“You know you like my head between your . . .”
“Oh my God! Shut up!” she laughs out.
“At least put on some of that ugly underwear of yours and send me a pic,” I tease.
“Maybe,” she says, smiling.
“Did you finish the movie we started the other night?” I ask.
“Yeeeeeeeah, about that,” she says, drawing out the first word.
“That doesn’t sound good,” I say, pacing my balcony. “I guess you didn’t like it.”
“Am I allowed to say I didn’t?”
This is sensitive terrain we are entering. No one likes to have their work criticized. Unfortunately, having a career in the arts is setting yourself up for it. You can’t please everyone, but Mae’s opinion is important to me. I want her approval and support more than anyone’s, so it’s going to be damn hard to hear her criticism.
“You can say whatever you want,” I say, taking a deep breath and bracing for impact.
“You won’t get mad?” she asks.
“I can’t promise that,” I say. “But I’ll try.”
“I couldn’t finish it,” she whispers.
It’s not my favorite film of the ones I’ve made, but to DNF it? Damn! The back of my neck suddenly feels hot, a sure sign I’m getting really pissed. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this.”
“Every time you kissed her . . .” Mae looks away, her eyes no longer staring into the phone. “I was holding it together until the sex scene. I just couldn’t watch anymore.”
A part of me is relieved her issue wasn’t with my performance, but another part of me is concerned. Romance hasn’t factored a great deal into my movies. I’ve never done a romantic comedy, and I don’t care to. It’s just not where my interest lies. But there are times when I do intimate scenes. And usually, my co-star is hot, but filming those parts of a movie is anything but. It’s weird to have people watching, yelling directions at you, telling you where to place your leg. And sometimes, these scenes can be shot early on in a movie, before you even get comfortable with your co-star. I’ve literally met my co-star and done a sex scene the same day. Nothing hot about that.
“How about the movie where I got beat to hell? Could you watch that one?” I ask, trying to lighten things up.
“I had no problem with that,” she says, smiling shyly.
“You know it’s just acting, right?”
“I couldn’t do that,” she says. “I couldn’t just kiss someone I felt nothing for. Lay naked with someone I wasn’t attracted to, so I don’t understand, I guess.”
“Mae,” I say, looking up at the night sky. “When we were together, you saw me do plenty of plays with kissing scenes. It never bothered you then.”
“We don’t need to talk about this,” she says. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Yes, we do,” I say. “Where is this all coming from?”
I see her take a deep breath. “Five years of you fucking anything that moves. Those pictures after we broke up. It’s like a slap in the face.”
And hearing that’s like a punch to my stomach. I didn’t have sex with those women to hurt her. Mae wasn’t in my life then, but I’m still paying for it.
“We talked about this. I thought we moved past it.”
“What are we doing, Knox?” she asks.
“Things were fine when I left,” I say. “Hell, they were fine five minutes ago. Where is this coming from?”
“I guess it’s easier to think straight when you aren’t here,” Mae says. “And there are reasons . . .”
“You mean it’s easier for you to talk yourself out of this when I’m not there,” I say, staring down at my phone screen, determined.
“We don’t even live in the same state,” she says.
“I’m only a few hours away by plane.”
“But you work all over the globe. I’m happy here in my little corner of the world.”
“I control what projects I take. How long I have to be gone. It’s not like it was when I started out. I can be picky. Do what I want. You’ll see.”
“We spent so much time apart when we were kids. It seems like our lives always take us in different directions. I like my privacy. You live your life under a microscope. No one really even knows what I do for a living. We live totally different lives.”
“You’re thinking about this way too much,” I say.
“There are more reasons for us not to work this time than there were last time, and we crashed and burned.”
“I don’t get where all this is coming from. We said we’d take things slow. Day by day. You watch one of my movies that happens to have a sex scene, and suddenly you’re backtracking.”
“I know what I said,” she says.
“Just tell me what’s bugging you,” I say gently.
“I know you’re busy, and I’m not going to make demands on your time, but . . .”
“You don’t need to demand my time,” I say. “I want to be with you all the time.”
“Knox,” she says in a sweet whisper.
“What is it you want?” I ask, taking a seat on a lounge chair. “Make your demands.”
“I only have one,” she says.
“Okay.”
“No other women. Just don’t humiliate me like that.”
The fact that she thinks she even has to ask that of me is bullshit. She should know better. Anger burns in my chest. It’s all I can do not to rip her a new one for saying that to me, but then I look into my phone, at her blue eyes staring back at me, like she honestly believes I might deny her. I knew I hurt her, but it’s not until this moment that I realize just how bad, just how humiliated she was when I jumped into another woman’s bed so quickly. And it’s not just that. I kept jumping from woman to woman for the next five years. This is why the sex scene bothered her. It reminded her of seeing those pictures of me with someone else just weeks after we broke up.
I release the breath I’d been holding and my anger along with it. “That’s not a demand,” I tease. “That’s a given.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
“My turn,” I say, relieved.
“Your turn for what?”
“I have some demands for you,” I tease.
Smiling, she rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“First, I demand that sexy pic you promised.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mae
The radio station is like a second home to me. It’s comfortable, relaxed, casual—even more so when I come in late on Sunday nights, when there’s usually not so many people around. It’s often just me, Amy, a few randoms, but that’s it.
Not today, though.
I’m not used to being here in the middle of the day on a weekday. There’s a lot of hustle and bustle, much more of a corporate culture. I don’t know any of these people, and they don’t know me. Because I work nights and it’s important my identity doesn’t get out, I’m not part of the “in” crowd here at the station.
It’s a radio station, not an office building, so there aren’t fancy boardrooms to house meetings. There is one conference room, if you can even call it that. It’s got a long table, a coffee pot, telephone, and a smart board, but that’s it. There aren’t even any windows. It’s pretty sad as far as meeting rooms go, and I’m sure it’s a far cry from what the big wigs coming to see me are accustomed to.
Our little radio station is owned by a corporation which owns lots of smaller radio stations. Together, we form a force to be reckoned with on the airways. We are just a small slice of a huge pie, but I know my show makes up a big percentage of our market share. I may not care to know the number of people tuning in to my show each week, but I sure as hell know what my advertisers pay between the hours of ten and midnight on Sundays. It’s not Super Bowl numbers, but advertising during my show will cost you big time. That tells me all I need to know.
I swirl my chair around, my legs sticking to the fake leather on the seat. I might be a little ne
rvous. I wore my best don’t mess with me outfit. A black pencil skirt and a vintage Chanel shirt that was my mother’s. She found it in a flea market just outside Paris. Supposedly, it was discarded by Coco herself, or so the merchant told my mother. That would make the shirt at least fifty years old, but I don’t care. I need the power of Coco and my mother today. I don’t have a good feeling about this, or maybe that’s just the nerves talking.
The door opens. One look at my station manager’s face as he walks past the open door, and I know my gut is right. But I don’t know what the problem could be. My shows have been great lately. I know when I’m off, when I have a bad show, but I haven’t had that feeling lately.
Two suits walk in. Both women.
I hate to judge, but I know women like this. I’ve seen their kind before. I’m not sure they are women. More like trained assassins, ready to strike you down. They smile in their designer shoes and handbags, but behind your back, you know they’ve been talking about you.
I get to my feet, peeling my legs from the fake leather, and reach out to shake each of their hands. One has her hair in a tight bun, and the other is well over six feet in stilettos. They each tell me their names, but I forget as soon as we sit down. I’m terrible at names, and that only gets worse when I’m nervous.
I shouldn’t be nervous, but I’m outnumbered, and I’m better one on one. Always have been. Maybe that’s because I spent so much time alone as a child. I think that’s why I like doing radio so much, it’s just me and my caller. Or at least, I can pretend it is.
Tight Bun starts. “Your contract with the station is expiring at the end of the year.”
I hadn’t even thought about that. Renewal seemed a foregone conclusion, but maybe I was wrong.
“So we thought this might be a good time to remind you of a key point in your contract. Anonymity.”
“I’m the one who put that in the contract,” I tell her, “so I don’t need to be reminded of it.”
“Apparently, during a broadcast a few weeks ago, a caller used your first name. You covered, but it still happened.”
I bet if they knew the identity of that caller, they’d change their tune. Knox Merrick calling The Breakup Bible would crash the airwaves, but I’d never use my relationship to further my career. Never!
Stiletto Amazon takes over. “Part of the appeal of your show is that people don’t know who you are. It adds mystery. You know, there are people that really think you’re a nun! Maintaining that intrigue is part of the marketing magic behind the show. We’re willing to overlook that one indiscretion. We just thought a little face-to-face might be necessary.”
I know a threat when I hear one, even if it’s dressed up and smiling. “Since we’re passing along friendly little reminders, I have one to share,” I say. “Let me remind you that I own the creative on the show. My title. My voice. My concept. My contract goes, and I take all that with me.”
Friendly went to feisty in two seconds flat. I think I see a bobby pin or two fly out of Tight Bun’s hair. “You have a non-compete clause.”
“One year,” I say. “And I don’t believe it includes podcasts or writing a book or . . .”
Stiletto Amazon holds up her hand. “Mae, we are on your side. We’ve had a very productive relationship for several years.”
“And if you’d like that to continue,” I say, getting to my feet, “I suggest you don’t threaten me again.”
My heart pounds as I walk out of the room and towards the parking lot. I can’t get out of here fast enough. I’m sure my sweat is ruining my mom’s fake Coco shirt. What the hell just happened? Mentally, I’m tallying my savings in my head. Do I have enough saved that I could go a year without being on the radio? Could I even find another station in the Denver area to hire me? One that’s not owned by my present employer?
Radio is a fickle business. One day you’re hot, and the next you’re not. I’m lucky I’ve had such a long run already. Of course, I’ve worried about what I’ll do when it comes to an end, but I never thought the reason for that would be Knox. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Don’t panic.
Still, I doubt there is any way I’ll be able to keep my identity a secret once my relationship with Knox goes public. I suppose he and I could try to keep things private, but I don’t know how realistic that is. And the media is going to want to know about the woman he’s dating. The public is going to want to know, too. And what I do for a living is part of that. I’m going to have to tell my bosses that I’m dating Hollywood’s hottest leading man at some point, but not today. Not without talking to Knox first. Of course, he’s the reason I’m in this mess, calling my show and using my name.
“Mae!” Amy calls out, catching me as I step out into the parking lot. She’s wearing a cute dress, her strawberry blonde hair up in a relaxed bun.
I knew she worked other shifts at the station, but I’m still surprised to see her. It’s odd seeing someone out of context, like when you run into your old yoga partner at a dinner party. You’re used to seeing them one place, and then they’re at another.
“Everything okay?” she asks. “I heard about the meeting.”
“Fine. You didn’t mention anything to them about that caller?” I ask with a wink. “Scooby-Doo?”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Amy smiles broadly then squeals, “I can’t believe you know Knox Merrick! What’s he like? Is he just as cute in person? Are you dating?”
“Whoa, he’s just from my hometown,” I say, downplaying things. “Lots of people in Haven’s Point know him.”
Knox and I haven’t talked about how to handle these situations. We probably should have. Everything has just been happening so fast. I’m not sure I’m prepared to come out as his . . . Well, his anything.
“I’ve actually been thinking of moving to Haven’s Point,” she says. “It’s a great town, and so much cheaper than Denver. But there aren’t many apartments there.” She’s right. Haven’s Point is mostly single-family homes, the occasional townhome. “I’m planning on looking there this weekend.”
I have no idea when Knox will be back, and I’m hosting Gigi’s birthday party at my house, but I like Amy, and it’s good to keep your co-workers happy. “Why don’t you stop by my house Saturday?” I offer. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday. You’ll meet a lot of locals. Maybe someone will know of a place.”
She clearly likes that idea, and is in the process of thanking me when my cell phone rings in my purse, and I start digging to find it.
“I’ll text you the details,” I tell Amy, and she waves as she heads back to the building while I continue to search for my phone and walk to my car.
My purse has a nice little pocket designed to store your phone in, but in my rush to get out of my meeting, it must have slipped out into the deep, dark recesses, where old breath mints and tampons go to die. I finally find it just in time to answer. I see who’s calling and am relieved I didn’t miss him. The eight-hour time difference doesn’t make connecting easy.
“Hi, Dad,” I say.
Ours has always been a close relationship, though he doesn’t call me by some cute nickname from my childhood. He never called me pumpkin or baby girl. My mom said he never once used baby talk with me. He used to tell me if I acted mature, he’d treat me that way. That’s not to say he wasn’t fun or silly with me. He was deployed a lot, but when he was home, he was always playing with me. No matter what I wanted to do. He was the best tea party guest a girl could have.
“So your Gigi tells me she finally told you about Thomas,” he says.
“You knew?” I exclaim.
“I’m her only child,” he says. “I’ve known for awhile.”
“Why did no one tell me?” I ask, taking a seat in my car and pressing the auto start button.
The Bluetooth connection comes on, so I miss a little of what he says in the transfer. “Wasn’t my place to say,” he says.
“It wasn’t Gigi’s place to tell you that Knox is back in my life, b
ut I’m sure she told you, anyway,” I say.
“Knox?” he asks, like he’s never heard that name before.
Oh shit, I guess Gigi didn’t spill the beans. “Forget I said that.”
“Not likely,” he says. “How long has this been going on?”
“Not long.”
“You happy?” he asks.
I stop at a stop sign, looking around before I continue my drive. “I am.”
“Okay, then,” he says. “What else is going on in your world?”
“Really? That’s it?” I ask. “You’re not going to go all hardcore, overprotective dad on me?”
“When have I ever done that?” he teases.
“Hmm, let’s see. How about when Mom found my birth control pills? Or when Knox and I wanted to go on that overnight church trip our senior year? Or when . . .”
“Isolated incidents,” he says with a chuckle.
It suddenly hits me that Gigi has a new beau, and I have someone in my life, but my dad is alone. To my knowledge, he hasn’t dated anyone since my mom passed away. “What about you, Dad?” I ask. “Are you happy?”
“If you’re happy, then I’m happy,” he says with a twinge of sadness in his voice.
That’s always been his motto. He used to say that if his wife and daughter were happy, then he was. With Mom gone, I guess he directed all that focus to me.
I take a deep breath, looking down at my mom’s shirt. My dad is only in his fifties. He’s handsome and kind and fit, and way too young to spend the rest of his life alone. My mom wouldn’t want that, and I don’t want that. “I know I didn’t have the best reaction to Gigi dating, and I know you don’t need my permission, but I would be okay if you . . .” The words get caught in my throat, and I can’t finish.
“It’s a little soon,” he says.
“It’s been over a year,” I say softly.
“I was with your mother more than half my life,” he says. “A year isn’t that long.”
Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel) Page 14