Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  “Mr. Amato, I’m Blake,” he says. “I’ll be showing you to the studio today. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  He speaks calmly and clearly, though his eyes are lit with excitement. Blake can’t be much older than twenty or twenty-one, but I can tell he takes his position here very seriously.

  “Have you ever co-hosted with us before?” he asks.

  “No.”

  We make our way to an elevator labeled “private,” and he punches in a code that opens the doors.

  “We have you set up in one of the guest dressing rooms. I was told you didn’t have a rider, so I did my best to stock your room with the kinds of things most of our guests ask for. Bottled water. M&Ms. Pretzels. Fresh fruit. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Thanks.”

  We ride the elevator to the fourth floor, and the moment the doors part we’re greeted by a woman with wild dark ringlets and a wireless headset on her ears.

  “He’s here,” she says into a corded microphone on her shoulder. “Mr. Amato, I’m Michelle. I run this ship. We’re glad to have you, but we need you in hair and make up immediately.”

  I nod, stepping off the elevator and following Michelle and Blake down a dark corridor.

  She spins as we’re walking, giving me a look from head to toe. “The beard. Is it new? You didn’t always have it, right?”

  My hand drags through the wiry hairs that cover my face.

  And the scar.

  “It’s new,” I say.

  Up ahead, the two of them come to a hard stop outside a door with my name on it. Blake raps three times before shoving it open.

  “Oh, good, you guys are here,” he says before turning to me. “All right. Hair and makeup, and then I’ll be back shortly to go over programming.”

  “Where’s Topaz?” Michelle asks, leaning in the doorway. I’ve yet to step inside.

  “Long story,” a woman’s voice says. “I’m filling in.”

  “You have a name?” Michelle squints. I don’t think she’s trying to be rude, she’s just one of those people who won’t have time for pleasantries when she’s about to put on a live show in the next half hour.

  “Aidy,” she says. “Aidy Kincaid.”

  Fuck. Me.

  Michelle exhales, lips flat. “Okay, Aidy, are you familiar with hot lights and studio makeup?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well versed,” she says, her voice laced in humble confidence.

  Michelle gives her a thumbs up before hooking Blake’s arm and dragging him down the hall.

  Pulling my shoulders tight, I take a deep breath and step in. There are two women on the far side of the small room, one wielding a boar bristle brush and a can of hair spray and the other, who is evidently the very same mystery woman whose kid handed me her business card just last night, hunched over a makeup case with her back to me.

  “We’re doing hair first,” the first woman says. “Shouldn’t take long. Makeup’s the part that takes forever. These damn hot lights.”

  I stand, eyes moving toward Aidy’s backside. She’s wearing white jean shorts that barely cover her ass, and they’re frayed at the bottom. Her legs are long and tan, muscled yet lean, like a runner’s. The off-shoulder blouse she’s wearing shows off her smooth back and her blonde hair is loose and wavy, dusting the tops of her shoulders when she moves.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Amato,” the hair stylist says, draping a black smock around my shoulders and tying it behind my neck. “Make yourself comfortable. You need any water or anything?”

  “I’m good.” My gaze is fixed on Aidy still, watching as her shirt rides up and gives a peek of her bare flesh, which is tan and contrasts against her distractingly short shorts.

  “Love your hair. I’m Stacia by the way,” she says, dragging her fingers through my mane. “This cut looks fantastic on you. Wasn’t expecting you to come in with a full beard though. Most of my guys are clean-shaven. I can shave you if you’d–”

  “No.”

  “Okay, no biggie,” Stacia says, crouching to a duffel back on the floor. “You know; I think I actually have some beard balm in here, believe it or not. We really want it to look soft and conditioned, but we don’t want it too shiny under the lights, you know?”

  She’s talking to herself at this point, at least as far as I’m concerned, and my attention is still pointed at Aidy as she rifles through her makeup case.

  “Found it,” Stacia declares a moment later. She returns to my side, a brush tucked under one arm and a concentrating expression on her face. Her hair is dyed platinum blonde, and she wears skintight leggings with some space-themed print on them. Stacia reminds me of a Swedish pop star with a Brooklyn accent. “Here we go.”

  She runs her brush through my hair, shaping it in the direction she wants it to go, and then whips out a can of aerosol hairspray.

  “Close your eyes,” she says.

  Psssst.

  Pssssssst.

  Psst.

  Psssssssssssssst.

  My nostrils tickle and I cough up half a lung, waving the cloud of chemicals out of my airspace.

  “Smells like a beauty salon,” I say.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Stacia paws her hand at me and turns to pack up her stuff. When she passes by, she rests her hand on my shoulder, her gaze fixed on my hair. “All right. Looking good. One down. One to go.”

  She shuts the door behind her when she leaves, and I glance over at Aidy again, and this time she’s tying some black tool belt contraption around her waist, loading it with brushes and other implements.

  I watch her shoulders rise and fall as she drags her hands down her sides, and when she turns to me, her chin is tucked against her chest. Her pale blonde hair is parted deep on the side, above her right eyebrow, and she wears her hair tucked behind her ear on the right side. Lifting her gaze into mine, something about her registers as familiar. I feel like I’ve seen that face before, I just can’t place it.

  “Hi.” Aidy avoids eye contact.

  I can’t tell if she’s nervous or if she hates me. Probably the latter.

  Her hand lifts to my face, her fingertips gently grazing the underside of my jaw, and she tilts it from side to side.

  “Warm undertones,” she says. “You’re a W-45.”

  Whatever that means.

  She returns to her makeup spread, retrieving a bottle of liquid makeup and squirting it onto the top of her hand. Standing to my left, she produces a brush from her apron and dabs the tip into the tan-colored product.

  Clearing her throat, she studies my face. “You have great skin, Mr. Amato. You don’t need much of this at all. We just want to make sure the lights don’t wash you out.”

  Her voice is robotic, almost mechanical, like she’s focused on doing her job and little else. Nothing about her screams that she’s excited to be here, right now, inches from me, her hands on my face.

  I sit still, hands gripping the sides of the makeup chair like I’m some kind of nervous. Truth is, I’m not nervous. This is just really fucking awkward, and I’ve never been good at ignoring giant elephants or acting like shit didn’t happen.

  “Is it weird?” I ask.

  “Is what weird?”

  “Pretending like you didn’t tell me to fuck off last night?”

  Her lips flatten and she exhales, hard. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  “Or are we going to carry on like that didn’t happen?” I add.

  “You made my nephew cry,” she says.

  Nephew? Interesting.

  “Yeah, and I felt like shit about it afterwards, which was why I offered to mail him an autograph . . .” my voice crescendos.

  “Hold still, please, Mr. Amato.” She cups her hand beneath my jaw, holding tight. Her gaze is concentrated, brows furrowed as she dabs something under my eyes. She seems to spend a lot of time there, and I knew I had dark circles since I don’t sleep much these da
ys, but I didn’t think they were that bad.

  “You know, you were the second person to tell me to fuck off yesterday,” I say. “That has to be some kind of record.”

  Her other hand freezes, brush still pressed against my skin. “Second? Who was the first?”

  “Some crazy chick trying to leave her diary on my doorstep.”

  Her tongue skims across her lower lip and her lips pull into a smirk. “Is that a regular occurrence for you?”

  “Oddly . . . yes.”

  “You get a lot of stalkers?”

  “Not as many now that I’m retired.”

  “This crazy chick, was she hot?” Aidy asks, one brow arched.

  My lips jut forward. “I don’t know? That’s an odd question. Didn’t really get a good look at her. She was in sweats and a ponytail, that’s about all I remember.”

  “Dark gray sweats with neon green piping?” she asks. “Gray sweatshirt to match?”

  I glance to the left in an attempt to jog my memory. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so? Something like that?”

  “I think I know her,” Aidy says, nodding, her voice serious. “Batshit crazy. Hangs out around here because she’s obsessed with athletes. Actually, I think I saw her outside the studio this morning. She’s probably waiting for you. Might want to slip out the back door when you leave.”

  I stare straight ahead, watching our reflections in the vanity mirror, and I catch a hint of her mouth twisting at the corners.

  “You’re fucking with me.” I glance up at her.

  “I am?” She smiles for the first time this morning, but it disappears in an instant.

  “All right, fine. I deserved that.” Scratching my temple, I watch as she dabs her finger into a pot of something with a bit of a pink tone to it. “What the hell is that? You’re not putting blush on me.”

  I get that she wants to retaliate for the autograph thing, and fine, whatever, but I’m not going to sit here and let her make me look like a goddamned clown on national television.

  “Relax,” she says. “It’s natural, see?” She drags the color along the back of her hand and shows me. I barely see it. “It gives your complexion a bit of a warm glow under those harsh lights. It’s got some warm undertones and a little bit of fleshy pink. It goes on your cheeks and lips.”

  Exhaling, I settle back into my chair as her fingertips dab some into the apples of my cheeks. She returns her fingers to the pot, picking up some more product before moving toward my lips. With slow, feather-light strokes, she applies the natural hue, her fingers grazing and sending a rush of cheesy teenage tingles down my spine.

  I know it’s been a long time since anyone has touched my lips, and the soft, gentle stroking didn’t help, but my body didn’t have to get all butterflies and rainbows just then.

  Pathetic, honestly.

  “Wait,” I say, like I’m late to the party. “How’d you know what the crazy chick was wearing yesterday?”

  “Lucky guess?”

  I don’t believe her, but I don’t know how to say that without sounding paranoid. There’s no fucking way this is the same lunatic hanging outside my door yesterday.

  Pulling a small comb from her apron, she rakes it through my eyebrows and then stands back.

  “Looks good,” she says. I assume she’s referring to her work and not me. Aidy reaches around my neck, unfastening the smock before folding it away.

  I climb out of the chair, hunching over to check out my hair and makeup in the mirror. Upon closer inspection, I look airbrushed and flawless. Like a bona fide pretty boy.

  Aidy moves to the side to clean her tools, putting everything back into its own organized compartment in her carrying case, and I’m two seconds from making one final offer to sign something for her nephew.

  Turning to face me, she points to a spot on the vanity behind me, brows lifted.

  “You mind?” She reaches around me, nearly pressing her body against mine, and retrieves a spray bottle with some hand-written label on the front.

  Her scent invades my lungs for a moment, and it makes me think of sunscreen and lavender and some kind of exotic fruit. It’s a mix of a bunch of things that don’t really belong together, but somehow they’re perfect on her.

  “Thanks,” I say, checking out my makeup one last time.

  “For what?”

  “For not telling me to fuck off today.”

  She smirks, shaking her head. “I figured twice was enough.”

  “Twice?”

  Scratching my temple, I blow a hard breath between my lips and study her face. The girl outside my place yesterday looks nothing like the girl standing before me, but then again, I was more concerned with chasing her off than memorizing the color of her eyes or the delicate curve of her jaw.

  “Mr. Amato, it’s time.” Blake peeks his head in the door to my dressing room, followed by his watch. “I’ll take you to the set, and we’ll go over everything there.”

  Aidy rubs her lips together, fighting a smile, and turns away.

  “I’ll be out in a sec,” I say to him.

  Aidy’s back is to me, and Blake is tapping his pointed black loafers on the tile floor, and the sound of Michelle yelling at someone about craft services wafts from down the hall.

  Questions linger on my tongue as I stare at Aidy from across the room.

  “Mr. Amato, I’m sorry, but we need to go.” Blake says, words rushed and urgent. He steps inside the dressing room, and I half-wonder if he thinks he’s going to have to physically peel me out of here. “We’re live in ten.”

  Aidy finally turns to face me, her sapphire blue gaze holding mine. I refuse to believe this is the same girl trying to leave her notebook on my steps yesterday like some crazy person. This woman, the one standing before me with short shorts and bare shoulders and red lips and hair that says she’s too cool to care, seems completely normal.

  “What’s the hold up?” Michelle appears from behind Blake, her face twisted and jaw hanging. “We just standing around chit-chatting or what? Come on, people. Head to the set. Now. We’ve got a show to shoot.”

  Blake gives me a pleading look, and I’m not in the mood to be responsible for getting an intern canned, so I gather myself and peel my gaze from Aidy. Following Blake out to the hall, he leads me to the set and points me toward a chair marked “guest.”

  Michelle comes up to me, handing me what looks like a script. Upon closer examination, it appears to be the schedule for the show. The host, Michael Bradbury, will lead in, introduce me, and then dive right into the Smack Talk Five – the list of headlines we’ll be discussing today.

  “I wasn’t given these ahead of time,” I say to Michelle. “I didn’t know Ramirez was signed to the Cards. Nobody told me Coach Jenkins was fired from the Royals.”

  Michelle’s jaw hangs. “Don’t you watch ASPN?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. Not anymore.”

  “Well, fuck me.” Her arms fall to her sides, landing on her khakis with an exasperated thud. “Here, let me give you the gist of it . . .”

  Michelle rattles on, giving me the Cliff’s Notes version of today’s topics, and in the distance, I see that the set’s beginning to fill in. People with lighting and clipboards and headphones and cameras are all lined up, standing in the dark. From the corner of my eye, I see Aidy and Stacia waiting on standby along a back wall.

  My gaze catches Aidy’s for a fraction of a moment, but she looks away first.

  “Mr. Amato, right this way, please.” Blake escorts me to the guest seat on the set, and Michael Bradbury takes his spot next to me.

  We’re seated behind a kidney bean-shaped desk the color of polished onyx with the ASPN logo across the front in glossy blue letters.

  “Hey, man, how’s it going?” Bradbury reaches out, giving me a slick handshake. “Good to see you, good to see you.”

  “Likewise.” I adjust my tie and quietly clear my throat, and a woman in a tight skirt brings me a mug of still water. Her pink lips spread into
a shy smile when our hands graze, and she clicks off in sky-high stilettos.

  “You doing good, Ace?” Bradbury scrolls through a few screens’ worth of notes on the tablet in front of him. I remember when he was a smalltime sports reporter working for some small news outfit out of Canton, Ohio. He’s come a long way since then, and so have I, but at least his career has the potential to span a couple more decades.

  “Yeah.” I give him a tight-lipped nod and stare ahead, scanning the small studio for Camera 1, Camera 2, the director, and my teleprompter.

  “Ace.” Michelle is at my side, crouching on her knees. “I need to go over a few things really quick.”

  She talks a mile a minute, telling me about the cameras and hand signals, tells me the guest co-hosting gig is really a joke and all I need to do is “look pretty and let Michael do most of the work.” We’re going to have callers, which they’ll announce in my ear, and that all I need to do is interject a few comments where I can.

  “We’re live in . . .” a man in the distance counts back from five, going silent when he gets to the three, two, and one, and Michelle scurries off set just in time.

  “Hey, hey everyone, welcome to Smack Talk, I’m your host Michael Bradbury,” Michael says, inserting a hearty chuckle in his voice and flashing his million-dollar veneers. “We’re here today with the man, the legend, the guy who needs just one name: Ace. Alessio ‘Ace’ Amato is sitting in today for my co-host, Antoine Williams. Ace, good to see you, man. Welcome, welcome.”

  “Thanks,” I force lightness in my tone and flip a switch to light the smile on my face. It feels unnatural and uncomfortable, but I’m here, and I’m doing this. “Good to see you, Michael. Been a long time.”

  “That it has. So, Ace,” Michael turns to the camera, then to me. “What’s going on? You retired last year and moved to the city, I hear. What’ve you been up to?”

  I hesitate for a fraction of a second, though with the live cameras rolling I’m sure it’s forever in TV-time.

  The truth is, I’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing worth bragging about.

  “Traveling,” I lie. “Been all over. Amalfi Coast. Bermuda. Belfast. When I’m not globetrotting, I’m spending time at my lake house, fishing. Just living the dream, Michael.”