, who cared if she was bullshitting him? “I mean, I feel like I’ve been wasting my time, fartsing around with movies.”
    “You mean like
Spaced Out
?”
    Remembering he’d lied to her, he said, “No, I mean that one’s coming along, I’m just talking in general. You go to a water cooler today, what’re people talking about? TV shows. Not movies. It’s
Game of Thrones
,
Homeland
,
Breaking Bad
, binge watching. Old days there were thirteen channels of shit to choose from, now I don’t know what’s goin’ on with streaming, downloading. You heard of Hulu?”
    “Yes,” Brandi said.
    “Fuck, I need to get up on this shit,” Larry said. “Every day there’s a new term to learn—hashtag, selfie, downloading, uploading. It’s a different world out there, and Larry Reed’s been in the backseat for too fuckin’ long. It’s time to take the wheel, baby.”
    He felt like he was in the third act of another movie—not
Spaced Out
, but that coming-of-age movie he was trying to get off the ground maybe ten years ago, about the high school kids who live on a sailboat for a summer. That line was in the script—
It’s time to take the wheel, baby
—which, come to think of it, didn’t make any sense because they were on a fucking sailboat. No wonder that piece of shit never got off the ground.
    “Maybe I can help you, Larry?”
    She was doing that sexy thing with her lips, like Ginger from
Gilligan’s Island
.
    “I know how to turn on a damn computer,” Larry said.
    “No, I mean, in other ways.”
    Yep, she was flirting, and what’s this? A little liftoff action from L-Rod?
    She came up to him, close enough to kiss, but just stood there, letting him smell her.
    Larry said, “Yeah? And what about you, kid?”
    “What about me?”
    She was looking at his lips. Man, she smelled good. Like tulips, even though he wasn’t sure how tulips smelled.
    Larry said, “What do you want? You really want to be an actress?”
    “Maybe.”
    “I like that. Honesty. You don’t get a lot of that in this town.”
    “I think I’m good at it.”
    “Honesty?”
    “No, acting. I was in
The Walking Dead.
Took them three hours to get the zombie make-up on and then I was on screen for four seconds before Andrew Lincoln shot me.”
    “It’s a tough ballgame, sweetheart.”
    “Being a zombie?”
    “No, being an actress.”
    “’Tis true.” Sounding Irish again. “Wanted to try for
Game of Thrones
, but they shoot it in the north of Ireland, and there’s no fookin’ way I’m going back there.”
    They were about to kiss—Larry’s tongue was halfway out of his mouth like a horny frat boy—when she moved away, strutting over to get a bottle of coconut water. What producer in Hollywood didn’t have an office stocked with coconut water? Obviously she wanted him to get a good look at her ass. And he got a good look all right. It was a great ass—wide but not flabby like Bev’s. With all the dieting Bev did, and all the Pilates and gazoomba or whatever the hell it’s called, Larry didn’t know why she couldn’t get her ass in shape. Didn’t she know that cellulite wasn’t allowed in L.A.?
    Still turned away, she said, “It’s probably a blessing I didn’t do
Game of Thrones
, I would’ve been miscast.”
    “Yeah?” Larry said. “How’s that?”
    Now she turned back toward him, went, “I could be a great femme fatale.”
    “I bet you could,” Larry said. Yep, definitely getting liftoff—the L-Rod shuttle is preparing to launch—ten…nine…eight…—roger that. He went, “I’ll tell you what. You can stay on, working for me, and I’ll give you the femme fatale role in
Spaced Out
. I’ll introduce you to Tom and the people at Fox.”
    “Oh, please,” she said, more