Page 75 of Cuts like a Knife
“Well, yeah. She’s very into pop culture. So I asked her. And that’s what she said. He’s just famous for being famous. And rich”
“Yes. He showed up on the scene only a couple of years ago, as far as I can tell. Doesn’t it see strange?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. All of this is strange, isn’t it? This whole stupid show? This whole industry? I mean, why are any of these people famous? You said why is he here, but why are we even here? Why is this moronic show such a hit? It’s like … a visual representation of society collapsing.” I shook my head, disgusted. “Maybe Pete just moved here a few years ago. From Europe, or wherever he’s from. And that’s why he suddenly became a thing. It’s not like we care about celebrities from overseas as a rule. Maybe he blew up when he got here because that’s when he got here.”
“Maybe, kid. Maybe.”
“Why are you talking to me?” I asked again, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye before turning back to the shoot. “You still haven’t explained.”
Atlas did a sort of one-shoulder shrug.
“I’ve been thinking about you. About your little attempt to civilize us at the press conference yesterday.”
“My failed attempt, you mean.”
“Yup.” He smiled. “Look, my honest advice to you is just to write your fluff pieces and go home. Try to enjoy the sunshine while you’re here. Don’t think too much about it.”
“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your advice.”
“But if you find you can’t — can’t just do what you’re being paid to do, can’t just accept the fluff for what it is, earn your paycheck and move on … If you’re determined to do something meaningful while you’re here, and I really don’t recommend it, but I’m not your dad, well then, I’m just saying you might want to start with a closer look at old Petar. That’s all.”
What a weirdo.
“Thanks. I’ll take it under advisement.”
On the lunch set, things were winding down. Savannah and Danny had apparently reconciled. Maylee was back with her own partner. The dishes were being plated.
Not wanting to be served another disgusting show-produced plate, I moved to slip away.
“I’ve gotta go write,” I said, by way of goodbye.
“Later, kid,” he replied, his eyes still on Petar Timber246.
If there is a story, I doubt it’s a good one. Rich European billionaire guy does rich guy things? I mean, how riveting.
I slipped off to the restaurant to write for the afternoon.
Chapter Twenty
Now, it’s nearing evening. I watch the real restaurant workers prepping for their normal, show-free vacationer’s dinner rush, filling the salt shakers, folding the napkins, polishing the silverware, I think about how sick I already am of working.
I’ve been on Exuma less than two full days and I’ve produced at least two solid weeks of work. I’ve also cracked an actual code, roped myself into weeks more work247, months down the line, and managed to alienate one major TV producer, one insignificant PA, and my direct supervisor. I’ve also managed to humiliate myself in front of about 50 reporters.
I’m sick of working.
I’m going to pack it in for the day. I’ve still got the barbecue-beach dinner shoot to attend, but there’s a little time before that starts.
My mind drifts to the hotel’s pristine beach. All those blue umbrellas. All those lounge chairs. All those cabanas. Late afternoons usually mean a beach at a place like this is likely to be dead. The regular resort guests will have disappeared to their rooms to nap, shower, or … enjoy their honeymoon time. It’s sure to be quiet.
I slap my laptop closed, bag it, and slip from the restaurant, winding my way past the pool and the pool bar, and along the palm-tree-lined boulevard that leads to the resort’s private beach.
On the way, I pass none other than Petar Timber. He pushes past me, on his way back toward the hotel.
For once he isn’t grinning. Or draped with models. He looks … harried. And annoyed.
He barely seems to register me. Just gives me a tight lipped, single-second smile as he pushes past me on his way by.
I’m struck by how plain he is up close. Men really are amazing. Especially rich men248.
