Page 4 of Cut Off
I look down to see I’m in socks. “Right.” I blink. “And a coat.”
“And a baseball cap.” The older one adds. “It’s not unusual to see press at the station.”
“Right.” Damn—when the press gets wind of this, it’s going to be a complete shitshow. The longer this stays under wraps, the better.
I turn mechanically and walk back into the kitchen, a storm roaring in my head as I try to remember where I took off my shoes.
After I find them, my hands shake as I tie my laces. Ten years ago, Rosie Anders took my heart when she left without explanation. Now she’s gone for good, leaving behind the one piece of herself I never knew existed.
And he’s waiting for me.
2
The Newsy Room
ZOE
The buzz of KBVR’s fluorescent lights makes me feel twitchy, especially now as I’ve got a little over four minutes to cobble together a sports highlight reel. Why?
Because Donny Dexter—our sports anchor—is MIA.Again. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve covered his spray-tanned ass, I could buy a yacht. Not that I’d want one, I get seasick. But still.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, splicing together clips of last night’s high school basketball game with some footage from the Boise State match. Continuity? Who needs it when you’re four minutes from dead air. The countdown clock in the corner of my monitor reminds me that my four years as an assistant producer at KBVR W2Beaver might come to an explosive end if I don’t pull another miracle out of this ancient laptop.
“Three minutes fifty seconds, Zoe.” Jerry’s voice crackles through my headset. “No sign of Donny.”
“On it. Prepping backup package now.”
If Donny wasn’t tight with Marcus Steele, our station manager, he’d be out.
The door bangs open, and the interns jump.
There he is, Dickens’ golden boy himself, his hair spiking in that “I used a can of gel” kind of way.
“Lane!” Donny shouts my last name, waving a USB stick over his head. “Got the footage right here, baby!”
My eyes are dying to roll, but I’ve become an expert at stopping them. “Two minutes, Donny. You’re cutting it close.”
“That’s how I live. On the edge.” With a wink that makes my stomach churn, he slides the USB stick across my desk. “My own edit.”
“This isn’t how this works.” I grab the stick. “I have no time to check it—”
“Trust me, it’s gold.” He backs away toward makeup, where Tina waits with her rolling cart full of powders to hide the evidence of what I’m guessing was a four-tequila night. “Just plug and play, Lane.”
I jam the USB into my laptop, muttering things that would not make my conservative parents proud. The file loads, and I check that it’s the right length and format. At least that much seems fine.
“Lane.” It’s Jerry again. “Package. Now.”
“Coming!” I grab my laptop and head into the control room, queue up Donny’s file, and send it to the system. “Loaded and ready, station two.”
I throw on my headphones and grab my coffee—the cup I poured at five a.m. to get me through the morning show since I’m working a split shift today. I brave a sip, and good God, when I swallow back the cold bitterness, I swear hairsprouts on my chest. Maybe this is why I’m still single. That, and the fact that my dating pool consists of men like Donny who think a personality is something you develop through Instagram filters.
Donny slides into his sportscaster chair, his cheeks streaked with the makeup that Tina didn’t have time to blend. He jams his earpiece in, flashes his Vegas smile at camera two, and we’re rolling.
“Good morning, Dickens!” His voice drops for his on-air persona. “Donny Dexter here with your sports roundup. Lots of action on the courts and fields last night, so let’s dive right in.”
Jerry cues the footage, and I hold my breath, half-expecting a blank screen or color bars or, God forbid, something Donny recorded at The Stagger Inn last night.
Instead of anything sports-related, we see Donny shirtless in his kitchen, flexing as he makes a smoothie. My jaw drops as the audio kicks in.
