Wild Irish: Wild Image (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A Charisma series novel, The Connollys Book 1)

by Heather Hiestand

  He wondered how old she was. He’d have to find out. “Are you asking me on a date, or offering me a job?”

  “Maybe both. Can I have your number?”

  He hesitated, then pulled a business card out of a back pocket of his jeans. While he didn’t want her harassing him with every fantasy she had of a photo op for himself, only wealthy or well-connected women were cast on the show in the first place. It was supposed to be about the elite, and people paid for photographs of the elite.

  Of course, elite was about as far as anyone could get from him.

  Nonetheless, he handed her the card, not sure what she was up to. Hell, he wasn’t even clear on how real these reality shows were. Did she actually want to date him, or to pretend? Jorge shouted at him as another big black car turned on to the street.

  “I need to get back to work, and you’d better clean your hands,” he said.

  She smiled at him, the expression going decidedly feline, due to the shape of her features. “Absolutely. I’ll be in touch.”

  ~

  The next day, Dion went to Pat’s in the afternoon, without a camera this time. He had the impression that Kasee Kean was well known at the pub and he’d learn more about her from her friends than he would reading a bunch of garbage on the blogs.

  He spotted Pop on his usual stool at the bar. The bartender nodded when he lifted a finger, and then he sat down next to the elderly pub owner.

  “How are you doing, sir? I’m Dion Hamilton.”

  Pop smiled in a friendly fashion, a response a photojournalist didn’t always receive. “I know who you are, son. Seen you outside a hundred times.”

  “If you’re going to make a living as a photographer in Baltimore, Pat’s is one of the main spots around,” Dion said. “I think a quarter of my income comes from staking out your pub and restaurant.”

  “If the celebrities didn’t want to be photographed, they’d complain,” Pat said.

  “Exactly. Or they’d sneak out the back.”

  “Or try something else. Did you ever hear the story about Sky’s first visit here?”

  Dion had, of course, it was legend by now, but he wanted to hear the old man’s version. “Tell me.”

  Pop reminisced for twenty minutes about the courtship between his daughter Teagan and the legendary rock star before Dion steered him off course. “Speaking of celebrities and Sky, did you catch much of what was happening last night with him and that Kasee Kean?”

  Pop shook his head. “That poor woman. I didn’t watch her program but Riley told me about what happened to her. It’s enough to send any woman off the rails. Still, I’d rather she not attack my customers.”

  “She wanted to be photographed.” Dion reflected. “She’s actually pretty clever. We told her we were only shooting musicians so she put herself in a photo op with one.”

  “Did you sell any of the photos with her?”

  Dion chuckled. “For good money, too. Not sure what it will do for her career, looking like a lunatic, but yeah, she got exposure.”

  “Maybe that’s her new brand. Kasee Kean the lunatic.”

  “Do you know her very well?”

  “She’s in between my children and grandchildren, age-wise. But I think one of my sons knew her ex-husband. I remember she told me her first date with him was at our restaurant.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Sure. They had a weekly Saturday night date here for years. But you know how it is with some men. They turn forty and suddenly their lives aren’t looking so perfect. I remember hearing about one of their date nights. This would have been before the reality show. They had a shouting match and one of the servers got concerned.”

  “Why?”

  “Keith broke his wineglass, I think, and then ended up brushing his arm across the table, sending all the dishes flying.”

  Dion frowned. “Accidentally?”

  “No, on purpose. The server was afraid his wife was being abused. We discussed banning them from the restaurant, but the server said she wanted to keep an eye on Mrs. Kean.”

  “So there was drama long before the show aired?”

  “Yes. Maybe they thought stardom would help their marriage? I’m sure it helped his businesses.”

  “Car dealerships, right?”

  “Yep. He’s made good money, that Keith Kean.”

  Dion passed cash to the bartender as he set a beer mug down. “She hit on me.”

  “Divorced now,” Pat said evenly. “Husband’s about to remarry.”

  “It must have happened pretty fast.”

  “No children. Prenup.”

  Dion blew foam out of his way and took a sip of his beer. “How old is she?”

  “Thirty-one. Fourteen years younger than the husband. New fiancée is in her twenties. She won’t last long. The former mistresses never do.”

  Dion was twenty-seven, considerably younger than the ex-husband. “He’ll keep trading down for a younger model.”

  Pop lifted his eyebrows. “She’s trying to trade down too, from what you’re saying.”

  “It might be entirely mercenary. She thinks I’d make good television.”

  “You’re a good-looking kid.”

  Dion laughed. “Thanks, Pop. I appreciate that.”

  “You interested in her? Not the type of lady to play games with. Fragile, newly divorced.”

  “Lost everything?”

  “I would imagine. Those prenups are never going to favor a woman like her.” Pop shook his head, a sharp, disgusted movement.

  “She looked expensive. The shoes, the purse.”

  “Left over from her marriage. Nah, she doesn’t have much. Her job was that TV show, and she was fired, right?”

  Suddenly, the motivation for her behavior became clear. She’d indicated she was still on the show. Liar. “So she’s trying to get her job back. If that doesn’t work it’s back to whatever she did before her marriage?”

  “That was going to college. Like I said, she’s been coming here for a long time. Still in school when she started dating Keith. She’s probably never worked a real job.”

  “Would you hire her as a waitress?”

  Pop slapped the bar in time with his laugh. “Not after that mess with Sky last night. No, she’s got a strike against her now, just like her husband did with his fit a couple of years ago.”

  “If you were me would you date her?” Dion lifted his mug as the bartender reappeared.

  “I would,” the bartender said before Pop could answer. “Crazy can be a lot of fun in bed.”

  “She’s calculating, though,” Dion countered. “I talked to her just a minute before she went for Sky. Yeah, she got hurt and was a little nuts for a second, but then I talked to her again afterward and she was making sense.”

  “So she’s not crazy?” the bartender asked.

  “I think all celebrities are a little crazy,” Dion said. “The question is, do I want to be with that kind of crazy?”

  Pop grinned. “She’s a pretty little thing. Nothing like my late wife Sunday at her best, but I’d have given her a second look when I was a young man.”

  Chapter Two

  Kasee knew the best time to persuade Brock Noonan, the showrunner and executive producer of Ladies of Baltimore, to do something was just after lunch. He was one of those old-school lunchtime schmoozers and drinkers and could always be found very loose and relaxed around two p.m. Not only that, his secretary was a smoker and Kasee knew how to time her entrance just right, so that she could breeze into his office while the doorkeeper was polluting the air around the delivery entrance in the back of the building.

  Accordingly, she entered the squat office structure at ten to two, went up to the third floor, and had seated herself on one of Brock’s visitors’ chairs before he knew what had hit him. She wore a pale pink shift dress, pearls, and tall pumps, the very picture of a lady.

  “Kasee,” he said warily, pushing a pile of papers off to the side of his blotter. About Keith’s age, he had
n’t aged quite as well.

  She noted he had a new spider vein apparent on his cheek. Must have been hitting the bottle pretty hard these past few months. She leaned forward and cooed, “Brock, love, handsome as ever.”

  He didn’t rise like he would have a year ago. No cheek kissing, no expression of delight. But he wasn’t calling security, either. It was a start.

  “What can I do for you?” He checked his gold tank watch deliberately.

  “That’s new.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the watch.

  “Gift from the network,” Brock mumbled.

  She forced enthusiasm into her voice, channeling her friend Louise with a bottle of wine in her. “That’s great! And you always said they forgot about you in this distant outpost.”

  He looked at his pile of papers. “Show did well.”

  “In no small way thanks to me,” she said, projecting confidence.

  He held up a warning hand. “Kasee.”

  “I never actually touched Tammy,” she reminded him, refusing to be shamed. “No physical contact, no charges brought against me.”

  “True, but—”

  She stared at his lifted hand until he returned it to his desk. “I know two things. One, you haven’t started filming group scenes yet, and two, I have a fantastic new storyline for myself. All you have to do is start shooting scenes with me again. Ratings gold, I promise.”

  Brock rolled his eyes and propelled his wheeled desk chair to the drinks table he kept in the corner, just under the window. His disinterest in walking probably accounted for the new five pounds straining above his belt. He poured himself something out of a glass decanter and knocked it back. “You want something?”

  “No, I only drink on the job.”

  He coughed and returned to his desk, leaving the dirty glass on the table. “Loose women make good television, but you really scared us, Kasee. Tammy and Keith said they wouldn’t sign the second season contract unless you were fired.”

  “And you did, and they did, so now you can sign me again.”

  “They don’t want you in the same room as them,” he said, bluntness slurred by alcohol.

  “They can’t prevent it anyway. Not all of our friends deserted me.” Most did, of course, but there was still a chance she’d be invited a few places where the cameras would film. At least, people would invite her to charity events for one more season, to see if she had enough money from her divorce settlement to keep donating to their causes.

  Brock made a noncommittal noise, but he folded his hands on top of the desk, his listening pose.

  “My Q rating is much higher than Tammy’s,” Kasee said, referring to the American fan familiarity metric.

  “But lower than your husband’s,” Brock reminded her.

  Of course. He’d been a celebrity before the show began. “This show is about the women, not the men.”

  “It’s the total package. Don’t kid yourself.”

  She ran with his phrase. “Okay, so let me pitch you a new total package. Me, the disgraced ex-wife, starting over. And how do I start over? I humiliate myself in front of the paparazzi! I make a pass at Sky Mitchell!”

  Brock blinked. “This is your plan?”

  “No, this is the part that happened yesterday, which led to my romantic do-over. Look.” She pulled a slightly fuzzy photograph of Dion Hamilton out of her purse. She’d printed it off of his website, but onto regular copy paper, so it had not come out very well.

  Brock took the sheet. “Who is this?”

  “The paparazzo. Hot, right? A little younger than me, bi-racial, spends his days chasing celebrities.”

  “And?”

  “I’m pitching an interracial romance, Brock! You know how much flack the show took last season for only having Stephanie Steele to represent the African-American population. From what I’ve heard you haven’t replaced me, which means you are down to four main cast members, and that isn’t enough.”

  “We are watching a couple of the supporting ladies carefully. When we get closer to the air date, we’ll move one or two of them up to lead status.”

  Kasee fisted her hands under the desk, careful not to shred her hosiery. “I’m a much better bet. Disgraced, crazy me, a bi-racial boyfriend, a possibility for some wild celebrity drama.”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes fluttered shut for an instant.

  “Tell Keith and Tammy they’ll get to spend the season humiliating me! What’s their storyline anyway, without me? Middle-aged newlyweds. Boring.”

  “Tammy is only twenty-nine, and her first shots of the season were her going through breast implant surgery.”

  Kasee wrinkled her nose. “Gross. She should just get treatment for her eating disorder instead. That would allow her to put weight on.”

  Brock gestured at her chest. “Yours aren’t fake?”

  “No, I have Giselle Bündchen’s body type.” She waited patiently while Brock, the pig, checked her out. “As if you haven’t perused my measurements before.”

  “I’m sure they are in the file somewhere, along with anything else we can use to build a storyline. Did you lose weight or gain with your divorce?”

  “Neither. Too much self-control.” And no more budget for those fancy restaurant dinners, which she’d always had to spend a week working off.

  Brock shook his head. She could see weariness setting in. Time for his nap. And she couldn’t risk him getting tired of her again.

  “One chance. One shoot. You don’t even need to spend the time documenting our relationship yet,” she urged. “Just a group scene. Check us out together. He’s absolute eye candy.”

  Brock took a deep breath through his nose. It whistled. “Fine. Day after tomorrow. There is a dinner party at a restaurant on North Charles Street. Private dining area set off from the main area. We’ll see how Keith and Tammy react when you arrive.”

  She bounced in her seat, just barely stopping her hands from clapping together. She had a shot at getting her job back! “Do you want me to behave, or not to behave?”

  Brock made a few keystrokes on his open laptop and turned it around on his desk. He’d pulled up an eastern seaboard gossip blog. And there she was, her mouth open, right next to Sky Mitchell’s ear. That heavyset guy, a follower or bodyguard, already had his hands on her waist, pulling her away. The photographer had framed the shot brilliantly.

  They had been snapping her all along and she hadn’t realized it. How kind of them to sell that shot instead of one of her panties. She liked this Dion Hamilton better every minute. “I look good crazy,” she said. “The Botox keeps my face in check, and there isn’t an ounce of fat on me.”

  “Your ass looks spectacular. Just be yourself,” Brock said, closing the computer’s lid. “That’s all we ever ask of you.”

  ~

  Dion turned away from his laptop when his cellphone rang. He checked the caller ID. His mother. Before picking up the phone, he checked the time. Seven-thirty p.m., that time of day where his mother had just found her happy spot with a few dinner drinks but hadn’t yet drank herself to sleep.

  “Hi Mom.” He signed out of the website where he’d just uploaded ten decent pictures of Baltimore sports stars that he’d taken during a team practice, thanks to being friends with the assistant coach.

  “Johan is asking for you,” she said.

  Instinctively, he rated her voice for slurs and depression. She sounded clear enough, but definitely tired. “I’ve been working around the clock, Mom. Now that it’s April people are on the streets. It’s time to make some money.”

  The real reason for her call appeared. “I do need some help, if you have a few extra dollars,” she said, sounding a little sharper now.

  “What do you need?” Always something, but he couldn’t blame her. She’d been widowed when Johan was only ten, and taking care of a Down’s child took more than most people could manage as it was. At least Dion had been nineteen and out of the house by then, no longer a financial burden.


  “I need some extra caregiver hours from the agency this month, but I don’t have any more state money. Can you help me out? It’s twenty dollars an hour.”

  “When do you need to be away? Maybe I can be with him.”

  “I’m sure your time is worth more than twenty dollars, Dion.” Her tone went snarly. “I know you make good money.”

  Ah yes, there was the anger, as the wine kicked in. “Sometimes I do. It’s been a lean winter. I make most of my money in three seasons.” If he felt Johan would be safe with him out of town, he’d head to Los Angeles for the winter, but his mother fell sometimes when she was drunk. Last November she’d been in the hospital for four days after a head injury.

  “Maybe you should move home in the winter.”

  “And lose my apartment? No, I’ve lived here three years.” He’d been on the waiting list for this studio apartment near the waterfront for two years before that.

  “I think that’s selfish. Johan would love to have you around more.”

  “I see him every week, Mom. The house is too small to have me coming and going at all hours anyway. When I have the police scanner going it’s loud, too. Johan has enough trouble sleeping with his apnea.”

  “I just don’t know how you can live with yourself s-s-some days.”

  He felt that familiar clench in his stomach. “You’re lucky to have Johan, Mom, and so am I. He’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. But one of us has to work, and that’s me, so I have to have a living situation that makes that possible.”

  He heard no response. When he pulled the phone away from his ear he saw she’d hung up on him. Well, there was no point in arguing with a drunk. She was only forty-six, but her abusive relationship with his father had damaged her health, and then losing the husband she’d found when Dion was six had broken her heart and sent her on a path from a little too much drinking to full-blown alcoholism. What Dion had managed to keep from her was a steadily-growing nest egg. Someday he needed to be able to pay for a full-time housekeeper to live with him and care for Johan when his mother was no longer capable.

  Thank God being a paparazzo paid well, if he could be out on the streets finding the shots.