Out of the Box 7 - Sea Change

by Robert J. Crane

  Unasked, she looped her arm around his, faster than he could say anything, and started to lightly drag him along. “You simply must tell me about your latest movie …” She reminded me of something out of a Jane Austen novel, but with a much more predatory air. She shot me a furious STAY BACK! look as she hauled him out of the radius of my … I dunno, my antisocial slime, probably.

  “Oh, good, she got to meet Steven,” Taggert said, easing up behind me. He wasn’t quiet about it, fortunately, which gave me ample warning so I wasn’t surprised. Which would have been bad, but mostly for him.

  “Why is that good?” I asked.

  “Have you seen the guy?” Taggert asked, like I was stupid. “California’s most eligible bachelor. He’s not just a flavor of the month, that boy’s got staying power. If he could even do a guest spot, maybe as a date for Kitten, we’re talking top-shelf ratings. We’ll gain five points of share that night, it’d be an event.” He squealed a little, under his breath. “Can you imagine the wedding ratings?”

  “She just met him.”

  “It’d be huge,” Taggert went on, probably not hearing me over the sound of cash register bells in his head. “And the divorce episodes would be a great storyline for—”

  “I like how you jump right to assuming they’re going to both marry and divorce, mere seconds after they just met for the first time.” The former was kind of optimistic, but the latter was the sort of practiced cynicism I would have tended to hang my hat on. If I ever wore a hat.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” Taggert asked with a grin.

  “Oh, good,” I said, “I was afraid I wasn’t being obvious enough about it.”

  “Listen,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. If I hadn’t had both a jacket and a blouse on, as well as a bra strap, I think I would have needed to scrub myself bloody just to feel somewhat normal afterward; as it was, I was just going to burn the clothes. “I’m connected out here. I’ve got a lot of sway … with the right people, the right causes. I could help you.” His grin stretched wider. “Maybe help make you Teflon. We do the editing right, you come out of this season looking like a hero, maybe help you pick up some lost points in the public relations department.”

  I didn’t bother to pretend that wouldn’t have been helpful, but I really despised it when people held that particular carrot over my head, because it was always attached to a stick that they tried their best to get me to ignore. “In exchange for?”

  Taggert shrugged broadly. “You’re doing a favor for Kitten. Maybe you could do some favors for me, too.”

  He kept his delivery well on this side of randy, but I still frowned. “Such as?”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” he said, patting my shoulder reassuringly. “The point is—I’ve got power that could help you. Plus, I drive a 1961 Ferrari 250 GT SWB California Spyder. It’s the car from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” He grinned, his even teeth practically begging to be punched out. “I’m quite the guy.”

  “Yes,” I said dryly, “you’re an amazing human being. Why, you could probably even lift Mjolnir.”

  “You play ball,” he went on, making me feel greasy just being in proximity to him, “you could have a career out here, maybe—”

  “Not interested,” I said, firmly, ready to walk away. He clenched his fingers a little tighter, enough to stop me and get my evil eye, but as soon as I started to spin on him, he let go and held them up.

  “I know the president,” he said. “Your boss, technically. I could put in a good word. I’ve heard you had problems—”

  “You know Gerry Harmon?” I gave him a wary eye.

  “I do,” he smiled even more broadly.

  “Tell him he’s a dick and I’m not voting for him,” I said, flashing him an evil grin. Taggert’s face fell in a way that was just—it was like the most beautiful thing I could imagine, and I’d known the guy for all of an hour. I had a feeling he didn’t get the rug yanked out from him very often, and it was sweet.

  “Tell him yourself,” came a voice from behind me, chillingly familiar.

  I spun around, and I felt my stomach drop like I was on a Midwest Airlines flight that had run out of fuel. Unfortunately, I was unlikely to save it because I was experiencing something of a falling sensation myself at the moment. It was at that moment that I kicked myself for not realizing—dumbass, dumbass, dumbass—that the Secret Service wannabes weren’t actually wannabes—they were the real deal.

  “President Harmon,” I said quietly, with just a hint of contrition.

  “Sienna Nealon,” President Gerard Harmon said, staring coolly at me icy blue eyes, a placid look on his face. “How interesting to finally meet you … and under these circumstances, no less.”

  12.

  Scott

  Scott had gotten lost in a hallway, staring at a beach scene painted on a broad canvas. He’d kind of zoned off looking at the scenery for a few minutes, and when he’d turned back to say something to Sienna, she’d been gone. “Damn,” he muttered mildly as a thin woman in a black dress slipped by him with barely more than an acknowledgment. He looked down at his slightly sloppy suit, the same one he’d worn to his business meeting this afternoon, and felt a surge of complete and utter inadequacy.

  Another beautiful woman passed him by without so much as a look, and he started to say, “Excuse me,” but stopped himself. Why did it matter what anyone else thought? He wasn’t here because he wanted to be; he was here because Kat’s life was in danger.

  Yet another starlet came past, walking in such a way that he had to practically crowbar his head in the opposite direction to keep from staring. “Must lead to the bathroom,” he said, and made his way back down the narrow hall toward a living room.

  The crowd here wasn’t too bad, and he could feel a little more humidity in the air than what he’d been dealing with outside. It was actually somewhat refreshing indoors, and he guessed by the green lawn he’d seen when they were driving up that this area wasn’t failing to get its fair share of water, even during drought conditions.

  “Scott!” came the booming voice of Buchanan Brock, his broad smile obvious from a mile way and way more inviting than any of the other receptions Scott gotten thus far this evening, save perhaps from Sienna. He had his arms open and was waving Scott over from a small group of people in the corner. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Brock said, with that drawl of his.

  “I didn’t expect to be here,” Scott said, easing up to where Brock stood with two twenty-something lovelies. He tried not to stare, seeing the much older man with the younger women was like a tickling sensation on his upper lip, making him smile awkwardly in spite of himself. “What brings you to this party?”

  “Oh, I took the 405,” Brock said casually. “Got off at—”

  “I meant—uh, who invited you?” Scott asked. “Not to be rude.”

  “Oh, that’s not rude, I just didn’t understand you,” Brock said, patting him warmly on the shoulder. “I always get invited to the president’s fundraisers in LA.”

  Scott’s eyebrows crept toward the ceiling. “This is a fundraiser?”

  “I know, I know,” Brock said, “this close to the election? But with our man Harmon trailing Foreman in the polls, he needs some cash to dump on swing states—”

  “I meant I didn’t know the president was—” Scott felt himself seize internally, like machinery encountering resistance within. “President Harmon is here?”

  “Why yes, he is,” Brock said with that same grin, motioning toward a passage into what looked like the kitchen. “He just came through a minute before you did, in fact. Would you like me to arrange an introduction?”

  “Whoa, no,” Scott said, holding up his hands in front of him as if to defend himself from the prospect of just such an introduction. “I’m one of the simple folk, not a presidential hand-shaker. Under the radar, that’s where I live.”

  Brock grinned. “If that’s so, you’re at the wrong party, friend.” He pulled a hand arou
nd expansively. “I mean, just look at what we’re dealing with here. Starlets, power-brokers, directors—I think I even saw Joss Whedon earlier.”

  “Ooh,” Scott said, looking around, “him I’d like to meet.”

  “I think it’s about time I moseyed on,” Brock said, lifting his arms. One of the women with him slid her thin shoulders underneath and he lowered it to protectively encompass her. “I’m sure a young man like you understands.” He cast a look back at the other young woman. “You staying, then?” She made a little face and his smirk grew even wider. “All right.” Brock extended a hand to Scott and Scott took it, getting a firm handshake in return. “You think about what we talked about. Chew it over with your dad and let me know what you come up with.”

  “Will do,” Scott said, and made way for the big man to thread his way through the crowded living room toward the door. He waited until Brock had walked out the front door before he spoke again. “Now there’s a man living the high life.”

  “Ewww,” the woman Brock had left behind said in reply, shuddering as she stood and walked away. Scott watched her go. He didn’t need to do too much imagining to figure out exactly what she was talking about.

  13.

  Kat

  The party was buzzing, but the lack of cameras left Kat feeling a little cold in spite of the warm air in the backyard, where she stood in a small circle of her friends.

  “Did you see the dress Caitlynn Courie was wearing?” Anna Vargas asked, running a diamond-crusted hand over her face to show off her newest rock. The girl did like to shop.

  “No,” Kat gasped, pushing herself into the conversation. She was suppressing some minor irritation because Steven Clayton had ditched her as soon as she’d rescued him from Sienna, making some excuse about needing to powder his nose. He’d even said exactly that, and what was she going to do? Tell him not to go do a line? That would have been rude. “What did it look like?”

  “You’ll probably see it on the red carpet in a few weeks,” Flannery Steiner said, holding a champagne goblet in front of puckered, amused lips. “Along with the sides, top and bottom of her tits.” Flannery was a former Disney Channel star who had left her childhood image behind in a squeal of tires from a high-speed chase that had resulted in her eighteenth arrest for possession of a controlled substance. The chase was the consequence of her having sex with her boyfriend in a public place and then running from the cops when they’d pulled up behind her while she still on the young man’s lap. The tabloid headlines had been exposure that had made Taggert wonder if Kat should feign a drug habit—or even pick up a real one for a bit. It’s not like track marks would be a problem for her; they’d heal overnight. The public indecency thing would be a little harder for her to stomach, but Taggert was pushing it, especially if she could get the right setup and partner.

  “I’m so jealous of that dress,” Anna said, taking a sip of her drink, a pink concoction in a martini glass. “Who is it?”

  “Chanel, I think?” Bree Lancer said, brushing her long auburn hair back carefully so as not to disturb her well-designed coif. It was a distinctive look that left a little hair hanging over her eyes.

  “By the way,” Anna Vargas said, lowering her voice, “I heard what happened to you this afternoon, Kat. That’s so terrible. My thoughts are with you.”

  “Oh, yes,” Flannery agreed, putting a hand across her chest. “Just awful, what happened to your bodyguards. I sent you a tweet of support and RT’d Jenny Kline’s Tumblr post. So glad you’re okay.”

  “Ooh, I saw Jenny’s Tumblr post,” Bree said, sucking in a breath that disturbed her hanging hair. “I thought it was, like, so on the nose.” She looked to Kat. “So sorry. How are you holding up?”

  Kat froze. She wasn’t entirely sure what to say in this case. “I’m … I’m okay.”

  “At least you’re getting a ton of attention over it,” Anna said, a little jealously. “And I saw your new bodyguard. Whoever this disgusting vagrant guy that’s after you is, I doubt he’ll mess with Sienna Nealon.”

  “Ohmigosh,” Bree said, “Sienna Nealon is here?”

  “Is that who that was?” Flannery whipped her head around to look back at the house. “Z-O-M-G, ratings. Nice move, Taggert.” She turned to look at Kat. “You’re so lucky Taggert is working on your show. He’s a genius. Meanwhile, I’m sinking in share by the episode.” Her eyelids drooped and she puckered her lips frightfully. “You don’t think he’d want to try and turn things around for me, do you?”

  “If Taggert takes on any other projects, I want him on mine,” Anna said in a huff.

  Kat forced a brittle smile. “He’s good.”

  “He’s brilliant,” Bree said. “The only way I’d consider a reality TV project was if Taggert came to me with it.” She cast her eyes skyward in thought. “What do you suppose it’d cost to get something like that off the ground?”

  A little dignity and all your self-respect, said a little voice in the back of Kat’s mind. “It’s easier than you think,” was what she said to them, though.

  “Hey, did you guys meet the president yet?” Anna asked, looking back toward the house. “It’s so cool to be at a party where the president is, can you believe it?”

  “Yeah,” Bree said, puffing up a little. “I mean, look at the people here. It kinda makes you feel important, doesn’t it?”

  There was a small chorus of agreement that descended into a conversation that Kat mostly missed. In her head, she was retreating into a circle of thoughts that she didn’t want to entertain but felt like she couldn’t escape, like the worst houseguest in history.

  Does it make you feel important, being here at a party with all these famous people?

  Does brushing up against people who are known make you feel good about yourself?

  No.

  Well, then why are you working so damned hard to do it?

  The answer she had didn’t satisfy, but instead of delving deeper she pulled away and smiled and listened along to a conversation about Givenchy while those damned houseguests in her head tried their hardest to make her feel like shit about the life she’d worked so hard to build.

  14.

  Sienna

  “You’re a dick,” I said to the president of the United States as he raised an eyebrow sharply in amusement. “You said to tell you myself, so …” I waited for a thunderous response, for some hint of darkening around his eyes, for the Secret Service to yank me offstage with one of those hooked canes, but nothing came. The president seemed genial and good-natured, his light-brown hair streaked with hints of grey—but surprisingly few considering that he was in his sixties.

  “And so you did,” Gerard “Gerry” Harmon said with a nod and that hint of a smile.

  “You seem strangely unmoved by it, though,” I said.

  “Well, it really burned me up the first time you said it, when your back was still turned to me. Probably lost most of its impact in the interval between.” He kept his lips in a flat line, deadpan. “Or maybe it lost its sting when I ran for governor of Massachusetts that first time and stupidly wandered into an internet message board where they called me ever-so-much worse.” He smiled. When he spoke, his words came out infused with so much personality that I almost felt like I needed to take a step back. “What brings you to the state of California tonight, Ms. Nealon?”

  I tried to find an answer that was somewhat appropriate given that I was speaking to the man at the top of the pyramid and I’d already called him a dick and he’d forgiven me. Don’t get me wrong, I had a feeling my days on the job were limited, but I wasn’t in a hurry to hasten my departure from government service. “Well, there was an incident …”

  “There frequently is when you’re involved,” Harmon said with a touch of good humor. “Would this be the meta attack against your friend Ms. Forrest earlier?”

  “You heard about that, huh?” I asked, feeling a little nervous suddenly.

  “I get informed of quite a bit,” President Harmon said.
“Something about the job I’m in, I suppose. I think people might hesitate to vote for a president who doesn’t know a damned thing. They like to save that for senators, see.”

  “Nice,” I said, admiring the shot he’d just taken at his opponent. Senator Robb Foreman of Tennessee had been an ally—maybe kindasorta a friend?—during the war.

  “Oh, I think you might have taken that the wrong way,” Harmon said with a smile that told me I hadn’t. “I didn’t mean to insult your friend, especially since he’s done so much for you.”

  I hadn’t seen Robb Foreman since early in the summer, when he’d given me a little assistance on a case I was struggling with in Atlanta. That had been just before he’d won his party’s nomination in a big, glorious ceremony in the middle of an arena in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. I’d caught the replay; Foreman knew how to play to a crowd. Which had been of real help to him when he’d rolled into the first debate with Gerry Harmon a few weeks later and given the president a drubbing unlike the man had ever received in his entire political career. I’d watched that, too, until it had gotten too painful and I’d had to turn it off.

  Yeah. It was so bad that I—yes, me—had felt it was an unfair, lopsided, brutal contest and had changed the channel to watch Agents of S.H.I.E.LD. instead. The second debate had been marginally better for Harmon, but not exactly a win. Fortunately for him, there was not a third, but he lost ten points in the polls and was heading into election week at a rather significant disadvantage.

  He watched me carefully. “If what I hear about you is true, I think can almost sense the sarcasm going on behind your eyes.”

  “Admire my restraint,” I said with some regret. “It’s a thing I’m working on.”

  “And I appreciate that,” he said with a little irony. “Why, it’s been something like ninety days since you last embarrassed my administration, and don’t think we haven’t noticed. If you make it to a hundred twenty, I’ll send you a fruit basket.”