Hollywood Lied

Chapter 8: Marj the Manager

I decided to visit her workplace on a regular Wednesday, expecting... well, I wasn't sure what I was expecting.

But when I saw her, smiling and grinning like a champion, a rush of relief washed over me.

She hadn't become addicted to h****n.

You could tell—not by anything she said, but by the way her eyes glowed, the way her smile spread effortlessly across her face.

It was infectious, impossible not to feel a little lighter just standing near her.

"Great to see you up and running!" I exclaimed, a surge of relief spilling through me.

I couldn't even put into words how happy I was that she hadn't gotten hooked, that she was still herself, intact and alive in the way that mattered most.

"I had a bit of coffee, what can I say?" she giggled, a wild, manic little laugh that made the moment feel alive, chaotic, and real all at once.

Somehow, I knew she'd had more than just a cup of coffee. Her hands were jittering the same way Harvey's used to—those sharp, nervous tremors that never quite settled.

She'd met him once and wasted no time calling him a creep. "He tried to go on a date with me," she'd told me, disgust twisting her face.

I would've knocked Gilmore out cold for even trying, but the bastard always had six bodyguards orbiting him like he was royalty.

Because, of course, the coward did.

I pretended to be a customer, sliding into a booth and flipping open the menu like I belonged.

After a moment, I picked out the coffee stack pancakes and let my head rest against the table.

The h****n from the night before still clung to me, a warm, hazy fog that made the world wobble just slightly.

I felt loopy, unsteady, caught somewhere between euphoria and the creeping guilt of what I'd done.

"My god, I'm evil," I muttered under my breath, the words slipping out before I could catch them.

"What was that?" a waitress asked, her voice tight with worry as she took a cautious step toward my booth.

I snapped back into character instantly.

"It's a song by Metallica. Am I Evil?" I lied without missing a beat. Improvisation had always been my strongest survival skill.

She let out a nervous little laugh, visibly unclenching. "Oh. Right. Thought you were saying something else."

"Nah," I said with a half‑smile, waving it off.

She walked away, and I sank a little deeper into my seat, grateful the moment had passed. Inside, though, the guilt still gnawed at me—slow, relentless, and far too honest.

I waved her over, bracing myself, and—to my shock—she actually came. Marjorie slid into the booth across from me, her smile bright but her pupils blown wide, hands trembling like she'd been plugged into an outlet. The sight sent a cold spike straight down my spine.

I cleared my throat, steadying my voice as best I could. I needed to ask, even if I already dreaded the answer.

"Marj... where'd you get the pills?"

She tried to laugh it off, but the shake in her shoulders made it look more like a glitch in reality than a giggle. Something was very, very wrong.

"From Joseph," she whispered into my ear, her voice barely audible over the hum of the restaurant.

I froze, my brain struggling to process it.

From opioids to stimulants—just like that—without hesitation, without pause, without fear.

It was beyond comprehension.

The speed at which she dove into danger made my stomach twist, equal parts awe and terror.

"Who the f**k is Joseph?" I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could soften them.

She tried to soothe me with that gentle, airy tone.

"He's a very nice guy. You'd like him."

Nice guy.

Right.

All I could picture was some scrawny, wide‑eyed dealer with a twitch in his jaw and a smile too big for his face—someone who handed out random pills like party favors, someone who didn't give a damn about consequences.

The anger in me simmered hot. I didn't want to like him.

I wanted to drag him outside and make sure he never offered her a single milligram of anything ever again.

I knew it was hypocritical. That was the twisted punchline of the whole situation. I could sit there, full of rage at some random guy named Joseph for handing her pills, while conveniently ignoring the fact that I was the one who put a pipe in her hand in the first place.

But I never pretended to be a saint. Hell, I barely scraped by as a functioning human being. So if anyone expected moral consistency from me, they were in for a brutal disappointment.

"Let's start with the obvious," I muttered internally, almost like confessing to myself.

I'm not a good person.

Never claimed to be. Never even tried.

Still, that didn't stop that cold sting of jealousy, or fear, or whatever the hell it was, from crawling up my spine. Because even though I was a hypocrite, the thought of someone else dragging her deeper into the abyss—an abyss I'd already opened beneath her feet—made my blood run hot.

"You said he's nice," I repeated, quieter this time.

"But nice people don't hand out mystery pills."

But all I managed to say was a low, strained:

"What exactly did he give you?"

"Adderall," she said, almost too casually, like she was naming a toothpaste brand. Before I could process it, she was already sliding a pill into my palm along with a cup of water. Her hands were shaking, eyes wide, pupils blown like she was staring straight into an eclipse.

I should've hesitated.

I should've asked questions.

I should've done anything except what I actually did.

I tossed it back and swallowed.

At first? Nothing.

Not even a whisper of a buzz. It was almost disappointing—like the promise of a fireworks show that never started.

And then it slammed into me.

Hard.

It was like someone flipped a switch in my skull. Every light turned on at once. My heartbeat thumped like a snare drum, my thoughts sharpened into razor blades, and suddenly I could hear every conversation in the diner. I felt smarter, stronger, invincible—like a god with a to-do list.

"Holy hell..." I whispered, gripping the table as the rush surged through me.

"That's... something."

"Indeed! Still want to meet him?" I asked, my voice tight with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

She tilted her head, pressing softly into my arm, her warmth grounding me in a way that made my nerves settle just enough.

"Yes, of course," she murmured, her tone light and eager, almost careless—like the world outside our little bubble didn't exist.

And just like that, my anxiety spiked again. Meeting Joseph meant stepping into unknown territory, and I wasn't sure if I was bracing to protect her... or to punish myself.

We had to wait until her shift ended at four before we could finally meet this mysterious Joseph. The hours crawled by, each minute thick with anticipation and unease.

The name Joseph immediately set off alarms in my head.

There's a Joseph in BoJack Horseman, and he's a complete piece of s**t—utterly irredeemable, a manipulator through and through.

Nothing about him suggests safety, morality, or even basic decency.

I tried to shake it off, remind myself this was a different person, but the thought lingered, sour and insistent, like a warning I couldn't ignore.

"Let me call him," she said, settling onto a blue container outside the restaurant, her phone already in hand.

"I don't like this," I admitted, voice low and tight. Unease coiled around my chest like a live wire.

"What do you like?" she asked, tilting her head, eyes sharp. She wasn't mocking—just stating the truth I'd been trying to ignore.

It was a fact I couldn't argue with: I didn't get attached easily. People, things, even fleeting moments—they rarely held me for long.

Her question lingered, heavy and deliberate, making me wonder if I ever really had the right to protect anyone when I could barely protect myself.

"Well, I like you," I managed, feeling the heat rush straight into my face. I must've looked bubblegum‑pink, like some embarrassed teenager instead of a man with two decades of bad habits behind him.

"Like or love? There's a huge difference," she said, calm but firm, calling out the distinction I'd been dodging for weeks.

I swallowed hard.

"Love. I love you, Marjorie."

I leaned in for a kiss—slow, sincere, the kind that felt like the start of something instead of the end.

But before our lips touched, a figure slid out from the shadows.

Joseph.

He appeared without a sound, thin and pale, like a specter stepping through a c***k in reality. His eyes had that wired shimmer I recognized instantly, and his smile was too calm for someone who'd been lurking in an alley.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said, though the smirk on his face made it clear he absolutely meant to.

"Nah, you're fine," I said, even though every cell in my body screamed the opposite. My jaw clenched so hard it ached. Yeah, the anger issues were crawling right up my spine again—no surprise there.

Joseph grinned like he'd just been given permission to ruin the evening.

"Great, because I've got something special for the both of you."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small plastic bag. White powder.

Coke.

My eyes widened despite myself. Dealers were supposed to be gone—locked up, dead, vanished, whatever. But here he was, standing in the open with a bag of blow like it was nothing more than a packet of sugar.

"You gotta be kidding me," I muttered under my breath.

But I still asked the question.

"You got a razor blade?"

It wasn't curiosity. It was muscle memory. Old habits humming awake. And yeah, I knew exactly how stupid it was. Cocaine always made my nose bleed like a stuck pig, and that's why I'd sworn it off ages ago.

But here I was again—staring at the bag, staring at Joseph, feeling that familiar pull like gravity had hands.

"How many drugs have you sold?" I asked, already lining the coke out on the grimy tabletop. Joseph's five-dollar bill was practically begging to be rolled, so I grabbed it and didn't hesitate. One sharp inhale, then the familiar burn shot straight up my sinuses.

Joseph laughed, this jittery, nasal snicker that told me he'd been riding the wave long before he met up with us.

"More than I can count," he bragged, sniffing like a man whose nose had forgotten how to function sober.

"I bet," I muttered, rubbing under my nostril where the sting settled in. I wasn't sure if I respected him, despised him, or wanted to knock out a tooth just to make myself feel better. Probably all three.

Truth was, I'd tried dealing before. Thought I could make rent pushing what I smoked anyway. But the cops had nailed me faster than I could fold a baggie. Gave me a citation and a sermon, then warned me that if I so much as thought about selling h****n again, they'd throw fifteen years at me.

Land of the Brave?

More like Land of the Imprisoned—where dreams go to die behind concrete walls and barbed wire.

And here Joseph was, selling blow like it was lemonade on a summer sidewalk.

"Snort more. I don't want to get caught," Joseph hissed, flicking paranoid glances over his shoulder like the shadows themselves were wearing badges. His urgency didn't surprise me—dealers like him never relaxed—but it sure as hell didn't make things any better.

Marjorie stiffened beside me, her breath shallow, her pupils wide and glassy. I could tell she was already in over her head, and Joseph pushing us only tightened the noose.

"Relax," I muttered, though the coke was starting to hum under my skin like a live wire. "You're acting like the DEA's about to rappel down the walls."

He didn't laugh. His jaw clenched, grinding like he was trying to turn his teeth into powder.

The truth?

I understood why he wanted us to finish it. If we got stopped, possession looked a hell of a lot better than dealing.

But understanding didn't make any of this less dangerous. Or less stupid. Or less likely to end with one of us face-down in a holding cell.

Still, with Joseph glaring and Marj already spiraling, I leaned back over the line.

Because in moments like this, logic didn't stand a chance against fear, pressure, and the promise of one more fleeting rush.

I shot up to my feet so fast the world blurred for a second, that familiar cocaine buzz tightening every nerve like a violin string pulled way too far.

"We're done here," I snapped at Joseph. Even my voice sounded jittery—sharp, electric, ready to combust.

He c****d his head, confused and irritated at the same time. "What do you mean done? You barely—"

"I can't sit still," I cut him off. My leg was bouncing on its own. My jaw wouldn't stop clenching. My thoughts were sprinting laps inside my skull.

"I need to move. I need to run. I need to get the hell out of here."

The truth was brutally simple: I was too wound up, too wired, too damned panicked to breathe the same air as this guy for even one more second. My body was screaming for motion, escape, anything that wasn't this alley, this pressure, this mess spiraling out of control.

Marjorie stood up beside me, swaying slightly, her hand brushing mine like a question.

"Cody... where are you going?" she asked softly.

I didn't know.

But standing still felt like death.

Running—even blindly—felt like survival.

"We're going home," I stammered.

"Yours or mine?" she asked concernedly.

"Mine. Come on, let's get out of here," I rushed her to her feet.

Joseph stepped closer, his voice rising, that scratchy panic simmering just beneath the surface. "Woah, woah! Better sit your asses down!" he barked, like he actually had some authority over us.

No chance in hell.

The more he talked, the more I noticed every twitch, every frantic scratch at his neck, every muttered curse about us "ruining everything." He radiated the exact kind of energy that made you want to sprint in the opposite direction—paranoid, unstable, ready to snap.

"Sorry, Joseph. But we have to watch a movie together," I said, tossing out the lie with the ease of someone who'd been improvising his whole damn life.

Improvising to survive, really.

He narrowed his eyes at me, suspicious. "What movie?"

I went with the first thing that had ever genuinely moved me.

"American Beauty," I blurted. The film that somehow managed to keep my attention from start to finish—rare as hell back then.

Joseph blinked. "Never seen it."

"You should. It's amazing," I said, a shudder rippling down my spine. Mentioning the film was fine—but thinking of Kevin Spacey did something foul to the air.

I swear, even recalling his name made everything feel colder.

And speaking of cold—Joseph had this bizarre aura, like he could drop the temperature of a room just by existing in it. You know how some people brighten a place when they walk in?

Yeah, this guy did the absolute opposite.

I didn't trust him.

Not his twitching.

Not his tone.

Not his sudden appearances from the shadows.

And definitely not the way he was looking at Marjorie.

"See you soon. I know you'll be back in a week!" he cackled, that smug, conniving little grin stretching across his face like he'd already won.

God, that face.

Easily top contender for the Most Punchable Face in History Award—the kind of face only someone who'd never been told "no" in their entire life could develop. You could practically smell the entitlement on him, sour and stale like spoiled milk.

My blood boiled so fast it hurt.

Meanwhile, my own childhood was a damn far cry from whatever cushioned fairy tale he grew up in. Belts. Extension cords. Things that left marks you had to learn to hide on your own. But in Hollywoo?

Nobody wanted to hear any of that. Trauma wasn't marketable unless it made for a juicy interview clip. All they cared about was the next script, the next role, the next fabricated piece of perfection they could wring out of you.

Some days it made me feel like I was about three seconds from losing my mind.

Other days... well, thoughts of bridges came and went.

But I could never do it. Not because I didn't feel the impulse—oh, it was there, gnawing at the edges on the darkest nights—but because the idea of standing at the edge of anything higher than six feet made my knees lock. Heights scared the hell out of me.

So instead, I just stood there in that alley, my fists clenched, my jaw tight, watching Joseph slink back into whatever shadow he crawled out of.

He thought he'd see us again.

He thought he had us figured out.

He had no idea what kind of storm he'd just stepped into.