‘Starlet’ Exclusive: Dive Into The Horrors Of The Hollywood Elite
Mary Beth McAndrews
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Fame. Fortune. Jellyfish. Those three words grace the back of Danger Slater’s new novel Starlet, coming this August from Ghoulish Books. And let’s be real, they are three very intriguing words. The newest horror novel from Slater digs into the shady secrets of the Hollywood elite, and we can’t wait to see how jellyfish are involved…
Read the full synopsis here:
When an aspiring young actress accepts an invite to a fading A-lister’s home, she soon learns the terrifying secrets of the Hollywood Elite.
Slater is the Wonderland-Award-winning author of I Will Rot Without You, Moonfellows, He Digs a Hole, and House of Rot.
We’re excited to exclusively reveal the cover for the upcoming novel, designed by artist Matthew Revert, as well as an excerpt to get you even more excited.
First, check out the cover:
Now read an exclusive excerpt from Starlet:
Leftover Parts. That was what he recognized her from. One of the few gigs she’d gotten since she moved out here. And it was a promising one too. Until it wasn’t.
Bowers was signed on as an executive producer, she knew that when she got cast—the “new Brandon Bowers series” they were calling it in the trades, although from what Déjà could tell from her one day on set, beyond his namesake, he wasn’t actually involved in the production at all. Hands-off, simply an investor—a famous investor—carrying the kind of cache the showrunners could use to secure the rest of the budget.
The premise of the show was to give the viewers at home an allegorical and hyper-stylized glimpse into the sometimes-petty, sometimes-cutthroat world of international hand modeling. Sorta like The Neon Demon. Except with hand modeling.
HBO was interested and ordered the pilot, and after a month of grueling auditions, Déjà finally nabbed the role of Matilda Speck, best friend to the main character, Lorna Ortega, played by the Wizards of Waverly Place’s own Selena Gomez.
Déjà had only one scene in that first episode, filmed in less than six hours on the Warner Brothers backlot. But despite the brevity of her appearance, the director made it implicitly clear that her character was supposed to be the “moral center” of the entire show.
“You are the voice of reason,” he said to her before the cameras rolled. “Lorna’s conscience. The angel on her shoulder. You can see things as they really are, yet lack the power to do anything about it directly. Instead, you must subtly guide Lorna and try to light her path, despite her constantly pushing back against you and your sage advice. Is Matilda frustrated because of this? Of course she is! But she cares about her friend, and deep down she also knows she’s Lorna’s only olive branch, her final chance at redemption, the last tenuous thread still connecting Lorna to her life outside of hand modeling.”
Déjà did her best. She delivered her lines with passion and aplomb. She imbued Matilda with all the raw humanity she could conjure. And she fucking nailed it. She could feel the character inside her, dancing with her bones.
HBO ended up passing. Not compelling enough, was the verdict. All flash and no fire. Déjà never even got to see the finished product. But Brandon Bowers apparently did. And now luck brought them into this pizzeria together. What were the chances?
“You were hypnotic, Ms. Seawright,” Brandon said to her.
“Déjà.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Of course. Déjà. No smoke, you were the highlight. The network execs even said it. ‘This one’s a supernova, bound to blow up soon,’ they said to me. And I wholeheartedly agreed. And maybe Leftover Parts wasn’t the vehicle to let the rest of the world know it, but believe me, little darling, your time is coming.” He pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes, taking on the mock affectations of a prognosticator. “I can feel it.”
The big Italian dude behind the counter passed Déjà a plate with three gooey slices, dripping with cheese. She chuckled, cheeks flushed, embarrassed.
“Weird, I didn’t order all this,” she unconvincingly said.
“Nonsense. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” Brandon leaned past her, toward the man. “I’ll have three cheese slices too, Gino.”
He turned back to Déjà. Gave her a wink.
“That’s real kind of you, Mr. Bowers,” she said.
“Only parking lot attendants call me Mr. Bowers. Please, call me Brandon.”
* * *
That was over a month ago now, and in the ensuing weeks, their relationship had escalated quickly. She and Brandon were developing a rapport. A friendship. A flirtatious friendship. Perhaps even a little bit more.
She followed him on Instagram. He followed her back. He liked her pictures. He viewed her stories. It was all so new. So unexpected. So exciting. Goosebumps ran up and down her arms every time he’d slide into her DMs. That little blue checkmark next to his name. Verified status. Thee Brandon Bowers.
This had been their main method of communication. Text messages. Snapchats. The occasional Zoom call over a spotty Wi-Fi connection. He’d been away on a shoot since the day after they met. Somewhere in Central Europe, he said. Liechtenstein or Luxembourg or one of those other odd little countries out there nobody knew anything about.
“I’m playing a samurai warrior who returns to feudal England after being marooned in the Orient some years prior,” he told her. “It’s an action film, of course, but it’s got a lot of style. A bit Kurosawa meets…um…feudal England, I guess…”
Communicating electronically actually made things much easier for Déjà. It kept her from getting flustered. Gave her time to think about her replies. To choose just the right words. To craft the perfect comeback. To come across as either witty or coy, depending on how she was looking to tempt or tease him. And in doing so, she was able to rise above her schoolgirl crush and actually let her guard down a bit. Let the “real” her shine through without melting into a puddle at his feet. And, in turn, she liked to think she was getting to know the “real” him as well, the sheen of celebrity between them disappearing in the flurry of late-night notifications blowing up her phone.
“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his message said.
“I can’t wait either,” her message replied.
“Think I can get a little taster in the meantime?” he asked, smirking purple devil emoji, prayer hands emoji, eggplant emoji.
“A taster?” Detective emoji.
“Don’t be shy.” Playful tongue out emoji. “Daddy’s hung-wee.”
So she sent him a few nudes. Nothing too lewd. More erotic than explicit. A quick photoshop to smooth out the blemishes on her skin, and into his inbox they went.
And, of course, Brandon sent a few back her way. Him without his shirt on, glistening post-workout. The pubic stubble like a clear-cut forest, just below his belt. A closeup shot of his small, wrinkled dick pressed up against a cold piece of marbled raw beef.
“Is that a London broil?” she asked as she looked at the photograph of his shriveled manhood laying atop the slab like a mealworm lost in a vast pink landscape.
“Little darling, this is filet mignon!” he replied.
She should’ve guessed. Like Brandon Bowers would be caught dead with anything BUT the finest cuts from the best butcher in town.
A video popped up in her DMs. She clicked play. A shaky self-filmed clip of Brandon inserting himself into a slit in the meat and pumping away, muttering “fuck you, you little whore” over and over and over again, until he finally came all over the thing—a voluminous and iridescent load—roughly seven seconds after he started.
Pre-order your copy of Starlet now from Ghoulish Books.
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