by K B Cinder
A pair of red panties lay over the bottom half of his face like a Hannibal Lecter mask. Panties I knew came from the girl at the elevator.
A bottle of apple lotion sat open on his desk along with a box of tissues, capping off the image I needed to unsee as soon as possible.
“Fuck!” I slammed the door and immediately looked down at the gold carpeting. If Georgia wasn’t lurking, I would’ve stayed in the hall. “Put that thing away!”
That explained the hands.
Now I wanted to throw things and throw up. I couldn’t catch a fucking break.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. There was all sorts of slamming, slurping, and smooshing—none of which I wanted to witness the source of.
“Well, I was coming to figure out what the fuck you pulled with the Fix Up, but you’re busy playing with your fire hose.” I was glad I didn’t walk in when it was spraying, at least. Then I might’ve actually vomited.
“You have a lot of nerve storming in here like you own the fucking place!” he snapped, the hiss of his zipper at least signaling that he’d coiled up his hose. “This is my office! My space! My…”
“Shut it, Johnson. What the fuck was that finale?” I locked the door before leaning against it, not wanting Georgia to have the chance to waltz in like I did.
“Something else, huh?” he laughed, rubbing his hands together with more lotion as my eyes inched back to him. “Umi approached me with the idea after she was well into edits. It works great after you half-assed the Staci storyline.”
“I didn’t half-ass shit!” I defended. “I worked with what you gave me. Staci—while beautiful—isn’t exactly a Meryl Streep.”
His niece had polish after years in the pageant circuit, but when it came to delivering lines, she had nothing in the tank.
“You were too busy burying your dick in Nunes to notice Staci’s talent,” Clarke sneered. He slicked his thinning hair into its combover with a lotion-coated hand, successfully making my stomach turn. Way to smear dick juice in your hair, bro.
“Well, you offered a shot at love, so I downed it,” I said with a shrug. I wouldn’t apologize for pursuing Talita. The only thing I regretted was exposing her to a cutthroat pit of vipers.
“We had a deal you violated.” He pulled open a drawer and searched its contents with his dick juice fingers, emerging a second later with a fat cigar. “We had to save face somehow. Staci’s show is slated to premiere in a few weeks.”
“So you had to make Lita look like a heartless wench?”
He lopped off the end of his cigar with a pocket knife before lighting up. “We patched together a storyline that made sense and ran with it.”
“It doesn’t make any sense at all,” I snapped. Talita and I had the only genuine relationship on set.
Clarke shrugged. “No harm; no foul. The ratings are through the roof.”
Of course that was all he cared about. It made him look great as the man behind the scenes. The Fix Up was his baby. His very dead baby until I’d signed on.
“Have you been online?” I asked, remaining by the door. I didn’t trust myself to not punch his cigar down his throat. “Have you seen the things people are saying about her? That wasn’t part of the deal.”
So-called fans were threatening her life. Over me.
“As far as I’m concerned, you threw that all away with Lita.” The way he said Lita made my skin crawl. Like she was nothing. “We had no other choice. You’re lucky I didn’t blast your bullshit on the front page of all the papers.”
As if on cue, my bullshit knocked on the door. “Clarke, is Theron in with you?”
His gray eyes taunted mine. “No, I haven’t seen him, Georgia. Is he in?”
The handle turned, but the lock stopped the veneered viper. “He’s visiting the office, but I can’t find him. I need to have a little Sinners chat. Why’s the door locked, Clarky?”
Clarky. Cute. I hoped husband number whatever had a cutesy nickname too. He might feel left out.
“On a con-call, hon. I’ll stop by your office when I’m done.”
I chuckled softly to myself, my hand muffling it. The only con-call Clarke had been on was with his veiny cock and an actress’s panties.
“Alright. Call me if he shows up.” Disappointment pulled at her voice, but a second later, she was gone, her voice cackling in the distance as she schmoozed.
“The world would love to know about Mommy, don’t you think?” Clarke raised a mocking brow as he let out a ring of smoke. “I can see it now: Hollywood’s bad boy gifted career by network mama. Puts a cramp in your brand, huh?”
I wanted to choke the threats out of him. Slowly.
“I did as you asked.” If I clenched my jaw any tighter, my teeth would crumble. “You’re the one who reneged on the agreement.”
I should’ve known better than to trust the aging executive. When he’d approached me with his demands, I should’ve stuck to deny, deny, deny or lawyered up. He couldn’t prove Georgia was my mother. It’d be my word against his. But I let greed get in the way. And genuine fear over losing what I’d worked so hard for.
He released another cloud of toxic smoke from his pug nose. “Does anyone know your little secret, Slater?” he asked smugly. “I kept my word. You didn’t.”
“I picked Staci, and she still got her show in the end,” I ground out. “Millions saw your darling little Staci courtesy of yours truly. You’re welcome.”
If it weren’t for me starring on the Fix Up, her spinoff would be DOA. At least now audiences would tune in until she opened her mouth and moths flew out.
A larger plume erupted from the smokestack of a man. “I don’t know why anyone puts up with your attitude. You’re a festering wound on the ass of this network. Oh, sorry, I forgot; you’re mommy’s golden boy.”
Festering. I liked that. “I’ll only get bigger if you don’t hold up your end…”
If he wanted to compare who had the bigger dick at TNK, I’d gladly whip mine out. I’d already seen his, and frankly, I wasn’t impressed. Mine paid his bills and kept his office lights on for the bulk of the year while he dabbled in reality show bullshit.
He sat a little straighter in his chair. “What are you trying to pull now, asshole?”
“You want the ratings for dear Staci, and I want that finale scrapped.” I dangled the prospect out there, willing the sewer rat to bite.
The aging tyrant relaxed a bit, though he still kept his eye on the prize. “Staci already has the ratings.”
I pushed off the door, taking a step toward his desk. “But retracting the ending will grab more attention. It’s never been done before. Everyone will want to tune into the spinoff to see more.”
“People like it enough as is,” he said with a puff. “Sinners is trending like a motherfucker right now, too. If the network wasn’t run by a moron, we’d have you down in the bayou filming Sinners right now.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, meeting his bloodshot eyes. “Retract, and I will.”
Fuck the break in filming. If it saved Talita’s name, I’d do it.
He sucked on his cigar, his lips making a disgusting smack as he popped it from his mouth. “And if I don’t?”
“A little birdie will tell the world how much Clarky loves to lube up his little Johnson at his desk.”
He wasn’t the only one that knew his way around blackmail.
7
Talita
Helen taught me more in three hours than a gourmet witch had in months.
And she was right; making pie was therapeutic.
Especially slicing bananas.
I added pie pans to my shopping list before leaving on cloud nine, weightless for the first time since the finale aired. The universe might have been waiting to crash down on me, but at the moment, I could breathe, and that was all that mattered.
The school accepted the position at Agatha as a suitable work-study, and all was right with the world as I showered and changed in
to an oversized t-shirt for the night.
The stack of legal paperwork on the counter called out as I strolled into the kitchen, but I ignored it in favor of a pint of cookie dough ice cream and my favorite spoon—a pink plastic one I’d eaten an entire box of Marshmallow Mounds to find.
I curled on the sofa with the frozen treat and a fuzzy blanket, determined to keep spirits high and end the day on a positive note. I’d chopped a lot of bananas to feel that good, and nothing would ruin it.
I flipped on the television, ready to wind down with reruns.
A recipe for a good night always included the Golden Girls, a trick Rini taught me from an early age.
Unfortunately, the channel remained on the home of the Fix Up, a celebrity news show running a breaking news graphic with Slater and I’s faces separated by an angry slash.
Jesus tap-dancing Christ. I couldn’t escape the asshole. And why was his picture so much hotter than mine? I looked like I was mid-sneeze.
“Good evening, and welcome back. As we’ve reported, in an unprecedented turn of events, the season finale of the Fix Up has been recalled, and the producers have issued an apology,” the blonde hostess announced with a blinding Hollywood smile. “You need to forget what you think you know. This is a stunning development.”
I dropped my spoon, the plastic scoop laden with vanilla ice cream and chunks of dough promptly splattering in my lap.
The show cut to a pre-taped segment of a man in a metallic purple jacket at a podium. He looked like one of the many interns I’d seen running around the Fix Up set with a baby face and river of nervous sweat lining his upper lip.
“Last night’s episode of the Fix Up was not an accurate interpretation of the events during filming. On behalf of the showrunners, I am issuing a formal apology to all harmed by this mischaracterization, including Talita Nunes, Theron Slater, and Staci Johnson. There are no plans of an amended finale, but we wish those affected healing in these difficult times. Thank you.”
What the hell?
The blonde reappeared with a puzzled look that matched the twisting in my guts.
I set the pint on the coffee table before reaching for my phone, my hands trembling as the screen lit up with texts before I could send one of my own.
Rini: TURN ON YOUR TV NOW!
Rini: Now, bitch! NOT A DRILL!
Raya: OMFG! I’m grabbing a cheesecake and Rini, and we’ll be over to celebrate!
I blinked back tears.
The nightmare was finally over.
* * *
“I knew something was weird about all this!” Raya declared as she handed me a plate with a Hulk-sized slice of Oreo cheesecake. “Theron loves the shit out of you.”
“I bet some jealous heifer cooked all this up,” Rini added, popping a spoonful of cheesecake into her mouth.
Both girls were rocking their fiercest jammies, with Raya donning Elmo duds while Rini went for a throwback My Little Pony look, complete with a baggy rainbow sweater that swallowed her tiny frame and purple fuzzy slippers.
“I don’t know,” I said as I scooted over to make room on the sofa for Raya. “No one has reached out to me about any of this. There’s no way Slater didn’t know.”
How could the network issue a blanket apology without actually apologizing? Didn’t that defeat the purpose? Had I not turned on the TV, I never would’ve known. Until my sisters and the rest of the world blabbed, at least.
“You said he picked Staci, right?” Rini asked with a scrunched nose. “That’s just seven different flavors of fucked up. She’s hella cute, but that poor thing is as interesting as glue.”
“Hey—you can make slime out of glue!” Raya argued. “She’s more like day-old news. Everyone knows she’s there, but we ignore it for the good stuff.”
“Knock it off.” I cracked a smile, but I wouldn’t listen to them trash a chick they hadn’t met. Staci filled her role just fine. She looked great. Sounded great. Smelled great.
“What if he had to pick her?” Raya asked, narrowing her overly lined eyes.
“Slater doesn’t have to do anything,” I assured. The bastard owned a fucking canyon. He was the king of his own little mountain.
Rini cleared her throat, an extra large bite of cheesecake leaving her momentarily speechless. “What if it was in his contract?”
“Trust me, dude. Slater doesn’t listen to anyone.” I must’ve heard him tell his manager, Vince, to fuck off daily. Obey wasn’t in his vocabulary.
“He listened to you,” Rini pointed out. “Whenever you spoke, he was all wrapped up in a Talita taco.”
“He was inside it, too,” Raya noted, frowning at me. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you let him try your papaya!”
“And her cocadas,” Rini added before stuffing another hunk of cake in her mouth.
I swatted at her chest, landing a perfectly placed tit shot that made my elder sister yowl like an alley cat. “Rini, what the hell?”
Was nothing sacred anymore?
“Come on, she had to know!” Rini argued. “That’s like, basic life facts there. I married a dude I wanted to stab for ten years, you fucked a Hollywood hunk, and Raya… well, Raya is still in bloom.”
Raya shot Rini the finger. “I’ve been pollinated—thank you very much.”
“Not by anyone notable,” Rini said with a scoff. “Only fucking guys on parole to raise Papa’s blood pressure is hardly an achievement.”
Raya turned crimson at the jab but didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Our baby sister was drawn to all things bad, and no matter how hard we tried, she always gravitated to bad boys. Not the Slater kind, either. Like I-just-got-out-of-jail-for-check-fraud bad or I’m-wanted-for-back-child-support bad. I thought she liked the attention, while Rini figured she was just an ass. That was a possibility, too.
“Maybe he’ll text you tonight.” Rini waggled her brows at me, dropping the spoiled subject.
I stabbed at my cheesecake, cratering the point. “I have nothing to say to him.”
Rini rolled her eyes. “Well, you can start by telling him to eat dirt from yours truly.”
I shrugged. “I’d rather tell him to eat a bag of dicks.”
* * *
As it so happened, the on-air apology turned out to be a bust.
It only placed a tiny bandage on the gash inflicted by the finale before opening a larger wound. A much larger, hemorrhaging wound.
The sudden retraction drew more interest to the show, which led to even more hate-speak connected to my name. A wave of new people saw the clip of me allegedly breaking Slater’s heart—most of which who felt the need to tell me what a self-centered twat I was. Except they used a different four-letter word, and some felt the need to doodle dicks on my face.
It was as if they hadn’t apologized at all by morning, the admission of network guilt lost in the fray.
Radio stations punctuated my ride to work with buzz about the sudden reversal, with the gossip line in a full-fledged frenzy.
Some speculated that I’d threatened to sue, while others claimed bogus insider stories, the best being a rumor that I was secretly dating the director, Felipe. That last one killed me.
While Felipe was a silver fox that any woman would love to have, he was happily taken by Troy, a model who rocked skinny jeans that expertly showed off his package. My Kinx-filled drawer of toys couldn’t compete with that ham hock of a cock. Try again, gossip hounds.
My first official shift at Agatha covered lunch, and the place was livelier than the day before with a steady flow of guests. Orders trickled in while I manned the kitchen, and Helen alternated between running the front and teaching me her recipes.
The limited menu differed significantly from Diletta’s vast gourmet selection, but the amount of care put into each dish told me they’d taste better than anything I’d made elsewhere. From chicken souvlaki to stuffed grape leaves, I tried my hand at Greek classics, and I took to it.
At least I thought I did.
Hele
n reappeared after the lunch rush cooled, her jaw tight as she watched me work the dough for loukoumades, a Greek donut I foolishly hadn’t known about until she offered me one when I got to work.
“You’re stressed,” she noted, her eyes hawkish on the whisk in my hand.
“No, I’m fine,” I assured. I wasn’t, but that was for me, myself, and I to know.
Her lips twisted as she eyed the mixing bowl. “The dough says otherwise.”
Dammit. “I’m just a little tired.”
Rini and Raya stayed until after midnight, and the three of us had devoured enough cheesecake to last a few episodes of the Golden Girls. The ensuing food baby kept me up past three wishing for a birth.
“You’re part of the family now, kid. Spill it before you ruin the dough.”
I glanced at the mixture, finding it most definitely unaffected. The dough was as pillowy as the batch she’d made earlier. “I’m fine. I was up late eating too much cheesecake with my sisters.”
She arched a brow as she sunk a hip against the counter. “So, the funk has nothing to do with the hunk asking for you at table four?”
Hunk? No one other than the school and my sisters knew where I was working. I still needed to muster up the courage to tell my parents Chef Diletta dropped me.
“Who?” I kept mixing, my eyes glued on the contents of the bowl. I couldn’t screw up on my first day. If I fudged up donuts, that said a lot about me as a chef.
She plucked the whisk from my hand and scooted the metal bowl in front of herself. “Tall guy. Messy hair. Hell of a smile. He called you Lita too, so it sounds like he knows you.”
“Maybe my brother-in-law…” I trailed. “I’m sorry. Sage can be a real tater tot sometimes.”
The muscled ogre had a tendency to be bullish and overprotective. Rini likely spilled the beans about the threats online, so he was probably checking up on me. As much as I appreciated it, it wasn’t necessary. I could handle my own.
Helen gently folded the mixture with years of practice behind each motion. “If he’s a tater tot, I wouldn’t mind licking the salt off of him.”
