Sexy Ink!

by Jamie Collins

  Henry listened, his head bowed in silence, wiping large tears that spilled from his eyes, letting her speak and unburden her heart in the way that she needed to. She spoke about Crete; that, and the anger and rage that she left on the shore the day that she set her own stillborn child adrift in the ocean, a result of her reckless choices. She spoke about trying to break out of the cycle, meeting Panther, and being brought back into a world that valued fast and easy money. “I wanted to put it all behind me for good when I moved to Nevada. Then, Panther just walked back into my life, and that time, changed my life forever when she left Louis with me. He was my greatest test—my purpose.” La Costa brought forth the note that Panther had left her on the night that she had left Louis in her care. “I carry it in my wallet so that he would never find out. He knows that he is adopted but not that Panther, and I suspect AJ, her degenerate boyfriend at the time, are his birth parents. I told him that I chose him, and that our bond was sanctioned by the angels. What else could I do? He’s my life, just as sure as if I had given birth to him. I swear to God, I—”

  She broke down in a fit of sobs. Henry slid from the chair, caught her in his embrace, and held her close. “I got you, baby. I got both of you. I promise. No more secrets. It’s going to be all right. This just means that you know that you can’t turn your back on your past. You’ve proven that. It makes you who you are, and I love all of you.”

  She sniffed and blew her nose. Then, touching his forehead with hers, she drew a sigh of relief. “We’re going to be okay, right?”

  “We’re going to be more than okay, Ms. Reed. We’ve got this.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  New York

  Early March – 2015

  Global Network producer, Bumpy Friedman, woke up early to hit the treadmill. It was positioned in the far corner of the den, across from the large-screen TV he had mounted on the wall. He could only set the machine to a slow-walk setting, as his physical therapy regimen was tame, to say the least. Bypass surgery was a bitch to get on the other side of, and he’d had a triple doozy to nurse. As long as he kept his feet moving on the cushioned belt surface for twenty to thirty minutes at a stretch, and his ticker going, he was good.

  Just as he got ready to start up, he realized that he had left his earbuds on the nightstand. He quickly circled back to the bedroom and shifted through the papers and stack of books on the nightstand next to the lamp, to find them. This caused a book to slide onto the floor. It was one of many that his wife, Hylda, loved to read before bed and throughout the day when she had what she called, “book time,” her highly guarded private respite on the patio, or in the sun room, where she liked to read. It was a romance tome with an attractive cover and large, raised lettering and fancy font: Rebellion—Book Two in the Rebecca Steele Series. The author’s name, LA COSTA REED was prominently displayed across the top. Bumpy flipped open the jacket and perused the author’s bio. La Costa Reed was an attractive, full-figured black woman with soulful eyes and a money-shot smile.

  Quickly, he grabbed the earbuds and tucked the novel beneath his arm. Hylda wouldn’t miss it. She had every book the woman wrote, including her memoir, which Hylda had read last summer. On second thought, he searched for it too, on the bookshelf in the living room, and upon finding it, he tossed it, along with the hardback, into his open briefcase on his desk.

  He walked back to the den, thinking he would ask Hylda for her thoughts about maybe taking a look at La Costa Reed for consideration to co-host his new daytime pilot he was currently about to pitch to the network. He was full of great ideas these days, it seemed, and the universe was not shy on delivering. Good thing, because time was running out, and his ass was on the line.

  Then he jumped on the treadmill and started with a slow, steady incline, and with high hopes for the vision that would take the network to number one.

  Tess got the call the very next day. Bumpy Friedman had wasted no time in hunting down La Costa Reed’s eager agent, who phoned him back not twenty minutes after he had left a voice mail on her mobile.

  “Mr. Friedman, thank you for calling. How might I help you?” She was well aware of his standing in the industry as a grizzled but seasoned producer of some very iconic and well-awarded daytime programming.

  “My wife is a huge fan of La Costa Reed. I see that she has a very impressive backlist, and my people tell me that she has a strong fan base with the female demographic in the age range that we are targeting for our newest project. I’d like to speak with you about it, if you think that Ms. Reed would be interested.”

  “Would this be for her writing? A script perhaps, for a drama?” Tess asked, fanning herself with the grocery list she had in her hand, as he had caught her in the middle of her Monday shopping excursion at the deli counter, as well as an ill-timed hot flash.

  “Oh, no. We’re looking to fill a seat, so to speak, that presents drama, only a lot less scripted,” he said, chuckling. “We’d like to audition her for a position as a co-host of a woman’s live talk show.”

  “It might be something we would be interested in,” Tess said, trying to sound noncommittal. “Of course, we would need to know more about what would be involved. La Costa is quite in demand as of late, what with the buzz still swirling around about her provocative memoir, the launch of the new series, and—”

  “Understood. I’d like to have a meeting to discuss the opportunity as soon as possible,” Bumpy said. “I’m on a deadline here myself.”

  “Oh, well, I’m afraid that La Costa is with her son on spring break in the Carolinas for another week, but I can meet with you,” Tess said. “How about Market Diner on Eleventh Street in the city? Say, tomorrow at one o’clock? Is this your cell? I’ll text you when I arrive.”

  “See you tomorrow, then,” Bumpy said.

  Tess jumped off the call. What luck! She knew that juggling TV producer-types was the easy part. The challenge was going to be getting La Costa on board. Live television! How would she ever be able to convince La Costa to audition? If this was the real deal, a break like this could do more than launch another book series—it could clinch a career.

  Chapter Forty-four

  “What? Are you kidding?” La Costa said into the tiny camera at the top of her computer screen. “Global Network might want me to anchor a talk show?”

  “You and three others—it’s a co-anchor gig, and if you do this, La Costa, it will be a game-changer,” Tess said on the other end of the video call from her she-cave office.

  “You are forgetting one little thing,” La Costa said, wincing from the cacophony of construction noises emanating from behind her. “I do not do well in front of television cameras—especially live broadcasts.”

  “Are you telling me that you would pass on a deal of a lifetime, because of a little stage fright?” Tess said, giving the desk a firm bang of her fist that caused her screen to jump.

  “Look, Tess. We are up to our eyeballs here with this renovation. The kids’ camp plan is well underway, and even though Henry is here to oversee it most weekends, it’s still looking like a miss for a summer opening. I’m now deep into the revisions of book two in the new trilogy, about to finish the last round of the memoir book signings, and planning for the fall release book tour. If you can figure out a way to clone me, go ahead!”

  I’ll take that as a yes, Tess concluded, and promptly changed the subject.

  “How are those edits coming?” she asked. “Patty is holding our feet to the fire on the first pub date.”

  “I’m managing to make progress daily, but I really do much better in a quieter atmosphere. There’s a café I steal away to from time to time, but it’s hard to work there as well. I could go back to my writing office in LA, but I don’t want to miss any more time with Louis.”

  “He’s helping Henry with the renovations, right? You don’t need to be there, La Costa. Why don’t you come here for a few days? I can offer you my she-cave. I promise, no hammering, sawing, or demolition going on here—a
nd no butt crack in sight!”

  “That’s tempting,” La Costa said. “I could swing back through after the weekend and meet up with Louis and Henry mid-week, and we could all fly back home to LA together. Are you sure that’s okay with you?”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Tess said. “I’ll get you a flight out for tomorrow, and the guest room ready.”

  Tess smiled. And that is how it is done. Part one of her plan was in place. What luck that the acclaimed television show host Kristen Michaels of the Kristen Michaels Show was on hiatus having some “rehab” of her own, with a little nip and tuck overhaul that would have her out of commission for weeks. As a fortunate result, the local network was in need of a series of hosts to fill in during her absence. Tess had the scoop on everything going on in her town, and this was no exception. She would pull a few strings and get La Costa in, front and center. Part two of her plan would involve, of course, actually getting La Costa to do it.

  Tess reached for her cell phone and contacted Bumpy Friedman as fast as her thumbs could navigate the tiny keyboard with an exuberant text: It’s a go for Monday, Mr. Friedman. La Costa will be there!

  Chapter Forty-five

  New Jersey

  “I’ve got an opportunity for you while you’re here,” Tess said as she helped La Costa with her bags, sliding them into the back of her well-traveled SUV.

  “What kind of opportunity?” La Costa was happy to be in the big city. She had missed the rhythm of its chaos and never-ending spectacle of lights and sounds.

  “You’ll see. I have you booked for another appearance at the local network on Kristen Michael’s show on Monday. Don’t worry, I’ve cleared it with your publicist. You can spare a bit of time away from your manuscript, right? We should do this. It will keep you relevant.”

  “Fine. As long as it is the only one during this visit. It was to be a working break, right?”

  “Right,” Tess said, smiling.

  La Costa spent most of the weekend holed up in the she-cave, pounding away at her laptop, or poring over edits that she shared with her editor via email. Tess laid low, surfacing only to rescue La Costa from malnourishment with a scrumptious meal ordered in, or to distract her with a bottle of wine when the day was over. Then, the two would sit on the floor in Tess’s enormous closet, where La Costa would marvel at her impressive shoe collection.

  “It’s really insane how many pairs of shoes you have, girl. I thought I was bad, but you got me beat.” La Costa’s fetish was for leopard-print pumps. “I have forty-eight pairs at last count, but that includes all of my stilettos!”

  “Oh, I don’t count them. There’s more stashed away in the garage, if you can believe it. Demitri would plotz if he knew! Hey, what can I say? We all have our vices. Secrets are the secret to a happy marriage.” Tess smiled, only half kidding. “Speaking of vices, how are things going with you and Henry? It seems pretty hot and heavy, if you ask me.”

  “I’m happy, Tess. I’m really happy. It’s like I have to pinch myself some days, just trying to believe that this wonderful man has walked into my life.”

  “Back into your life, right?”

  La Costa nodded, smiling.

  “Well, it’s obvious that he is a good man, and that he loves Louis, so . . . ?”

  La Costa shrank from the question. “So what?”

  “So, when are you guys going to make it legal? I mean, why not?”

  “We’ll see,” La Costa said. “I would have a whole lot to think about before doing that. It’s been really nice with it just being me and Louis all these years.”

  “Seems to me that you have all become quite the little family.”

  “I do trust him, Tess. More than I have ever trusted any man. Do you really see us that way?”

  “I do, Bubbi. My mother always says, ‘Falling in love is like falling in water. We can fall in it. We can drown in it, but we can’t live without it.’ No reason why you should.”

  “I never thought of it that way. That’s really beautiful,” Las Costa said, stifling a yawn.

  “And I think that you, my dear heart, need to get some sleep. We have the television appearance tomorrow. They want you there early—with clean hair and no makeup. They will fix you up.”

  “Thanks, Tess. I really appreciate how you always have my back,” La Costa said, reaching in for a hug.

  “It’s all you,” Tess said. “Plus, let’s be real. Your success keeps me in new shoes.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  New York City

  La Costa arrived on set prepared for the interview. She wore a beautiful crème silk blouse, a black leather skirt, and her signature leopard-print peep-toe pumps. Luckily, she never traveled without a change of wardrobe and was usually at the ready for just about any occasion. Tess had been unusually quiet on the car ride to the studio.

  “Let’s get you into hair and makeup right away. I’ll go over the show notes with the producer, and meet with you back at the stylist’s chair,” Tess said, when they arrived. The studio was pulsing with a well-choreographed dance of technicians; show runners, and production crew running about tending to the pre-show details.

  La Costa remained blissfully unaware that her “appearance” on the set would be more than a four-minute interview. She had been informed by Tess that the segment was going live, and that this time, it would not be taped. That alone was enough to give La Costa sweaty palms, and she was working hard to keep her breakfast down, while psyching herself up in the mirror, just twenty minutes prior to show-time.

  “You will be doing one segment—the opening segment—and there is one thing I need to tell you regarding the show rundown,” Tess said, closing in on La Costa with several large blue note cards and an Evian water.

  La Costa knew that the rundown was a timed outline for the elements that went into the program. “So, I’m the first guest?”

  “Not exactly.” Tess swallowed hard and motioned for the stylist to give them the room. Tess’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the tiny screen and smiled. Bumpy Friedman had just arrived and was heading to the control room to watch the segment.

  “You’re scaring me, Tess. What is going on?” La Costa shuffled through the note cards. “These are for Kristen, the host.”

  “Not today. Please don’t hate me, but you are going on as a fill-in show host for the first segment. Kristen is not here.”

  “Not here?” La Costa was incredulous.

  “She’s on nip-and-tuck leave. The show is running guest hosts in her place the remainder of this week. It’s just for the opening segment,” Tess said, handing her the script. “It’s very basic, off-the-cuff stuff. You’re on until the second commercial break. There will be a producer on the sidelines feeding cues into your ear monitor.”

  La Costa’s mouth dropped. “What? Tess, how could you have agreed to this?”

  Tess continued, “Trust me, La Costa. I would not have taken this chance if I didn’t believe in you. You’ve got this. You will be bringing on a local housewife who makes cat toys out of recycled household items. All you have to do is give her the spotlight. Just follow the note cards and ask her the interview questions.”

  La Costa hesitantly re-examined the note cards. “Just ask her the questions, right? I can do this.”

  “You definitely can do this. I know you can. Just go out there and be yourself. Talk to the woman as you would one of your fans. That’s all that you have to do.”

  “I can do this.” La Costa touched her forehead tentatively. She was beginning to sweat. “I can do this,” she said again, in an effort to convince herself.

  “That is the spirit! Of course you can!” Tess rallied. “This is the La Costa who writes best-selling books and makes readers laugh and cry, and sometimes crap their pants!”

  La Costa shot her a stern look. “Oh, you’re going to cry later, Tess. I promise you that.”

  A knock at the door ushered in a skinny man in tight jeans wearing a headset. “They’re ready for yo
u, Ms. Reed. Right this way.”

  Tess held her breath. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” La Costa said with conviction. “Let’s do this thing!”

  Tess collapsed into the stylist’s chair and made the sign of the cross. It couldn’t hurt.

  From the production room, Bumpy Friedman, along with the producer, vision mixer, and script supervisor, looked on as the director barked commands to adjust the cameras, lighting, and graphics run-through prior to the live broadcast. In an industry where it is paramount to be able to think on one’s feet, everyone was pulling for another successful show and performing their tasks with precision.

  “Camera one, pan left and up a little,” the director volleyed into the studio microphone, directing the camera to zoom in on La Costa’s striking and strong profile in camera position two. The technical director made adjustments for the light bouncing off of her wide hoop earrings. La Costa sat on a gleaming chrome stool, scanning the note cards beneath the bright studio lights, struggling to keep calm and focused. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. She played the mantra in her mind on a continuous loop, oblivious to the eyes that were on her from the control room and the flurry of activity on the radios, intercoms, and PA system on the set.

  Bumpy had fifteen precious minutes to take in the show before he had to leave for his ten forty-five appointment back at his network office. It would be all that he would need.

  Tess took her place in the viewing room off to the side, from which she could see all of the action on the stage. She stood the entire time, unable to sit due to the butterflies doing cartwheels in her gut.