The Holly Hearth Romantic Comedy Collection

by K B Cinder

  “Do you love her?” Umi asked off-camera as I tugged at the suit they’d stuck me in.

  My answer was instant. “Obviously I love her.”

  And I still did. Talita was always on my mind. Her laugh. Her smile. Her excitement over the little things.

  The show jumped to footage of Talita running from the ceremony in tears, a flock of feathered fabric vanishing inside the seaside mansion.

  It was bullshit.

  All bullshit.

  I grabbed my phone and closed the tape of lies before I smashed the screen. Before I demolished the holding pen the assholes stuck me in before parading me around on set like a show horse.

  I’d show them a fucking show horse.

  I rushed to the door and yanked it wide, ready to buck, rear, and raise hell.

  Vince leaned against the wall unbothered, his thick arms folded over his barrel chest.

  “You watched this?” I asked, gesturing to my phone.

  He nodded slowly, his eyes sympathetic. “I tried to call you…”

  That son of a bitch.

  “To what? Soften the blow?” I stormed over until we were chest to chest. Man to man. “You set me up!”

  He rested his hands on my shoulders, his blue eyes locking onto mine. “Calm down, Theron.”

  I shoved his chest, sending him against the wall. Hard. I didn’t give a flying fuck about his goddamn limp at the moment. It was his fault, anyway. “I trusted you.”

  I should have known better.

  His jaw tightened. “You still should. I did nothing.”

  “Exactly. You did nothing. You let these fucks cook up tabloid bullshit to slop out on magazine covers.”

  All at the expense of a woman who had no say. No voice. No power. She’d never stood a chance against Umi and the rest of her minions.

  “We can still make it right…” he trailed, setting a hand on my bicep.

  I shrugged away, back-peddling toward the exit. “I am making it right. This is canceled.”

  “Like hell, it is!” Umi shrieked, appearing through the same door as before. “I worked my ass off on this project. I won’t have some drunk fuck-up destroy it!”

  Vince turned on her, rage scorching his steely calm. “If you want to keep your job, I suggest you apologize. Immediately.”

  Umi wasn’t one to tuck tail and run, her fists bunching at her sides. “I’m not here to kiss ass and play babysitter. I suggest you get your client under control, or you’ll hear from the show’s legal staff.”

  I ignored the personal jab. She wasn’t wrong. I was a drunk, and I certainly was a fuck-up.

  But I wouldn’t ignore what she’d done to Talita.

  “I suggest you pull that finale from the air and issue an apology from the network,” I volleyed back.

  I’d settle for a bloodless solution before siccing my lawyers on anyone. The contract explicitly stated that I had complete control over the final edit. Mine always did. The last I’d checked, they’d never reached out with that pile of horse shit for approval.

  The bitch launched into hysterics; her head tossing back as if she’d heard the world’s funniest joke. “That’s a good one.”

  “Is it?” I dared, mimicking her laughter. “I’ll make sure you never land another job in production. You can manufacture storylines to advance Staci all you want, but you can’t dog another woman to do it.”

  I didn’t fancy myself to be a career ruiner, but I’d happily oblige for the Wicked Witch of West Hollywood.

  She rolled her eyes. “Stop blowing hot air and get on set. We’ll put you on looking like the disheveled drunk you are. Let America see the truth, Slater.”

  “I am,” I began, glancing at Vince, who still looked borderline homicidal. “But I have something else to take care of first.”

  6

  Theron

  Entering the heart of LA wasn’t originally on the day’s agenda, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  The place was far from the magic kingdom it’d been as a kid, back when my father toted me around with my face pressed against the car window to take in the sights and sounds of the city.

  The hustle of Figueroa no longer felt exciting, just exhausting, and its buildings faded into the backdrop rather than coaxed my eyes to the sky. The years revealed that the towers of glass were shiny distractions, the offices inside a prison rather than an opportunity.

  One glistening tower in the distance had my undivided attention with its soulless, blackened windows as it soared a thousand feet above the city.

  Phlox Center was home to the giants in the industry, including the headquarters of my employing network, TNK.

  Car horns sounded with each passing city block, the snarl of traffic bringing out the worst in everyone. Normally I’d join the fracas of middle fingers and shouts, but I reserved my rage for one person in particular.

  I parked my Maserati outside the main entrance of Phlox Center and walked to a pair of college kids manning the valet podium.

  “Theron! Theron!” A pair of waiting parasites ran over, cameras out and already flashing.

  For fuck’s sake. They were like roaches anymore.

  The taller valet stiffened as I approached, while his smaller stoned counterpart stared off into outer space with glassy eyes.

  “Do you… do you…” the taller one sputtered, his mouth working desperately to form the words his brain struggled to deliver. Each time he tried, his throat bobbed with another nervous swallow.

  I saved him from choking on the words any longer. “I don’t have an appointment, and I don’t need one.”

  I was the star of two of TNK’s top shows. If anyone had a problem with me dropping in unannounced, they’d need to have a long chat with me and my case of Emmys.

  “Theron, how does it feel to be dumped on national television? Do you hate Talita?” The cameras continued to click while the parasites egged me on.

  Don’t give in. They wanted a reaction. That’s how they paid their bills. Anger a dragon, get the flame, then play victim all the way to the bank. It was a dance as old as Hollywood.

  I squeezed my keys so hard that the metal bit into my flesh, longing to smash their cameras into dust.

  “Hurry the hell up!” I snapped, losing it while the taller valet struggled to separate a stack of tickets.

  He looked up, and I tossed my keys at him, not trusting the pint-sized pothead beside him as far as I could throw him. I might’ve had enough money to buy a fleet of new cars, but that didn’t mean I wanted to.

  As he fumbled with the keys, I slipped him a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet. “You, and you only drive her. Got it?”

  He nodded nervously before ripping off a receipt for me. “Yes, sir.”

  I glanced at his name tag. “Thanks, Eugene.”

  He liked that pat of recognition, immediately relaxing a touch. People were like dogs when you used their name. It was a human version of good boy.

  Meanwhile, his buddy, aptly named Potter, was still in wonderland.

  Eugene trotted to my car as I headed inside, his brown mop top flopping with each step.

  The parasites followed but froze at the steps, a pair of security guards barring them from entering.

  The lobby was the same as I remembered. Marble. Ostentatious gold trimmings. Ugly sculptures that had no place outside of someone’s imagination. Rinse, wash, repeat of any other top one-percenter hangout.

  There was more gold waiting at the elevators in the form of gaudy push pads. The fucks could’ve fed all of Skid Row’s homeless for the price of the hideous touches.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I pressed the up button before turning to the asker, finding a security guard who hadn’t made the cut for the police academy. Apparently no one had told him, judging by his buzz cut and standoffish demeanor. His navy uniform squeezed a bulky body, the swelled pecs and shadow of acne hinting that someone hit the juice between lifts.

  “I don’t need
one.” I looked back at the elevators, searching for which doors would open next.

  “Yes, you do,” he pushed. “Where ya going, chief?”

  I snorted. Chief? The meathead had to be my age or younger. Shooting all those arnolds had gone right to his head.

  “TNK, bud.” He wasn’t the only one that could be condescending. I’d survived more than one industry party. I had a firsthand education in cockbaggery.

  He inflated, not liking the bud one bit. “You need an appointment.”

  I sighed, facing the smug bastard again. “Listen,” I started, searching the stretched fabric of his top for a name tag. Kyle. Fuck, how fitting. “Kyle, I don’t need an appointment. If you’re unaware, I’m Theron Slater.”

  I fucking hated namedropping, but I didn’t have time to deal with Lobby Cop Kyle and his pumped-up ego.

  “I don’t care if you’re George Washington,” he snarled with flaring nostrils. “You need a fuckin’ appointment!”

  “Woe! Woe!” a small voice interjected. “What’s going on here?”

  A chill ran up my spine at the sound.

  “This trespasser is trying to access TNK without an appointment!” Kyle barked.

  Trespasser. This douche was really something else.

  “Now, we don’t speak to our stars like that!” The small woman stood toe to toe with the chemically enhanced giant, having every nugget of tenacity I remembered. Tenacity I’d inherited.

  My mother hadn’t aged a day in the years we’d been estranged. Georgia Montebello was as blonde and beautiful as ever, though she’d switched out her headlights for perkier bulbs and the frozen tundra of her forehead hinted at attempts to stop time. No surprises there. She was always going in and out of the doc shop for repairs.

  “But he doesn’t have an appointment!” Kyle was desperate, his control over the situation loosening more by the second. He might’ve had a walkie-talkie and a badge, but Georgia had the keys to the kingdom as the CEO of TNK.

  “He doesn’t need one, dear. Do you not recognize who this is? Goodness!” Georgia pressed the elevator call button again in irritation. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Slater. I’ll see to it that this gentleman receives proper training on how to handle our performers.”

  Performer. Like I was a fucking circus animal.

  But it fit. They told me to jump, and I always did. Maybe if I bit off an arm once in a while, they’d leave me the fuck alone.

  “The rules state…” Kyle started, but my mother silenced him with a scowl.

  “Rules are written for people, hon. They aren’t written for stars.”

  God, I wanted to vomit.

  “I’ll make sure I download an entire encyclopedia of stars then,” he said with an eye roll.

  Georgia raised a brow. “Before or after you visit Unemployment?”

  She might’ve been tiny, but she didn’t take lip from anyone. She wasn’t afraid to wield soul-crushing insults, either. Rising from obscurity in small-town Texas to the top of TNK taught her a lot. Unfortunately, it’d also filled her with poison.

  Kyle took the hint and fled, his stomps heavy as he disappeared into the crowded lobby.

  “Well, aren’t you a prickly thing?” I tossed it out as a grenade as I rushed over to a set of opening elevator doors.

  I wasn’t particularly excited to see the woman in red, but I’d strike up conversation out of respect. She carried, birthed, and wiped my ass before transforming into a money-hungry bitch after all.

  “He was harassing my star,” she said with a shrug, following me into the elevator.

  A man tried to join us, but in true Georgia fashion, my mother held out a hand to stop him and pressed the close door button. The steel slats shut in his scowling face, but Georgia didn’t even utter a sorry.

  “Some timing, huh?” I scoffed. It wasn’t a coincidence that the woman who sat atop the tower happened to be in the lobby.

  Her lips pulled into a smirk. “I have my ways.”

  Fucking Umi. The woman was like a goddamn tracking device that reported back to higher-ups. Unknowingly, she’d reported to my mother in the ultimate tattletale move. Not that it was any better than a boss, really.

  Georgia turned to me, her cheeks reddening as much as her ridiculous pencil dress. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just a last-minute meeting,” I lied.

  It’d been ages since I’d visited the tower of entitlement, but she was just as ticked about my appearance as the last time. Georgia liked predictability and control. I happily stole both from her every time life presented me with the chance.

  Her painted lips fell into a blood-red line. “Bullshit.”

  “Language, Mother! Language!” I scolded, parroting how she lectured me as a kid. When she was still Mom. Before she switched to Georgia. Nothing like dropping out of motherhood to boost your career.

  “Don’t mouth off to me. Why are you here?”

  I relaxed against the golden wall of the elevator, wishing I’d opted to take the stairs. She couldn’t have followed me up that many flights in those golf-tee heels. Lobby Cop Kyle couldn’t either with his fake muscles. “I told you: I have a meeting.”

  Her green eyes narrowed. “Cut the crap, Theron Jude. I’ve put up with hell out of you this past year.”

  The laughter poured out. “Really, Georgia? You have? Tell me again how you’ve had any-fucking-thing to do with me in decades?”

  I’d landed the role on Sinners before she was a blip on the TNK radar. She’d transferred from a chick-flick channel midway through the second season’s airing. My shows were handled by a team of executives, far from her clutches.

  As her hand snapped out, I thought she’d slap me, but she pointed a red-painted finger in my face instead. Her eyes met mine with nothing but pure, unfiltered rage. “Do you know the costs I’ve had to swallow for your little stunts? Bailing on the reunion shoot? Delaying the upcoming season of Sinners? Vanishing during promo? I’ve saved your ass repeatedly.”

  “I forgot that Georgia is the ruler of the universe. I’m sure you waved your Prada bag and made it all better.” I couldn’t contain the disgust. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you make millions off of me. That you all have jobs because of me.”

  It sounded arrogant, but TNK was nothing before Sinners. When my performance dominated the award shows after the first season, the network catapulted into contention with the heavy hitters.

  “You’re just like your father,” she lamented. “He’s still alive, right? I assume so since he cashes the checks I send.”

  “Alimony is a bitch,” I said through tight lips, wishing the elevator would jerk enough to knock her off her high horse. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be one, too.”

  She gripped my arm, the red acrylics biting into me. “You won’t disrespect me in my building.”

  I twisted my arm free, losing some of my flesh to her talons. “Last I checked, this was Phlox Towers, not TNK and definitely not Georgia Towers.”

  It was a matter of time before she fell out of favor and was replaced. Riding off my coattails could only take her so far.

  “Who do you work for, Theron? Who helped you buy all that poison in your house on the hill?” She practically hissed the words, revealing fresh veneers.

  Knowing that she knew where I lived set my blood ablaze. She had no right to pry into my life. She’d lost that when she opted out of motherhood.

  “Well, I found the Sinners audition on my own, and I won the role while you were still in New York with husband number four,” I replied, bored with the round of insult tennis. “I will say, you gave me a bottomless pit of childhood despair for those pesky tearjerker scenes, though. So thank you, Georgia.”

  The only thing she’d helped me with was learning that I couldn’t love someone into loving me.

  If she was angry before, she was irate now. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

  “Don’t worry, Georgie. I’d never tell anyone that I’m related to
you,” I assured, adding my father’s pet name for her for an extra fuck you. “Wouldn’t want people to know that I’m really a descendent of the devil. I just play one on TV.”

  The elevator chimed, and the doors popped open to usher in fresh air, but the hateful aura was as thick as ever.

  “Theron Slater?” a woman asked, the spreading metal revealing a pretty blonde. The hopeful glint in her eyes and manuscript clutched to her chest screamed new talent a mile away.

  “That’s me,” I replied, meeting her baby blues as I fled the elevator.

  I wasn’t a religious man, but I prayed that she wasn’t leaving where I was headed. The poor thing was in for a ride ahead if she had. But judging by the lack of pantylines in her skintight romper, that was exactly where she came from.

  “Oh, wow,” she breathed, her faux lashes flapping a mile a minute. “I’m Meghan. It’s so nice to meet you, sir! I just got done a reading, and I…”

  The abrupt clearing of Georgia’s throat stopped the young actress in her tracks. “Theron, we’ll start with a meeting in my office.”

  I ignored the statement and navigated around Meghan and then the front desk where a brunette duo sat in matching black blazers under the massive TNK lettering on the wall.

  “Excuse me!” one of them called from behind the marble block. “Um, excuse me, sir! Do you have an appointment?”

  I continued through their frantic shouts to the lounge, the decor as frou-frou as the building’s lobby with golden elephant statues and multi-tiered chandeliers.

  Georgia’s heels echoed along with her calls, but I dipped around a corner, through an employee kitchen packed with workers prepping coffee, and back out the end of the hall, losing the peckish blonde in the process.

  With the coast clear, I ventured to the block of executive offices, finding Clarke Johnson’s with relative ease. He hadn’t moved from his boxy corner office in the ten plus years he’d been there. He likely had the same combover and overly lotioned hands, too. The bastard was allergic to change.

  I walked in without knocking, finding the balding Clarke with his Johnson locked and loaded in his hand, the pink stump featuring veins thicker than the ones bulging in his neck at the sight of me.