Heller’s Decision
Authors: JD Nixon
by JD Nixon
Copyright JD Nixon
2013
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition,
Licence Notes
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the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of
fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or
real locations, is purely coincidental.
JD Nixon is an
Australian author and Australian English and spelling have been
used in this book.
Discover other titles
by
JD Nixon
at
Smashwords.com
:
Heller series
Heller
(free ebook!)
Heller’s Decision
Heller’s Regret (to be
published)
Little Town series
Blood
Ties
(free ebook!)
Blood Tears (to be
published)
Cover design by
Infinity
Rain
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For the folk at JDNFC –
thanks for the laughs and the friendships (you know who you are),
and for helping to keep me (mostly) sane in a sometimes crazy
world!
~~~~~~ ######
~~~~~~
Chapter 1
“
You’re rather a hefty lass, aren’t you?”
he grunted, the effort of maintaining my weight evenly across his
shoulders bunching his straining muscles.
“
Hey! I’m not hefty, I’m just tall,” I
protested, my voice muffled into his shirt, clutching on to his
hair so tightly he grimaced in pain. “Everyone knows that tall
women weigh a little more.”
I said that not without some small measure
of guilt. My evil, lying bathroom scales insisted I’d stacked on an
unwanted five kilograms in the last few months, an unpalatable
truth I wasn’t willing to swallow, even though apparently I’d been
swallowing far too much of everything else lately.
M
y job as research assistant to one of the nation’s top TV
stars often meant long hours and no time to exercise. But surely
that couldn’t be considered
my
fault. The fact that there always seemed to be some sort of
launch or celebration at the TV studio with loads of food and booze
on hand didn’t help much either. And besides, didn’t a woman always
put on a bit of weight when she was as loved-up as me? Not that I
was thinking of my sexy Viking love god at this particular moment
in time, perched precariously on a ladder high above the studio
floor, now trusting in the broad shoulders and muscular arms of the
man trying to rescue me – the very same shoulders and arms I’d
surreptitiously admired only a short time ago.
It had all started so well. I’d been
pleased with the line-up of stories I’d organised for
Trent’s
evening show.
I’d planned four stories – a nice mix of celebrity scandal, weight
loss, controversy and sex. We rotated the same topics so frequently
I once joked to Trent that I should just use a dartboard of stories
to pick which of them would feature on the next night’s show. We
had no shortage of material and it wouldn’t make any difference to
our loyal viewers.
Trent ha
d smiled and patted me on the cheek.
“Predictability pays off, Tilly.”
And who was I to argue? After all, Trent
Dawson was host of
People’s Pulse
,
one of the nation’s most regularly top rating shows. He knew a lot
of viewers wanted nothing more than to watch fluffy infotainment
after a hard day. And he reliably delivered, night after
night.
We were in the studio pre-recording the
stories for the night’s show. Trent would later provide live
linking commentary between the stories when the show aired in the
early evening, his usual practice. Everything was running smoothly
so far and I watched from the sideline of the set in case Trent
needed me for anything. As I did, I quietly cracked open my third
can of high-energy drink. Long hours at work, combined with long
hours in bed with Heller every evening, were taking their toll on
me. I needed a little extra help in the form of a caffeine blast to
make it through the day (and night).
I took advantage of a
break after story one to dash on-set,
barely dodging the steaming C-grade actor storming out of the
studio in a huff after enduring an intrusive interview about his
fourth drink-driving conviction. I informed Trent that the guests
for his third story had arrived and were nervously waiting their
turn before the cameras. Trent, never one to shy away from
contention, had decided to do something rather risky with his third
story – a discussion on animal rights bringing two opposing views
together. In response, I’d managed to round up a fanatical animal
activist and an animal trainer as his guests, virtually
guaranteeing some heated words, stormy debate, and as Trent always
hoped, higher ratings.
The animal trainer had brought
along
with him his
gorgeous spider monkey, Pei Pei. The little monkey had costarred in
a recent locally produced stinker of a children’s movie,
Monkey
Mobster
. A morally
ambivalent story at best, the plot revolved around the bond between
a girl and the monkey her father rescued from an animal shelter,
only to force the pair into petty thievery to earn him money. The
monkey turned out to be the best actor in the whole cinematic
disaster, outshining every other hammy performer with its rather
menacing gangster act. But for some unfathomable reason, the
trainer had decided today to dress Pei Pei in a frilly dress and
miniature bonnet for its big appearance on Trent’s show.
T
hey weren’t the only guests waiting in the wings. For the
final story of the show – a puff piece – we’d brought in Warren and
Chase, two firefighters also known as Mr April and Mr October.
They’d been invited on to the show ostensibly to talk about fire
safety in the kitchen, but really to advertise their ‘Firefighters
on Fire’ calendar, each month decorated with a picture of a
sizzling hot, half-naked firefighter doing interesting things with
his, er . . . hose. I’d campaigned with Trent to include them in
the show, fed up with all the bra and bikini stories we’d been
running over the last few months. It was time to give the female
viewers a treat.
After delivering my message to
Trent,
to my horror I
returned off-set to find Pei Pei greedily sculling the energy drink
I’d carelessly left sitting on a chair. I guiltily looked around
me, but nobody else had noticed. Trent was checking himself out in
a small mirror, perfecting his hair; Pei Pei’s trainer was taking a
phone call, his back to us; the animal activist was having more
face powder applied, his eyes shut; and the firefighters were
casually chatting to each other.
“
No!
” I whispered fiercely to the little monkey.
“Naughty Pei Pei. Give it back.”
The monkey
looked up at me, spun around and chugged some more
drink. I crept over and tried to snatch the can from its paws
before anyone spotted us. It yanked back, its paws clasped firmly
around the can. I tugged harder. We stared at each other, both of
us recognising an adversary when we saw one. It pulled back on the
can again. I did as well. And though I acknowledge it’s fairly
undignified to struggle with a monkey, I had to admit to a small
thrill of victory as eventually my superior strength prevailed and
I regained ownership of the can. Pei Pei scampered over to its
trainer, shooting me an unhappy, mutinous glance over its
shoulder.
I shook the can, realising with dismay
that it was now almost empty.
Oh dear.
I knew next to nothing about spider monkeys, but I could
bet that energy drinks weren’t an ideal nutritional choice for
them.
I
dithered over whether I should confess to Brady, the show’s
producer. I still hadn’t learnt if Brady was his first or last
name, and I wasn’t going to be the one to ask him either. A sour,
monolithic man with bad dress sense, he hadn’t cracked one smile
the whole time I’d worked there. He also had an annoying
gum-chewing habit that drove me nuts every single day. Not to
mention that for some questionable reason, he’d taken an instant
dislike to me. But before I could make up my mind whether to brave
it and tell him or not, Trent wrapped up the second story (a video
interview with the ‘CEO’ of some spurious miracle slimming tea
company –
hmm, mental note to self to look into that product)
and it was time to start
filming the next story.
Viv, t
he production assistant, ushered the two guests to the set
to sit at the desk, either side of Trent, wasting a few minutes
fussing around them. I opened my mouth to say something to Brady,
but he dismissively cut his hand through the air, signalling I
should shut up, as filming was about to recommence. So I shut up
and stood off to the side, watching nervously.
Though
Trent tried his hardest to keep it lighthearted, the
discussion quickly degenerated. Seamus, the animal activist, a very
large man with an unhealthily red face and an unpleasant sweating
problem, was aggressive from the start. Julian, the animal trainer,
small and earnest, was instantly defensive. They argued bitterly
over the ethics of training wild animals for entertainment
purposes, talking over the top of each other, neither willing to
listen. Julian insisted that Pei Pei was well treated, to which
Seamus responded by calling him a “cruel, exploitative
monster”.
“
Gentlemen,” admonished Trent gently,
though secretly enjoying the acrimony and toting up ratings numbers
in his head. Despite this, I noticed him discreetly pushing the
button located on the underside of his desk. This alerted Viv to
his desire to have some station security on hand in case things
grew out of control. I only hoped it wouldn’t be one of the
meathead security men I had to pass every day on my entrance to the
station who came to assist. They had about as much love for me as a
supermodel did for a double cheeseburger.
I hovered anxiously
off-camera, biting my nails and hoping
everything was going to be okay. A vain hope, as it turned
out.
Seamus
railed again, repeatedly pointing his finger in Julian’s
direction. “And I cannot believe you called this beautiful monkey
Pee Pee. How degrading. It just shows how little respect you have
for animals.”
“
It’s not Pee Pee!” spat Julian. “If you
were paying any attention at all instead of wallowing in your
self-righteousness, you’d have noticed that it’s pronounced
pay
pay
. It’s a beautiful
Chinese name, you culturally insensitive ignoramus.”
Seamus
snorted in derision. “Ha! You’re the one who’s culturally
insensitive. Don’t you even know that spider monkeys come from
Central and South America? Why did you give it a Chinese name, you
fool?”
“
She’s not an
it
, she’s a she!”
“
Gentlemen, gentlemen,” interceded Trent
again, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He probably hoped
one man would take a swing at the other. There’s nothing quite like
a spot of fighting on TV to set tongues wagging the next
day.
Personally
, I didn’t care about the others – I kept my eyes
on Pei Pei. She sat quietly in Julian’s lap, her huge, soulful eyes
moving back and forth between the verbal combatants. Julian didn’t
notice at first, too busy arguing his point, but Pei Pei became
increasingly fidgety – craning her head to look all around her,
tugging on the buttons of Julian’s shirt, pulling up her dress to
show her disposable nappy. Still in heated debate, Julian
distractedly smoothed her dress back down again without breaking
his train of argument.