“Hey, you! Yeah, you!” a young guy shouted from the driver’s seat as they approached. “You’re Jeff Taylor!” he continued. I tried to ignore him, tried to pretend like I hadn’t heard or that I was anyone else in the world, but there was no fooling the driver. His friends were shouting and jeering at me, flipping me off from their open windows.
“Fuck you, you lying piece of shit! It’s because of people like you that we’re stuck with the garbage media we have!” the driver shouted, and I froze. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” he shouted. Clearly, he and his friends had seen the District Inquirer.
Little did any of them know, I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed for being so foolish, for being so careless to let myself get involved with Kile in the first place and for keeping it going when all of the writing was on the wall that disaster was much more likely than not if I kept seeing him.
They tore off, still shouting and throwing up obscene gestures, and it took everything I had not to scream at the top of my lungs and melt into tears. How the hell had everything gone so fucking wrong and so quickly?
Because I was an idiot. Because I let my guard down and let Kile in, I thought as I power-walked down the street. People were staring at me, I felt their eyes on my back, burning through my clothes, and I didn’t want to see or face any of them. I didn’t want to look at myself right now, much less feel the scorn of millions of people I’d never met and never would, all of them judging me for something they didn’t understand and would never know the truth about.
I crashed through the front doors of the bookstore that Dylan had taken me to early on in my ill-fated career at NewSpin, and the barista looked up at me with a look of concern as he took in my disheveled appearance and wheezing breaths.
“Americano. Now,” I ordered and he nodded before getting to work making it. Minutes later, I’d sucked down the first half of the drink while I tried to catch my breath. I’d known this was coming, known it would be almost impossible to avoid, but I didn’t think it would hit so quickly.
I pulled my phone and the piece of paper Dylan had given me out of my pockets. I’d intended to text him, to tell him that maybe I did need him to cancel that interview, when at the top of my messages I saw the last one I’d exchanged with Kile, which sent me into a tailspin.
>> Me: Got it. Be there in fifteen.
In that moment, as I stared at that simple, mostly meaningless message, I wished more than anything else I could text him now, ask him how he was doing, what he was up to. Now, though, I wondered if I’d hear from him again. No matter what I said, no matter what I did, I doubted I’d ever be able to convince him that I hadn’t been working with Lee on his scummy plan. Though the evidence pointing in my direction was damning, I couldn’t understand how he could think that I’d really do that to him… how did he think that I’d faked it all, pulled at his heartstrings to try and mount some massive career comeback? I was as cynical as they came and even I wouldn’t have believed that story if someone had told me it had happened to them. Before I realized it, I’d typed out a message to him.
>> Me: I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but I really need to talk to you. I really need to fix this.
My finger hovered over the “send” button, trembling—though I wasn’t sure if it was from my nerves or the strong espresso I’d sucked down or some combination of the two—and I couldn’t bring myself to press it. Anything I could say at this point would likely only make things worse, dig me further into this grave I’d found myself in.
This is all Lee’s fault, I thought angrily as I let my phone fall to the table I’d sat down at. I was almost convinced he’d fire me after the show premiered and he didn’t need me anymore, but another part of me wondered how true that really was. Maybe instead he’d keep me around, using our bad blood as leverage to make me do whatever he wanted me to do.
Is this really what my life has devolved into? I wondered, my anger turning to sadness. Is NewSpin the rest of my life? Will anyone else have me? I asked myself, though I already knew the answer. If Lee or Wade or any of the other higher ups at NewSpin or NewsAmp decided to give me the axe, I knew I’d be toast. I’d never work in journalism again. There wouldn’t be any recovering from that—and that assumed my reputation ever recovered from the District Inquirer's spread on me and Kile. But even if I did somehow manage to keep myself and my career together, I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep working in this industry, not if this was truly what it’d become. It was nothing like it was when I’d started out.
Face it, Jeff. It’s over, I thought with a sad smirk. It’s all over and I don’t have anyone to blame but myself for letting it happen, I thought, thinking of all of the opportunities the universe had given me to back out, to say no, and pre-empt all of this. But I didn’t do it. I gave in, and look what it got me.
Kile’s face, his warm, almost staged smile, stared up at me from his message thread on my phone. I couldn’t fix things with him any more than I could fix things with my career, but I had to try, so I deleted the message I’d tapped out before and started over.
>> Me: Kile, I’m sorry. For everything. I know you don’t want to see me, and I understand why, but please come to the premiere on Saturday. For both of our sakes.
I smashed the send button before I spent too much more time agonizing over the content of the message and kept my eyes locked on the screen, hoping against hope the “Delivered” text under my message would change to “Read.” After fifteen minutes, in which I drained the coffee cup, it still hadn’t and I knew it probably wouldn’t. Still, the fact it said “Delivered” meant he hadn’t blocked my number—not yet, anyway—so I had to take that as some small amount of hope that he’d make an appearance on Saturday. I needed to see him, needed to try and explain what I now knew to be true.
At this point, it was all I had left.
24
Kile
“It’s a beautiful day in the District today,” the talking head said on my TV as I flipped mindlessly through channels and landed on the weather report for the day. I needed something benign and there was nothing more dull and inoffensive than the weather.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of me, one of the dozens of times it’d done so since I’d fallen off the face of the earth. I didn’t bother even sitting up to see who it was or what they wanted. I didn’t care. Lee, Joel, Jeff, they’d all called and texted me so often I’d lost count and had taken to turning my phone off for hours at a time just so I wouldn’t have to listen to its incessant vibrating.
It’d been more than a week since anyone besides my couch had seen me, and I’d wanted it that way. How could I possibly show my face to anyone after what’d happened? Even if I’d wanted to go outside, I couldn’t because there was an endless rotation of paparazzi parasites camping outside the entrance to my building, waiting to swarm and overpower me with questions until I cracked and gave them exactly what they wanted. More than once, Joel had come by and beat on my door, shouting at me through it that he knew I was there and to let him in, but I never had. I knew he meant well, but I wasn’t ready to talk and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be.
After all, I’d been embarrassed in almost every way imaginable, from having photos of me with Jeff broadcast, posted, and reposted all over the internet, to walking off stage in the middle of one of my own speeches—something I’d never done before—and finding out Jeff had been using me all along.
Just like I thought he would, I thought, and not for the first time. I didn’t think he was that good of an actor, but it was yet another of the ways I’d underestimated him. The disaster at the university the previous Friday night was all I’d been able to think about since Joel had dropped me off here afterward. It was now Saturday afternoon, the day of the big premiere for the documentary, and I’d hoped by now my brain might’ve found something else to think about, but it hadn’t.
So, I’d retreated into day drinking and watching reruns of old sitcoms and shitty old
black and white movies. I almost made the mistake of responding to a text from Jeff, early on in the week, asking me to please come to the premiere—as if I could afford to skip it. Truthfully, I didn’t want anything to do with it, but I knew in my rational head that I couldn’t not be there.
A ton of damage had been done to me and my brand, but if I was going to have any hope of repairing it, it would start at the premiere—and I’d had more than a week to prepare. I’d expose Jeff and Lee both for who and what they were, schemers who made me look like a saint by comparison, and make sure that I scored as much sympathy as I possibly could.
When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I peeled myself up off of the couch and took a quick shower before putting on the nicest suit I had in my closet. I always kept a clean, pressed suit ready because I never knew when I might need it. This suit, a navy blue one accompanied by a salmon-colored tie, was one of my favorites. I’d picked it on purpose because it made me look sympathetic and now more than ever I needed to look as pitiable-yet-presentable as possible, even if I felt like a ship dashed to bits on the rocks inside. The idea of seeing Jeff again, of having to look at his face and pretend that we were the happiest coworkers in the world who were super excited about the mini-series, made me sick.
It didn’t help that everywhere I looked in my house I saw things that reminded me of him. The living room was the worst, thanks to all of the time we’d spent there talking and building what would eventually become the disaster I now lived. I wondered if it’d bothered him while he sat and quizzed me under the guise of getting to know me, knowing all the while that he’d eventually sell me out for his own gain.
I highly doubt it. He’s a journalist, they don’t have hearts, I thought. If only I’d had the brains to realize that three weeks ago. Back in the living room, I scooped up my phone and dared to check the messages and missed calls I’d collected over the day. The most recent was from Joel, asking if he needed to bother wasting the gas to come over and attempt to drag me to the premiere. For the first time in over a week, I wrote back:
>> Me: Don’t worry about it. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself.
I sent the message and slipped my phone into my pocket before stepping out of my condo and taking the elevator to the lobby. As expected, a gang of photographers were there waiting for me. I walked through them, like a man through a swarm of bees, and didn’t say a word to answer any of their questions. They followed me out of the lobby and onto the street until they realized they weren’t going to get anything out of me and gave up.
I slipped into the train station a few minutes later and boarded the train to take me to Dupont and the NewSpin offices.
“Kile! Holy hell, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Lee said to some random NewSpin employees I didn’t recognize as I stepped through the front doors of the NewSpin offices. It was an odd layout, definitely not one I would’ve chosen, but somehow it suited them. The entryway had been decorated with red, white, and blue balloons, dozens of them, and streamers in matching colors. Lee came to me and threw his arms around me, his gut pushing against my stomach, but I didn’t return the gesture.
“I was worried, I didn’t think you’d show up!” he said.
“I probably shouldn’t have, but here I am,” I answered and he chuckled. He’d already gotten to me, already broken me down, so I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing it. I was only here because I had a job to do, no more and no less, and I didn’t want to ruin my plan by being sassy with him.
“Well, you’re just in time. Come on, Cameron and Jeff are waiting for you upstairs,” he said.
“Upstairs?”
“Yeah, we’ve got a staging area ready to go up there,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder to usher me forward.
“Who else?” I asked.
“That’s it. We’re going to be streaming it live on the website as you talk with Cameron and watch the episode together, a sort of viewing party,” he said.
“Fantastic,” I said, and I meant it. I’d get to expose both him and Jeff for being the crooks they were to far more people this way. And with Cameron Edwards hosting the event, there were sure to be millions of viewers. Under any other circumstance, I might’ve found the combination of the three of us on one show exciting, but as we stepped into an elevator side by side and Lee smashed a button to go to the fifth floor, the only thing I felt was dread.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m sure Cameron and Jeff will be, too,” he said. “Why didn’t you return any of our calls?”
“I had a lot to do to prepare,” I answered without looking at him. It wasn’t entirely untrue. I had to get my shit together mentally and otherwise because I didn’t know how long I’d have to spend time with Jeff and what the two of them might try to subject me to, but I also had to steel myself for being in the same room as Jeff again.
“Always prepared, I love it,” Lee said, his tone bright and cheery, like he had absolutely no qualms about what he was doing. I wondered if Jeff had said anything to him, told him that I knew what they were both up to, and decided that he couldn’t have if Lee was this happy and excited. I’m not surprised, I thought. Jeff already got what he needed out of me, so why would he bother thinking about my feelings now?
The elevator dinged and we stepped out into a very nondescript room that was covered in green—probably for studio magic to take place and replace the boring backdrop with something more interesting. Jeff and Cameron sat in two of the three chairs in the middle of the room, Cameron in the middle and Jeff on the left. A crew of camera and sound operators were congregated at a long, brown table to the right of the room and off set.
They all looked up at the noise of the elevator opening and Jeff’s eyes widened when they saw me. He looked uncomfortable before he knew I’d entered the room but looked much more so then. Good, I thought. I hope it kills you to see me, to know what you’ve done. Though I wanted to let go of the hurt and the bitterness he’d caused me, seeing his face again brought it rushing back and I had to bite my tongue, literally, to keep from flying off at the mouth.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Cameron asked Jeff, his face bright with surprise, before he stood from his chair and crossed the room to meet me. He wore a powder-blue suit with thin, navy stripes, accented by a crisp white undershirt and even whiter shoes. His coal-black hair was greased back and parted on the left side. He looked like some sort of game show host. He offered me a hand to shake, which I did. I couldn’t be angry with him, he had no idea what was going on with all of this.
“Kile Avery. We finally meet,” he said, gripping and shaking my hand with more vigor than was necessary. “It’s an honor.”
“Likewise,” I lied. He smiled and let go of my hand before stepping aside to gesture at Jeff.
“And of course you already know who this is,” he said.
“Do I ever,” I said and Cameron chuckled.
“Hey,” Jeff said lamely, waving at me.
“You ready to do this thing?” Lee asked, clapping me on the back and making me jump. For a moment, I’d forgotten he was there—and now wished he wasn’t.
“As ready as I can be,” I said. Lee checked his watch and twirled his finger in the air in a circle above his head.
“Alright, places everyone! Let’s get this show on the road,” he said and the crew jumped to life. Before I knew what was happening, a team of three makeup artists were at my face with pads ready to beat me.
“I’m good, thanks. I did my own makeup before I came,” I said.
“Listen to him, guys, he’s an expert,” Lee said, still wearing a shit eating grin. Thankfully, they did listen and backed off.
“Don’t be bashful, Kile. Come and have a seat with us, let’s chat,” Cameron said as he retreated back to his seat. I took the one on my right, his left. It was a rounded, uncomfortable piece of plastic that looked almost like a bubble on a stick. Jeff leaned forward so he could see me, his eyes searching my face. He looked anxious and
depressed, but I paid him no mind. I wasn’t there for him and I didn’t want him to think otherwise, no matter what he said or did. I was there to save myself, to try and salvage whatever of my career I still could. He wasn’t included in that effort.
“So, this has all been pretty crazy, huh?” Cameron asked.
“Shouldn’t we save this for the live stream?” I answered. I didn’t really want to talk to him—or anyone else present in the room, for that matter—anymore than I had to.
“We’re just two guys getting to know each other. It’ll make the interview and other bits easier for all of us,” Cameron said, undeterred. Thankfully, though, Lee clapped his hands and interrupted any further forced conversation.
“Cameron, are you ready?”
“I was born ready, boss,” he said with a warm smile, his too-white teeth flashing in the powerful light that had just flared up from overhead. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust.
“Good. Brian, get them all mic’d up,” Lee ordered a short, young guy. He seemed nervous and not totally sure what he was doing. He had all the earmarks of an intern. Brian snuck behind me and hung a microphone pack from the back of my pants, then passed me the cord and earpiece for me to slip over my ear. I watched him struggle with the other two as I adjusted the earpiece.
“OK, let’s make sure we’re all on the same page here,” Lee said. “We’ve got an hour and a half blocked out for the live stream. This is all going to be broadcast in real time on the NewSpin website, so don’t forget that. The first thirty minutes we’ll spend talking about the show, your relationships, and everything that happened during the recording. The second thirty will be the broadcast of the first episode, which we’ll all watch together with the audience. The last thirty minute chunk will be a kind of retrospective on the episode itself, how it turned out. Everyone clear?” Lee asked. I nodded before taking a deep breath.
Clickbait (Off the Record Book 1) Page 24