Exposure Season 1 e-1

by Tonya Muir

  "So, Kelsey, my dear," he drawls with a leer, placing an unwelcome hand on my shoulder. I resist shrugging it off. "How long have you and Erik been ... together?"

  I smile before I answer, running nimble fingers through carefully coifed hair, fluffing my bangs. I think absently that they are in need of a trimming. I know that Calvin Alexander knows the answer to his question but I’ll humor him anyway. Our private lives are far from private given our professions. "We met three years ago," I say, grinning like someone hopelessly in love. I could have been an actress, too. Erik always reminds me of that when we play these games. "We moved in together about two years ago."

  "Are there plans for the future?"

  The retort that first comes to my tongue is to tell Alexander he doesn’t have a chance. Not only is he overbearing, too hairy, and too rotund for my tastes, he’s also a man. Not to mention, for all practical purposes, in the public eye, I am in a committed relationship. What this man is suggesting is nothing less than adultery. But I hold back all these thoughts and instead shrug my shoulders, his hand still heavy and meaty on the left one. "Neither of our parents had successful marriages. We aren’t eager to enter into that institution ourselves and ruin a good thing."

  It’s a good response, one we thought of early on. It holds truth since both of our families are broken and estranged. Though I am cynical about relationships and commitments, there is a part of me deep down that still wants to find that special person. Part of me is certain I have a match out there who can love as much as I can and believe enough for both of us. I am grateful to Erik for having shown me the love and friendship to at least have hope for a better future.

  Calvin is responding something about his own parents and his first failed marriage but I’m not listening. I look forward to Erik’s return and he’s there immediately, sensing my need as always. He gives me a gentle peck on the cheek, murmuring his apologies for abandoning me. I laugh and shove him gently.

  "Little shit," I whisper back and his light eyes sparkle with gentle humor.

  We say our farewells and thank Alexander for meeting us. The producer promises to call Erik’s agent and our lunch is a success as we head back to the Mercedes which will take me to the office.

  * * *

  The five o’clock newscast was a borderline disaster with the wrong tapes and a slow teleprompter. The live feeds were cutting in and out and the Director was slamming around, screaming at everyone. I wait now for the cue to begin the six o’clock, hoping that fate won’t fall on us as well. I fidget with my earpiece and glance to the teleprompter. Then I smooth the lapels of my grey silk coat.

  I know my wishful thinking was just that when they cut to the first clip and though it’s the correct tape, the filming is amateurish at best. There is nothing exciting or intriguing about the scene it portrays and it’s obvious that either Jessica didn’t make her wishes clear to the cameraman or we need better cameramen. I swallow my groan even as I plaster a fake smile on my face for the cameras and we begin. I hate my job sometimes.

  * * *

  I am the best drink-nurser in all of LA, of that I have no doubt. Erik casts me a baleful glance as I sip from my White Russian: heavy on the cream and Kahlua, light on the vodka, thank you. It’s more ice water than drink at this point but it suits me just fine.

  "Hey," Erik smiles, scooting closer to me. He’s working on a martini, which is normally what one would get at a martini bar, but I just can’t stand vermouth. Even on his breath it makes me cringe and I wrinkle my nose at him. The little shit blows into my face.

  "What?" I growl.

  "Kels, lighten up. It wasn’t that bad," he pleads gently. He’s referring to the newscast and I know it was that bad, and worse. Fortunately, the whole damn city is so captivated by Harper Kingsley that it’s likely no one noticed how off we were.

  "Just like Boys on the Beach wasn’t so bad," I jab at him and regret it immediately. He deserves better than my foul mood and biting remarks. Boys on the Beach is the only thing Erik has ever done that he’s ashamed of. It was a silly summer flick with teenagers in Speedos, trying to start a beach volleyball league. All flesh, no brains, and Erik’s first real job in the business. We never talk about it and to do it now is a shameless attempt to make him feel as crappy as I do. I can do that to everyone else, and often do, but hurting Erik is off limits and I’ve stepped over my self-imposed line.

  His light eyes reflect soft pain but he doesn’t flinch away or get angry with me.

  I sigh. "I’m sorry. That was uncalled for."

  "Yeah, it was. But I forgive you," he smiles. "Why don’t you relax? We’re here with friends," he motions around the bar at the group of people assembled here.

  "Your friends," I remind him. None of these people mean anything to me but some are acquaintances of his. We’re all dressed in suits and ties and downing alcohol on a Monday night. It’s the hangout we frequent and the group is made up of news people and actors alike. We sit on these stools or in the nearby booths, sipping on martinis and talking about our days and our lives as if someone cares. The general atmosphere is one of subdued upper class. It’s where we fit best whether we want to or not. Any flirting that takes place here is high brow impressing and strictly across gender. I feel sick to my stomach in that way I did as a little kid when I didn’t quite belong. When I wanted to go home and sit alone in my room. In fact, I’d love to do that now.

  "Our friends."

  I raise an eyebrow that lets him know I don’t believe him. He knows the truth. Often he tries to hide it, thinking that there is a place for us in mainstream show business, but he’s wrong. Erik and I promised long ago that we could lie to the world but not ourselves and each other. My look tells him he’s going back on that promise.

  Erik smiles and leans into me, I put my glass down and hug him tightly.

  "Thanks," he whispers.

  "For what?"

  "Keeping me honest."

  "You going bar hopping tonight?"

  "Nah," he backs away and sips from his tall glass.

  "How was pretty boy last night?" I grin lecherously.

  Erik laughs, shakes his head. "I feel good, nah nah nah nah nah nah," he sings softly, rocking his hips a little bit and it makes me burst out with laughter. No matter what, he always makes me laugh.

  My laughter catches attention from people around us. They probably don’t even know I can laugh, that somehow that capability had been surgically removed from me at a young age. I have all kinds of nicknames and I shrug each off with equal nonchalance. Only Erik knows what’s inside and I’m still unsure how he managed to get there.

  I was raised in a household where affection was rarely given and more often withheld. I learned to be a successful woman in the business world you couldn’t have emotions or sympathy. And I was taught at an early age how to disregard others’ feelings and how to hide my own. I’ve been called a man-eater by some because before Erik, I had a new man every month. I’d string them along and toss them aside, anything for the image. Erik laughs at that now, thinking that nickname especially ironic. At least with him there’s no more pretending or doing things I don’t want to do.

  I’m considering these thoughts when some out of work actor across the room yells for the bartender to turn up the volume on the overhead sets. I glance up and groan when Harper Kingsley is looking back at me.

  Erik laughs and pokes me in the ribs. "She’s a dyke, ya know?"

  "And you found this out, how?"

  "Oh, she’s not subtle about it. She may as well have a rainbow flag tattooed on her forehead. They also say she’s a womanizer, new chick every night, leaves ‘em begging for more."

  "Where do you hear this crap, Erik?" I shake my head and suck an ice cube into my mouth where I crunch it on over-sensitive molars. I know what ice-chewing is supposed to be a sign of and I glare at Erik, daring him to make a comment. He doesn’t.

  "Around, you know. Mutual friends."

  Erik toils in his hidden life
much more than I do so I know he’s probably right. I look up into those blue eyes and watch mesmerized as she brushes a lock of black hair behind her ear. Her hand is large but well constructed, the fingers long and narrow. There are a lot of things fingers like that are good for, I admit, before Erik’s laughter brings me back.

  "You want her."

  "Please," I scoff. "She’s tabloid trash, films for money, not for news. Anything for ratings."

  "You above that, Kels?" he teases.

  I nod. "You know I am."

  "You still want her. Admit it."

  I glare at him. He thinks I want every woman I see. He thinks that since I don’t bed a woman every other day that my sexual need must be on overdrive. "I’ll admit she’s gorgeous. But that’s not everything and you know it."

  He nods slowly, watching me. "Some day, Kels," he whispers. "Some day it’ll all work out. You’ll find the right person who sees your heart just like I do."

  His sincerity chokes me for a moment. How does he do that? I’m tired of this place and the fake people and the expensive drinks. I’m tired of my pale life and my lonely bed and the career that I chose that binds me into a lifestyle I despise. I sigh. "Take me home?"

  Erik sets his drink down and takes my hand. Even though he does his best to make me social, dragging me out nearly every night our schedules allow, all I have to do is tell him I’ve had enough. We’ve made our appearance tonight, both for the media and our peers, and I’m ready to call it a day.

  "Gladly," Erik says, squeezing my fingers.

 

  Coming next week to a computer near you …

  Must Read TV

  Exposure

  Episode Three

  Coming next week on Exposure:

 

  To say I have friends at the station is less an understatement and more a blatant lie.

 

  And the best part is: he promised me Kelsey Stanton. Straight, my ass.

 

  Finally, at the end of the week, the hoopla over Harper Kingsley has died down and Erik has stopped badgering me about her. I haven’t told him that those blue eyes haunt my dreams and I don’t intend to.

 

  Tune in next week to Must Read TV.

  Episode Three: Powder Keg

  I park the Mercedes in the outside lot this morning, feeling the weather will hold and not liking the station’s underground garage. The walk is a little farther and brings me around the front of the building instead of the back entrance but it’s a beautiful morning and the sun is warm on my upturned face.

  Finally, at the end of the week, the hoopla over Harper Kingsley has died down and Erik has stopped badgering me about her. I haven’t told him that those blue eyes haunt my dreams and I don’t intend to. Instead, we planned a weekend in Mammoth with some buddies of his and I’m looking forward to heading out after the newscast tonight.

  I round the corner of the building towards the large multi-colored station logo, and I hear the loud rumbling of a motorcycle. I nearly jump out of my skin with surprise and then immediately start growling under my breath. I hate motorcycles. They’re dangerous and accident prone and the morons who drive them seem to have only slightly less respect for their own lives than for the lives of the other motorists on the road. They zig in and out of traffic, drive on the dotted line and more often than not I want to open my car door so they might hit it as they illegally sneak through rush hour jams. Shaking my head, I continue to the door as the motorcycle powers by me to screech to a halt right in front of the station doors. On the sidewalk. Asshole.

  I can’t help but look at the scene unfolding before me. There are two people on the bike, decked out in leather and black helmets. The driver turns the bike off and slips the helmet off, hanging it on a handlebar, and I am more than a little shocked to see long black hair tumble over broad shoulders. I think it’s actually Harper Kingsley but I’m not certain from here and I’m trying hard not to stare.

  The passenger follows suit, handing over her helmet, revealing shoulder length curly hair in a mute chestnut shade. The driver hangs it off the other handlebar and then completely turns around so she’s straddling the bike backwards. She pulls the other woman to her and proceeds to devour her.

  I’m sure I scrape my chin on the pavement of the sidewalk before I manage to close my mouth. The kiss is wild and passionate, each woman moving hands erotically, tongues obviously seeking and plunging. Saliva can be seen draped between them as they part for breath. As if this display isn’t quite enough, the dark-haired woman grabs her companion’s thighs, lifting them over her own, dragging the smaller body so close that they are now touching completely along their torsos.

  The smaller woman is losing it, I can tell as I come closer. She is pressing against the driver’s body, practically humping her right there on the street and though I find it disgusting on some level, I must find it erotic on another because there is a pulsing deep within me that I often try to ignore.

  Glancing around, I’m relieved to see I’m not the only one staring. The show is quite amazing; I think the passenger may have actually orgasmed as her gyrations slow and the kisses lose steam. The taller woman is murmuring something, grinning rakishly, and she looks around to the growing crowd. It is Harper Kingsley and I am even more repulsed now. There’s something else inside me, maybe jealousy that Harper has the ability to so freely display herself when I do not. It certainly isn’t jealousy for the Biker Bitch who is now stumbling to her feet and being steadied by large hands.

  I am merely yards from them when, much to my amazement, Harper hails a cab. She gives the woman a last, long, lingering kiss and tucks her into the back seat. When the cab pulls away, she waves to the small audience without even a hint of shame, and she turns my way briefly.

  Her eyes are even more amazing off screen and they meet mine, stopping there for just a moment. Then she winks at me and smirks before continuing her stroll into the station, through the large glass doors, into the lobby beyond.

  Jesus Christ. So many things are running through my mind but the first thing that really hits me is how horny I suddenly am. Being soundly closeted and a bit more than paranoid at being discovered, I don’t indulge often. Well, with another person, that is. The blatant display before me has left my libido tap dancing and rattling its cage. It isn’t until I’ve completely acknowledged my own state that I realize what else has just happened.

  She walked into the station. My station. No, no, no. This can’t be good.

  To say I have friends at the station is less an understatement and more a blatant lie. The truth is I don’t have friends at all, aside from Erik, and I have enemies at the station. I’ve earned them, I won’t argue that. Sometimes you have to step on other people’s fingers when you climb the ladder and I’ve never been shy about doing it. I may have even stepped on a few heads on the way up but I never apologize. I’m good at what I do and I know it. I’m on the fast track and I have little time or tolerance for those in the passing lane going under the speed limit. Get out of my way or get run over. It’s a good philosophy and has served me well.

  Just like every other morning, I get the normal glares and contemptuous mutters as I walk through the newsroom towards my office. I’m basically ignoring Gail as she rattles on and fills my arms with folders. She has matched her stride to mine and follows me into the office, blabbering on and on even as I switch on the televisions and take my seat. Finally, when I remind her about the tea, she shuts up and leaves my office. I glance through the partially closed blinds across the newsroom towards Chambers’ office. The door is closed and his shutters pulled. Harper was nowhere in the newsroom and that doesn’t bode well. She’s in there with him, I know it.

  And I also know that the station has finally sold out to the corporation and Armageddon is nigh. I’m ready to drown myself in the cup of Earl Grey when Gail brings it back but I can’t figure out how to get both my nose
and mouth into the mug and inhale enough of the liquid to bring my demise. So, after close scrutiny that has Gail standing confused in the doorway with a wrinkled nose, I give up and take a sip of the soothing liquid instead.

  It dawns on me when Gail leaves this time that she did actually say something important. Running the one-sided conversation back through my mind, I remember her saying that Chambers wants to see me half an hour before the production meeting, in his office.

  I ponder this revelation for a moment. He could be firing me in an effort to make the transition to trash media go more smoothly since I am very vocal about my hatred towards it but it wouldn’t be wise. The contract he holds has me stuck here for just over another year and the severance would be a hefty sum to the station. I made sure of it when I signed the contract two years ago. If they were going to shove me in the closet with that morals clause and staple my butt to the seat for three years, they sure as hell were going to have as hard a time breaking the contract as I would have.

  So that isn’t likely. Maybe he wants to break this Harper shit to me ahead of time and then ask I not come to the production meeting. I grin at the thought, tapping a well-sharpened wooden pencil on the edge of my mug. I sure could cause hell at the meeting, I love to do that and Chambers knows it. He’s broken news to me in this manner before so I decide that must be it. I have no control over whom they hire as camera anyway so I shrug it off and open a folder, determined to get some work done and to stop thinking about the dark-haired exhibitionist in my boss’s office.

  * * *

  Chambers is more beefy than he should be even though his towering height manages to shelter a good bit of his extra weight. His hair is silvery and we were all grateful when he finally quit dyeing it late last year. I think his wife was doing it for him, or he was going to a beauty school, because the shades he came back with varied between purple and shit brown though we always told him it looked great. He stands before me now with his hands folded in the small of his back. He’s behind his desk and I think he may actually be hoping it provides him some protection.