When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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When I picked out a dress to wear to a New York City rooftop bar, I didn't think the most important part of my outfit would be waterproof boob tape.
This evening was supposed to be a celebration, not the worst day of my adult life.
My boutique talent agency—which represented a handful of burgeoning Broadway stars—was held together by the recent success of Patrick Longo. His resume had checked off all my required boxes: prestigious acting school, perfect pitch, danced all his life, and it didn't hurt that he looked like Jude Law's younger brother, as my best friend Tanushree lovingly put it.
Patrick was a Broadway talent agent's dream client.
Or so I thought.
I hadn't imagined when I was slipping into a white silk Gucci dress, boobs taped in place, that in the span of an hour, my biggest client would publicly humiliate me.
I should've known something was up when Patrick asked to sign our new contract at a trendy rooftop pool bar on the Lower East Side. The bar wasn't any place I'd pick to sign a contract, but I'd do anything to make my clients happy. It was the foundational belief I'd started my agency on—client-first service.
My attorney and good friend DeShauna had drafted the new exclusive five-year contract last week and had sent over the details to Patrick. He hadn't asked many questions, which—silly me—had taken for a good sign.
We sat down for drinks at a small poolside table, and I handed Patrick the contract.
"I've enjoyed working with you over the past year," I lied to my star client.
Patrick wasn't a joy to work with at all. He was a condescending, spoiled rich boy who whined about everything, but I thought he had potential for personal growth.
"I can't wait to continue our professional relationship."
Patrick drained the last of his forty-five dollar signature margarita that would be going on my company credit card, licking the salt rim with a long stroke of his tongue.
He was probably going for sexy, but it was just awkward.
"Listen, Maren," Patrick said, giving me a smoldering look. "This has been fun or whatever, but I've outgrown this relationship."
I crossed my recently waxed legs and stared blankly at him. That sounded like something you'd say to a dating app rando or a high school boyfriend before leaving for college—not to your talent agent.
