“No idea what you’re talking about.” His lips quirked. “So? How was your reading?”
“Oh, yes! Apparently, I’m getting married before the end of the year. And! I have a dead relative from the age of enlightenment who wants to chat.”
“Is that right? And how does one get in touch with the dead?”
“Pay hundred bucks for a séance.”
“Sounds about right. Mine told me my musician wife needs to know the truth before it’s too late. Also, she said I’d fall in love and get dumped in the same week. I asked her if that meant my wife was going to leave me. She said maybe.”
“You never told me about your wife,” Callie said, feigning shock.
“She’s on tour.” He unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap.
“Don’t tell me? Pop singer?”
“Hell, no! She plays the key-tar.”
She laughed. “Hawt.”
“Not as hot as the affair I’m having with a copywriter.” He nibbled her ear.
“I’m having a hard time imagining you married.”
“Why’s that?”
She dipped her chin. “What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever been in?”
“Two years and some change.”
She almost fell out of the booth. “Really? When was that?”
“After I graduated college.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“’Cause she was an unstable raging narcissist with a drug problem and an eating disorder.”
“Ha! Big stamp of approval for ending that. How’d you hook up with her?”
“I was kind of a late bloomer,” he said.
Young bug-eyed Walker drifted into her thoughts. She nodded fervently—a bit too fervently perhaps.
“Claudia was the first pretty girl who was into me. We fought non-stop, but I overlooked her issues because I was getting laid on a regular basis.”
He peeled apart his chopsticks and rubbed them together. “I didn’t really have the greatest role models. My parents were either fighting or fu—having sex. I thought that’s how relationships were supposed to be. Didn’t have the sense to know I was thinking with my dick.”
“What did she do, your girlfriend?”
“Majored in fashion design at SCAD. But she couldn’t catch a break when we moved to New York, so she modeled.”
Of course she modeled. A sudden burning inadequacy tossed around in her stomach. “No one after that?”
“No one long term. For years, Claudia stalked my dates. Had to shut down all my social media accounts. I’m a lot more selective now.”
If he was selective, she was a banana. Barbie? Please. Though what did that say about her, now that she was also on his select service list?
Ho came by with the food. When he left, Walker asked, “What about you? You were gonna get hitched, right?”
The dumpling in her chopsticks crashed on her plate. “I . . . Yes, we were engaged.”
“Why’d that guy ask you to marry him then cheat on you? You give him an ultimatum or something?”
She straightened her shoulders and shot him a look that made him sit back. “No, Walker. Believe it or not, I didn’t want to get married.”
“Why’d you say yes then?”
Because Daniel had been an excellent liar. “Guess I was thinking with my uterus.”
“Better have a chat with it then. You’ve only got”—he looked at his wrist—“T-minus five more months until you’re married, Mrs. Rhodes.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, carefully side-stepping the Mrs. Rhodes comment. “We’ve already had that discussion.” And a painful discussion it was at that.
When they finished, Ho brought the check and a pile of fortune cookies. Walker read his, “‘You will be lucky in everything.’ Ha! Now, that’s good fortune.”
“Let me see that.” She ripped it from his hands and stuffed it in her bra. “It’s my fortune now.” She laughed diabolically.
“You’ve left me no choice,” he said slipping his hand under her shirt. “I’m gonna have to fondle you.” A hot shiver glided down her center.
Callie handed hers over. “Mine’s not even a fortune.”
“‘Find a way to relax.’ Hmm. I bet I can help with that.” He winked.
Chapter Seventeen
Blockin’
Studio Seven Soundstage, Orlando, Florida
“Her mind lives tidily, apart, from cold and noise and pain, and bolts the door against her heart, out wailing in the rain.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Blondie, “Rip Her To Shreds -2001- Remastered”
The day she’d been dreading arrived. The day of the TV commercial shoot. The instant Callie stepped through the production studio doors, a foreboding feeling smacked her hard. A feeling that made her want to grab Walker and run.
Then she heard it—a tap, tap, tapping. Her jaw clenched as the menacing sound drew nearer. Sure enough, Account Manager Barbie tramped toward them, wearing gut-red stilettos and a bleached smile. Without hesitation, she lunged for Walker and attached herself like a tick. “Walkie! I’ve missed you!”
The bimbo didn’t bother to greet her—didn’t even glance in her general direction. Callie cleared her throat, and Barbie shot her a bitchy, tchah-why-are-you-still-here look.
A sudden urge to go LA girl gang hit—the need to scratch Barbie, bite her, pull her hair, beat her with a curling iron, stab her with an eyebrow pencil, and tell her to get the fuck off her man.
Walker hugged Barbie back and kissed her on the cheek. “Missed you too, hot pants.”
She giggled like a stoned cheerleader.
Callie stood agog and watched the scene play out. A hug? A kiss? Hot pants? She crushed her fingers in a fist.
“Oh my Gawd,” Barbie said with a Kardashianesque vocal fry. “I’ve got, like, so much to tell you.” She whispered the rest of her drivel in his ear.
A few nods and smiles later, he said, “I bet I can help with that,” and confirmed it with a wink.
That line sounded mighty familiar.
The account manager pinched his chin. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
They locked elbows and pushed through the soundstage door—Barbie’s obnoxious tap, tap, tap echoing behind her.
Not once did Walker look back.
Too paralyzed to move, she stood and stared at the doors. It felt like she’d been hit by a car and left on the side of the road. Everything inside her turned cold and hard as if she’d absorbed the concrete floor into her bones.
She laughed a twisted laugh. Not because it was funny, but because he’d done exactly what she’d expected him to do. Five minutes around another woman, and already he’d thrown her to the curb.
That’s what she signed up for though. No strings meant no feelings. So with a giant pair of mental gardening sheers, she sliced through every last thread.
They’d had a nice little two-night stand, and that was that. No hard feelings. Everything was fine. Just fine and fucking dandy.
“If I had a shiny gun, I could have a world of fun, speeding bullets through the brains of the folks that cause me pains.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, “Heads Will Roll”
There were many, many, many negative things about Daniel, but he’d been a stellar mentor. Since he owned the agency and had to prove he didn’t just hire her because she was his girlfriend (which he did), he pushed her harder and spent more time shaping her into the perfect employee.
Most importantly, he’d taught her how to fake confidence. “Pretend your words are scientific fact,” he told her. “You may have the best idea in the world, but unless you can sell it, no one will buy it.”
He’d trained her how to present, how to speak, how to act like a good old boy, what to wear, the right body language—all for the sake of appearance.
Whether she’d written a coupon headline for a cheap roll of toilet paper or a million dollar celebrity-endorsed sneaker commercial,
she’d applied his techniques with poise and sold her ideas with resounding success. Though most of the time the ideas sold themselves. In fact, RoadStream hadn’t asked for a single revision, which was rare since every client fancied himself as a writer.
Because she’d never met Double Dick — and since dressing well was part of the façade—on the way to the shoot, she’d bought a few professional outfits to make a good first impression.
Wearing said impressionable outfit and sporting the aforementioned fake confidence, she waltzed up to the client as if she were the CEO of the goddamn world. Even though Walker had just made her feel like the most trod upon piece of human excrement that ever existed.
“Dick”—she stuck out her hand—“nice to finally meet you.”
“It’s Richard,” he snarled and gave her limp cold-fish handshake.
“Oh, sorry, Richard.” Later, she’d kill Skip for not mentioning that little tidbit. “I’m Callie.”
He stared at her then flipped his palms up and shrugged. “Well, why are you standing here?” he said with a pompous ass undertone. “We’ve got work to do, and I’m busy going over the script, so . . .”
“Can I help with anything?”
He blinked for a minute then took out his wallet and handed her a few bills. “Yeah. See if you can find a Starbucks around here. I’m gonna pass out if I don’t get a caffeine fix soon.” He turned to Walker. “Want anything? It’s on me.”
The request was so tragically sexist it made her laugh like a braying donkey. “You want me to get you coffee?” She gave him wrinkly-nosed smile, daring him to say that cute joke again.
He pulled out another five. “Fine. Get one for yourself.” He faced Walker and turned his back on her. “As I was saying, before we start, I have a lot of script changes to go over with you—”
She tapped Dick on the shoulder. “You have script changes?”
Walker, who apparently spoke penis, translated for her. “Richard, Callie wrote the script, not me.”
Cheeks pushed up and mouth shoved down, the client gave her a once-over that screamed repulsion. “She’s not the writer. She looks like a high school intern. Where’s the guy who’s been writing everything?”
Someone get her some WD-40—her jaw and right eyebrow were stuck in the shock position. Her first inclination was to show him her award-winning work for clients whose marketing budgets could pay off the federal deficit. Her second was to punch him in his dick face.
Alternatively, she stabbed him with a Murphy-Who-The-Fuck-Do-You-Think-You-Are Glare™ and said, “Guess you haven’t been paying much attention to the campaign, Dick.” She emphasized the ick. “I am the writer. The blog, the social media, your new tagline, the scripts? I wrote them all. It’s also me in all the pictures.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest.
“And that thirty-percent sales bump this last month?” She flashed a scary-clown smile. “You’re welcome. Since you’re not familiar with the work you’re paying millions for, script changes go through me, not Walker, because he’s an art director. Make sense? If not, I can make you a PowerPoint presentation. Gotta love a good deck.” Her face hurt from smiling.
Speaking of face, Dick’s turned tomato red like it was about to explode. Uh-oh. She must have upset the little dickens. Good.
Sabrina rushed over and wedged between them. “Hey, hey, hey, like, let’s not forget, the client’s always right. I’m sure the changes aren’t that complicated. Walker can totally handle them. Can’t you, Walkie?”
While she often joked about poisoning her Shimura coworkers, she’d never really meant it. But right then, if she had an ounce of arsenic at her disposal, she would have poured it down Barbie’s throat. At the very least, she’d like to finger-flick that bitch in the nose—if only to punish her with the same nasty condescension.
The only problem was she felt a breakdown coming on.
At some point in her career, every woman has a breakdown on the job. You know, one of those moments when you involuntarily burst out crying and totally humiliate yourself? Don’t deny it. Everyone’s done it.
As for her, she’d had two breakdowns, both after working three days straight. Each time, she’d made it to the parking garage just in time before she lost her shit.
But there wasn’t a parking garage at the studio. Therefore, she had to get the fuck on out of there.
“Great.” She clapped her hands once. “Well, since I have a high school science project due tomorrow, I’ll head back to the hotel and let you all do my job. Let me know if you need me . . .”
“Thanks, Callie,” Sabrina said, clutching Walker’s arm, “but we have everything covered.”
“Oops, not yet. Looks like Walkie’s got a few free limbs.” She winked. “Better get on that, hot pants.”
Chin in the air and still smiling violently, she shoved open the studio door, banged it on the wall, and blazed outside.
“Blue, wait!” Walker called.
Magically—it was the land of the Magic Kingdom after all—an Uber appeared and dropped someone off. She jumped in and waved goodbye to Walker with two very stiff middle fingers. There were many, many, many negative things about Daniel, but he’d been a stellar mentor. Since she was his girlfriend and he owned the agency, he had to prove she deserved the job. As such, he pushed her harder than any other employee.
Part of his training included the art of faking confidence. “Pretend your words are scientific fact,” he’d told her. “You may have the best idea in the world, but unless you can sell it, no one will buy it.”
He’d taught her how to present, how to speak, how to act like a good old boy, what to wear, the right body language—all for the sake of appearance.
Whether she’d written a coupon headline for a cheap roll of toilet paper or a million dollar celebrity-endorsed sneaker commercial, she’d applied his techniques with poise and sold her ideas with resounding success. Though most of the time the ideas sold themselves. In fact, RoadStream hadn’t asked for a single revision, which was rare since every client fancied himself as a writer.
Because she’d never met Double Dick—and since dressing well was part of the façade—on the way to the shoot, she’d bought a few professional outfits to make a good first impression.
Wearing said impressionable outfit and sporting the aforementioned fake confidence, she waltzed up to the client as if she were the CEO of the goddamn world—even though Walker had just made her feel like the most trod upon piece of human excrement that ever existed.
“Dick? Callie”—she stuck out her hand—“nice to finally meet you.”
“It’s Richard,” he snarled and gave her limp cold-fish handshake.
Later, she’d kill Skip for not mentioning that little tidbit.
He stared at her for a moment then said, “Well, why are you standing here? We’ve got work to do.”
“Absolutely. What can I help you with?”
He took out his wallet and handed her a few bills. “See if you can find a Starbucks around here. I’m gonna pass out if I don’t get a caffeine fix soon.” He turned to Walker. “Want anything? It’s on me.”
The request was so tragically sexist it made her laugh like a braying donkey. “You want me to get you coffee?” She gave him wrinkly-nosed smile, daring him to say that cute joke again.
He pulled out another five. “Fine. Get one for yourself.” He faced Walker and turned his back on her. “As I was saying, before we start, I have a lot of script changes to go over with you—”
She tapped Dick on the shoulder. “You have script changes?”
Walker, who apparently spoke penis, translated for her. “Richard, Callie wrote the script, not me.”
Cheeks pushed up and mouth shoved down, the client gave her a once-over that screamed repulsion. “She’s not the writer. She looks like a high school intern. Where’s the guy who’s been writing everything?”
Someone get her some WD-40—her jaw and right eyebrow were stuck in the shock position. Her first i
nclination was to show him her award-winning work for clients whose marketing budgets could pay off the federal deficit. Her second was to punch him in his dick face.
Alternatively, she stabbed him with a Murphy-Who-The-Fuck-Do-You-Think-You-Are Glare™ and said, “Guess you haven’t been paying much attention to the campaign, Dick.” She emphasized the ick. “I am the writer. The blog, the social media, your new tagline, the scripts? I wrote them all. It’s also me in all the pictures.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest.
“And that thirty-percent sales bump this last month?” She flashed a scary-clown smile. “You’re welcome. Since you’re not familiar with the work you’re paying millions for, script changes go through me, not Walker, because he’s an art director. Make sense? If not, I can make you a PowerPoint presentation. Gotta love a good deck.” Her face hurt.
Speaking of face, Dick’s turned tomato red like it was about to explode. Uh-oh. She must have upset the little dickens. Good.
Sabrina rushed over and wedged between them. “Hey, hey, hey, like, let’s not forget, the client’s always right. I’m sure the changes aren’t that complicated. Walker can totally handle them. Can’t you, Walkie?”
While she often joked about poisoning her Shimura coworkers, she’d never really meant it. But right then, if she had an ounce of arsenic at her disposal, she would have poured it down Barbie’s throat. At the very least, she’d like to finger-flick that bitch in the nose—if only to punish her with the same nasty condescension.
The only problem was she felt a breakdown coming on.
At some point in her career, every woman has a breakdown on the job. You know, one of those moments when you involuntarily burst out crying and totally humiliate yourself? Don’t deny it. Everyone’s done it.
As for her, she’d had two breakdowns, both after working three days straight. Each time, she’d made it to the parking garage just in time before she lost her shit.
But there wasn’t a parking garage at the studio. Therefore, she had to get the fuck on out of there.
Road-Tripped Page 16
