Authors: Mary Kay Andrews
A
ll right, people,” Just Joel said with an air of bored detachment.
He grabbed Tate by the arm. “You, I want here.” He maneuvered Gina so that she was inches from Moody. “And you here.”
He raised the big camera and locked it onto a tripod. “I want the two of you to stare into each other’s eyes. Really staring. And loathing. Complete loathing. Can we at least do that?”
Gina locked eyes with Tate Moody. He winked.
She clenched her teeth. “Cut it out.”
“Make me.”
“Tate,” Just Joel called. “I’m not buying the hatred. Let me see your killer instinct.”
He cocked an eyebrow and growled.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Gina said.
“That’s it, Gina,” Joel said, clicking off three quick shots. “Narrow your eyes like that again.”
She narrowed. It came naturally.
“Ooh,” Tate taunted. “Now I’m really scared.”
“Beautiful, Gina,” Joel said, clicking again. “You’re a warrior queen. He’s invading your territory. Show him who’s boss.”
“Gladly,” Gina said, shoving Tate so hard he fell over backward.
Click. Click. Click.
Moonpie, clamped tightly in Valerie’s arms, gave a sharp bark of protest.
“Great stuff,” Barry Adelman called from outside the ring. “Let’s get some more of that.”
Gina glowered down at Tate Moody. Instinctively, he crossed both hands over his crotch. Then, genuinely irritated, he scrambled to his feet.
“You’re mad, Tate,” Joel coached, circling around the two now. “Pissed as hell. Who does this emasculating bitch think she is? Huh?”
Tate leaned in toward Gina and scowled.
Click. Click.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“What?”
“Have you been drinking?”
She blushed. “A little vodka in my orange juice. It was the only way I could get up the nerve to come out dressed in those stupid boxing trunks.”
“Gina?” Joel said, “Are we losing our edge?”
“Wuss,” Tate whispered.
She furrowed her brow, balled up her fists, and appeared ready to pummel Tate Moody within an inch of his life.
Click. Click.
“You didn’t look that bad in the robe,” Tate offered, faking a jab to Gina’s chin. “You should show your legs more often.”
Click. Click.
This time her annoyance was real. “You sound just like Scott.”
“Just one man’s professional opinion,” Tate said. “Use what you got. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And that’s all I’ve got?” she retorted. “Good legs? A set of boobs? No brain, no talent?”
“Hey!” Tate said, poking her in the chest. “Don’t get all bent out of shape. If you didn’t want to wear the stupid outfit, you should have just said so. What? You’re so dick-whipped you can’t stand up for your own rights?”
He didn’t even see it coming.
Cold-cocked, with a roundhouse right to the jaw, Tate staggered backward. Gina clutched her right hand in her left and yowled with pain.
Click. Click. Click.
I
think my jaw is dislocated,” Tate said, his fingers gingerly probing the lower half of his face.
“Oh, it is not, you big sissy,” Gina countered. “You wouldn’t be able to talk if that were the case.”
She shifted the bag of ice on her right hand to reveal a bruise roughly the size, shape, and color of a plum forming across her knuckles.
“See what you did?” She held out the hand so he could see the severity of her injury. “It hurts like the dickens. How am I gonna tape a show with my hand like this?”
“What I did?” he sputtered. “You attacked me. It’s a clear case of aggravated assault.”
“I was aggravated, all right,” Gina said. “You deliberately provoked me.”
“Shut up, you two,” Val ordered. She opened a bottle of aspirin, poured out a handful of tablets and gave half to Tate and half to Regina. She looked around the trainer’s room. “Has anybody got a bottle of water?”
“How about some orange juice?” Lisa asked, offering the carton she’d fetched from the women’s locker room.
A half smile flitted across Tate’s bruised face. “Is this
the
orange juice?”
“Afraid so,” Gina said, trying to suppress her own amusement.
“Might as well,” Tate said. He swallowed the aspirin with a few ounces and handed the carton over to Gina, who did the same.
The door to the trainer’s room opened. Deborah and Scott walked in, their faces glum.
“What now?” Gina asked.
“Well…” Deborah said, giving Scott a sideways glance.
He sat down on the trainer’s table beside Gina. “How’s the hand? Is it broken?”
She wiggled her fingers, wincing. “I’m not going to lie. It hurts,” Gina said. “But tell me what happened. Something’s wrong.”
“Just worried about you,” Scott said, patting her leg awkwardly.
“Barry just left,” Deborah said abruptly.
“What? He just walked out? Did he say anything?” Val asked.
Deborah tossed her hair. “After these two finished their exhibition match, and while they were getting doctored, Barry finished his conference call, and then he told Zeke to call the hotel and cancel their reservation and book seats on the next flight back to New York. Other than that, no, he didn’t say anything. But he didn’t have to. You should have seen the look on his face. He was obviously appalled. As was I,” she added, with a shake of her head. “What a fiasco.”
“I’m sorry,” Gina said. “I blew it. There’s no excuse for the way I acted.”
Deborah fixed Tate with a cold stare. “I have an idea you were provoked. So it wasn’t all your fault.”
“Screw you, lady,” Tate said, jumping up off the table. “This whole boxing match thing was your idea. You engineered the whole thing. The gym, the stupid outfits, all of it. And that photographer. You heard him. He was egging us on. We just gave you what you asked for. I’ve got no apologies.” He jerked his head in Gina’s direction. “And neither should she.”
Gina looked up and smiled wanly. “Still. I’m sorry I hit you so hard.”
He shrugged. “I’ll get over it. See you around.” He turned to his producer. “Let’s roll.”
An awkward silence fell over the trainer’s room after Tate and Val left.
Finally, Lisa cleared her throat. “I’m, uh, gonna go get our stuff,”
she told her sister. “Guess I’ll drive us home so you can leave the ice pack on your hand.”
“Good idea,” Scott said.
Cell phone in hand, Deborah started for the door too. “I’ve got to get started doing some damage control,” she said. “I overheard Zeke saying their flight won’t leave for another hour. I’m going to call Barry and try to put a positive spin on things. Joel did show me some of the shots on his digital camera. They’re actually not bad.” She smirked. “I especially like the one of Moody flat on his ass. With a little luck, I think I can still salvage this thing.”
Now it was just the two of them. Scott and Gina.
“Guess I blew it,” Gina said. “For both of us.”
Scott shrugged. “Leave it to Deborah. She’s a pro. She’ll figure a way to make lemonade out of this lemon.” He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “All this time, I was worried about the other Foxton girl ripping me a new one. You’ve got quite a haymaker on you, Gina. Remind me not to get on your bad side again.”
She shifted the ice pack. “Tate Moody is a redneck jerk. But I shouldn’t have let him get under my skin. I wasn’t raised like that. If my mama saw what I did out there today, she would be having conniptions.”
“You really cleaned his clock,” Scott repeated. “The look on your face. I could see he was getting under your skin. What exactly did he say to set you off like that?”
Dick-whipped, Gina thought. What an ugly phrase. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, repeat it, not to anybody. Anyway, she had stood up for what she believed in. Hadn’t she refused to be photographed in those hideous shorts?
“I don’t even remember,” Gina said finally. “It was all just a blur.”
W
hen Lisa slid behind the wheel of the Honda, Gina gave her a searching look. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive? How much of that vodka did you have?”
“Not that much,” Lisa assured her. “Hardly any. I’m actually more of a Natty Lite girl. Anyway, I only brought the vodka ’cause I thought you might need a little pick-me-up.”
“If you’re sure,” Gina said, leaning back against the headrest. “All I need is for us to get a DUI to make this the hands-down worst day of my life.”
“Hands down,” Lisa chortled, pulling carefully out of the parking lot. “That’s pretty funny. Hands down.”
“Not funny at all,” Gina said, closing her eyes.
“What did the asshole say after I left?” Lisa asked.
“He thinks Deborah can salvage the mess I made. Doesn’t matter. I ruined everything.” She turned and gave Lisa a sad smile. “Sorry about your short-lived showbiz career.”
“Screw it,” Lisa said succinctly. “You can get a new producer. And a new show. Anyway, it was fun while it lasted. I can’t wait till everybody at home sees the Thanksgiving show. You think I should start looking for an agent?”
“That vodka of yours is making me really woozy,” Gina said, avoiding the subject. “I just want to go home, take some painkillers, and go to bed.”
“Tell me one thing before you nod off?”
“Shoot.”
“What did the Tatester say to make you deck him?”
Gina yawned dramatically. “It was nothing.”
“Then tell me.”
She blushed. “It’s too crude to repeat. And it’s not true.”
Lisa guffawed. “Rude, crude, and socially unacceptable? I live for that kind of stuff. Come on. Tell.”
“He said…”
“What? He said you looked pretty damned hot in that robe?”
“No. I mean, well, yeah, he did say it looked good on me.”
“But that’s not why you socked him in the jaw.”
“Can we just drop this? I’m tired. My hand is throbbing.”
“Tell me what he said and I won’t say another word.”
“He accused me of being dick-whipped. Okay? He said I shouldn’t have let them talk me into putting on that outfit if I didn’t
want to do it. And that’s when I punched him. He asked for it. End of story.”
Lisa nodded her approval. “Good ending. Especially since the rest of the morning was such a letdown.”
“How was it a letdown for you?”
“Helloooo?” Lisa said. “You think I got up at the butt-crack of dawn and drove all this way just to watch you nut up over some tight pants? No offense, but I came because I was promised a chance to see Tate Moody up close and personal. Without a shirt.”
She sighed and held up her camera phone. “I didn’t get a single shot.”
G
ood news, good news, good news,” Val sang out, her footsteps causing the Vagabond to shake with each phrase.
Moonpie barked a greeting from inside the trailer’s screen door, but there was no sign of his owner.
“Tate?”
Now she heard water running. She stepped inside the trailer and tapped on the bathroom door. “Tate? You decent?”
“Go away,” he yelled.
“Nope,” she said genially. “I’ve got good news. Come on out, sport.”
The bathroom door opened an inch, and a cloud of steam emerged, followed by Tate’s head. His hair was dripping wet, and his face was pink from the heat. “I’m officially on vacation. Moonpie and I are taking the Vagabond and going up to Ellijay for some trout fishing. And you are not invited. Now go away, Valerie.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what the good news is?”
“I don’t care what your good news is,” he said, closing the door in her face. “I’m gone. Call me in a week, and we’ll talk.”
She unrolled the magazine she’d brought over to the Voyager and slid it under the bathroom door. “Page twenty-eight,” she said. “Check it out.”
Silence. Five minutes later, the bathroom door opened.
Tate was dressed in clean but threadbare blue jeans. He wore a dark green T-shirt. He was barefoot. He had the
People
magazine open to page 28.
“Did you know
Fresh Start
has been canceled?”
“Not till this morning,” Val said. “The rumor going around town is—”
“Jesus!” he said, running his fingers through his damp hair. “What a business. Having your sponsor dump you for NASCAR. Has she seen this yet?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play innocent with me. Reggie. Has she seen this?”
“How should I know? Anyway, who cares?” She snatched the magazine away from him and sat down at the dinette. She read the headline aloud.
“
FOOD FIGHT HEATS UP DOWN SOUTH
. Will hunky outdoorsman Tate Moody be the catch of the day—or will fresh foodie fanatic Gina Foxton win this battle for a prime-time network cooking show?”
Moonpie cocked his head and thumped his tail in approval.
“Not you,” Val said, edging the dog’s butt off the top of her shoe.
She held up the double-page spread so both Tate and Moonpie could get a look. The color photo took up most of the left-hand page. It showed him face-to-face with Regina Foxton in the boxing ring, looking cocky, self-assured, confident. Gina Foxton’s face was contorted in a hideous snarl, her teeth bared, eyes narrowed, one strap of her tank top sliding halfway down her shoulder. The facing page showed a publicity photo of Tate and Moonpie, posed in front of the Vagabond.
“Hunky outdoorsman!” Val repeated. “How fabulous is that? Your sponsors have been calling me all morning. To say they are thrilled is the understatement of the day. Beau Archer started calling at six
A.M.
He wants to know what it would take to get you to sign with Southern Outdoors for another two years, whether or not you get the TCC spot.”
“Who’s Beau Archer?” Tate asked, pouring himself a bowl of Rice Krispies.
“Who—who’s Archer?” Val sputtered. “Pay attention here, Tate. He’s only the president of Southern Outdoors Network. The guy who signs our paychecks. Remember—he flew you out to his ranch in Montana to go grouse hunting with the sponsors last winter?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tate said. “Guy couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a baseball bat. He had a good-looking German shorthaired bitch though.”
“His wife?” Val asked, looking shocked. “When did you meet her?”
Tate shook his head sadly. “It’s a dog, Val. A German shorthair is a dog. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Speaking of dogs,” Val went on, “I also had a call from a woman at ChowHound dog food. They want Moonpie to be their new spokesdog.”
“Hmmm,” Tate said, shoveling in the Rice Krispies. “What’d you tell Beau Archer?”
“No deal,” she said succinctly. “We’re signing nothing till we know whether the Food Fight is still on. They’re paying us peanuts right now. But it’s gonna cost ’em, big-time, from now on, if this TCC deal goes through.”
Val’s hip began playing the first few notes of the
Vittles
theme song. She rolled to the right, took the phone out of the pocket of her slacks, glanced at the phone’s readout, and grinned widely. “Yes!” she exclaimed, pumping the air with her fist. “It’s Barry Adelman. This is it, Tate. He’s calling to tell us you’ve got the show.”
D
eborah Chen slid the copy of
People
across the desk gingerly, barely touching it with the tip of her fingernail, as though the images might burn her flesh.
“There is no such thing as bad publicity,” she told Gina, her voice brisk. “Now, you might not think so right at this moment, but—”
“Oh, no!” Gina said, flinging her reading glasses at the publicist. “This is the worst picture of me that has ever been printed.”
“It’s not that bad,” Scott started to say.
“It’s worse than my driver’s license picture, and in that one I had a bad perm and a giant fever blister on my upper lip,” Gina cried, stabbing the page with her forefinger. “Look at this thing. Tate Moody looks like a rock star. But me? I look like some blood-crazed maniac.”
“They could have chosen a more flattering picture of you,” Deborah finally conceded, “but I really think you’re overreacting. Anyway, as I was saying, this article is actually a godsend. Yes, it does mention that Tastee-Town has withdrawn sponsorship of
Fresh Start
. But now, that opens the way for other, bigger sponsors to step in. It’s just a matter of time until they start calling—”
As if on cue, the phone on Gina’s desk started to ring. She stared at it without picking up. It rang eight times, and then stopped. A moment later she heard the muted ring of her cell phone, from inside her bottom desk drawer. She picked it up, looked at the caller ID readout, and put it back in her pocketbook. “Mama,” she said. “Oh, crap. It’s Tuesday. She gets her hair done at the Beauty Box on Tuesdays. They subscribe to everything. Even the
Star
.
People
is the first thing she reaches for when they put her under the dryer.”
Now it was Scott’s turn. His cell phone rang urgently. He plucked his BlackBerry from the holster on his hip and pressed a button.
“Barry!” he exclaimed. “Yeah! How about that? We were just talking about it. I know! A million bucks worth of publicity for sure. What?” Scott shook his head vehemently. “No, no,
Fresh Start
is not off the air. I’m in negotiations with a couple of other sponsors. No, I’m not at liberty to say just yet…
“Really?” Scott’s face brightened. “That big a response, huh?”
But now he was frowning. “Utah? I don’t see the draw of Utah. I mean, it’s not even in the South….”
The smile returned as he listened. “Oh. I gotcha.” He was nodding rapidly, reaching for a pencil, making notes. “Well, that’s not much notice, but I can talk to Gina, see if she can clear her calendar. She’s got a heavy promotional schedule….”
His eyebrows shot upward. “That’s our share, guaranteed? Prime time?” He whistled. “Barry, let me just run the numbers by our people, see what we can work out. Today?” He gave a dramatic, beleaguered sigh. “Yeah. I’ll get back to you. Absolutely.”
Scott busied himself with finishing his note-taking, then looked up at Gina.
“What’d he say?” she demanded. “Did I get it? Why am I clearing my calendar?”
“Whoa!” Scott said. He put his BlackBerry back in his holster.
“Deborah was right,” he said slowly. “There is no such thing as bad publicity. As soon as the
People
story hit, the president of TCC was on the phone with Barry.”
“What about the show?” Gina begged. “Stop torturing me. Who got the show? Me or Tate?”
“You both got it,” Scott said. “In a manner of speaking.”