by K B Cinder
“I don’t see how anyone would believe it,” I muttered in irritation.
Chef. Student. Villain. It didn’t fit on my resumé at all. I scooped cat poop at the animal shelter during my downtime, for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t out there stealing garden gnomes or kicking old ladies.
Rini wiped at a fallen tear before turning the television off. “I’m calling a lawyer! They can’t do that to you; I won’t let them!”
I was a step ahead of her, sprinting toward the bedroom for a copy of my contract.
He might have been Theron Slater, but I was Talita Nunes. I didn’t take anyone’s shit. Not even his.
2
Talita
I made a beeline to the lawyer’s office in the morning with the Fix Up contract in hand.
I’d read it over a dozen times and was confident that the network screwed me in the fine print, but hoped that dropping an obscene amount of money for legal expertise would soothe some of the sting.
Rini agreed, suggesting an entertainment lawyer who’d helped her in the past. If he could handle dildo dealing and all its floppy intricacies, a reality show was likely a walk in the park.
Bumper to bumper traffic marred the drive into Philly, but it was nothing compared to the gridlock in my throat. Ever since the finale aired, there was a knot lodged that only got grew when strangers started tagging my accounts in shame posts online.
Those were friendly, however, compared to the threats lurking in my private messages. I wasn’t entirely sure what being fisted with a fishhook felt like, but I knew I didn’t deserve it. No one did, really.
I’d kept it together until Rini left. She didn’t need to worry about my problems. I’d been the one dumb enough to sign up for a reality show. If I’d told her beforehand, she could have talked me out of making the biggest mistake of my life.
Well, the second biggest mistake.
Falling in love with the fuckboat was numero uno.
“Ms. Nunes?” the redheaded receptionist called, pulling my eyes from the hundredth clickbait article I’d skimmed during the hour-long wait.
I was a little bummed, honestly. I was only four slides away from learning what pantry staple would make my skin radiant. I could use some radiance in my life.
Her glossed lips puckered into a shiny asshole as our eyes met. Someone recognized me. She quickly forced a smile. Tried to, at least. Her eyes hinted that she wanted to stab me with the ballpoint pen in her hand. “Mr. Delta will see you now.”
I dropped my phone into my handbag and stood, waving the contract like a white flag across the paneled lobby. “FYI—that ending was fake. That’s why I’m here.”
Explaining myself to a Slater fan was likely futile, but I still wanted to fight back wherever I could. I might have been a gerbil walking into battle against a grizzly, but that didn’t mean I had to go down quietly.
The pixie-rocking soccer mom shot me a hard look before speaking low between tight lips. “He loved you.”
The statement rang as hollow as hearing it the night before, but this time, my hackles rose instead of laughter.
“He loves himself. The editing sucks now, but guess what? I’ll own that network when I’m through with them.” I wasn’t so sure of that, but it provided much-needed salve on the body-wide burn from the Sinner himself.
I left her slack-jawed in the lobby to stalk to the back with my head held high. I won’t give them power over me. I’d recite that mantra as long as necessary to keep them out of my head.
“Ms. Nunes!” Norman Delta greeted as I entered his freezer of an office, the air conditioning unit in the window behind him set to Siberia. The mustached man offered a meaty handshake with a side of palm sweat before waving at one of the red leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, darlin’.”
I slid the contract across the mahogany desktop as we both sat, his office chair making an unfortunate brp that I prayed came from the leather and not his sphincter.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” I subtly wiped my hand on the armrest, wishing I could apply the berry hand sanitizer in my bag without appearing rude.
Norman put on a pair of reading glasses and lifted the stack of papers. His bushy brows furrowed as he dove into the wall of legal lingo that I’d needed Google to translate.
Admittedly, I’d signed the document when I was three tequila sunrises deep, but it didn’t sound bad at the time. I was on Spring Break when the casting girl approached, and it sounded like the best role ever. What other gig paid you to drink and hang out in a bikini?
I had no idea that Slater would be the star, or that I’d fall in love. My only goal was escaping the monotony of life in Honey Hills, New Jersey. I’d done that, and then some.
“You’re the girl from the Fix Up,” he said with a frown, his cornflower eyes still gliding over the text. He pointed at a photo on the wall over his shoulder. “My wife’s a big fan. Can’t say she is of you, though.”
Well, Mrs. Delta and her lip caterpillar would have to get in line.
I pulled my eyes back to Norman from the department store photo of the mustached couple. “That was a fake ending. He chose Staci.”
The network would want my head for revealing the truth to not one but two people, but I couldn’t care less. They’d fired the first shot with the lie heard ‘round the world.
Norman looked up with his whiskered jaw dropped. “No way!”
I cringed inwardly, surprised how far the Fix Up’s reach was. I thought mainly fellow twenty-somethings made up the audience. My parents knew about it, but only because I’d made them promise they wouldn’t watch. After Papa saw the promo pics of me in a skimpy bikini, he’d happily obliged and probably Googled eye bleach.
“You’re a fan, too, I take it?”
That meant he’d seen everything under my clothes aside from what the provided cooter curtains and nip nets covered. Ugh. I hugged my bag closer at the thought.
“They cast the star of Sinners this season!” he defended, glancing back at the contract with flaming cheeks. “I love that show.”
“Everyone does.” I did, too, before a certain someone ruined it. I doubted I’d ever watch my favorite show again, and it sucked big, fat platanos. The son of the devil surrounded by a harem of sexy women made for damn good television.
“One clause states that you give up your rights to your own background story,” he said with a sigh. “So, you’re not really a culinary student?”
“I am,” I replied, sitting a little straighter in my seat. “I’m in my final semester of work-study under Chef Diletta Rosario in Princeton.”
I worked my ass off in that kitchen, and I was relieved the show was at least honest about that. Had they made me a stay-at-home daughter, I might’ve completely lost my shit.
“Oh, fancy,” he murmured, his eyes still drifting through the pages. “Nice place but brutal on the wallet. The wife loves it.”
“Most people do,” I said as I clutched my purse in my lap. “But my background story isn’t the problem. The finale is. It was nothing but lies.”
His rounded shoulders slumped as he set the contract down. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but almost all reality shows have built-in clauses to protect the showrunners, and this one is no different. They have complete control over how to portray you, and all storylines—false and otherwise—are accepted at the time of signing.”
“Even if they make me sign it in a bar?”
No one held a gun to my head, but no one said a peep about a show until I was best friends with tequila, either.
His bushy brows softened, and he folded his hands on the desktop. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen a few of these cases over the years, and I’ve never seen these clauses overturned.”
The news took a sledgehammer to my hopes of an apology. “But they lied.”
“I’m sorry—but it happens more often than you’d think. Give it a few days, and people will move on to the next big story.” His eyes were kind w
hile he delivered gloom in buckets.
“This isn’t fading. They said I dumped Theron Slater, not some hair-plugged nobody.” Saying his name again was disgusting, his first name foul in my mouth as a tear fell.
“I know, hon. But you need to give it time. In a week, people will forget about it.”
I highly doubted that.
After crying a Nile River of tears, I dutifully drove from Philly to Princeton for my prepping shift at Diletta.
The work-study was at one of the few Michelin-starred restaurants in the state and had been hard to nab, so I’d show up with a smile and make my dreams come true one sliced vegetable at a time. If anyone asked about the waterworks, I’d blame the damn onions.
As a student, I alternated between prep work and dinner service, depending on Chef Rosario’s mood. The woman was stuck on miserable anymore, like a Magic 8-Ball of doom anytime someone asked her a question. Basically, that meant our one-on-one lessons dialed down to zero, and she relegated me to chopping duty.
The ride north was a breeze, the Princeton traffic tamed enough to reach Diletta in under an hour. Typically, I’d rot on Route 1 long enough each day to question the meaning of life at least twice, so it was a welcomed change.
I parked my sedan at the rear of the lot and hurried inside, noticing Chef Rosario’s Mercedes in its reserved slot on the way, its black metallic paint glittering in the sun.
“Fuck,” I muttered, taking the front steps two at a time once I reached them.
Usually, she arrived just before dinner rush, so there must’ve been an impromptu staff meeting. That meant we were all going to get chewed out—most likely for breathing or some other life-sustaining action that offended her.
The upscale eatery was unrecognizable by day, its black walls more eerie than chic as I rushed to the back. The art déco candelabras were dimmed, with harsh overhead lights replacing their soft glow, while the luxury table linens were stripped to reveal glossy wooden tabletops that were too beautiful to hide.
I waved at Pierce, the sous chef, as I entered the rear before turning toward the wall of lockers to tuck my purse away. I almost smacked face-first into Chef Rosario as I did.
The thirty-something culinary star wasn’t in her chef attire, instead donning a starched blouse tucked into a high-waisted peplum skirt and her usual frown.
“Hi, Chef Rosario.” I offered a friendly wave that she ignored.
“Theresa, I need to talk to you in my office.” Her overdrawn lips fell into a line as flat as her voice.
“Talita,” I corrected with a smile. After working with her for two semesters, one would think she would’ve learned my damn name. Tah-lee-tah. Not that hard. Lita worked too. I wasn’t picky.
Her angled features sharpened. “Whatever. I can’t keep up with the invented names nowadays. Let’s go.”
I eyed Pierce, who shrugged, before following the brunette to her lair at the end of the hall.
I itched to defend myself, to defend my very real name—one Mama had loved since she was a little girl, but I didn’t. There was no point. I doubted she cared about family or baby names. If something didn’t smell like money, she had no interest.
Chef Rosario shoved the door wide and stalked to her glass desk, though she remained standing rather than sitting in her office chair. I’d fantasized about stealing a wheel from it some days, especially when she called everyone dumbass like it was their birth name.
Her amber eyes snapped to me as I closed the door behind us. “I’m going to keep this quick. I don’t need you any longer.”
“What?” I sputtered.
My rent flashed before my eyes, followed quickly by utilities, gas, car insurance, and food. She paid peanuts, but I smashed those suckers into butter and spread them thin to cover everything.
A deep wrinkle carved between her penciled brows. “You’re fired, you idiot.”
“For what?” I squeaked.
She couldn’t fire me without explanation. I was a good employee. Shit, a great employee. I was always early and kept my station spotless.
Not just that—I really, really, really needed my job.
“I don’t need bad publicity here. Diletta is a place of class. To preserve that, I need to take out the trash.”
The room suddenly felt a thousand times smaller, and for a second, I swore I’d faint. She was seriously firing me for the Fix Up?
“Chef Rosario…” I started, but she cut me off with the snap of her fingers.
If looks could kill, I would’ve been six feet under. “Get out of my sight. Good luck flipping burgers, kid.”
3
Theron
“Theron, answer the phone, you stubborn prick.”
I deleted the message before another Texas-twanged word assaulted my ear.
It was the third badgering voicemail my manager, Vince, had left that morning. The second within the last half hour.
After months of ignoring him, one would think he’d give up already, but he was a persistent son of a bitch.
It wouldn’t kill him to quit. It’d make my life a lot easier since I couldn’t fire him. Dear asshole, don’t hire family next time. Maybe I’d tattoo that on my wrist as a reminder.
I tossed the cell phone to the heap of blankets on the opposite side of the bed while sunlight streamed between the curtains to brutalize my eyes. I rolled over, offering the sunbeam my bare back as a sacrifice, the room spinning with a hangover as I did.
The previous night’s poison of choice, an open bottle of whiskey, glared back at me from the nightstand, flooding the room with its scent. I could still taste its fire, a night of drinking straight from the bottle leaving my mouth dry and stomach uncertain.
After countless nights nursing liquors, so far, whiskey was the only one to dull the ache. But whiskey couldn’t shield me forever, and as of noon, I’d have to confront the source of the pain head-on.
The date loomed large since receiving the taping schedule via text, email, and postcard, Vince delivering the bad news despite my doctorate in call-dodging.
He’d had it pushed back, too, buying me an extra two weeks to stew in my misery.
The fucker knew me well.
Too well.
We’d delayed filming the next season of Sinners by a month, too, so I was testing the hell out of TNK network’s patience. If I didn’t show for the reunion shoot, they would scrap the agreement and start production in Louisiana immediately.
That couldn’t happen.
I hadn’t bothered to read the script—let alone learn my lines. Added to my current state, it would be a shit show from the start.
My body cried out with snaps and pops as I climbed out of bed and stood, a night of heavy drinking not the best idea before shooting the reunion. The air conditioning cooled my bare skin as the blankets fell, the habit of sleeping naked borrowed from a brown-eyed beauty.
I ran my hand over my face as I checked the time, finding 9:30 AM mocking me. It wasn’t a lot of time to work with, but at least I could jog into the canyon and back before heading to the studio.
I stretched my hands high, my neglected cock standing at attention below.
“Down, boy,” I muttered at the swollen organ that seemed to think the reunion meant he’d visit heaven again.
Not a goddamn chance after what I’d done. That all-access pass to Pleasure Town was permanently revoked. It was just me, my hand, and a bottle of lube for the foreseeable future.
I pulled on a pair of discarded basketball shorts and a tee before going to the closet to find shoes, deciding to free-ball it through my morning run.
I might as well let them swing.
God knows if they’d still be there after seeing Talita again.
Venturing out was foreign after the months of isolation.
Overwhelming, even.
Too many cars and faces.
The insane traffic into Burbank didn’t help, either.
I had no idea why I’d settled in the area instead of leaving li
ke I’d always wanted. A life far away from the clusterfuck of LA sounded like a dream. Somewhere with occasional crowds would be fine. Nothing too crazy, but nothing where banjos played in the distance, either.
I’d considered buying in the northeast, but that plan was scrapped along with that all-access pass to Pleasure Town. It was a shame, too, because the list of properties I’d found were incredible.
I pulled into the studio lot after one o’clock, the hour-long trek taking well over two. The joys of California living. Nothing like paying out your ass to sit in traffic.
Vince was waiting in ambush and immediately sprang from his SUV as I parked.
“Ever hear of answering your phone, asshole?” he called as he hobbled across the lot. His limp had worsened since I’d last seen him, though the mule still refused to use a cane. Nice to see that he listened to the orthopedic specialist I’d paid for. Idiot. “Or did you shove that up your ass to keep your respect for your elders company?”
I shut my car door before flipping him off and heading inside, feeling like the world’s biggest piece of shit. Not because of him—I’d show that asshole the bird any day of the week—but because people were waiting on me.
That, and I was about to come face to face with the woman I loved and couldn’t have.
Recessed lighting beamed above as I navigated a narrow corridor toward my dressing room, the interior as cold in appearance as it was in temperature. Of all the places I’d filmed, the network’s Burbank studio was my least favorite, its sterility a Petri dish for anxiety. It wouldn’t kill the fuckers to add a little warmth here and there. I craved an emotional support anything whenever I visited.
A door at the end of the hall flew open, the last person on Earth I wanted to see barreling through it like a miniature rhinoceros with a clipboard in hand.
