by K B Cinder
She nodded her head slowly, her knees drifting toward one another. “I haven’t had anything since hair and makeup at six.”
“It’s three o’clock!” I exploded.
She was lucky she wasn’t already strapped to a gurney. It had to be at least ninety outside and even hotter on set.
“Our day is only getting longer because of you.” Chase was unmoved at the news. The girl could collapse, and he’d just call in another to fill her place.
I waved a hand, summoning Vince. Texas-born and LA-raised, I knew how dangerous the heat could be. Throw in Louisiana’s humidity, and death was right around the corner if you weren’t careful. There were a lot of places I’d rather be than Bumfuck, Louisiana’s town morgue, and Courtney probably felt the same.
The giant limped over, disregarding Chase’s squawks of protest.
It was amazing how the director’s trendy British accent dropped when his authority was questioned.
“Take care of her,” I ordered.
Courtney cowered as Vince neared. Not that I blamed her. He was huge, and he never spoke to anyone on set. If anything, he grunted in passing.
“He won’t hurt you,” I reassured. “He’s my manager. He’ll help you.”
As annoying as the man could be, he did everything I asked. Eventually. He did some other shit that I didn’t like, but that was just the father in him coming out.
Vince offered a hand to the lanky actress, who reluctantly threaded her tiny fingers in his. She stumbled over her heels when they went to walk, but he caught the frail blonde before she met the ground. He lifted her like a rag doll to his chest, careful to place his hands respectfully, a hard feat given the lingerie from wardrobe.
“We’re going to see the doctor,” he muttered, glaring at Chase before hobbling off.
“Are you trying to make my life miserable?” Chase sighed. “I’ve been more than accommodating given the circumstances.”
Bullshit. Moving filming to start at dawn some days was accommodating? I was sure having PAs spy on me was too. Fucking creep.
“You don’t have to be here,” I reminded, shrugging out of the stupid open button-down that revealed just enough skin to get women’s heart rates going. Courtney wasn’t the only piece of meat on set.
“Unfortunately, I’m the only one willing to handle you,” he fired back. “Seems like you only listen to your father.”
“I listen to no one,” I corrected with a laugh, watching Vince limp into the distance with Courtney. “And his name is Vince. Learn it.”
I didn’t flaunt our relationship around. I’d called him Vince for as long as I could remember. At some point, we’d fallen into the same pattern as me and Georgia. He was my manager, and it ended there. No holidays. No cards. No fatherly advice. Just business.
Chase hopped out of his chair and brushed an irritated hand over his khakis, taking a puff of dust with it. The damn clay seemed to blow in the air around our shooting site. “Look, we have a common goal: We want out of this godforsaken hellhole. The sooner we wrap up for the day, the sooner we can hit up the local bar, have some drinks, and score southern-fried pussy.”
“Well, it’s a wrap then, I guess,” I announced, tossing my discarded shirt at a nearby PA, who caught it before it landed in the red gravel. “Enjoy that southern-fried pussy, bud.”
As I walked toward my trailer, I prayed he’d choke on a southern-fried dick instead.
* * *
A cold shower cooled the urge to put Chase through a wall, though reality would still be waiting when the tap stopped.
TNK already had my dick in a vice, and I’d undeniably cranked it tighter by going after their latest director. Regardless of what was right, I’d yet again delayed filming.
Not that I felt bad. The girl needed help.
It was a miracle it’d taken an entire week to lash out at someone. Misery was around every corner on set.
Nothing felt right. Sleeping. Eating. Standing. Breathing. Life was out of sorts.
I’d memorized a chunk of the script, but none of it resonated. Any passion I’d had about Sinners had dried up.
After drying under a barely functioning AC vent, I pulled on shorts and headed into the living area of the trailer, a rundown version of my usual digs on set.
A knock sounded as I grabbed a beer from the mini fridge, the square restocked courtesy of the freckled PA I slipped a hundred-dollar bill to whenever I saw her. She was one of the few that didn’t go running to Chase if I sneezed wrong.
“Come in!” I called, hoping it wasn’t Chase. I really wasn’t in the mood to kick him out and start World War III. Clarke would blow his fucking lid.
The door opened, and Vince stepped into the trailer, his weight making the stairs squeak like hell on the way up.
I twisted the cap from my bottle and flipped it onto the coffee table, where the metal ring landed and spun like a top. “How’s Courtney?”
He pulled the door shut behind himself, putting his extra muscle to work to get the crooked piece of shit to close all the way. “She’s fine. Cooling down and corset-free with the doctor.” He froze, and his face fell when he saw the drink in my hand. “What are you doing? It’s not even four o’clock!”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere!” I cheered, raising the bottle high. “You want one?”
He didn’t seem keen on a beer as he all but snarled at me. “Why aren’t you dressed and on set? Where’s Chase? Someone said he left.”
I flopped on the built-in couch, the boxy piece equipped with starchy cushions that practically crunched beneath me. “He’s looking for drinks and ass. I figured I’d go to my trailer to wash my ass and get drinks. Not quite the same, but close. You could say that he and I are kind of on the same wavelength.”
Hardly, but he didn’t need to know just how much Chasey Poo and I weren’t getting along. He’d seen glimpses from afar, but our run-in earlier might make the father in him come out for a change.
“Theron, you need to cool it,” he warned, looming near the exit. “He’s talking about replacing you for the season.”
“Replace the star?” I laughed. “Let him. I’d love to see anyone replicate my ratings.”
Clarke would get a good laugh at that, too. It sounded like a Georgia threat. Nothing but hot air on a power trip.
Vince didn’t laugh. “This isn’t a joke. This is your career.”
“I’ll move on to movies,” I reasoned with a shrug before taking a sip of beer. “The fuckers already robbed me blind.”
“Ther, you’re paid two-million an episode. Get off your high horse, and get on set, you jackass.”
Wrong answer.
“And what’s the personal cost to me?” I demanded, launching the bottle to shatter against the wall. “I have nothing left for them! They took the only thing that mattered!”
And they’d keep taking. It was the nature of the beast.
“They only take what you’re willing to give,” he said, running a hand over his face to wipe away splatters of liquid. “But you signed a contract, Ther. You agreed to film this season. The diva act can wait until negotiations.”
Negotiations? Fuck that.
“Clarke Johnson knows who Georgia is.” I blurted it out, surprising myself just as much as Vince. “That’s why I did the Fix Up.”
He glanced around the trailer at my unpacked luggage as annoyance blanketed his face. “That’s why you agreed to come here early?”
He had every right to be ticked. I usually told the fucker everything. As much as he irritated me, I always bounced things off of him. In between lectures and curse words, he fired off good advice.
I nodded. “He and I have a mutual understanding, but I don’t doubt for a second he’ll pull the same shit again.” I was already bracing for his next favor. Probably some other half-baked reality show centered around so-called love.
Vince studied me with the shake of his head. “You’re not going to like this, but the news about Georgia has to com
e out, eventually.”
Fuck no, it didn’t.
“If it does, that’ll blow a hole in my career. I can’t take on that kind of water and survive.” Aside from the implications, studios would be too afraid to work with me to avoid pissing Georgia off.
“Do you want to live or exist?”
I snorted. That was golden coming from him, a man who followed me around the world for over a decade like a shadow. He had no choice really after totally fucking his knee up in a drunken rage when I was a teenager. Walked with a limp ever since. “I am living. You’re existing.”
“Living means doing things that you want to do. You can’t let a fuck with a combover hold you by the balls. You’re a Slater.” He gripped a large chunk of broken glass from the floor and tossed it in the trash can. “And the only living you’re doing is living a lie.”
“I’m not committing career suicide, Vince.” All I had left was my career. I was typecast as the bad boy since Sinners began. That well would dry up faster than I could blink once news about Georgia came out.
“Then they’ll continue to have power over you.” Vince shrugged before grabbing a napkin from the bar cart to blot at his face, taking droplets of beer with each tap. “And they’ll keep taking the things you love most.”
“I have nothing that I love left.” I went back to my trailer to nothing at the end of each day.
He tossed the beer-laden napkin in the trash before grabbing another. “Start by taking her back.”
Of course he knew who I was talking about. Fucker.
“She wants nothing to do with me.”
I’d made sure of it.
Filming the Fix Up was bad enough. I could still hear her crying in the shower when she thought the running water muffled her. When she finally cracked and couldn’t take the constant invasion anymore. That would be her new normal. Not happening on my watch.
Vince’s face softened. “Do you love her?”
I stood to grab a fresh beer from the fridge. “Vince—not now.”
I didn’t need a relationship talk from a man who’d been happily married to his right hand for twenty-five years. A hand didn’t have dreams of its own. It did what you told it to do without issue, whether it was scratching your ass or writing your congressman. Same difference, really. Well, at least scratching your ass offered relief.
“If you love her, this restlessness won’t go away,” he cautioned, waving between me and the mini fridge. “It’ll eat you alive.”
I twisted the cap off of of the bottle and tilted it to my lips. “I’d like to think if you love someone enough, you do what’s best for them—not for yourself.”
He tossed the next sopped napkin in the trash. “That’s why I’m here. You’re a nagging pain in my ass most of the time, but you’re my kid.”
“Thanks.” That should’ve warmed my insides, but there was nothing left to warm.
Besides, working for me supplied a paycheck beyond Georgia’s paltry excuse for alimony payments. He had no choice but to be with me if he wanted to survive.
“And you love her. It’s all over your face.”
“I said it on national television,” I pointed out. “Not exactly a secret.”
“Shut up and listen, you mouthy little shit,” he ordered with a grin. “Don’t cower to those fucks out there. Start fighting.”
“I don’t know how to fight,” I admitted. I mean, I did physically, but punching someone in the face was easier than taking on an industry. This was beyond Clarke Johnson or TNK. It was beyond Talita. It was my life as I knew it.
Vince slammed a hand on the countertop, his fist cratering the cheap laminate.
I jumped, narrowly missing a chunk of material to the face. “Jesus fucking Christ, man!”
He lifted his hand, the round outline of his fist remaining with a surrounding halo of spidered cracks jutting out. “You catch your opponent off-guard.”
14
Talita
“I should go into the toy business,” Rini mused, skimming the selection of squishy teething rings as she clutched a pink one.
“You already are,” I pointed out. “But you might need to do some major rebranding to pull off this kind, sissy.”
I didn’t doubt her talent, but parents likely wouldn’t line up to buy rattles from the queen of cock rings.
She scowled before tossing the teether she held back into the display bin. “You’d think they designed these for a beagle, not a baby.”
She wasn’t wrong. The toys would fit right into a dog’s toy chest with their plastic finish and garish colors. There was even a bone-shaped one in there. If I’d had a puppy and a fatter wallet, I’d probably pick up the dino-shaped one.
But it was at least the hundredth complaint she’d uttered since stepping foot in the high-end baby boutique. It made me second-guess a shopping adventure with the ornery mama-to-be.
You’d think she’d chill out with the relaxation station pumping out a fuck ton of calming oils near the front door. The shiny one that cost more than my monthly rent.
“Write them a letter?” I suggested.
I stroked an adorable teddy bear on the shelf in front of me, its fur snow-white and softer than cashmere. When I saw its price, I yanked my hand away as if it’d burned me. Ninety dollars for a stuffed animal? No thank you.
The owner didn’t hide her contempt for us from her perch at the end of the aisle. She’d shadowed us since arriving, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she thought we were shoplifting. Oh, the joys of luxury boutiques.
“I don’t write letters,” Rini huffed, moving on to explore the selection of baby clothes. “I call people. I’m about results, dammit.”
“Alright, Karen,” I said with an eye roll, using Sage’s nickname for her whenever she got bitchy. “Let me guess? You talk to the manager?”
She unleashed a dramatic eye roll of her own, though her synthetic lashes made hers extra bougie. “I don’t talk to managers: I talk to CEOs.”
I snorted, “You’re the mega Karen; I forgot.”
“No: I’m the results Karine,” she corrected. “I just didn’t expect baby stuff to be so prehistoric, ya know? Since when are kids an afterthought?”
“Calm your tits, mama,” I laughed, eyeing an adorable purple romper that my niece had to have.
Again, till I saw its price.
At $250, it gave me another taste of how out of my price range the store was. We needed to take a trip to Target to get more on my level. “It’s a teething toy. Babies chew it and drool on it, just like a dog.”
Just like they’d poop up the back of those $250 rompers too. People were out of their mind to drop loads of money on glorified drool and crap catchers. What was wrong with generic brands?
“Excuse me, detective?” Rini called, ignoring me to summon the woman stalking our every move.
The bobbed blonde glanced around before realizing that Rini was calling her over and not some hidden police officer. “Yes?”
Rini pulled a onesie from the rack, the basic white bodysuit adorned with baby in red. “The tag says $189.95. Is that correct?”
The blonde bristled at the question. “Yes, it’s a designer piece, dear. Fresh from Fashion Week.”
“Was it worn by the world’s first walking newborn?” Rini asked, still dangling the onesie’s hanger from her finger. “Because if that’s not the case, I don’t see where a cheap cotton onesie with a vinyl label slapped on it commands that kind of price.”
“Excuse me, that’s imported,” the woman pointed out with a scoff. “It’s one of my top sellers.”
Rini peeked at the tag. “From Bangladesh. So you probably paid babies to make it too.” She slid the outfit back onto the rack before turning to me. “We’re done here.”
Yikes.
I followed the pregnant crab out onto the street, the shop owner following and ranting nonstop about us knowing nothing about fashion.
“You’re on edge today,” I said once we hit the cobbles
tone sidewalk and were free of the owner’s wrath.
Rini brushed her curls out of her face as the wind sent them flying. “I can’t fit into any of my pants, haven’t shit in three days, and sex disgusts me. You’d be on edge, too.”
“Probably,” I admitted. I was almost there. Sex disgusted me, but only because I couldn’t imagine getting the big O with anyone other than my drawer of toys or Slater. “But you don’t need to lash out at the world.”
“That woman’s committing a robbery,” she argued, pulling her aviators over her eyes.
“Well, you picked a posh boutique…” I trailed.
New money very much applied to my sister. Not that she threw it around. She and Sage were still sensible about her newfound fortune, but once in a while they splurged. That winter it’d been a family cabin in the Poconos for us all to enjoy. I hadn’t visited yet. I was too busy pouting the days away.
She made an ugly face at me but still looked radiant in her floral maxi dress. The old adage wasn’t lying about a pregnant woman’s glow. I wished I could bottle up some of her beauty and use it on myself. “Lesson learned.”
“We’ll find plenty of stuff for Baby Mullen,” I reassured, reaching out to pat her shoulder gently. “Do you want to grab lunch?”
My stomach was already growling, but passing a sandwich shop sent it into overdrive. The dueling scents of roasted veggies and meats begged me to stop.
She didn’t miss a beat. “Duh.”
We found a table along the street, and I knew what I wanted before my butt hit the slatted seat. A grilled veggie panini. The woman at the table next to us was struggling to eat one, and the stringy cheese had my undivided attention.
Rini wasn’t so decisive, weighing the pros and cons of a BLT vs an avocado melt. Apparently the baby wasn’t sure, but bacon was the ultimate winner.
Our food took forever, but the weekend foot traffic downtown provided plenty of people-watching material. It also made the food that much better by the time it came out.
“How are you holding up, Single Pringle?” Rini asked as she swiped a sweet potato fry from my plate. She’d devoured all of hers within a minute of her plate touching the table.
