by Clare James
I wasn’t so lucky.
When I graduated last spring, I got nada. No callbacks. No interest. Nothing from the dozens of resumes I sent out. Not that I was surprised. After fighting off the sleazy advances from my limp dick department chairman all year, I assumed he’d get me back in some way. I later found out that one of his minions tracked all the stations where I sent my resume. Then Limp Dick made a few calls, and just like that I was blacklisted.
Every night, I prayed that he would be struck down with anal warts.
Thank god I still had Jonathan.
He was able to pull some strings and get me into the KXAA newsroom as an intern. Though it was several heads lower on the totem pole than I expected, it worked out okay.
In June, I moved into my brother’s place in the quaint river village of Stillwater — beautiful, small, and fairly close to the TV station in St. Paul — and worked my ass off for three months. I loved every second of it. But even without having to pay rent, I still burned through what little savings I had by working for free all summer. And when the dog days were over, so was my job. Not one department had an opening.
Except for the sports department. That’s when Jonathan had the brilliant idea of the Sports Girl position. I so wanted to cut the bastard for suggesting it, but in all honesty, I needed the money. They currently had openings for the basketball and hockey beats, and Jonathan said I was a shoo-in.
Sports Girls are KXAA’s cheesy gimmick to rope in viewers and up their ratings. They are the magical link between the fans and the players, responsible for the pre- and post-game coverage for every sports team in the state, as well as interviews during the games. And they do it all while wearing tight team jerseys and pearly white smiles. Sad thing is? It’s working. KXAA’s game coverage has never been better.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” I said to Jonathan. “Stop staring at my tits and help me get this slimy gig.”
Jonathan brushed me off and set up his camera so I could do a practice run. “It won’t be that bad,” he said, trying to divert his eyes from the girls. My girls. He was pretty darn cute as he did it too — clean cut and as wholesome-looking as you could get: blond hair, blue eyes, and the just the sweetest face. I loved to fuck with him.
But this wasn’t a good sign — if my very gentlemanly platonic friend couldn’t fight a sneak peek at the goods, what were the viewers going to do when they got a load of this getup?
“No,” I disagreed. “It’s worse. How will anyone ever take me seriously?”
“Because they won’t have a choice when they get to know your brilliant mind like I do,” Jonathan said.
I scoffed and he put his arm around my shoulders, trying to calm me down. I so didn’t deserve him.
“Once you land your national correspondent position, these will be the days you laugh about. You’ll also be forever kissing my ass because this will be the job that gets you noticed.”
“Right.”
“Do you know how many serious journalists were beauty queens before they got their big break? Or how many female sports reporters started as cheerleaders?”
“That’s disgusting,” I said, wrapping my arms over my chest. “And depressing.”
“Things are changing, Casey.” He smiled. “You are allowed to be both beautiful and intelligent. This is good news for women like you.”
“Watch it,” I told him.
My looks were a bit of a sore spot with me. I’d grown up hearing it all from my mother. “Casey, you’d get more boys if you took off your glasses, if you wore your hair down, if you tried.” Well, I didn’t want to try, dammit. I liked my comfortable clothes and I preferred to have my hair off my face and my glasses on. The thought of sticking plastic in my eyes creeped me out; make-up made me itchy; and I once sprained my ankle trying to walk in heels at prom.
Of course, with my mother, there was much more to her criticisms.
“I need to white balance and then we’re good to go,” Jonathan said.
I held up my reporter’s notebook so he could make the camera adjustments and said, “Let’s do it.”
The producers had already watched my college newsreel and the stand-ups we recorded over the summer. They liked me enough to promise the role of production assistant when my internship was up, but that was before the budget cuts. Jonathan said the loss was a blessing in disguise. He didn’t want me pigeonholed. He said I was talent — something broadcasting people called the anchors and reporters — and not someone who should be working behind the scenes. At the moment, I would’ve given anything to be working behind the scenes instead of preparing to pimp myself out for the world to enjoy.
But it was too late for that.
Jonathan and I did a few more practice runs, and I pretended to ignore the other women coming in and out of the audition.
“Casey Scott,” the speaker in the dressing room rang out. “Casey Scott to the studio.”
“Go get ’em, Scott,” Jonathan said, with a little swat to my butt. “And don’t forget to smile.”
Aw, shit. That was the part I always forgot. At UMD, the crew used to joke about my intense reporting and stoic expressions. Apparently I was wound a little tight. They teased me relentlessly and even made a gag video for me at graduation. They spliced in new audio on all of my stand-ups to cover my voice. Things like:
This is Casey Scott, and I’m very constipated right now.
No, that isn’t a stick up my ass, I’m just reporting the news.
And I won’t even go into all the comments about my tits.
Fuckers.
Maybe Jonathan had a point. I could at least pretend to enjoy myself out there.
Once I walked into the studio, I was given three different scenarios for my audition. During two of them, I would read off the teleprompter for: a crowd shot at the Wild hockey game and a bar shot before the Timberwolves tipoff. The third was a twenty-second ad lib about why I wanted to be a KXAA Sports Girl.
I looked over the copy, worked out my answers to the questions, and before I was even ready, the camera operator gave me a countdown. Three, two, one ….
Barbara Walters, Diane Sawyer, and Christiane Amanpour, please forgive me, but a girl’s gotta eat.
“Hey, sports fans.” I raised my voice a full octave and — I’m mortified to say — bounced a little. “I’m your new KXAA Sports Girl, Casey Scott.”
And that’s how I began my descent into hell.
Chapter 2
On the set of Good Morning U.S.A
Five Months later
Finn
Anchor/Kiki Stuart: Good Morning, U.S.A. I’m sure you all remember this guy sitting to my left. All-star NHL forward. Notorious bad boy. Mysterious recluse. The man who has been in hiding for nearly a year. We are so pleased to welcome the one and only Finn Daley to our program today.
Finn Daley: Thanks for having me.
Anchor/Kiki Stuart: It is our pleasure, Finn. So let’s get right to it, shall we?
Finn Daley: Okay?
Anchor/Kiki Stuart: I want to know — I think we all want to know — what has brought you out of hiding to be with all us on this beautiful day?
Finn Daley: Good question.
Anchor/Kiki Stuart: Now don’t be coy with me, Finn. We’ve gotten bits and pieces of the story from the local news in the Twin Cities, but we want to hear it all from the horse’s mouth.
Finn Daley: How ’bout a jackass’s mouth?
Anchor/Kiki Stuart: That would do us all just fine, but let’s not upset the FCC. Keep it clean.
Finn Daley: Fair enough. Well, to answer your question, Kiki, I’m out of hiding — and agreed to be on the show — because of the girl.
***
In February, 2013, I appeared on Good Morning U.S.A.
I was quite pissed about it.
The entire thing was Casey’s fault and I wasn’t sure I could ever forget how she got me into this fucking PR disaster. Casey Scott is an infuriating little snake of a girl who walked into
my life and stirred everything the fuck up. She’d be angry as hell, too, if she knew I called her a girl. Bossy little shit that she is. But I call ’em as I see ’em. And though she may live in a woman’s body — a very womanly one at that — she was still very much a child at times.
She’d say the same about me, I’m sure.
Still, maybe if I was a little stronger — and a lot sharper — I wouldn’t have been crammed into a tiny, rigid chair under burning stage lights being interviewed by yet another talking head. I’d be sitting on the deck of my Stillwater home with a cup of coffee in hand watching the boats float up and down the St. Croix River. Of course, the docs told me that caffeine isn’t good for people with my — ah — issues. But it’s the one vice I refused to give up.
Okay, make that two vices.
Kiki Stuart cleared her throat and I wondered how long she’d been waiting for me to answer the question. I used to space out like that all the time. That’s the way it was for most of my life — always asking people to repeat themselves, or nodding like I knew what was going on when I really had no clue. I called it my mental fog. For that last year, things had been so much better. I was undergoing treatment and only had one bad slip-up to answer for.
I would actually say I was happy. I was present and I was living. Things were good.
“So about the girl, as you call her,” Kiki continued. “How did the two of you meet?”
Kiki Stuart was the complete opposite type of journalist that Casey was. While I was waiting in the green room, I heard a few members of the crew call her an Anchorette. They also referred to her as the Haircut — as in, “Get the Haircut on set, we go live in five minutes.” Whether she deserved it or not, I’m not sure.
But that type of shit made Casey cringe, and after paying attention to the way some women were treated in the business, I can’t say I blame her. Though I never really did pay attention until I got to know Casey. Then again, she made sure to pound points like this into my skull whenever she got the chance. I couldn’t help the turn of my lips whenever I thought about her. Even after everything that had happened.
Kiki Stuart wasn’t much older than Casey, and damn, she was the epitome of perky. Springy blond shoulder-length hair; ridiculously adorable dimples; and unnaturally blue eyes and white teeth.
“Well,” I said to Kiki, trying to pretend that I was just talking to her instead of the entire country. “Our meeting was purely coincidental the first few times we met. Or so I thought.”
“What do you mean the first few times? Don’t you only meet someone once?”
“Apparently not with this girl,” I answered.
“I’m intrigued,” Kiki said. “Well then, start at the beginning and tell us about the first time.”
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Also by Clare James
WEDNESDAY
Amazon Link
Her. Him. Alone. Beach house. Every Wednesday. Clothing optional.
Twenty-one-year-old Aria Prince has just moved back to her hometown to start over after a painful divorce. She’s always prided herself on being an early bloomer, but had no idea she’d be married, divorced, and the mother of a toddler by twenty-one. Surely menopause was just a few months away, especially considering the hot flashes and night sweats. Or was that just exhaustion?
Unlike her friends who were at school, going to parties, and sowing their oats—wild and otherwise—Aria’s days were measured in the number of orders she took at her family’s restaurant, the chapters she read in her nursing text, the amount of Cheerios she cleaned up off the floor, and the wet kisses she received from her son.
And that was just fine with her.
But when she started running into her former best friend Tristan Green—who was home taking care of his sick father—at every turn, she remembered what it felt like to be just Aria. Not a single mother, or sleep-deprived nursing student, or royal screw up. And though she didn’t even have time to shave her legs, let alone consider a sex life, Tristan makes an offer she’d be a fool to refuse.
Each day they’d give themselves to those who needed them. Every day – except Wednesday. Wednesday they’d take what they needed from each other.
Did she forget to mention Tristan was gorgeous?
Or that they hated each other?
Well, you know what they say about the line between love and hate … it’s a skinny-ass bitch. The question was, could they keep their feelings out of it?
DIRTY LITTLE LIES
By Clare James
Amazon Link
“A story that will simultaneously make you bend over in laughter and have your thighs sweating. 5 out of 5 stars!" –READ THAT
Twenty-nine-year-old Stevie Sinclair has just lost everything: her boyfriend, her apartment, even her ugly bird named Free. (Yeah, she knows it’s a stupid name, so don’t start.) But most importantly, Stevie’s lost herself.
As she shuffles through her days in worn-out Hello Kitty PJs—eating ice cream, sipping wine, and contemplating her next move—a magazine article catches her attention. Blaring black letters read: "How to Get Your Sexy Back in Six Easy Steps."
Stevie studies the article in the trashy magazine like the good student she is and immediately knows what she has to do. With the magazine article in hand, and a bottle of red in her bag, Stevie embarks on a journey to reclaim her life and win back her ex.
Until she meets Gabe Shannon. Gorgeous, single, and on a quest of his own, Gabe introduces Stevie to a lifestyle that is sure to help get her sexy back and then some. If she doesn’t chicken out … (Oh, you know where this is going.)
The sequel to Stevie and Gabe’s story, DIRTY LITTLE TRICKS, is available now!
About the Author
Clare James is the author of steamy contemporary romance and new adult novels: Before You Go, More, Not Without You, Talk to Me, Just Listen, Wednesday, Dirty Little Lies, and Dirty Little Tricks. A former dancer, Clare still loves to get her groove on—mostly to work off her beloved cupcakes and red wine.
Clare’s also a fan of spunky women, gorgeous guys, super-hot romance, and spends most of her time lost in books. She lives in Minneapolis with her two leading men—her husband and young son—and loves to hear from her readers.
To get information about her new releases, exclusive teasers and advance reader copies and swag, join Clare James’ Romance Junkies by Clicking HERE.
Also find her at:
www.clarejamesbooks.com
@clarejamesbooks
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