The Sunset Prophecy (Love & Armageddon #1)

by P. J. Day

  Maggie, who was in her early twenties and was only used to covering celebrities who were usually born during the early years of the Clinton Administration, responded, “Yeah, he does those commercials for those airline and hotel deals, where he flings his shoe and he starred in the original Star Wars. Or wait a minute, wasn’t he that rock ‘n roll singer who married his cousin?”

  “That’s Jerry Lee Lewis,” Roger said, shooting Maggie an eye roll.

  Franz sighed and looked at Spencer, “So, what’s the deal? Is he coming in or not?”

  “Okay, remember what Adam always says about focus. We’re competing against thousands of Cabbage Patch-looking, bad-hair-dyed flaming bloggers who live in their mom’s basements, posting stories with no overhead, and who are actually getting clicks.”

  “Yeah, not only fashion bloggers, but gossip, news, and now, sports. I’m competing against guys who won their fantasy league and now think they’re a one-man ESPN wrecking crew,” said Harry.

  The group stared at Spencer, waiting for the reason why their powerful, handsome pillar of an editor was suddenly as large as a house. A frantic Tracy, who spilled the beans after seeing him in the elevator, didn’t help calm the group before their most important meeting of the month.

  “Adam has decided to live in a fat suit for a few weeks. It’s for next month’s feature,” Spencer said, going back to what Adam wanted them to believe. “Now, he told me to let you know that it’s business as usual and he wants you to all treat him as if it was not in a fat suit and that he really is overweight. He wants to show his readers that you can be obese and successful, despite the physical and visual handicap.”

  Shannon didn’t hesitate in responding and didn’t hesitate to start kissing ass either, “I think that’s brilliant. Adam is such a genius. This will turn the fashion industry on its ear.”

  Everyone caught Shannon’s enthusiasm like a quick-spreading virus. “Yes, what a feature,” enthused Franz. Everyone agreed that Adam’s impromptu decision was clever and profound. Except for Tracy, who skeptically asked Spencer, “Don’t you find it out of character? I mean, Adam is all about focus and having him walk around the office in a fat suit goes against his whole focus strategy, don’t you think?”

  Spencer lowered his head, opened the door, and said quickly, “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Adam schlepped his bulk into the boardroom. Sweat beads glittered on his forehead and the edge of his scalp. He gave his team an awkward smile as they all stood up and clapped in unison. Spencer wiped the perspiration from his forehead, sighed and then proceeded to melt into the lone empty chair at the edge of the table.

  “Thank you, everyone,” blared Adam. “Thank you. I will pick one of you to write about my story as our main feature in next month’s issue. Now, let’s get to business. Let’s hear what the most talented fashion-forward feature writers in the country have to offer.”

  Everyone bounced up and down in their chairs, excited to pitch their story ideas.

  Adam carefully lowered himself into his chair. Suddenly realizing he could not fit into it, he sprang to his feet and let out an awkward laugh.

  Everyone in the boardroom began to laugh with him. Spencer groaned in his chair. “Write what you just witnessed,” Adam deflected. “Describe what I must go through every day. The things you take for granted are like humiliating excursions for me.” Everyone began writing frantically on their notepads.

  “Remember, in this edition, I wanted alpha males. Preferably ones with quirks who all lived in L.A—if they liked to bite women, bite dogs, loved raiding morgues, or somehow survived an insane amount of drugs.”

  Perplexed mugs began to fill the room. “You did?” asked Frieda.

  “I remember you asking about alpha males. Ones that were different, but in a charming sort of way,” said Spencer.

  “Who needs charm? Everyone does charm. I asked for quirks. Do you not know what a quirk is?” barked Adam.

  “It’s something smaller than an atom. You wanted features on small alpha males. Like those midgets on the reality shows with pit bulls?” proclaimed Maggie.

  Franz grumbled to himself. Spencer eyed Maggie and shook his head.

  “Eccentricity. I wanted features with successful young males who were different, yet still fashionistas. So different they could be considered freaky, abnormal, possibly grotesque,” Adam declared. He turned his attention toward Harry. “Harry, what you got?”

  “Umm...I finally got an interview with Kobe Bryant,” Harry gleefully responded.

  “Really, what’d he say? Did he talk about what happened in Colorado?”

  “No, umm...”

  “...is he feuding with Shaq again?” Adam asked.

  “Maybe, but he didn’t say...”

  “...is it a controversial interview, did he reveal anything out of the ordinary? Did he tell you the secret to his success is biting players on the court? Did he ever bite Phil Jackson? Does he go commando?”

  “Uh...no,” stammered Harry.

  “Too clean of a story, drop it. What else you got?”

  “Umm, I have the story about Matthew Nix, amateur boxer extraordinaire out of Pacoima who’s about to have his Olympic qualifying match at the Grand Olympic Hall off 2nd Street.”

  “What about him?” Adam asked, growing more impatient.

  “He grew up in a tough neighborhood. He fought gangbangers. He’s an incredibly good-looking guy,” Harry said. He held up a photo of Matthew. The blond-haired, blue-eyed, square-jawed young man resembled Thor, but clean-shaven.

  Spencer gasped and said, “You’re right. He could be a supermodel, and he puts that face on the line every time he enters the ring?”

  Harry nodded and beamed at Adam for approval.

  Adam put his fingers to his chins and contemplated Harry’s submission. Adam thought to himself, Theolodus would have to be ridiculously handsome, successful, and full of an insatiable need to administer justice in order for him to woo the most beautiful women in L.A. and then gain their confidence. Matthew fit that role perfectly, and Adam excitedly pumped his fist at Harry. “Is he known for biting his opponents in the ring? Has he pulled a Tyson and bitten off someone’s ear?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Harry. “Rumor has it that he has a pair of lucky socks.”

  “A fashion angle. Okay, go for it with Matt Nix.”

  Frieda raised her hand, ready for her pitch.

  “What you got, Frieda?”

  “I have Lt. Hanz Ratliff. The best-dressed policeman in all of L.A. Works out of the Rampart division. Has cleaned up corruption and Hugo Boss has decided to sponsor his uniform.”

  “Does he have a dark side?” said Adam.

  “The coroner hates his guts.”

  Adam reflected. “Why would the coroner hate this policeman? Lt. Hanz Ratliff probably infiltrated the morgue, why else?”

  Spencer raised his hand. When Adam nodded at him, he said, “I like the Hugo Boss tie-in. I can call them and tell them we’re doing the cop uniform story and sell them the back cover.”

  “Brilliant. Make it so,” said Adam.

  Tracy squirmed in her seat, as she always filled herself with undeserved pressure. She had worked for Smithsonian Magazine before she took a job with Estil and was very eager to please Adam by adding a little bit of culture to the magazine. She was credited for discovering top young artists, authors and directors before they all hit the big time. As Adam searched the sea of mediocrity for the whereabouts of Theolodus, he appreciated Tracy’s dogged pursuit of potential candidates.

  “I have a couple of painters,” she said, as she stood up from her seat. “One is named Bobby Smith. He’s a graffiti artist, spray paints churches.”

  “Very bold,” Adam said. “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s young, dresses exceptionally hip, but he’s missing an eye.”

  “No, no...we can’t have that. On second thought, hang on to his story, just in case. What else you got?”

 
; “Logan Drake. He paints with blood,” said Tracy, holding up one of his prints.

  Adam’s eyes opened wide with interest. “Really? Let me see that picture.”

  Tracy handed him the 8½ x 14 print of Logan’s Claret Clarice. Adam studied it long and hard. “Hmmm, this is beautiful. Otherworldly, isn’t it?”

  “I agree, but I can’t for the life of me get an interview from him. No one has seen him in person,” Tracy said.

  Adam laid the print on the table and peered into Tracy’s eyes. “This guy’s gonna be a big deal, isn’t he?”

  “I’ve never been this sure about anything in my life, but Logan’s works are gonna take over the art world.”

  “What kind of information do you have on him?”

  “Well, I was able to get his phone number through a contact at Sotheby’s, but that’s it. She told me if she gave me his address, that they could be sued.”

  “No, no. I don’t want to jeopardize the magazine’s integrity by risking Sotheby’s professionalism. Congratulations, Tracy, you have your first feature.”

  Everyone around the table clapped for Tracy. She flashed a relieved smile as she sat back into her chair and held Logan’s print up into the air in a show of victory.

  Adam put both hands onto the table and leaned forward, panting lightly and winded. “Roger, it’s a go. Get this edition in print. Play up Logan’s mysterious nature for the front cover. I want to see some sample covers on my desk by tomorrow morning. And I want to see the Hugo Boss ad on the back cover, too.”

  “You got it,” Roger said, as he rose up from the table, everyone else followed and scrambled to their offices. Maggie was the last one to leave the boardroom. Adam, sensing an opportunity to test his newfound situation, approached her and gently grabbed her arm. “Hello,” he grinned.

  Maggie instinctively pulled away her arm. “Yes, Adam,” she said with a neutral smile.

  “I’d like to talk to you about possibly writing my feature on body image, acceptance of self and unafraid fashion for obese men. Would you like to join me for some drinks this Friday night?”

  Maggie smiled at first, but then eyed Adam from head to toe and grimaced slightly. “I can’t this Friday. I appreciate the offer though, I really, really do. However, I have a leak underneath my sink that needs some patching up, and I promised my landlord I’d be there Friday night.”

  Adam drew down his eyes and cleared his throat. “I see, okay. Never mind then, just carry on.”

  “Good luck with the fat suit,” she said, as she patted him on the arm and strutted out through the door.

  With dejection painting his face, Adam made brief eye contact with Spencer, who immediately tilted his head downward. He continued to roll one of the leftover pens on the table.

  “Thanks for prepping everyone,” said Adam.

  “It’s my job to assist,” Spencer said, getting up from the table. “I’m gonna go ahead and get lunch ready for Roger’s meeting. Shall I get you a steak and salad?”

  “Adkins diet? Sure,” said Adam, following Spencer out of the boardroom.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Although Adam was occasionally hard on Spencer, in the end, he appreciated his loyalty and initiative.

  The receptionist came up to meet Adam. “Mr. Cagle, here’s Mr. Fisker’s phone number again. He said it is extremely urgent that you call him. He just called you again.”

  Adam glanced at the Post-it and didn’t recognize the number with the 310 area code. He walked into his office and picked up the phone and dialed. Frustrated with the inability to dial the number with his meaty fingers, he commed Genie. “Can you connect me to Mr. Fisker, please?”

  “Of course, Mr. Cagle.”

  Adam’s wandering eyes darted around his office. His days of being in demand as a powerful figure in society were probably coming to a close. His days as a handsome and imposing being were hosed as soon as he’d seen this morning’s sunshine splash into his room and had gotten a look at himself in the bathroom mirror.

  “Hello,” answered the seasoned bass voice on the other line.

  “Yes, is this a Mr. Fisker?”

  “This is Mr. Fisker. Judging by my Caller ID, I’d assume that this is a Mr. Adam Cagle?”

  Fisker paused.

  “Mr. Cagle, do you happen to be one of Jrue of Pit’s messengers?”

  Adam lunged and slammed the door to his office. “Who are you?” he asked, his eyes bulging out his sockets.

  “I’m an overseer as well, not of Pit like yourself, but let’s just say I might have a stake in your pursuits.”

  Adam froze. His chest began to hurt and he fell backward onto the couch in his office. The workers below his floor most likely bore the brunt of the shocking crack and boom sounds as his weight slammed the couch’s insides onto the floor, breaking the frame. “What do you want?” he wheezed.

  “I wish to meet with you.”

  “Where?”

  “In my office, of course.”

  “I don’t trust you...I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Di benedicite hoc plano,” softly declared Fisker.

  Adam froze and the phone slid down his wrist, almost inserting itself into one of his oversized sleeves. “Yes, di benedicite hoc plano,” repeated Adam, nervously. “Where are you?”

  “The FBI building off Sepulveda,” said the raspy and weathered voice. “One hour.”

  Adam hung up the phone. He walked over to the large window in his office and pulled up his pants that had sagged off his last roll. He then turned around pulled out a small glass vial of white powder and a clear glass pipe and proceeded to spill it on his desk. As he bent down for a snort, the realization that the situation might had gotten out of control consumed him. Adam snapped the clear pipe like a twig and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  7

  Eye on the Prize

  Matthew Nix dove straight into his plate. His deep blue eyes focused on the task at hand: devouring the hell out of the French toast in front of him, and refilling his body’s gas tank for yet another hardcore two-a-day that his trainer, Jacob Jacobs, had him do on Fridays.

  “Baby, slow down,” Keelen said, playing with her last pancake. Her hunger subsided at the thought of revealing the harsh reality of her past 24 hours. She kept it on the down-low so she wouldn’t distract him from his professional goals.

  Matt pointed at Keelen’s plate with his fork. “Are you going to eat that?”

  “No. You can have it.”

  Matt devoured Keelen’s chocolate chip pancake. “Hey, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for not being there for you at times,” he said with a mouth full of mushy goodness.

  Keelen smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “We’re good.”

  “I just have this one fight left. That’s it. If I win, I’ll qualify for Rio and after that, I could make my own schedule.”

  Keelen grabbed Matt’s large hand and rubbed his knuckle. “I believe in you, sweetie. You’re gonna win. I know in my heart that you’re gonna win.”

  “Thanks,” he said, as he forked the last sliver of her flapjack. “So, how’s the audition circuit?”

  Keelen rubbed the inside of her ear with her pinky. The dry, Los Angeles morning air tended to cobble up her ear wax. “Not too good. At every audition, I compete against 30 girls who look exactly like me. At least I still have five good years left in me before I can audition for mom parts,” she said, flashing a crooked smile. “Hey, there’s something I gotta tell you.”

  Matt leaned backward in the booth and pulled back his lips. “Sweetie, I’m gonna make it up to you, I promise.”

  Keelen laughed. “No, silly, it’s okay. I understand you’re trying to accomplish something big. I’d be pretty selfish if I gave you a hard time about your training.”

  Matt exhaled and cracked a relieved smile. “Good. So, what do you want to tell me?”

  “Well,” Keelen sighed. She paused and leaned in close on the table. “I got fired from my job.”
<
br />   “What?”

  “Wait...wait...wait,” she said, putting up her hand. “It’s not that bad.”

  “All right, what are you going to do about rent? I guess I can give you some of my stipend. It’s not much since I’m still an amateur, but I want to help.”

  “Thank you, Matt. God, you’re so amazing, but I got another job lined up.”

  “Great, does it pay the same?”

  “No, it pays more. But I promise it’s only temporary.”

  “Is it a temp job? Wait a minute, why do you seem okay with it only being temporary?”

  “It’s complicated...”

  “Where’d you get the job?” Matt asked, his eyebrows scrunched with suspicion.

  “Logan offered me a job.”

  Matt’s normally high cheekbones sunk in a little bit. His thick lips puckered and he let out an understated, “Oh.”

  “His art is flying off the shelves and he’s working on another super-secret project, and he wants me to help him manage the continued sales of his pieces.”

  Matt’s eyes fell to the side. “Okay,” he nodded. “You know me. I’m not a controlling guy...”

  “...yeah?”

  “...but I’m not gonna lie. This whole deal makes me a bit uncomfortable.”

  Keelen sat back and crossed her arms. “Wait a minute, what would you do if you were me? Huh?”

  “No...no...you’re right. You had to do what you had to do. It’s tough out there. Jobs aren’t easy to come by. But you know, your history and all. Love is a tricky beast. I love you right now and if we separated, I’d still have feelings for you.”

  “Me, too, Matt,” Keelen said, as she put her cold hands on his large forearm. “Once, Logan and I just dated for a summer. He was too deep for me. Too restless. Too eccentric.”

  “Sounds like the type of guy girls fall over nowadays,” he snickered.

  “I love you, Matt,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “You!”

  Matt blushed. He stretched his thick neck. His eyelids fluttered rapidly. “He better not try anything, you hear me?”

  “He won’t,” Keelen said. “He asked about you.”

  “Yeah? That doesn’t mean anything, you know?”