We say our farewells and thank Alexander for meeting us. The producer promises to call Erik’s agent and our lunch is a success as we head back to the Mercedes which will take me to the office.


* * *

The five o’clock newscast was a borderline disaster with the wrong tapes and a slow teleprompter. The live feeds were cutting in and out and the Director was slamming around, screaming at everyone. I wait now for the cue to begin the six o’clock, hoping that fate won’t fall on us as well. I fidget with my earpiece and glance to the teleprompter. Then I smooth the lapels of my grey silk coat.

I know my wishful thinking was just that when they cut to the first clip and though it’s the correct tape, the filming is amateurish at best. There is nothing exciting or intriguing about the scene it portrays and it’s obvious that either Jessica didn’t make her wishes clear to the cameraman or we need better cameramen. I swallow my groan even as I plaster a fake smile on my face for the cameras and we begin. I hate my job sometimes.


* * *

I am the best drink-nurser in all of LA, of that I have no doubt. Erik casts me a baleful glance as I sip from my White Russian: heavy on the cream and Kahlua, light on the vodka, thank you. It’s more ice water than drink at this point but it suits me just fine.

"Hey," Erik smiles, scooting closer to me. He’s working on a martini, which is normally what one would get at a martini bar, but I just can’t stand vermouth. Even on his breath it makes me cringe and I wrinkle my nose at him. The little shit blows into my face.

"What?" I growl.

"Kels, lighten up. It wasn’t that bad," he pleads gently. He’s referring to the newscast and I know it was that bad, and worse. Fortunately, the whole damn city is so captivated by Harper Kingsley that it’s likely no one noticed how off we were.

"Just like Boys on the Beach wasn’t so bad," I jab at him and regret it immediately. He deserves better than my foul mood and biting remarks. Boys on the Beach is the only thing Erik has ever done that he’s ashamed of. It was a silly summer flick with teenagers in Speedos, trying to start a beach volleyball league. All flesh, no brains, and Erik’s first real job in the business. We never talk about it and to do it now is a shameless attempt to make him feel as crappy as I do. I can do that to everyone else, and often do, but hurting Erik is off limits and I’ve stepped over my self-imposed line.

His light eyes reflect soft pain but he doesn’t flinch away or get angry with me.

I sigh. "I’m sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Yeah, it was. But I forgive you," he smiles. "Why don’t you relax? We’re here with friends," he motions around the bar at the group of people assembled here.

"Your friends," I remind him. None of these people mean anything to me but some are acquaintances of his. We’re all dressed in suits and ties and downing alcohol on a Monday night. It’s the hangout we frequent and the group is made up of news people and actors alike. We sit on these stools or in the nearby booths, sipping on martinis and talking about our days and our lives as if someone cares. The general atmosphere is one of subdued upper class. It’s where we fit best whether we want to or not. Any flirting that takes place here is high brow impressing and strictly across gender. I feel sick to my stomach in that way I did as a little kid when I didn’t quite belong. When I wanted to go home and sit alone in my room. In fact, I’d love to do that now.

"Our friends."

I raise an eyebrow that lets him know I don’t believe him. He knows the truth. Often he tries to hide it, thinking that there is a place for us in mainstream show business, but he’s wrong. Erik and I promised long ago that we could lie to the world but not ourselves and each other. My look tells him he’s going back on that promise.

Erik smiles and leans into me, I put my glass down and hug him tightly.

"Thanks," he whispers.

"For what?"

"Keeping me honest."

"You going bar hopping tonight?"

"Nah," he backs away and sips from his tall glass.

"How was pretty boy last night?" I grin lecherously.

Erik laughs, shakes his head. "I feel good, nah nah nah nah nah nah," he sings softly, rocking his hips a little bit and it makes me burst out with laughter. No matter what, he always makes me laugh.

My laughter catches attention from people around us. They probably don’t even know I can laugh, that somehow that capability had been surgically removed from me at a young age. I have all kinds of nicknames and I shrug each off with equal nonchalance. Only Erik knows what’s inside and I’m still unsure how he managed to get there.

I was raised in a household where affection was rarely given and more often withheld. I learned to be a successful woman in the business world you couldn’t have emotions or sympathy. And I was taught at an early age how to disregard others’ feelings and how to hide my own. I’ve been called a man-eater by some because before Erik, I had a new man every month. I’d string them along and toss them aside, anything for the image. Erik laughs at that now, thinking that nickname especially ironic. At least with him there’s no more pretending or doing things I don’t want to do.

I’m considering these thoughts when some out of work actor across the room yells for the bartender to turn up the volume on the overhead sets. I glance up and groan when Harper Kingsley is looking back at me.

Erik laughs and pokes me in the ribs. "She’s a dyke, ya know?"

"And you found this out, how?"

"Oh, she’s not subtle about it. She may as well have a rainbow flag tattooed on her forehead. They also say she’s a womanizer, new chick every night, leaves ‘em begging for more."

"Where do you hear this crap, Erik?" I shake my head and suck an ice cube into my mouth where I crunch it on over-sensitive molars. I know what ice-chewing is supposed to be a sign of and I glare at Erik, daring him to make a comment. He doesn’t.

"Around, you know. Mutual friends."

Erik toils in his hidden life much more than I do so I know he’s probably right. I look up into those blue eyes and watch mesmerized as she brushes a lock of black hair behind her ear. Her hand is large but well constructed, the fingers long and narrow. There are a lot of things fingers like that are good for, I admit, before Erik’s laughter brings me back.

"You want her."

"Please," I scoff. "She’s tabloid trash, films for money, not for news. Anything for ratings."

"You above that, Kels?" he teases.

I nod. "You know I am."

"You still want her. Admit it."

I glare at him. He thinks I want every woman I see. He thinks that since I don’t bed a woman every other day that my sexual need must be on overdrive. "I’ll admit she’s gorgeous. But that’s not everything and you know it."

He nods slowly, watching me. "Some day, Kels," he whispers. "Some day it’ll all work out. You’ll find the right person who sees your heart just like I do."

His sincerity chokes me for a moment. How does he do that? I’m tired of this place and the fake people and the expensive drinks. I’m tired of my pale life and my lonely bed and the career that I chose that binds me into a lifestyle I despise. I sigh. "Take me home?"

Erik sets his drink down and takes my hand. Even though he does his best to make me social, dragging me out nearly every night our schedules allow, all I have to do is tell him I’ve had enough. We’ve made our appearance tonight, both for the media and our peers, and I’m ready to call it a day.

"Gladly," Erik says, squeezing my fingers.

<fade out>


Coming next week to a computer near you …


Must Read TV

Exposure

Episode Three



Coming next week on Exposure:

<cut to Kelsey>

To say I have friends at the station is less an understatement and more a blatant lie.

<cut to Harper>

And the best part is: he promised me Kelsey Stanton. Straight, my ass.

<cut to Kelsey>

Finally, at the end of the week, the hoopla over Harper Kingsley has died down and Erik has stopped badgering me about her. I haven’t told him that those blue eyes haunt my dreams and I don’t intend to.

<fade out>

Tune in next week to Must Read TV.

Episode Three: Powder Keg

I park the Mercedes in the outside lot this morning, feeling the weather will hold and not liking the station’s underground garage. The walk is a little farther and brings me around the front of the building instead of the back entrance but it’s a beautiful morning and the sun is warm on my upturned face.

Finally, at the end of the week, the hoopla over Harper Kingsley has died down and Erik has stopped badgering me about her. I haven’t told him that those blue eyes haunt my dreams and I don’t intend to. Instead, we planned a weekend in Mammoth with some buddies of his and I’m looking forward to heading out after the newscast tonight.

I round the corner of the building towards the large multi-colored station logo, and I hear the loud rumbling of a motorcycle. I nearly jump out of my skin with surprise and then immediately start growling under my breath. I hate motorcycles. They’re dangerous and accident prone and the morons who drive them seem to have only slightly less respect for their own lives than for the lives of the other motorists on the road. They zig in and out of traffic, drive on the dotted line and more often than not I want to open my car door so they might hit it as they illegally sneak through rush hour jams. Shaking my head, I continue to the door as the motorcycle powers by me to screech to a halt right in front of the station doors. On the sidewalk. Asshole.