Tonic

by Staci Hart

  I smiled. “Oh, I dunno. I can be very persuasive, when I put my mind to it.”

  Her lips pinched and eyes narrowed by a tiny degree just as Laney and Shep walked back into the room. I sat back in my chair, absolutely pleased with myself.

  “Great,” Laney said as she approached, not moving to sit back down. “I think we’ve got what we need. Annika will be in touch regarding the schedule. If you could get these contracts back to me in the next couple of days, it would really speed things along.”

  Shep smiled. “We’ll get you everything tomorrow.”

  “Perfect, then we can get our crew here to start the work Monday. It should only take a couple of days.”

  “That’s all?” I asked, trying not to watch Annika as she stood and stepped away, taking the route that would keep her as far away from me as possible.

  Laney nodded. “They’ve got it down to a science.”

  I stood and extended a hand. “Then I’ll be seeing you sooner than later.”

  “Yes, you will,” she said as she took it. “Thanks again for meeting with us, and for going for the show. It’s going to do amazing things for your store, your brand.”

  I gave my brother a look. “So I hear.”

  “Good to see you, Laney,” Shep said as he shook her hand. “Ms. Belousov.” He shook her hand too.

  Something ignited in my chest as I reached out to shake Annika’s hand, knowing she couldn’t refuse with Laney watching on. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Belousov.”

  The flush was back, just a rosy tinge to her high cheeks as she slipped her white fingers into my hand. They were soft and warm — no, they were hot — her palm pressing against mine as her fingers closed. It was only a second that we touched, but every single thing about the way she felt impressed into my mind.

  I squeezed once, firm but gentle, before she pulled away, but my fingers trailed down hers like they didn’t want to let her go.

  She said nothing, just gave a curt nod and turned in a whoosh that left the smell of flowers in the draft, and I watched her walk out the door, narrow hips swaying in time to the click of her heels.

  I slipped my hands into my pockets and watched the door for a second, my mind spinning and whirring. I wanted to figure her out. In fact, I wanted that more than I’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

  After a moment of silence, Shep burst out laughing.

  I glanced over at him, but he just kept laughing, the apples of his cheeks pink, his laugh big and booming.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Jesus Christ, Joel. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you fuck a girl up with your eyes.”

  I shrugged.

  He kept laughing. “Just do me a favor.”

  “If it involves me not sleeping with her, I’m out.”

  “Trust me, I know better than to try to stop you once you’ve set your mind to something.” His smile slipped, his eyes narrowed with worry but still full of hope. “Just don’t ruin this for us, okay?”

  I clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him into my side. “Don’t worry, little brother. I’ll keep it under control.” And at the time, I actually believed the words.

  HAIRY

  Annika

  I PULLED IN A BREATH through my nose so hard, my nostrils threatened to stick closed.

  That guy.

  That hairy fucking guy.

  That hairy fucking guy with those stupid fucking eyes that looked at me like he could see me naked.

  I’d been given the label of frigid bitch more than a few times, a label that would make most women cringe. But not me — I embraced it. It was a mask, armor cultivated over years of practice, years of working in reality television. It protected the rest of me, the real me, from the sharp edges of my job. It made the men who I worked with in the industry take me seriously. It kept the would-be players well away from me. One pointed look would usually have them skittering away with their tail between their legs.

  But not That Hairy Fucking Guy. I couldn’t even bring myself to think his name, as if thinking his name would give him some kind of power over me. So Hairy Fucking Guy would have to do. Or maybe just Hairy.

  I tried not to think about how he stared at me, like he would do things that would make my toes curl up and my knees buckle. Like he would fuck me up in a way that would have me begging for more. He didn’t shy away from my glare — which would level most men — instead, he met it with heat that burned through me like molten lava. Or indigestion.

  I also tried not to think about how it felt to shake his hand. I’d shaken a million hands, but that? After he’d looked at me like he did? All hairy and beastly and feral and lusty? I swear, electricity shot up my arm, down my ribcage, and straight between my legs.

  This fact made me very, very angry.

  Our car was still waiting at the curb, and I climbed in after Laney. It wasn’t until the door thumped shut, muting the sounds of the city for the soft hum of air conditioning, that she looked me dead in the face and started laughing.

  I felt my face turn to stone, the pinch of my lips at the corners. “It’s not funny, Laney.”

  “The unflappable Annika, completely flapped.”

  “I am not flapped. In fact, I’m the opposite of flapped.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Usually you smile and schmooze, but you shut down like New York during a blizzard.”

  I tightened my lips to stop myself from sulking and changed the subject. “He’s awful.”

  “No, he isn’t,” she said as the driver took off.

  “He is too. He’s crass and uncouth and … hulking. He’s medieval. Put a mace in his hand and point him to the Saxons.”

  “I think he would have been a Saxon. And anyway, he was wearing a suit, for God’s sake.” She watched me, and I could feel her smiling. My eyes were out the front window, chin high. “He’s no worse than Cesar.”

  I huffed. None of the guys on our last job could have ever done what Hairy did to me — watched me in a way that made me want to deck him or rip his clothes off. Maybe both. “Please. Cesar was hulking and hairy, sure, but he was also clean and well-spoken and—”

  “Gay.”

  “Just like almost every guy on Fashion Forward.”

  “Exactly. Which meant their fuck-me eyes were pointed at each other and not you.”

  “Which is exactly how I prefer it.” My nose wrinkled. “He’s seriously so hairy, Laney. Makeup is going to freak out when they see all that …” I gestured to my face, trying not to say hair again.

  “Oh, come on,” she said with a chuckle. “He’s a fine specimen of man who has a particularly virile, testosterone-fueled head of hair and quite possibly the most beautiful beard I’ve ever seen.”

  “Out of control. I bet his back looks like a sweater.”

  “It is not out of control. It’s even groomed.”

  “His back?” I asked with a brow raised.

  She gave me a look. “His beard. He didn’t even have neck hair. His facial hair even looked combed, Annika.”

  I shrugged. “Medieval.”

  She sighed and settled back in her seat, looking pleased with herself. “Viewers are going to love him.”

  “No accounting for taste, I guess.”

  “Looks like you might too,” she said, laughing.

  My mouth popped open, and I looked at her, disgusted. “You’re joking.”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. Just remember to keep it all business or you’ll end up like Tina.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’d never fall for a guy on the show, and Tina is the shining example as to why. She got all hung up over a guy and chose not to do her job because it would hurt him. Fired. Over a guy,” I scoffed.

  “What people won’t do for love.”

  “Good for her and all, but I’ve worked too hard to throw it away for a guy. Especially not a big, hairy medieval guy.”

  “Hmm.” Laney watched me for a moment like she didn’t believe me.

  My brows dr
ew together. “Don’t hmm me like you think I’m lying.”

  “Are you going to be able to produce him?” The question held an edge, tinged with challenge.

  “Of course I’ll be able to,” I shot back.

  But she didn’t back down. “That wasn’t the Annika I know. I expected smiles and arm touching and general amiability. Whether it’s sincere or not doesn’t matter. If you’re going to have any form of influence or control over him, it’s not going to happen if you repeat that. He shook you up. So, I don’t think it’s out of line as your boss to ask if you’re certain you can produce him.”

  I thought about the way he looked at me and found myself embarrassed that I’d lost my grip on the situation. Producing, in our definition of the word, meant to manipulate. To create the environment for drama. And I should have been able to produce him even then, handle him, bend him. But he’d caught me off guard. I found my resolve — next time, I’d be prepared.

  “Yeah. I’ll be able to produce him,” I answered with confidence I felt into my Manolos.

  “Good,” she said, satisfied, turning her dark eyes to the windshield and road beyond. “I don’t want to have to step in, which means you’re going to need to bring it. We left Fashion Forward for this. It’s my shot to create my own reality show that people want to watch at a time when people are over reality TV. It’s your shot to prove you can run a show on your own. If you fail, I fail. And I’m not going to fail.”

  “Understood.” Dread snaked through my stomach at the thought of failing anything, especially this. I cut off its head with a solid, fortifying breath.

  “We’ve got a lot to work with, a good cast full of good people who we can hopefully turn into good TV.”

  “So, good people who we can ruin.”

  She shrugged. “They know what they signed up for. But this isn’t going to be like Fashion Forward. There are no sides, no winners. No villain.”

  “Not true.” I pulled out my stack of dossiers. “We’ve got Hal.”

  “True. And the fact that he’s married to Joel’s ex? We’ve got plenty of nerves to expose. But you know what I mean. There’s no villain contestant, no story manipulation, no pushing, or at least not on the competitive scale. I’m good at being a manipulative bitch, but I can’t say I’m not glad to have to ruin fewer lives. Maybe we can even do some good.”

  I smiled. “Aww, look at you, ya big softie.”

  She laughed. “I like Joel and Shep. And they’re going to kill it in the ratings. Let’s go over everyone again.”

  I flipped through the folders in my lap. “Joel Anderson, thirty-eight, running Tonic for seventeen years with his brother, Shepard. Parents died a few months apart, his mother of ovarian cancer, and then his dad was in a car accident.” My heart ached at the thought of losing both parents so close together. “Married for five years to Elizabeth Jackson. Volatile, physical relationship, lots of fighting. She put him in the hospital just before they were divorced.”

  “She sounds like a real gem. Maybe Hal’s shop would have been a better choice for the show.”

  I chuckled. “Maybe if this were Fashion Forward, but if we want to do something different, something people will watch, we need heroes people can root for.”

  She sighed. “So true.”

  I flipped to my cheat sheet. “Shep and Ramona have been dating for a few years — she lives with the other two girls in the shop, Penny and Veronica.”

  “Penny’s the one with the technicolor hair, right?”

  “Yeah, and Veronica used to date Patrick.”

  “Brooding hottie?”

  I smirked. “I mean, they’re all gorgeous, but yeah. That’s the one. Veronica broke up him and his girlfriend for a time.”

  “That’s a great angle to play. She’s single? He’s back with the other girl?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh, that’s good. Real good.”

  My finger ran down the list. “Max and Eli are like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

  “Except with better abs.”

  I laughed. “Max has a girlfriend who he has a super physical relationship with. Apparently they get caught having sex in the shop all the time.”

  She made a face. “Is that a health department concern?”

  “They seem to keep it to closets and back rooms.”

  “Well, skin never hurts ratings.”

  “So we’ve got exes, horn dogs, and roommates,” I recounted.

  “Like you said, it’s a ton of great material.”

  “The roommates should be able to give us some drama too. They’re really close, but I’ve got some ideas that shouldn’t ruin any relationships.”

  She smiled. “Of course you do. You’re the best in the business, besides me.”

  I chuckled and closed the dossier, feeling a little better. It was so much easier when we didn’t think about them like people. Not that it was always easy to do, but it was the only way to really get the job done. Although, the situation was infinitely better with the format of Tonic than it was on Fashion Forward. If anything would turn you into an incarnation of Satan himself, it was producing competitive reality television.

  “Let’s sit down in the morning and go over our character stories for the first half of season one and figure out our finale so we’ve got something to work toward. The crew will have everything moved into the apartment upstairs by tomorrow for sure, so we can start setting up the control room and our boards.”

  “Good. It always stresses me out to not have them. Like all the details are in my head and these files. But when they’re on the board where I can see them, that’s when it’s real.”

  “Me too,” Laney said as the car pulled to a stop in front of her apartment building on the East Side. “Need anything?”

  I smiled as she gathered her things. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Get your head on straight about Joel. If you can’t handle him, we’re going to have problems.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll handle him just fine.”

  She laughed. “I mean, if that’s how you have to get it done, I’m not one to judge.”

  I gave her a look as she opened her door. “Bye, Laney.”

  “Night, Annika. See you in the morning.”

  I twiddled my fingers at her as she closed the door and let out a breath as the car pulled away.

  “Where to, Ms. Belousov?” the driver asked.

  “My parents’. Thanks.”

  He nodded, and I settled back into my seat for the long ride into Brooklyn.

  My parents lived in Brighton Beach in the same house where I grew up, just off the strip in Little Russia. They’d fled during World War II as children, part of a group of families, making their way through Eastern Europe to escape persecution until finally ending up in Israel. But when they went back to Russia to help my aunt escape, their papers were confiscated, and my uncle Andrei extracted them, bringing them to New York where he was, using his Bratva connections. Though being connected to the Russian mafia was never something we discussed in depth.

  They settled into Brighton Beach, the home away from home, buying a house and opening a dry cleaning shop, again with the help of my uncle. And within a year, my mama got pregnant, a surprise to everyone at forty-six, especially my parents who believed they’d never be able to have children of their own.

  So I grew up in the shop, helping my mother and aunt doing alterations, helping Papa press the pants for the rich men and Bratva who came into our store. It was there I learned the value of hard work. It was also there that I learned that I didn’t want to stay in Brighton Beach. I didn’t want the life so common for my culture — a life of not-so-quiet complacency.

  Uncle Andrei had a daughter, Roksana, just a few months after I was born, whose mother died in childbirth. And when Andrei was busy with Bratva business, Roxy came to stay with us. We looked very much alike — blond hair and clear blue eyes, tall, fair — but she was the wild one, the one who would run through the rack of clothes in o
ur store with her hands outstretched, trailing through the plastic-covered pants and shirts, giggling. She was the one who could always make me smile, who always set me free. As much as I’d allow, at least.

  We moved in together after we graduated, into a brownstone in Park Slope where she had her daughter, close enough to my parents to see them, but far enough away that we were out of Little Russia.

  When we both worked at Bryant Park in fashion — me on the show and her in actual fashion — the location made plenty of sense. Now that I would be in the Upper West every day? I was feeling like I lived on Mars.

  At least it would only be for six weeks. The thought made me feel better about a lot of things. Including Hairy.

  I tried not to think about how broad his shoulders were in his suit, or about the juxtaposition of his tattooed skin against the crisp lines of his collar. I tried not to think of his eyes on me and how they made me hot and cold all at the same time. Or about his cheekbones or dark lashes or strong brow.

  I sighed and recrossed my legs, hanging onto the dossiers. I opened his again, touched his picture. 6’4”, 220lb, born August 14th, 1978. Opened Tonic with inheritance in September, 1999. There were photos inside of his ex, Liz, and Hal, the owner of the rival shop. We had plans for him, the hot-button to rile Joel up.

  A flash of foreboding ran through me, but I shook it off. This was all part of the job. They were just meat puppets, pawns in a game to move around, crash into each other, all while trying to make sure we caught it all on camera.

  I reminded myself that Tonic would be so much less destructive than Fashion Forward as the car pulled to a stop in front of my parents’ building. I thanked the driver, slipping the folders into my attaché before climbing out of the car.

  A row of red brick duplexes stood in front of me, built in the thirties with awnings over the porches and flower boxes hanging on the cast iron bannisters. It looked quaint, like a snapshot from another time, even in the dark as my heels clicked on the sidewalk and up to the door to ring the bell.

  I heard my parents talking and the footfalls of my mother just before she opened the door, smiling, cheeks rosy and hair twisted into a bun much like mine, though her blond locks had turned a beautiful shade of silvery-grey.