If You Can't Take the Heat

by Melissa Brown

  “But yeah, we’ll watch him and see what happens. Not much else we can do if he’s here every day. He hasn’t missed a day yet.” Chris paused, reaching for a pencil and tapping it against his desk. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something else. Something . . . sensitive. And I need you to keep an open mind.”

  Whitney scrunched her nose. “Not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “I met with a couple of crew members yesterday. They’ve, um, noticed some things. About Charlie.”

  “Oh.”

  “He, uh . . . he’s got a bit of a mean streak.”

  “Yeah.” Whitney looked down at the floor. “I’ve noticed that too.”

  “Lloyd came in early one day last week and saw Charlie switching the labels of some spices in Rancourt’s station. When I told Saul, he had the camera crew install hidden cameras throughout the soundstage. Let’s just say Hutchins has been a busy guy.”

  So the sabotage is confirmed. No wonder Wes was frazzled. Damn you, Charlie!

  Whitney was prepared for the lecture of a lifetime from Chris. She knew this was all her fault. It was because of her personal dalliances with Charlie that he was lashing out at Wes. She was prepared to accept responsibility. “Listen, I—”

  “I know what you’re gonna say, Whit.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “And I think you should let me finish first.”

  “Ooo-kay.” She was puzzled, wondering what else there could be to tell. Wes wouldn’t retaliate—he was far too classy for that.

  “Rancourt isn’t his only target. Like I said, he’s been a busy guy.”

  Her eyes bulged. “Go on.”

  “It started with Wes, but he’s branched out. So far, he’s been caught in Joe’s kitchen as well as Coralee’s.”

  Coralee?

  “Clearly, he knows who his competition is,” Chris continued. “Those are our three front-runners.”

  “He’s trying to get them booted before the final four.”

  “Exactly. If those three are all gone, he’ll win this for sure. Those other cooks would never recover from his antics, and we both know he has no plans to stop. He thinks he’s fooling everyone.”

  “Did you tell the judges?”

  “Saul did. They’ve already decided who the final four are.”

  “But this round isn’t over.”

  “C’mon, Whit, you know it’s not based on just one round. These four are our best.”

  “Wait,” Whitney screeched, leaning forward in her chair, gripping Chris’s desk with the tips of her fingers. “So Charlie, despite his cheating, is being sent to the finals? Are you kidding me?”

  “We have a plan. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I’m listening.” She was annoyed, but she had to hear him out. She was way too far down the rabbit hole. She needed to know everything there was to know.

  “We have footage, Whit. Lots of it.”

  “And what do you plan to do with it?”

  “He’s our villain.”

  Most reality shows had a distinct game plan. There were set characters who played a role, and editing made everything come together to make sense to those at home. Even if contestants didn’t display every characteristic of their archetype, production and editing had a way of manipulating them into doing so. All you had to do was watch The Bachelor or Survivor to see it done and done very well. However, when Whitney was knee-deep in casting The Great American Cook-Off, she’d risen above the established archetypes to select the very best talent. She focused on cooking ability and dynamic personality. Nothing more.

  “So, what, exactly? You’re going to expose him to the public?”

  Chris nodded. “It’ll be great TV.”

  “I see.” Whitney swallowed hard. Yes, she agreed that Charlie’s behavior was devious, and part of her sought vindication for Wes and the other two who’d fallen victim to his sabotage. Yes, his behavior was erratic, and yes, he’d shown his foul temper, but part of her remained loyal to the Charlie she’d first met. The Charlie who reassured her that she was desirable and valued after Nolan threw her away so carelessly. Part of her would always be grateful for that. If not for Charlie, she might not have opened herself up to Wes.

  “I know you’re seeing him, and this puts you in an odd spot.”

  “I’m not seeing him anymore,” Whitney answered, realizing she’d been so determined to keep her private life separated from the set of the show that she’d never told Chris about her exclusive relationship with Wes. Quite frankly, it was none of his business.

  “Oh, you’re not?” Chris’s brow was knitted. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Wait.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you asking my permission to do this?”

  “Editing obviously doesn’t begin for a few more weeks. Just think about it, okay? Saul is really pushing for this. He thinks Hutchins will put the show on the map. Hell, he thinks Charlie did this on purpose.”

  “He thinks Charlie wants to be the villain?”

  “Haven’t you ever seen Survivor? Villains generate buzz and a following. They get invited back to the show. They become household names.”

  Whitney chewed on her lip, doubting the Charlie she knew would actually want to be a villain.

  “No,” she disagreed. “I think he just wants to win. Like, desperately. His rugby career ended and he’s used to being a star. He wants that show, not to be a reality star.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  She wasn’t sure. But she also wasn’t sure she could take that risk knowing she held so much doubt. She didn’t want to hurt Charlie, especially since he was so hung up on her. She’d already broken his heart—could she really be a part of breaking his resolve as well?

  “But it’ll destroy Charlie. He’ll be hated, despised.”

  Chris shrugged. “Most likely, yes.”

  “He’s already lost one career, Chris. I—I don’t know,” she stammered, not wanting Charlie’s name to be smeared, even if he deserved it.

  “Just think about it. If you need me to tone it down, I will. But I can tell you right now, Saul won’t just ignore it. At some level, Charlie’s antics will be exposed and it’ll make great TV.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it. I will.”

  “Thanks. Now let’s get back to the set. We don’t wanna keep them waiting. It’s already been a long morning.”

  Whitney and Chris walked back to the set just in time to hear a crash.

  What the hell?

  “Help!” Coralee yelled. “Call 911! Somebody please!”

  Whitney and Chris picked up their pace, running at full speed to the soundstage. Wes was on his cell phone while everyone else stood in a circle, looking down on the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Chris yelled, pushing through the circle. Jameson was sprawled on the floor, one hand on his chest, the other above his head. Whitney’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Paramedics are on their way,” Wes informed everyone. “They said not to touch him. Just clear the way when they arrive.”

  Chris grabbed his two-way radio from the table. “Attention, Larry. This is Studio A. Come in, Larry!”

  “Yes, Studio A,” a familiar voice came through the radio.

  “An ambulance is on their way, please direct them to us.”

  “Of course. Everyone okay?”

  “We, uh . . .” Chris looked at Whitney, who shook her head. Larry was a nice man, but the last thing they needed was for rumors to spread about Jameson’s health. If the papers received word of his collapse, he could sue the network for breach of privacy. “Yes, everyone will be fine. Just send them through, all right?”

  “You got it.”

  Chris addressed the crowd, focusing his attention on Coralee, who was crouched on the floor next to Jameson. “What happened?”

  “He, uh . . . .” Her normally pink cheeks were stark, lined with panic. “He came back to the set and, uh . . . he said something about getting th
e show on the road, that he was ready, but then he gripped his chest, started to ramble, and collapsed.”

  “Did you touch him?”

  “I, uh, yeah, I nudged his shoulder and I checked to see if he was breathing. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to touch him!”

  “It’s all right,” Whitney said, crouching down next to Coralee and resting one hand on the frightened young woman’s arm. Jameson’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His face was pale and covered in sweat. His eyes were closed and blood ran from his nose. “You did the right thing. Let’s just stay with him until the paramedics get here, okay?”

  Chris clapped his hands to grab the attention of the nervous crowd. “Everyone else, let’s make room for them. Cooks, back to your stations; crew, back to your assigned spots. Coralee and Whitney will stay with Jameson.”

  “Do you think he had a heart attack?” Coralee whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Marcus, in true self-absorbed form, sounded irritated by the disturbance as he entered the set with Saul and Melinda. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, what’s the matter with him?” Melinda pressed a hand to her chest, gasping when she saw Jameson on the floor.

  Saul was wide-eyed and pale as he looked to Chris. “Did you call an ambulance?”

  “Yes, it’s been handled. I called the gate, and they’ll be directed in.”

  “Call my office, Geldermann. We’re gonna need some NDAs,” he said, his voice gruff, panicked. He was going into protective mode. He had to protect the network from a lawsuit. Nondisclosure agreements had to be signed by everyone on set, with threatened legal action if they disclosed any details of Jameson’s collapse.

  “Let’s just make sure he’s okay first, all right?” Chris said.

  “No,” Saul deadpanned. “Call now.”

  Chris sighed before walking away and muttering, “Fine.”

  “Did you get any of it on film?” Saul switched topics. Whitney’s jaw dropped, knowing that Saul’s concern for Jameson was trumped by his loyalty to the network.

  “I, uh . . .” Chris locked eyes with Whitney. His eyes were pained. They both knew the ugly side of reality television. It was possible that Saul would leak the footage to gain some headlines. Sure, the show would benefit from early press, but at what cost? “I’ll have to check.”

  EMTs arrived, checking Jameson’s vitals before strapping him to a stretcher and carrying him to the ambulance. With lights spinning, they closed the doors and released the siren before making their way to the nearest hospital.

  “All right, um . . . let’s, uh . . . let’s call it a day,” Chris said.

  “What?” Saul boomed. “It’s only nine thirty in the morning! You can’t just send everybody home, Geldermann!”

  “I think we should, Saul. Out of respect for Jameson.”

  “No.” Saul shook his head. “Absolutely not. We’re professionals and we’ll simply do without him. It’ll be fine—we’ll shoot his takes later.”

  “Okay.” Chris threw his hands in the air. “Fine.”

  “Sheila,” Saul said to the makeup artist munching on a bagel at craft services.

  Seriously, our host collapses and you’re in the mood for bagel and schmear? Moron.

  “Yes, sir?” Sheila wiped the cream cheese from her upper lip, looking sheepish.

  “Get Whitney into makeup.”

  “What?” Whitney yelped, her voice reaching a new pitch. “Why?”

  “You’ll stand in for Jameson until he returns.”

  “Um, I’m not so sure—” she started, her voice quaking, knowing all eyes were on her. She felt naked, exposed, in front of the group she’d helped assemble.

  Saul cut her off, ignoring her hesitation. “Thanks, Sheila. Be back in an hour.”

  Whitney stood, her mouth completely open, her feet planted to the floor. She couldn’t find the words to express her panic. She’d spent plenty of time behind the camera, but in front of it? Had Saul lost his damn mind? She was a casting director, a damn good one. But the host of a reality show? That was an entirely different animal and she knew it. Despite her reservations, there was no way she was going to go head-to-head with Saul. He was the head of the network, and so she’d acquiesce. She’d fill in, knowing she’d never actually make it onto the small screen. She’d be cut out of the films once Jameson returned.

  She looked to Wes as she followed Sheila off-set. He nodded and mouthed, “You’re okay.” Obviously he could read the panic all over her face.

  She brought a shaky hand to her forehead and mouthed, “Thank you” in response, following Sheila to Jameson’s dressing room. Her skin itched as she eased herself into the chair, Jameson’s chair. Sheila took moist makeup-removing cloths and wiped down every square inch of Whitney’s face.

  God, I hope Jameson’s okay.

  Her hands still trembling, she reached for her phone and used speakerphone to call Elle. She was the only one who could talk her off the ledge.

  “What’s wrong with you? You sound nuts.”

  “Um, I can’t talk about it,” she said, eyeing Sheila. “But I have to step in as host. At least for the day.”

  “Wow!” Elle said.

  “No,” Whitney argued, “not wow. I’m terrified!”

  “Oh, stop,” Elle said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not so sure. I’m in a freaking makeup chair right now. Gotta be on set in an hour. How do I do this?”

  “Stop moving, please,” Sheila snapped.

  “Sorry,” Whitney mouthed to the makeup artist, who huffed as she applied a base coat of foundation.

  “I have no idea. I’m always on the other side of the camera.”

  “Exactly,” Whitney said, trying to steady her face for Sheila. “Me too. I’m totally out of my element.”

  “Breathe,” Elle said. “You’ll be—ow.”

  Whitney could hear Elle breathing in through clenched teeth. She was in pain.

  “Ellie, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a contraction, totally normal.”

  “Didn’t sound normal. When was your last appointment? Do I need to call Luke?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you’re two peas in a pod. He freaks out over every little thing, too. I’m fine, I just . . . my blood pressure’s high, but everything else is good. I had my thirty-five-week appointment yesterday.”

  Whitney’s stomach flipped. “High blood pressure?”

  “Yeah, I’m . . . on bed rest.”

  “You hesitated,” Whitney said. “Where are you right now?”

  Silence.

  “In my office.”

  “Ellie!”

  “It’s fine. I’ll only be here a few more hours and I’m drinking lots of water. I’ll put my feet up tonight and Luke will give me my nightly foot rub. You can’t even see my ankle bones anymore, it’s ridiculous.”

  “What can I do? Anything?”

  Elle sighed. “Go kick ass. That’s what you can do for me. And don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

  “Please stop moving.” Sheila put her hands on her hips.

  Whitney said a quick good-bye to Elle and placed her phone on the counter, then sat back in the chair and closed her eyes.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap, but I have fifty-three minutes to make you presentable and my job’s on the line. Mr. Greenberg already has it out for me.”

  “Why? What’d you do to piss him off?”

  “Let’s just say . . . I was caught with my pants down . . . with a contestant. In his dressing room.” Whitney opened her eyes and Sheila closed hers, her cheeks quickly turning a deep shade of scarlet. She didn’t have to say another word. Whitney knew exactly who that contestant was.

  Charlie Motherfucking Hutchins.

  “Say no more. I’ll hold still. Do your worst, Sheila.”

  As hard as she tried, Whitney could not rub the sleep from her eyes on Friday morning. She’d even ordered a double shot of espr
esso at the local coffee shop, attempting to jolt away her sleep-induced haze, but it wasn’t working. At least not yet.

  Saul and Chris had requested a private meeting at five A.M. before anyone arrived at seven. Normally the early hour wouldn’t bother her as she generally woke up early to run a few miles, but she and Wes had stayed up talking the night before, finally drifting to sleep around two in the morning. They knew they’d both be dragging in the morning, but they didn’t care. It was worth it. Swapping childhood stories, favorite movies and books, they lay together in her bed, covered in sweat from their intimate activities earlier that evening. They laughed, they teased, they interrupted each other with sensual kisses in various locations of their bodies. It was heavenly.

  But two hours of sleep wasn’t enough for anyone. Even Whitney Bartolina. She drained her espresso before entering the building, and hoped Chris was brewing coffee in the conference room. She smelled the familiar aroma of his favorite French vanilla brew and allowed her nose to guide her to the room where both men sat at the conference room table, each staring off into space. Zombies.

  “Morning,” she mumbled. They grunted and Saul patted the chair next to him. Whitney was too exhausted for her nerves to stand at attention. Besides, she’d done absolutely nothing wrong since they wrapped the night before.

  Unless my hosting was horrible. Maybe they’re firing me. She’d be lying to herself if part of her wouldn’t be relieved to be dismissed from her new role. It was scary and destructive to her nerves. “So, gentlemen, why so early?”

  Saul cleared his throat a few times before speaking, his voice slightly hoarse. “Because it’s a confidential matter. One that cannot leave the confines of this conversation.”

  Whitney glanced at Chris, who was still spacing out, his forehead shifting ever so slightly back and forth, back and forth. She snapped her fingers in his line of sight. “C’mon, Geldermann, look alive. You’re gonna put me back to sleep.”

  He yawned dramatically. “Sorry, rough night. Melody tossed and turned all . . . night . . . long.” He closed his eyes, dragging his fingertips across his forehead.

  “As I was saying,” Saul continued, ignoring Chris’s complaints. “This is a sensitive issue. We can’t risk any crew or cast members learning this information.”