Quirks & Kinks (2 page)

“But I
really
don’t get along with Larry.”

He was ornery and brash, and never, ever tried to sweet talk his way around my bullshit. Instead, he called me on my antics when I committed them and made them up when I didn’t. Our relationship wasn’t close, and we hadn’t spent years forming grudges to hate each other for.

We just never seemed to get along.

Perhaps it was the melding—or lack there of—of two completely alpha personalities or my inability to be mature.

But, whatever it was, I preferred to blame him.

“E. We need money. He has the ability to give it to us,” she explained phonetically, treating me like a child. Appropriate, since I was so good at acting like one.

“Fuck!” I huffed out a disgruntled breath, knowing I deserved her condescension about as much as a child genius deserves an A. Ironically, the amount was also the exact opposite of my chances of getting out of this job. “Fine.”

Screeching all four tires to a sliding stop, I gave a half-assed glance both directions before pulling an illegal U-turn and swinging right back onto the on ramp for the Freeway I’d just abandoned. Time in Los Angeles was like dog years—completely disproportional with reality. If I needed to meet Larry in two hours, I needed to be on my way now.

Right back in the direction from which I had just come.

I didn’t realize then, but apparently, despite what physics would have you believe, you
can
both move backward and be propelled forward at the same damn time.

MY SISTER SPENT THE
whole drive here jabbering away in my ear, trying to coach me out of fucking us both over. “Don’t let him bait you,” she said. “Just nod your head and smile,” she said.

It all sounded good and easy—until I got here and saw Larry, blond hair glistening in the fluorescent overhead lights, sitting at the table in the conference room, tapping his foot with annoyance like I was late. I had arrived fifteen minutes early, fuck you very much.

Granted, I’d stayed outside to smoke another cigarette before coming in, so now I was only
five
minutes early, but qualifying variances or not, early is early.

Three out of four walls of the conference room were comprised of floor to ceiling glass, and a sleek, dark wood, modern table stretched from one end to the other. One crystal vase sat centered on the table and was filled with creamy white calla lilies. If I didn’t know any better, the illusion might have fooled me into thinking this production company
wasn’t
the armpit of the industry. That the grandeur of their office surely pointed to a successful track record and potential for a sustainable income.

But I
did
know better, and my knowledge came by way of experience. The sticky glue of their honey trap had secured me once before, back when I was naive and hopeful. Back when I thought I’d find my way to the glory and fame at the top one percent of the industry.

Back when I was an idiot.

What I got instead was a backlot commercial directed by a gold-chain-wearing guy named Joe Bernstein that never made it to TV.

And yet, at the prospect of being broke and homeless, here I was again. Meeting with Larry in the fancy room and hoping he could hitch my star to something great.

Gripping the cold metal handle of the door, I shoved forward using the weight of my body before I could back out. My entrance didn’t make any noise, but nevertheless, Larry noticed.

Maybe he was acutely attuned to the barometric pressure of the room, and the sudden breach of the seal tipped him off.

Or maybe, he just got lucky.

“Ahh, you’re here. Good. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait,” he barked out immediately, glancing at his watch derisively and raising his eyebrows into an even more prick-like position.

Ashley’s words choked my own, cutting off my long-winded rant about how very fucking on time I was and replacing it with a smile and a nod.

My bubblegum-pink-nailed hand shook as I channeled all of my anger into tucking my shoulder length blond hair behind my ear. The nails and hair—frankly, everything about my appearance—did nothing to speak for my real personality. But, really, that was the whole point. Casting directors and producers weren’t looking for the ugly display my inner workings would translate into. They wanted the bubbly girl, the perfectly busty blonde that would sell their show with sex. Of course, there were millions of us just like that, swarming casting calls and mistaking one another for a reflection of ourselves in a room of mirrors. You needed to be that girl on the outside with something extra underneath.

I’d like to tell you that was me. That I was the special one. The girl in the sea of girls that had
it.
Of course, if that were actually the case, I’d probably be employed gainfully enough to support a decent drinking habit.

But I wasn’t, and I had noticed. Trust me. Reality is a lot harsher when you’re stone cold sober.

“Sit,” Larry ordered, eyeing the opposite side of the table and waiting for me to obey.

There was no point in arguing this early in the meeting. I was almost certain I would need to voice my opposition more later, and I really wouldn’t mind taking a load off.

See?

I could be reasonable.

Rounding the table quickly, I took my seat, slamming my purse and keys onto the surface of the table gracelessly enough to make Larry wince. I took secret pleasure in his pain.

The sparkles of my pink Hollywood keychain mocked me with my long-beaten naivety, looking every bit as used up as I felt. Little jewels from the crown were missing and the edge of the trademark ‘E’ was starting to chip off.

Hah. I’d thought I was really going places. I’d thought it strongly enough that I’d taken my sister down with me.

To here. This place.

Washed up—or, at least,
feeling
like it—at the plump old age of twenty-five. Seven measly years into my adult life, and my woes were already feeling heavier than my dreams. I just barely stopped my self-deprecating snort.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Easie. You’re not the girl I wanted for this show. In fact, you’re pretty much last on my list.” His eyes held real malice, and the fight to stop myself from checking to make sure I was indeed myself and not, in fact, shit on his shoe was equivalent to the championship round of a Heavyweight Tournament.

Okay. Apparently, Larry hated me even more than I hated him.

Impressive.

“You better watch blowing all that smoke up my ass, Larry. Might start a fire,” I told him sarcastically, all of my good behavior officially used up. If he was going to be mean to me, I could sure as shit be mean to him.

“A fire in your ass seems like just the right start to our partnership.”

When I quirked a brow, he elaborated. “You may as well get used to having weird things in unexpected places.”

Uh . . . what?

Freaky meter reading? Too freaky.

Plan? Ignore it for now.

“I’m a little nervous to hear about this job that apparently lacks any kind of appeal. Don’t tell me, you want me to reenact the Anti-Christ? Maybe sell the souls of my unborn children to pedophiles while I’m at it?”

Larry ignored me—like usual—and instead went on to explain the actual job. “It’s a new show, Quirks and Kinks. We’ve already selected a male reenactment actor to be your co-host, so you’re the last piece of the puzzle. There’s some seriously fucked up shit out there that people are into, and the two of you are going to be the face of it.”

Suddenly, his weird things in my ass reference was busting through my forcefield and making way too much sense. And I didn’t like it one bit.

“I’m going to be the face of people’s freakish fetishes?” I asked disbelievingly.

Larry shrugged his nonchalance, shoving it directly down the throat of my panic. “Half of it.”

His chocolate brown eyes held mine intently, and the severity of his serious face only heightened when he leaned his weight into the table.

Moisture pooled in the palms of my hands as nerves made my heart beat faster. I felt like this meeting was doing nothing to assuage my fears, and the eerie calm I’d been hoping to find in the words of a bullshitting producer was nowhere in sight.

I licked my drying lips. Forced a rough swallow a couple of times.

“Shouldn’t you be pitching this harder? Telling me what a great opportunity it is, how it could be my breakout role, how it could lead to bigger and better things?”

The sound of the mixture of a male chortle and snort was not attractive. Larry’s reaction provided solid evidence.

“Give me a break, Easie. Anyone but you, I’d do the walk, talk the talk. I’d song and dance you until you thought you were on the set of a fucking musical, but with you, it’d be a waste of time. You’re combative, hard to work with, and rarely ever listen to direction. But I’m out of options and you’re attractive. Your prospects are hovering right around the same number as mine, and I know you like to feed that pretty sister of yours. So I’m saving us both the time and effort that we could be spending on bullshit, and laying it out for you.”

“What makes you so damn sure I’ll take this job instead of one of my other offers?”

His response was to laugh maniacally in my face. It was a wonder he was still alive by the time he got control of the laughter and took a full breath again. He must be one of those people who could hold his breath under water for freakishly long amounts of time.

But he laughed because he knew the truth.

If I had any other offers, I wouldn’t be in this cocksucking conference room.

Bottom line, I needed the job.

Bottom line, I liked to eat, and people generally expected you to pay them for food.

Bottom line, my sister was counting on me.

Bottom line,
I was fucked.

Still, I felt it prudent to dip my toe into the informational pond and get a feel for the temperature a little before cannonballing my way into the deep end.

“Are we talking “Oops, we got a little too wild having sex against elevator doors and fell into an empty shaft” or “I eat six rolls of toilet paper a day, every day” kind of thing?

“Both.”

Shit.

Tap, tap, tap, my nail played out in a rhythm on the edge of the table. My toe bounced too, but the timing was off, proving irrefutably that music wasn’t one of my natural gifts.

“So you’re in, right?” he asked just for the sake of asking. We both knew I had no other option. He had my metaphorical balls in a fucking vise, and I could already feel them bruising.

I just barely managed to choke out my answer through an uncomfortably tight throat. “Yes.”

“Good,” he nodded, pushing my contract and a pen across the table in front of me, and then tossed a red-bordered package on the table in between us with a thud. “Here. Your signing bonus.”

Reaching slowly to the middle of the table, I picked it up and turned it over as his retreating back moved toward the door with purpose.

Namely, getting the hell out of the room that I inhabited.

My thumb glided smoothly along the words on the package as I read them to myself.

Blueberry muffin mix?

“I have to bake my bonus?” I called out quickly, jerking my gaze from the package to the smooth line of his tailored gray suit. Muscular but lean, his body wore the fabric instead of the other way around.

I had a feeling if he smiled a little more and, you know, didn’t have the tarnished soul of a devil worshipper, he’d be pretty attractive.

His eyes flashed over his shoulder in mocking triumph as he taunted back, “You’re rolling in the dough.”

Sputtering and clawing my way out of my chair, I just barely got off a response before the door clicked softly behind him. It didn’t do me a hell of a lot of good, but it sure made me feel better.

“Muffins are made of batter, asshole!”

“I’M STILL NOT EVEN
sure what we’re doing here,” I told Ashley as I glanced around at the cheap Tex Mex themed decor of El Loco Restaurant.

All around us, business-suit-clad, young singles chatted and laughed, sinking deeper into their margaritas and each other. A life untraveled stared me in the face, but it didn’t make me feel bitter or regretful. All I felt was stupid for being out and spending money that we didn’t have.