Free Impossibly Tongue-Tied by Josie Brown

twenty-dollar bill— and her phone number on a slip of paper.
    At the inference, Sam turned a subtle shade of red.
    Smart-ass kid. What, do I look like a fag?
    Right then and there, Sam made up his mind to never wear the Piatelli again.
    Ignoring Nathan now, he turned his attentions to Ms. Sitcom. Handing her his business card, he went in for the kill. “Hi. Sabrina, isn’t it? Thought I recognized you, but you probably don’t remember me. I’m Sam Godwin, with ICA. You’re with…let me see…William Morris, right?”
    As her jaw dropped, her chest shot forward suggestively. Hell yeah, darn tootin’ she remembered him! And she was flattered he remembered her (despite the fact he’d passed on rep’ing her, what, about a year ago, before she lucked out with that pilot? And, admittedly, the pilot’s director, too). Yeah, unfortunately, she was still at William Morris, but you know how that is: They sit on their laurels, take you for granted, never take you to the next level, yada yada yada…
    Sam glanced over at the kid to see if he was taking this all in: her deference to Sam, her fawning adoration of him, the way she was practically creaming her jeans at the thought of working with him…
    Yeah, the kid got it all right. Sam could tell by the hungry look in Nathan Harte’s heartbreakingly soulful eyes. A look that said, I want in. I can play this game too.
    As the girl finally shimmied off to find her posse, Nathan stammered, “Gee, sorry, Mr. Godwin…I didn’t know …I didn’t mean anything by—”
    Sam held out his hand to shake. “No hard feelings. A pretty boy like you must get that all the time, huh?”
    â€œYeah, I do get hit on a lot. Girls and guys. Don’t mind the ladies”—he winked at two who were worshipping him from across the pool—“but it still bugs me when a guy does it. Andevery other guy in the town seems to be light in his loafers, know what I mean? But I keep it polite, ’cause you never know how big a player he may be.”
    Translation: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. Just tell me where to pucker up, and I’m there… figuratively if not literally …
    He shot Sam a contrite smile, all pearly white. “So, you mentioned you’d, uh, seen me somewhere?”
    â€œYes. In fact, I have your reel sitting on my desk now. It’s quite impressive.”
    In shock and awe that anyone of Sam’s caliber would actually say that to him, Nathan puffed up involuntarily.
    Great ego reflexes, Sam thought. Good, ’cause he’ll need them.
    â€œIn fact”—he pulled out another business card and handed it to the kid—“I’d like to represent you. That is, if you don’t already have representation.”
    â€œNo! I mean—”
    The kid didn’t know what he meant, only what his brain was trying to tell him: that one of Hollywood’s most revered agents was asking him, Nathan Harte, if he wanted to be part of his star-filled roster!
    â€œâ€”not at this time…Jeez, if I did, why would I be standing here? ” He pointed to his station behind the bar.
    â€œNathan, you’d be surprised how many actors have agents and are still standing there.” He smiled knowingly. “But I’m going to make sure you’ll do better than that. Just come by tomorrow…say, five-thirty? And we’ll talk.”
    As he walked away, he could hear Nathan closing up his station. In the kid’s mind, he was already out from behind that bar.
    And in front of the cameras.
    Â 
    By the time Sam got home, Chastity had worked herself up into a very un-Zen-like lather.
    Over Sam forgetting her teff.
    And for conveniently forgetting to mention Hugo’s party to her.
    And for his obvious attraction to “some little clerk from Tommaso’s.”
    He didn’t know how she figured all that out, but certainly it opened the