Press Release, page 20
“When I left them, they were debating between tonight and tomorrow morning.”
He curses. “Tell me what it will take to keep your folks here through the weekend to help with the production designer interviews. I should have insisted Jeffrey Palmer come with us to muddle through portfolios and meet ups with me before he steps away. I need artists’ eyes.”
A fistful of nerves mixes with the Killer Bee in my stomach. “I set Jeff up to do video chats at your interviews.”
Bobby frowns. “Given the time difference and him running around like a madman with crews to be ready for the our insane shooting schedule as soon as we hit the ground back in Ireland, he hasn’t logged in.”
Gilly pulls out her cell and taps a contact. “Crank up your Bobby Provost signature sweet talk. You’ll hook my folks.” She plops the phone in Bobby’s palm. “Or you could steal their car.”
While Gilly and Bobby stay behind, I head up the steps to somewhat dusty, decorated paradise. The glare from the vanishing sun momentarily blinds me, but my ears have no such impediment.
“Where’s your ‘Top of the Mawrnin’ Clan, Cian?”
The slur gives me reason to pause before stepping out into the light. It’s the same dig I heard the first day outside the prep meeting, but not from the same voice. The “your” is what makes my hackles rise. Is The Chieftain’s Son now presumed to be Cian’s business, too, since I took him up on Dash’s suggestion to give me pointers?
I relax fists and shake out my hands. I’m too sensitive. Cali Con is going brilliantly for us. My show is outshining the rest of True Time’s roster, so the lot of them can go straight to hell.
The eejit whose voice I can’t place chimes in again. “Gotten in pretty thick with them, eh, Malley?”
Instead of Cian, Dash’s deep baritone answers. “You should all take a page from Cian’s playbook on wooing the competition.”
My hackles harden into steel spikes. Is Dash referring to my show as the competition, or is his flapping gob aimed at me personally? Cian and I have been friendly to one another in public. God willing, our time spent together is not enough for Dash to make assumptions.
My gut drops to my knees. Unless Cian is telling tales out of school about us. Either way, it’s time to bust up the True Time ole boys’ confab. I step through the hatch into the sunlight. Two long strides bring me to the center of puffed-up egos. As expected, my presence kills the current thread of conversation. I take a swift inventory as if the owner of the “Top of the Mawrnin’” crack has a detectable glow.
“Dash,” I say raising my glass, “this is quite the craic you’ve got going here.”
“Brilliant celebration,” says Cian as if translating me for Dash.
An ear-splitting crash from the screen above shakes the deck as Jack in Donal Cam glory shatters a boulder with a mighty Gallowglass sword, igniting a conflagration of golden light. From the center of the blaze, a shadow form moves forward until Nieve is revealed. The lovers reunite in a kiss sure to set hearts and loins pounding as the image snaps to black, and our updated and much bigger budget The Chieftain’s Son season two logo crackles overhead.
Everyone on deck explodes with applause, whistles, and even a few cat calls. Ah, our show may be the prettiest girl at the party.
I look to Dash for some sign of acknowledgement, but he’s flung a paternal arm around Cian’s shoulder. As the two trade private words, I slip away. Dash has proven himself to be a man of many faces this weekend, not a one looking kindly in my direction. His buddy-up with Cian irks me. Even a bloody smile in my direction would do after The Chieftain’s Son made its splash across the screen.
The party ship sets off, surging past the events center and out to the bay. I make my way to the open bar to trade my empty Killer Bee glass for something with more sting. Grinding in my gut cries out for a straight shot of whiskey or two to take the edge off a full-blown case of anger. I can’t let Dash and his passel of True Time ballbags throw me off my game. It’s hard to tell what rankles me more, the truth Dashell Everett has a death grip on my future, the politics required to kiss my boss’s ever-loving California ass, or the game of pretending his caustic repartee flows over me like a designer scarf.
I settle for a blended Hurricane instead of the shots. I’ll stick to watered-down, candied-up rum drinks or what Mommy calls fancy boy sodas tonight. I’ve got to keep alert and keep careful eyes trained on my people and the likes of Cici Storm.
I tap on my cell screen with the True Time subscription numbers. The Chieftain’s Son surge continues. We’ve got a splendid lead. I’m meeting Dash’s challenges with full panels, numbers, and then some. I start to toast myself with the Hurricane when it’s plucked from my hand.
“Clandestinely texting your other Cali Con conquests behind my back?” Cian takes a long sip and smacks lips that never fail to catch my attention. I sneak a glance at the True Time cabal to see if they notice his proprietary move.
I slip my cell into a pocket. Cian avoids comment on the subscription count he couldn’t miss on my phone.
“You’ve caught me, Mr. Malley.” I let loose a loud sigh. “Juggling my men is quite the challenge.” I’m tempted to bring up his clandestine text from Sala Singh about script changes, but I bite my tongue. Not the time nor the place to pick at that wondering.
Cian takes a long, slow sip of my Hurricane, keeping his eyes trained on me over the top of the glass. “Umm, this gives mango margaritas a run for their money.”
He offers the drink back to me, but I wave it off. “Consider it a bribe to tell me what your True Time pals over there are saying about my show. I’ll order another.”
“I’d like to request a different bribe.” His lips stretch into a sly smile. “Perhaps a dance involving nothing but a grass skirt and a coconut bra. I’m sure there’s a wardrobe closet somewhere on board.”
I dart a quick look around our vicinity to make sure no one’s listening. “And what’ll you bring to our party?”
Cian adds teeth to his grin. “I’ve got plans for my own coconuts.”
I shake a finger at him. “You’re a very naughty sort.”
Cian nods at the bow framed by the distant Balboa Sky Bridge. “Grab a drink and meet me up there, M-Squared. We’ll toast to the memory of our first date.”
Up ahead, the bridge sketches a lovely dark curve against the mango margarita sky. Cian dips in for an icy-lipped peck that’s over in an eye blink. He saunters to a circular, rattan bench wedged into the bow lit by the glow of a giant Tiki torch.
First date, eh? Am I counting our night of margaritas and kisses as such? If so, isn’t it brilliantly economical our first date and first kiss are wrapped up in the same evening. Simplifies the retelling of us. I brush off a stray hair tickling my cheek. Wouldn’t a simple date tonight be lovely? I’d let my hair fly loose in the rising evening breeze while I snuggle with Cian under the citronella scented haze of a Tiki torch.
What I should do is pour the icy Hurricane over my head to shock my business brain into its proper position. Across the deck, Dash looks every bit the arrogant son of a bitch as he lords over Jack and Niks’s interview with Cici Storm and Entertaining for You. His voice booms above the crowd buzz, taking the lion’s share of credit for the success of the show. I search for Bobby, prepared to launch him at Dash’s arrogance. Bobby Provost is the beating heart of The Chieftain’s Son, not Dash Everett. You could throw a million Euros at a sheep, and that doesn’t make it a prince. It’s Bobby’s creative genius, not Dash’s coin, making our show royal.
A commotion near the hatch by the steps to the lower deck interrupts the current of conversation swirling around me. Under her floral arch, Cici swivels toward the noise, targeting fresh prey.
Making a grand entrance in matching Hawaiian shirts are Sala Singh and Malakai Bono, the it couple from Star’s Shadow. Cian darts through the crowd at vampiric speed to their side before Cici gets to them. I shake off a spike of unease. Did I misstep not sticking with Jack and Niks until they were free of Ms. Storm. Did Dash notice? Is that why he insinuated himself in their interview? My stock might lose crucial points in the boss man’s reckoning.
I abandon my Hurricane without a sip and thread through a troop of tipsy True Time folks to get to Jack and Niks.
“How’d you go with Cici?”
Niks leans close to whisper. “The She Storm pats Jack’s biceps the way I do to my pups.”
Jack flushes. “At least mine don’t yap and bark.”
I shake my head. “I should have stuck with the pair of you. Sorry.”
Jack looks guilty. “It’s fine, Meg. You shouldn’t have to hold our hand every time a reporter jams a mic up our asses.” He gives me one of his Jack O’Leary smiles that incites a rush of well-being warmer than a sunny day.
Niks’s scolding expression burning a hole through Jack’s forehead brings me up short. I study one and then the other. “You’re keeping something from me.”
Jack tosses Niks a look of pure helplessness.
She crosses her arms, tapping one finger against her upper arm. “It’s your story to tell, lover.”
I’ve never heard her sound so cross with Jack. His hands find Niks lower back as well as mine as he guides us to the rattan bench at the bow that should be occupied by Cian and me. My nerves ratchet higher with every step.
Jack takes a breath, puffing his chest to twice its size. “If you want to go off on me, I’ll take it.”
I force words through clenched teeth. “I’m going to start screaming anyway if you don’t explain.”
He rubs a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I might’ve let slip the word engaged.”
“No might about it, Sweet One,” says Niks.
“Fine,” says Jack. “At least I didn’t say married. Cici riled me. She tried to cause a dust up between Niks and me—”
I hold hands up to stop him. “Your solution was to admit to Cici Storm you may be engaged to someone who isn’t Niks Tellefson?”
Jack looks as if he swallowed a fully lit Tiki torch.
A thousand nightmares cloud my thoughts. Cici will telegraph the news to millions. Jack and Niks will be painted as liars. Och, I hear it now. Hollywood fakery. Disrespect and game playing. Fan love will turn into coal black disgust.
“No, no,” says Niks. “Jack zipped his lip. No messy details.”
Jack studies his very expensive runners. “Niks cleaned up my mess.”
“Cleaned it how?” I say very slowly.
“I think you will be buying me a very big ring,” Niks says, eyes narrowed at Jack. “You buy one for Marisa too.”
I gape at the pair of them. “Wait. Cici Storm thinks the two of you are engaged?”
Niks leans against Jack. “We played your game, Meg.”
I curse myself for not being there to redirect Cici Storm. Cian would never let such a slip happen.
Jack and Niks stare at me wide-eyed, waiting. Waiting for what? An apology I did my job by shipping them to the world? Their pairing has been the catalyst for a fan frenzy that’s only helped the show. I won’t apologize for the payoff from my strategy.
I rock my head to speed up my ability to put a lucid sentence together. Did I not just apologize to Gilly for throwing Jack into Niks’s arms once again? And what of Marisa, the true love of Niks’s life? Gilly and Marisa are now both collateral damage in this war for fame and ratings. A mess indeed. I’ve been so hellbent on the publicity boon of the Jack/Niks fabrication, it’s warped my moral compass. The mess to clean is of my making. It’s time to grab a mop and bucket.
The swell of panic at Jack’s blunder flattens. I close my eyes for a clarifying think, then slowly open them. “Thank you both. You’ve played this game brilliantly. I owe you my absolute appreciation.” Confusion replaces anticipation in my stars. “It’s time we stop playing.”
Hopefulness sparkles in Jack’s eyes.
I chew on my lip. “We’ve got to spin it just right to keep you two shining in the fan’s estimation. After the Cali Con rush calms down, we’ll write a new story. An engagement tease between the two of you is not farfetched.” I spin a finger in the air. “You portray a high-octane love story on screen. It makes perfect sense it might spill over into real life. We’ll paint a mutual parting, not an ugly break-up.” I take my turn at patting Jack’s bicep. “Your close friendship is no lie. Everyone will understand that won’t dissolve even as your ‘passion’ does.”
“Oh, thank God.” Niks claps her hands but then shoots a quick glance at Jack. “I do love you, but it’s weary being Jack O’Leary’s woman all the time.”
Jack takes Niks’s hands in his and kisses her forehead. “Truer words were never spoke. Ask my Gilly.”
Did I sell my cash cow at market for a handful of magic beans by short sheeting Niks’s and Jack’s fauxmance? Surprisingly, relief, not dread settles over me. These are good people. Folks who gave me their trust and allowed loyalty to the show to impact their personal lives. I have been a bit of a bully, but I’ll justify my actions to my last breath as dedication to the success of The Chieftain’s Son. There’s no disaster brewing from their interview. Jack’s slip simply hastens the next chapter of my original scenario. We’ll build a buzz toward a different exit of the roundabout.
Jack’s eyes roam the deck. “Do you know where Gilly’s gone off to?”
I bob my head toward the stern. “Bobby grabbed her and Maureen and slipped just there.”
Jack’s a runner poised for the starting gun to go off. I lay a hand on his over-patted bicep. “Remember, lots of nosey eyes on you here.”
Niks links arms with Jack. “I stay with him, yes. Eyes see Jack and me together. Everyone is happy.” She winks at me. “Go find your pretty man.”
Well, doesn’t her description wrap Cian up in a neat package. A lovely warmth simmers behind my breastbone. That pretty man taught me so much. He blunts the sharp edges of business with humanity. Sala Singh’s text to him I peeped at earlier changes hues to comradery instead of suspicion. Cian and his folks are a team. I want to be a tight weave in the fabric of The Chieftain’s Son in the same way. Maybe being a “we” is growing on me.
The space between bodies here on deck shrinks to a minimum. The inhabitants of the lower deck pour topside as we cross under the Balboa Sky Bridge. Off to the west, fireworks scatter across the newborn night sky, adding another festive layer to the party. Amid this bubbling True Time pool of dealmakers, a lazy sense of summer brushes over me.
I weave my way to Cian’s last known location, eager to find out if he’s possibly locked in his stars for our Ship of Dreams panel. I’m certain Dash will love our mash-up of the two shows, and God willing, it will finally put The Chieftain’s Son on equal footing with Star’s Shadow in the big man’s estimation.
I spot the back of Cian’s head in the joined-at-the-hip group of True Time execs. His tall, lanky frame contrasts his thick-middled colleagues. After a brief stop at the open bar for a pair of fresh Hurricanes, I wander through the crowd, anticipation building. I’ve at least two more potential “date” nights with Cian Malley. I plan to make the most of them.
As I slip through the final layer of humanity blocking me from Cian, a pair of voices stop me as effectively as a blow to the head. There’s no mistaking who they belong to, Dash and Cian.
“It’s past time Cian here claims the helm and whips our Irish country bumpkin of a publicity department head into shape.”
“Come on, Dash. It’s not exactly a backwater team. Meghan McGrath’s got fantastic potential. With her under me, I’ll crank up the solid momentum on The Chieftain’s Son and do True Time proud,” says Cian, thumping Dash on the back.
“I’d love to have her under me,” another fool chimes in, and I finally identify the fucker who’s been taking shots at me all night. The entire bevy of bastards laugh. Their wave of toxic misogynistic masculinity smacks into me. With his back to me, I can’t read Cian’s reaction. Urges to run, punch, or heave my pair of Hurricane’s in their overfed faces battle inside me. Turmoil glues my pair of maroon pumps to the sand-sprinkled wooden deck.
Dash catches sight of me first. The Oh shit! composition of his features results in the collective turn of half a dozen heads.
My eyes find Cian’s, praying beyond hope what I’m hearing can’t be real. This isn’t about my show, and my future. It’s a bloody royal cock-up I’ve somehow misinterpreted. In the single moment when Cian’s look meets mine, my life bursts into flames.
He reaches out in time to catch the two Hurricane glasses before they slip out of my grasp. Dash is at my side, fingers clamped on my elbow to guide me away.
“I’m sorry, Meghan. This is certainly not the way I wanted you to find out. You knew it was more probability than possibility your position was in jeopardy. I warned you.”
He maneuvers us into a small space between the hatch to the lower deck and the side rail of the ship.
I rip my arm from his grasp. “You promised me a chance.” I flash my cell at him. The screen shows the latest tally of True Time subscriptions. “My show is wiping the floor with your other prize ponies.”
Annoyance mixed with a dropper full of anger crosses Dash’s face. “As I said before, your talents are valued. There’s no question you should stay with The Chieftain’s Son.” He guides my phone away from his face. “A show that’s exploded in popularity like yours demands a more experienced hand at the wheel. It’s business, Meghan. There’s marketing potential you lack the experience to tap into. We agreed to take you on because you’re Bobby’s golden girl. Putting you in the top spot alone was never fair.”
“Then be a better mentor to me, Dash.” I tamp down the urgency to list the ways he hasn’t lived up to the scenario he painted for me when I was hired. Our weekly calls were supposed to be more than a sign-off. He was supposed to be guiding me, sharpening my potential, inspiring and educating me.
A wave of Dash’s hand dismisses me. I’ve caught him in his empty promise to me, and he’s hot over it. Dashell Everett never expected The Chieftain’s Son to become what it is. He sees Meghan McGrath as steady, but Cian Malley is stellar. Dash never intended to honor our deal for me to keep my position.
