Page 11 of The Gift
“Okay, do you want to be a little more specific as to what part?” I ask through the microphone, the feedback of my own voice echoing back at me.
He flings his head back and laughs, like a stomach holding laugh. We both know what the issue is, the whole take is pretty craptacular so far.
“Ow!” I gasp dramatically.
“Hey? What?” He stops laughing and is about to rip the door off to come help me.
“Yeah, that was my fragile ego you shattered,” I smirk pointing to a spot on the ground, “See right there, my heart lays bleeding right alongside it.”
He chuckles again, rolling his eyes.
“Okay, Drama Queen, one more try, otherwise we’ll call it a wrap and autotune the hell out of it,” he smiles sweetly, offering what is akin to blasphemy in our world. “I can give you a breather for thirty seconds, while I sample what we have, so you stop sounding like a robotic hippo giving birth.”
I spin around otherwise we’ll be doing this all day. Which I don’t mind, but someone is sure to come and tell us we’re wasting valuable time and resources pretty soon.
It has been surprisingly rewarding working with these guys. We’ve formed a connection in a lot of ways, forged friendships that extend out of working hours. During the past four years, our crew has been given almost free reign. We’ve fought tooth and nail for it, the way we work as a loud and sometimes chaotic team doesn’t appeal to some, but the ratings we get give us a lot of leeway. A lot. But not a free pass. And the continual threat of having an appointed department head to watch over us is never too far away.
Clearing my throat for a final, mock run, I focus. Jordy’s right, I sound like I’m getting a head cold. Having the five minutes as a group might be worth being autotuned. Visualising a camera being pointed at me helps settle into my more disciplined persona.
“The greatest gift we can give these people is to let them know how important they are to us. We welcome them with open arms, we encourage them to be a part of our society again. We ask all the omegas still out there, we beg them to trust us with their future, because we are all so very sorry for the past.”
Full disclosure, method acting is my forte, but in this respect, it almost doesn’t have to be. Which is where the problem lies. I should be empathetic in the delivery, but Jordy keeps telling me to stop being so bullish and condescending, and I get where he is coming from. I’m having a hard time separating my own feelings from the script.
“Hold up a second, Bailey.” Jordy buzzes through when I’m about to start. I owe him a drink, and a night out. He’s been more than patient with me, not even pushing me for an explanation on my poor performance.
Tugging off my headphones, I close my eyes, searching for the break I need. Employing the virtues of one of my self-empowerment podcasts. I visualise slowing down the spin cycle in my head, trying to offload the unnecessary from the necessary. Almost like sorting the delicates from the towels. It helps in part, but I have a feeling I’m going to need more than self-help and motivational tips on this trip.
“Come on, Jordy. Or let’s finish this later…”
My words effectively dry up, because while I might be sitting in an acoustic, soundproof room, nothing buffers the presence of the person who walked into Jordy’s studio.
The past few days I’ve been super aware of what was coming, but now the time’s here. I think I’ve discovered no matter how much preparation, desensitisation or visualisation exercises I’ve done, being in the presence of an unknown alpha draws an involuntary visceral, primal response from me.
The power and energy that pulses off the man, feels a lot like a bomb going off between my ears. My skin tightens, flushes and my pulse races. But I need to deal with those responses and deal fast because I agreed to be the face of this wreck.
In part agreeing to do this was like the ultimate personal test. I have to know once and for all that I own my strength. And yeah, it might be a strange sentiment, considering I’d already survived this long, and I’d done the unthinkable by doing it right under their noses but I have to know. I carry a lot of pride knowing I’ve been able to grace their television screens for the past few years, rocketing to the top of the industry, refusing to be anything less than who I am, despite who I was.
And if that isn’t the ultimate fuck you, what is?
Rubbing my finger over my teeth, in case I’ve left them coated in red lipstick due to the sudden nervous gnawing of my lip, I smooth my hair, roll my shoulders letting my positivity coat me inside and out. And then I spin around to face the owner—or rather, the reason for my current state of fluttering unease.
Of course he’s shrouded in shadow, only a dark shape on the other side of the glass, yet this is one of those times you know. Without a doubt or hesitation I could tell you that not only was the man currently imposing his greatness in our studio is an alpha, but he isthealpha, which means it’s Henley Bailey.
Yep, get that. Out of all the fucked-up coincidences in the world, the man and I share a name.
From the information provided to our team, Henley is six feet four with short hair, blue eyes that look like they’ve been made from pure sapphires. And pouty lips any porn star would be jealous of. I get caught up searching for confirmation between the information we received and the actual man, belatedly realising Jordy is talking. His voice fills the booth I’m in, meaning he’s accidentally, or purposely, left open the line so I can hear his conversation with Henley.
They discuss the value of the lines being spoken by an alpha, so it seems like the gossip around the station is correct. Somehow his pack has negotiated to be included in a rather large say in the production, even a final vote in the sign off before airing. Part of me is impressed. Exposé Media don’t like not being in complete control. Clearly Pack Bailey doesn’t either.
“Bailey, are you okay if Henley comes in and tries the line for you?”
“Yeah, of course. I can come out there, give him my…”
The man in question doesn’t wait, opening the door and sweeping in. As is usually the way with his type. He flicks his hand in a cutting motion to tell Jordy to cut the feed and give us five. And then he stands relaxed with his back against the door, leaning on it thankfully, or he might have hit the roof. He’s way taller than what the information said.
I burst into action, jumping off my seat and holding my hand out to shake with him. Maintaining the confidence of an award-winning presenter and media star is an easy ask. The hard part is going to be consistency and longevity of my performance.
“Bailey Henderson, great to finally meet you.” I smile, all teeth, even tipping my head to the side. My good side, naturally.
