It Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "The difference is that I won't consider myself credible after this."

  "Well, I'm sorry you feel that way but the decision has already been made."

  "Excuse me?"

  "There's a little clause in your contract that reads other duties as assigned. It's in the section on promoting the network. And don't blame me, because the network president signed off on this."

  I scrunched up my face, pondering this no-win scenario. Sure, there was the attractive prospect of actually getting to sleep for a few months, but the fallout could be journalistic suicide. I played a low card, which wasn't remotely a trump. "I'm a lousy ballroom dancer."

  "After six years of ballet? I hardly think so. You'll pick it up."

  Memo to self: stop volunteering personal information on live television.

  "Maybe I won't be very good compared to the other contestants and get voted off in the first week."

  "We already thought of that. The entertainment division assures me it isn't going to happen."

  I sat up straight as my eyes widened. "You mean the show's fixed?"

  "I didn't say that. Why don't we just say that those in power have a lot of faith in your ability as a dancer."

  I rolled my eyes. "Good God, Gavin. Reality shows aren't even on the level?"

  "Look, Veronica. At least you'll get back to a normal schedule for three months and you'll probably have fun."

  "Yeah, right. I guess I have no choice."

  Gavin said nothing as he looked at me.

  "One more question, Gavin. Was this your idea?"

  "Nope. It came from the Executive Producer of Dance Off."

  "Then I wanna talk to him."

  "You already did. The EP is Dexter Bishop."

  ***

  The moment our show was over I ripped off my microphone, threw it onto my chair, grabbed my purse and headed for the door, barging through several staffers like a shopper after a Black Friday sale. I headed out into the street breathing like a snorting bull about to gore a matador in the family jewels.

  And Dexter Bishop was dressed head to toe in candy apple red.

  As luck would have it his production office was only two blocks away, so I didn't need a cab. I forced smiles at pedestrians who recognized me, waved at the cabbies who honked their horns, blew a kiss at the utility worker who hit me with an old fashioned wolf whistle, and was at the door to Bishop Productions in five minutes.

  The impeccably coiffed blonde silicone babe receptionist smiled as I headed into the building, her hair the only color in a lobby with walls of black marble. "Ms. Summer! I just heard the news! Welcome aboard!"

  "Where's Dexter's office?"

  "Top floor. I'll tell him you're on your way—"

  "Don't bother. I want to surprise him." Yeah. With a kick to the groin.

  The elevator was already open and I stormed in, glared at the huge photo of Dexter Bishop that filled the back wall of the car, punched the button labeled PH, and ground my teeth as the door closed and I headed up. I wasn't even sure what I was going to say, as my anger had pushed reason to the back burner hours ago. I just knew that as mad as Alexander had made me on the day I threw him out, this was worse.

  The elevator slowed, came to a stop, and the door opened. Sunlight spilled into the car from the huge windows which provided light to the large glass top desk that sat in the middle of the room. A massive flat screen television practically filled one wall while a deep red leather couch sat in front. The opposite wall was covered by a built-in bookcase, featuring several Emmy awards lined up in a row.

  Dexter Bishop put down a coffee cup, got up from his chair and started to move toward me. "Miss Summer, how nice of you to drop by, and just in time for tea. I can't tell you how excited—"

  My palms slammed into his chest and shoved him back a few steps. "How dare you!"

  "Now calm down—"

  My eyes filled with fire as they narrowed into gunslinger mode. "Calm down? Oh, you want calm?" I kept moving toward him and he backed up as I held a finger inches from his face. "You screw with my career, my reputation, and you expect me to just brush it off?"

  He put up his hands but I slapped them away. "Please, Miss Summer, let me explain." I continued moving toward him, he backed up behind his desk, his knees hit his chair and he plopped back into it.

  I stopped my charge, grabbed the arms of the chair, and looked down at him. "Fine. Explain yourself."

  "It's simple. You're going to be this season's It Girl on our show. One of the reasons we had one slot open was that we had not found the right person. But during our little bit of snappy repartee yesterday, I knew you would be perfect for the show. When you dropped that little tidbit about your experience with ballet, it sealed the deal."

  "That deal wouldn't have been sealed unless you had approval from the news division."

  "Gavin gave it to me rather quickly."

  Oh really. "Did he also tell you that I have a deal to take over the evening newscast when my contract ends on The Morning Show?"

  "No, he left that part out."

  "Well, that part won't happen if I lose all my credibility as a journalist on your show."

  He furrowed his brow. "How would you lose credibility?"

  I let go of the chair, stood back up and folded my arms. "Network anchors don't usually flaunt their wares in skimpy outfits. Who will take me seriously after this?"

  "Miss Summer, we've had network journalists on our show before. James Devlin, Alecia Florence—"

  "They're has-beens! They were never main anchors!"

  "Look, I won't put you in a position in which you're not comfortable. It's important that you enjoy your weeks on the show."

  "What about the revealing outfits?"

  "I'll button you up like Dame Judi Dench on competition nights if you prefer."

  "Yes, I prefer."

  "However, we will need to show off those fabulous gams of yours."

  "No ridiculous hemlines up to my ass?"

  "They'll be longer than the frocks you wear on your current show." I was beginning to run out of steam and he smiled at me. "May I get up now? And won't you please have a cup of tea with me?"

  "I don't want any damn tea." I backed up a few steps and he stood. "You know, you guys could have talked with me about this before making a decision."

  "Gavin knew you wouldn't want to do it. So the point is moot. Come now, let's have some tea and chat."

  He reached out and took me by the shoulders but I twisted away like his hands were on fire. "Hey!"

  "My, aren't we touchy."

  "We aren't touchy. You're the one who grabbed me."

  "I did not grab, I was merely trying to settle you down."

  I spun on one heel and headed for the door. "This girl doesn't want to settle down."

  And as I reached the door, I realized that statement was technically a lie.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Shit lists.

  Everyone has one. Most of us are on one. Members of the media could play the journalism version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon with shit lists.

  Gavin Karlson is on Veronica Summer's shit list. Since Veronica is on Dexter Bishop's shit list …

  Those aren't the only lists causing me stress right now. Nooooo. I've got a whole bunch of lists to deal with. Of course there's the list of "celebrities" for the upcoming season of Dance Off, and the network has been so kind as to put my name at the top of every media release.

  But there's one more list that will affect me directly; the list of prospective partners for the competition. And that's the one which has my friends all but drooling in their salads this afternoon at the casual outdoor restaurant we've chosen. With six female celebrities in the contest, there are a half dozen male professional dancers who will be paired with them. And work closely with them for the next three months for several hours per day.

  While I have no idea which one will be my partner, or if I can even request a particular dancer, I've been getting "reviews" o
f the potential prospects from what I now refer to as "my entourage" since Layla and Savannah are determined to crash the live audience as often as possible. Meanwhile, they're divided on who I should get as a partner, but agree on the fact that I'll end up with a hot guy regardless. The network gave me a media kit with photos of all the possibles, which I haven't looked at but is in the hands of my friends.

  "You want Sergio," said Layla, as she grabbed his eight-by-ten glossy and slid it next to my plate. "He's a hunka hunka burnin' Latin love. God, that accent makes me melt." One look at the photo told me I wouldn't care if he sounded like Melanie Griffith after inhaling helium. Tall, dark and lean, the guy's huge bedroom eyes seemed to leap out of the picture. The rest of his ripped physique jumped a few hurdles as well, as the revealing costume showed nary a flaw.

  "I suppose he'd be okay," I said, trying but failing to hold back a grin.

  Savannah shook her head at me. "Not for you. I caught him on a talk show last week and there's nothing upstairs. He's dumb as a bag of rocks. Pure eye candy, and that's it."

  "Your point being?" asked Layla.

  "She'd get bored talking with him," said Savannah.

  "Again, your point being?" asked Layla. "His conversational skills are not on the table. Anyway, I think he's leagues ahead of the others."

  Savannah grabbed her choice from the stack of photos. "Salvatore is the guy for you." She slid it across the table and I scooped it up. "Looks great, good head on his shoulders. And those are perfect."

  My eyes bugged out at the guy's massive shoulders. A classic hunk of beefcake, he wasn't the typical slender dancer. Not particularly tall, Salvatore's ice blue eyes peered out of a chiseled face framed by black hair. "I could do worse," I said. I was glad a cool breeze wafted by, since I was starting to feel a bit warm.

  "Or, if you don't care for him," said Savannah, who daintily handed me her second choice. "This boy would have me sweatin' like a whore in church."

  I took in the total package that was Kyle Westin, who possessed the classic boy next door look. Tousled brown hair, hazel eyes, a perfectly proportioned body stretched out over six feet. I absent-mindedly licked my lips as I read his bio, which included a degree from an Ivy League school.

  "You like?" asked Savannah.

  I nodded. "Very much. Damn, he's cute."

  "And obviously very smart. So you'd have things to talk about."

  "Your point being?" cracked Layla.

  "Y'all hush," said Savannah. "The others are fine for exercise, but I know what she needs in a soulmate. She needs hot and smart. Who has a lot in common with her."

  "Having things in common is important," I said, still staring at the photo.

  "Hell," said Layla, "if you want hot, smart and snarky, you might as well just leapfrog all these guys and go for the brass ring."

  I looked up at her. "Brass ring?"

  "Dexter Bishop."

  ***

  "Welcome back on this Friday," said Scott. "And this will be the last day in the next few months that my partner will be getting up before the sun. She's off to start training on Monday for her appearance on Dance Off. Hopefully she will not dust off her robot from college." He turned to me. "So, Veronica, you ready to prove you don't have two left feet?"

  "I'll be honest," I said. "I'm a little nervous about all this. I mean, this isn't exactly what they teach in journalism class."

  "Well, politicians tap dance around your questions all the time."

  "Very true. But our viewers should know that I'll be doing double duty and will be here every day."

  "Right, just not live. You'll get the same attitude, just on tape. Meanwhile, we'd like to invite you to tune in Sunday night at eight when all the contestants on Dance Off will be paired off with their partners. Do you have any preference?"

  I do, but I'm not saying lest Dexter Bishop stick me with someone else out of spite. "Well, as I mentioned when Dexter Bishop was here, I've never seen the show, so I have no preference and don't even know any of the players. Hopefully they'll pair me up with someone who can make me the best dancer I can be."

  "Sounds like you're actually looking forward to it."

  "I'm looking forward to getting some sleep, Scott. That's a great incentive to work hard and not get voted off the show."

  I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye and saw Scott's expression change to one of surprise. "We, uh, apparently have a special guest," he said.

  I turned and saw a smiling Dexter Bishop heading in our direction. I shot a quick look at Scott and his expression told me he had no idea this was coming.

  And Gavin moves to the top of my shit list.

  Dexter stepped onto the riser and extended his hand to me. "Good morning!"

  I forced a smile and shook his hand. "Hello, Mister Bishop. So, what brings you by this morning?"

  He leaned over, shook Scott's hand, and grabbed a spot between us. "Well, as you already mentioned, we're going to announce the pairings live on Sunday night. But this season we're adding a little twist."

  "You've already got me on the show. Isn't that enough of a twist?"

  "Ah, Miss Summer, you must always freshen up a good show to keep the viewers interested. I believe you Yanks like to call things new and improved. With that in mind … " he looked over his shoulder. "Gentlemen?"

  I turned just as the parade started.

  All six of the professional male dancers pranced onto the set while "It's raining men" played in the background. They lined up, like some sort of hot guy buffet.

  "You brought Veronica's entourage?" cracked Scott.

  Dexter chuckled a bit. "Actually, these are her possible partners for the competition. As for the twist, we're going to let the viewers decide who she should be dancing with for the next three months." He gestured toward the guys. "Miss Summer, if you'd be so kind as to stand next to each of our dancers to let people see how you look as a couple and then we'll let the viewers vote—"

  "You've got to be kidding," I said. "I'm not some bachelorette on a reality show, so—"

  "Viewers may vote with your cell phones," he said, turning to face the camera, "and each text will cost one dollar and will be donated to Miss Summer's favorite charity." He turned back to face me with a look that said I'm in charge here. "And your favorite charity would be … ?"

  You ruthless bastard. You know damn well I can't refuse to do this now.

  "The Wounded Warrior Foundation."

  "Marvelous! They do wonderful work," said Dexter, who then locked eyes with me. "I know those veterans will greatly appreciate what you're about to do on their behalf."

  I forced a smile, having no choice. There was no way I was gonna take money out of the pocket of a recovering vet. "Happy to help out," I said. Then I figured, what the hell, let's give it right back. "And I know you'll be more than happy to match whatever funds are raised." I playfully batted my eyes as it was his turn to force a smile.

  "Absolutely," he said, eyes not giving away a thing. "It will be my pleasure. Now, if you'll be so kind as to spend a few seconds with each of our dancers while we flash the number for the appropriate text on the screen. As you like to say on election day, vote early and vote often!"

  I stood up and moved toward the line of dancers as Scott picked up the ball. "Okay, Dance Off fans, here's your chance to play matchmaker for Veronica."

  An old disco instrumental played as I reached the group. Salvatore was first in line. He kissed my hand, then wrapped an arm around my shoulders as I stood next to him. I looked at the monitor and saw them flash a number across the bottom of the screen as Dexter Bishop did what amounted to play-by-play. He directed me to move on to the next guy, Sergio, who actually looked a little sleazy compared to his photo while his strong earthy cologne practically knocked me over. He winked at me, said, "Give yourself to me," in a thick Latin accent, then grabbed one hand and twirled me around so that I landed with his arms wrapped around my waist. I forced a smile but I knew this was one guy I didn't wa
nt to end up with for a partner. Next up was Kyle, who came as advertised. He simply nodded and said hello, but kept his hands to himself as he moved close to me. So far, I had to agree with Savannah's choice.

  Until number six.

  If viewers were watching closely on a high-def flatscreen they no doubt saw me gulp while I blushed like a high school girl.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  My heart melted as the incredible guy named Bradley smiled at me and gently took both my hands. A lean six feet, with broad shoulders and slim hips filling out a dark gray three piece suit; dark, wavy hair that called out to my fingers while his spectacular gray eyes searched mine. He let go of one hand so we could stand side by side to let the viewers get a good look, but I couldn't stop looking at him.

  I realized I needed to take control of the situation.

  I turned to the camera, raised both eyebrows and mouthed "Wow" then pointed at him and made that "call me sign" with my thumb and pinky raised to the side of my head. Hopefully the viewers got the massage.

  "Thank you, Miss Summer," said Dexter, "and I guess we know where your preference lies."

  Now if the show isn't totally fixed, I'm good to go.

  But one look at Dexter Bishop told me I wasn’t.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In television news, the tease is king.

  You see them all the time and probably don't even notice them. Teases are those little attention grabbers designed to keep you watching. Newscasts use them all the time. "Congressman caught with transvestite hooker! After the game!" Even if said game is a blowout, that tease will ensure you'll stick around to see which member of the House of Representatives got a Crying Game surprise.

  In the case of Dance Off, the tease started Friday morning with the viewer contest to pair me with the perfect partner. But unlike most news teases which last less than ten seconds, this one has legs. And we're not talkin' about the ones about to be shown off in revealing outfits.

  Entertainment websites and newspapers were going wild over this, speculating on who will be voted as my partner and if my blatant plea to vote for Bradley will result in my getting my wish. Of course every website is running its own poll and every dancer has a fan club running a "campaign." Then there are the articles about my reaction to Number Six, one of which said I resembled a “starry-eyed sex deprived woman on her first trip to a Chippendales show with a handful of dollar bills.” Apparently I was so entranced by the guy I didn't know I had licked my lips, leading another columnist to write, "Ms. Summer looked like a starving woman just emerged from the desert about to devour the man next to her."