by K B Cinder
“Where the hell have you been?” Umi screeched, the pint-sized demon glaring between overgrown inky bangs. “I’ve been calling you for over an hour!”
If a giant claw reached up and pulled the producer back down to hell, I wouldn’t shed a tear. The Fix Up was the first and last project I’d ever work with Umi Jonas, a cutthroat wench who bore a striking resemblance to a bird in a pantsuit.
“Traffic,” I explained with a shrug as I continued along, passing framed photos of past sets, many of which I’d appeared on. “Sorry.”
She had called, and I’d happily hit the fuck you button each time. Every press felt better than the last, knowing that she fumed on the other end of the line.
“I’ll have someone book you a hotel room nearby,” she snarled. “We’re short on time, and I can’t chance you being late again tomorrow.”
I brushed past her, leaving her behind in her pressed cream pantsuit. “I’ll leave my house earlier.”
I’d also try to not down almost half a bottle of whiskey too. But that promise hinged on her not being a raging bitch all day.
She fought to keep up, the clacking of her thick heels echoing off the walls. “Damn right, it won’t! You’re staying nearby!”
I paused at the door to my dressing room before looking back at God’s answer to unwanted erections. “Where is she?”
“Not here.” She smirked, her thin lips forming a bow as she swiped her bangs out of her eyes finally. She knew exactly who she was.
I swallowed, a battle of relief and disappointment breaking out in my chest as it tightened. “Tomorrow?”
Her smirk stretched into a full-fledged smile. “Her lawyer said she won’t be attending. I happily informed him that his client owes TNK for the canceled travel and hotel arrangements. Oh, and $10,000 for violating her contract.”
I gripped the metal door handle until my knuckles were white. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”
She tilted her beak into the air. “I know! The audacity, right? She’ll learn not to fuck with us.”
“No—you can’t charge her!” I argued. “She has every right not to show. I embarrassed her on national television.”
Getting dumped sucked. Getting dumped in front of the world was a different level of suck. The only thing that sucked more was dumping the person you loved.
Her smile faded, and she straightened as if someone had rammed a broom up her ass. “Did you watch the finale?”
I squeezed the door handle harder. “I didn’t watch any of it.”
I avoided anything that reminded me of Talita. Cooking. Laughing. The Golden Girls. There was no way I could stomach watching what I’d done to her again.
“Well, fuck,” she grumbled, turning to Vince, who’d finally caught up. “You didn’t make him watch it? How am I supposed to film a reunion if the star doesn’t know what happened?”
“Uh, hello? I was there.” I could still see Talita fall apart with every blink. A refresher course wasn’t necessary. Not if she wanted a sober star on set.
“He’s been avoiding me,” Vince grunted as he rolled his shoulders. At six-foot-five, he loomed above both of us in his blue suit.
“This is ridiculous! You show up late, unshaven,” Umi ranted, reaching out to grip my stubbled chin between two claws. “And you didn’t bother to watch the show?”
“Good thing I’m a cash cow, huh?” I fired back, pushing her hand away with a taunting wink.
I wasn’t stupid. TNK relied on Sinners to carry their prime time lineup. The Fix Up filled their pockets just the same.
I opened the dressing room door. “On that note, bill me Talita’s incurred costs and let her attorney know. Oh, and apologize.”
Umi’s ivory flesh reddened nearly to purple. If she’d been a cartoon character, black smoke would have billowed from her ears. “I’ll do no such thing!”
I smiled, knowing it’d infuriate her even more. “If you plan on filming today, you will.”
Without another word, I stepped into my dressing room and shut the door in the razor-tongued beast’s face. She wanted a pissing contest, and I’d happily show her how far my shot went.
4
Talita
Giving up the glitz and glamor of Hollywood to skip the Fix Up reunion was fine by me.
Fuck, rotting away in a locked porta-potty would beat seeing Slater again.
I spent the day bouncing between fruitless job interviews instead, and despite the $10,000 fine for blowing the project off, I wouldn’t crack.
I couldn’t.
I had forty-eight hours to find a work-study replacement, or I would fail the semester, and not graduate. That wasn’t an option after four years of grueling work and too many student loans to think about without crying myself to sleep every night.
As if that weren’t enough to swallow, the rent was due in two weeks, and my bank account was emaciated after the pricey but useless lawyer appointment. Added to the insane flight and hotel bills sent on top of the fine, I was screwed. Like $15,000 screwed.
If I possessed a lick of rhythm and upper body strength, I might’ve tried my hand at stripping, but alas, I was limited to cooking or waiting tables. The world was a better place because of it.
The final restaurant on my list was Agatha, a hole-in-the-wall Greek spot south of town. Modeled after the Parthenon, the place stuck out from the rest of the aging strip mall with its columned facade and bright blue sign.
With a shaky breath, I stepped inside, finding a silver-haired hostess behind a column-clad podium as the door snapped shut. The bell atop it clanked as it did, making me jump.
The hostess lit up with a smile, her eyes wide behind oversized cat-eye glasses. “Good afternoon!”
I did my best to match her smile, pushing aside the turbulence inside. “Hello.”
She reached for the menus; the cover adorned with—you guessed it—more columns, before hovering over the leather-trimmed rectangles. “Will you be dining alone today?”
“Oh, no, sorry. I called earlier about a work-study position.”
If my hands weren’t in full view, I would have crossed all my fingers. Please let her be someone who didn’t wallow in trash TV. I couldn’t handle another rejection. Not after that lady at the bagel shop threw holy water at me for allegedly dumping Slater.
She snapped her hands to her chest, one splaying across her heart. “You’re Talita Nunes!”
Fuck.
She wasn’t the hostess; she was the owner I’d spoken to. Helen Andrianakis.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
And there went my last chance of the day.
If Slater had a flavor, it would be disappointment, because it was all I’d tasted since I’d kissed him. Disappointment and a lot of heartache.
Helen beamed another smile with a nod, packing more joy in her face than I contained in my entire body. “I remember your call. I’m Helen. You sound like a bird.”
“Thanks?” It came out more like a question than a genuine reply, but I didn’t know what else to say. Did I chirp? Tweet? Caw like a crow?
She laughed, shattering the awkward air. “It’s a compliment, dear. You’re singsong like a little bird as you speak. It’s pretty.”
“Thanks.”
No one had ever compared my voice to a bird, but there was a first for everything. It beat having my booty threatened with a fishhook.
She smoothed a rumple on her top, the loose fabric stubborn with a mind of its own. “A work-study is new to me, but I could use the help. My chef died.”
Died? Oh, shit.
“I’m so sorry to hear that!”
God, I felt awful. I’d never replaced someone that died before. It was usually a chef that moved on to bigger and better things. Though maybe that chef did, in a way.
“He was a jerk,” she said with a dismissive wave.
I shifted my weight between my feet, the dress flats I’d dug out from the bowels of my shoe rack pinching the hell out of my toes. “I’m sorry to hear that, too.”
I could relate after working under a certain someone, though another four-letter word fit Chef Rosario a lot more than jerk. But I didn’t wish death on the awful hag. Maybe surprise diarrhea, but that was it.
“Eh.” She pointed at an old photo on the wall of a smiling couple. “He was my husband, but I’m a better chef.”
Holy shit. I didn’t want to get on her bad side if a dead husband left her indifferent.
“I’m so sorry to hear that!” I felt like a record on repeat, but I didn’t know what else to say. Everything that fell out of her mouth left me speechless.
“So, when can you start?” Helen stepped around the podium, revealing hot pink harem pants.
“As soon as possible.” Time was money, and I needed a shit-ton of it. Even if I was slightly terrified of the snazzy grandma.
“Well, why don’t I show you around, and then I’ll get you some working papers. Your parents can help you fill ‘em out.”
I blinked. My parents? They didn’t help me fill out paperwork. Well, besides Papa doing my taxes. But he was an accountant.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. “This is for a college work-study—not high school. I’m twenty-one.”
She touched my arm before throwing her head back with a yipping laugh. “Ha! Would you look at that? I thought you were sixteen, tops! I’ll grab the grown-up stuff then.”
I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted, so I followed quietly as she led the way into the dining area in a spry shuffle.
The restaurant’s royal blue and white interior fit Santorini rather than ancient Athens, though its purple leather seats didn’t match either city. Overhead, a hodgepodge of fixtures offered dueling yellow and white lighting while cinnamon spice jabbed at my nose from the copious candles lining the windowsills.
For five o’clock, it was a ghost town of empty tables, and I kicked myself for not checking the hours before heading over. Usually, I’d investigate a place from top to bottom, but I was desperate. I’d take any job, even at a brunch spot making scrambled eggs.
“It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to. It gets lonely sometimes.”
I glanced around the whitewashed walls, still finding no one. It was odd that she was all alone just before dinner rush. “Is the staff part time?”
“No. I’m here five days a week from ten til eight. I’ve been closed on Sundays and Mondays since I opened. That was before the mall popped up or Fat Row a few blocks over.”
I grinned at her name for the line of fast-food joints on the way into town. “You don’t have any other staff?”
She shook her head as she pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Nope. I told you—my jerk of a chef died.”
“Wow.” It was all I could say. How in the world could a little thing like her manage an entire restaurant? I’d counted at least ten tables. Did she have extra arms hiding under all that fabric?
She met my skepticism head-on with a cocky smirk. “I’m the oldest of fourteen kids. I can hold my own.”
I didn’t doubt for a second that she could kick my ass, too. That gray hair and frail body didn’t fool me.
“Jeez, and I thought two sisters was a rough gig.”
Rini was a she-devil growing up, and Raya blossomed into one as she aged, leaving me to suffer in the middle. They were enough drama for one lifetime. And sharing a bathroom with two girls? Forget it.
Helen laughed, “Try ten, amateur.”
My jaw dropped at both her revelation and the kitchen, the space night and day from the dining area. High-end appliances rivaling those at Diletta occupied the room, along with miles of spotless metal cabinets.
“Most of them still live in Volos, so I don’t have to breathe the same air as them. An ocean between sisters does wonders for your relationship, you know?”
I smiled, wishing there was an ocean between me and a lot of people. “You’re from Greece?”
She glanced over her shoulder with a sneer. “No, I cook its food and run a shrine to the country for shits and giggles.”
I laughed, knowing then that Helen and I would get along great. “That’s awesome!”
I’d always dreamed of opening a Brazilian restaurant with Mama someday. She’d been the one to teach me about loving to cook rather than fearing it.
“I keep my kitchen clean, and all I ask is that you do, too. Oh, and if you can wear pink on Fridays, that’d be great.” She gestured at her loud pink pants.
“Sounds good.” I only owned black kitchen uniforms, but I’d buy any color she wanted if it meant staying employed. Even ice blue, and I looked like ass in ice blue. “I love pink.”
She leaned against the counter and crossed her frail arms, her eyes narrowing as she searched my face. “You don’t have to look so sad, hon; you’re hired.”
I forced a smile, only to let it die as she frowned.
“Sad about a little more than that, huh?”
I nodded slowly, unsure why I was admitting trouble to a stranger. A stranger that was now my new boss. But something about her left me at ease. At home, even. Those sassy words didn’t hide the kindness in her eyes.
“When I’m upset, I make a pie,” she announced, pushing off the counter to shuffle toward a wall of shelving. “Works better than anything else.”
“A pie?” Usually, I struggled through a kickboxing class or turned my blood to liquid sugar with anything sweet I could find.
“Yup. If it’s a funky mood, I make an apple, since apple pie makes everything better. If it’s a jerk, I make a key lime. Squeezing the life outta all those little fruits is therapeutic.”
I needed to squeeze a lot of limes, then.
She scanned the shelving with her hand on her chin. “But with the look on your face, I’m guessing you’re having man troubles. In that case, you need to make a banoffee.”
A smile cracked my lips. “Why banoffee?”
It wasn’t my favorite pie, but I’d give it a go if it got Slater off of my mind.
Helen grinned, reaching for the flour. “Pretend each banana is his pecker as you chop. You’ll feel better in no time.”
5
Theron
Talita calmed the anger roaring in my veins.
Those big, brown eyes felt like home, while the sultry curve of her lips revived memories of kissing her, of exploring her body and learning the little things that made her gasp. A kiss behind the ear. My tongue tracing patterns along her neck.
But reliving it all through a glass screen hurt like hell.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I’d started watching the finale on my phone while waiting for a replacement outfit from the wardrobe department. I was awfully curious what’d I missed. Knowing Umi, she probably dubbed in lines calling me an asshole just to stoke up drama.
The previous outfit was a bust, the leopard-print top and white jeans offensive to every molecule of my body. I wasn’t some creep looking to score with last call on the horizon, so I didn’t appreciate someone trying to dress me as one.
I leaned back in one of the flimsy chairs with my phone propped on the vanity as I ripped away the stitches I’d woven around my heart. All while not giving two fucks about the schedule. I’d take all day just to piss Umi off.
The dressing room was mainly bare, a pair of cheap folding chairs keeping me company along with a potted palm that had seen better days. The room had sat vacant awhile, with a fine mist of dust around the corners if you looked closely. Not that I cared.
The date playing out on the screen had my complete and undivided attention.
I could still taste the salt spray from our trip to Santa Rosa Island, one of the best days of my life to-date a distant memory.
I loved the beach. With Talita, the sand and waves became my home away from home. I hadn’t been back since leaving Malibu after filming the finale.
I missed it. Almost as much as I missed her.
As the lead-up to the elimination came on the screen, I was ready to bolt, but I held firm.
I had to do it.
I’d embarrassed the woman I loved in front of the world to save my own ass. The least I could do was face it.
The screen went black, a white message appearing in all caps.
TALITA PULLED PRODUCERS ASIDE IN HYSTERICS MOMENTS BEFORE THE SELECTION CEREMONY.
“What the fuck?” I breathed, leaning forward and tapping the screen to make sure I was on TNK’s channel. I didn’t need some fan-dubbed bullshit. I needed the truth.
But it was the network’s official channel.
“What the fuck?” I breathed.
I let the video play, sinking into the chair as unease settled in my gut.
She did no such thing.
I was there.
Talita was laughing and smiling before taping the selection ceremony. She’d had a photoshoot on the lanai before waiting around for me to finish with wardrobe.
I would know. I’d watched her from inside, hiding out like the coward I was.
“I don’t want to be here,” she sobbed as the screen cut to her, her beautiful eyes flowing with tears. “Just let me leave. I don’t care about him anymore. Bleep him.”
Every tear delivered another knife to the chest, plunging in to see what I was made of.
The clip must have been filmed after I’d left, when I’d driven as far as my gas tank would allow to a hotel north of Visalia. Once there, I started drinking and didn’t stop. That bender was just the beginning of a tailspin.
My face appeared abruptly on the screen, the camera following as I pulled off my mic. “I don’t want to do this anymore. Just leave me alone. You got your footage.”
And they did.
They set the plan to pick Staci in stone before the show started filming. It was supposed to be a win-win situation: They propped up their newest star before her spinoff show, and I retained my crown as the network’s bad boy, albeit slightly reformed.
I’d fucked up by falling in love.
I’d fucked up worse by not telling Talita from the start.
There was nothing in the script about making it seem like she dumped me.
