Running Late
I brushed my teeth and avoided looking at myself in the dingy mirror as I did. This would be the first day in three years I might actually be late for work, and although I couldn’t blame my usually unflappable mother for her meltdown, it was inconvenient.
This movie might be the biggest production our company has ever worked on, with two big-name actors in the lead roles. But stuff went wrong from the word go, and three days in, we’d not shot any footage—a first.
Why was that a problem for me? What was my job description even?
Most days, my boss, famous producer Porter Harris, couldn’t keep my name straight, but I did everything from fetching his laundry to correcting his emails to buying his girlfriend’s gifts. He had a PA and a secretary, but life was fine as long as he paid my salary, and I didn’t have to ask Mom for money.
Harris could be a bit of an asshole if things consistently went wrong, especially if people were not doing their jobs. If I had to describe him? Like Simon Cowell, he was a perfectionist. He knew what he wanted and how to get it out of people. The man had an eye for talent and a nose for what works. His colleagues called him “King Midas” behind his back, and it was true—he had that golden touch. The producer was sometimes quite enamored of himself, but he was capable of extraordinary acts of kindness.
He did scare me the last few days, though, and arriving late would not go down well.
The studio car honked outside.
“Shit!” I said, spitting out the toothpaste.
There was no time for concealer or gloss. I ran to my room, jumped into my pants, and grabbed my purse. I clenched the strap between my teeth on the way to the door and wiggled the black slacks over my thunder thighs before grabbing my phone and keys as I finally got the zip up while halfway through the door, pausing only long enough to get the button through.
The car honked a second time, and I ran down the corridor, only to realize the tiles were icy because I had no socks or shoes on.
“Dammit,” I grouched, turning on my heel.
I unlocked everything and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes from the rack by the door before pelting back out again.
The driver took off when I was only halfway into the car, nearly dumping me sideways.
Have I brushed my hair?
The thought iced the adrenaline rushing through my veins as I tried to catch my breath and glanced in the rearview mirror, groaning. I looked like that ad with the gorilla dragging the guy around by his hair in his sleep.
We were almost at the studio, weaving through traffic like we were in a chase scene as I dug through my purse. I nearly cried with relief when I discovered my spare hairbrush and a rather dirty hair tie.
It would have to do.
I grabbed the shoes and just stared at them. Slippers.
How the actual . . .
At least these were sensible and not my hot pink bunny ones. I would rather walk barefoot over a bed of hot coals before arriving at work in those.
I glanced down at myself and just stared. How do I still have my red-checkered flannel pajama lumberjack top on? Should I just take the day off and pretend I’m not feeling well?
Except I didn’t get sick, and Harris would immediately know something was up.
“No one will notice,” the driver said, and it was the first sentence he had spoken to me over six months of picking me up.
Even though he was right and no one would notice, I tried to adjust the slightly snug top that clung to my ample curves. Most days, I was invisible among all those high-octane artistic personalities, and I liked it that way.
Having burrowed through my purse like a raccoon through trash, I retrieved my glasses and slapped them on my nose. Not that I needed them, but they were part of my “nerdy disguise” of invisibility.
“Thanks,” I replied, as I did every morning.
And like every morning, he would stonily stare ahead and say nothing as I slid out the door. Strangely, he reminded me of that blonde guy from the robot movies—not Arnold, the liquidy one—which was probably why he intimidated me so much.
This was not a day for first strolling over to the coffee machine, and I sprinted straight for the studio, knowing I’d be sweaty and out of breath. My tight undershirt couldn’t quite handle my bouncing, unfettered assets as I ran, holding my purse against my chest like a shield.
Almost stumbling into a rose bed proved that running with your arms close to your chest while wearing slippers was not a bright idea. If anyone had seen me, I would have died of shame. Fortunately, everyone was mercifully inside the studio, and this part of the lot was off-limits to those not associated with the movie.
I undid the side flap of my purse and grabbed my card to open the service door. Only after the third failed attempt did I realize it was my credit card, not the key card.
Wildly rummaging again didn’t bring forth the flat white card, so I took a moment before checking again.
“Calm down, Mercedes, you’ve got this. Just breathe,” I encouraged myself and found the damned thing almost immediately. A glance at my phone revealed I was officially twenty minutes late, and filming had started.
I snuck inside and carefully made my way to the studio, hoping no one would spot me as I eased my way over to the producer’s chair and slipped a copy of his afternoon schedule into his binder.
Still old-school, Porter Harris hated a phone telling him what to do and where to go.
No one noticed me—big shocker.
I watched everyone going about their business for a bit, and since the boss didn’t need me, I slipped off to see if there were any clean clothes in my locker.
“Mercedes Benson, you’re late,” someone said close to my shoulder just as I opened the door to the staff building, nearly scaring me senseless.
“Sherise, you’ll give me a heart attack one of these days!”
The tiny, freckled redhead laughed at me, her green eyes dancing with mirth. She had the looks for acting but never spoke about having such aspirations.
“Harris looked for you earlier. Apparently, he had a fight with Bonita and wants to send her flowers,” she gossiped shamelessly.
The studio’s grapevine endlessly fascinated her while I couldn’t care less. My sister, Kelsey, always said, “Snitches get stitches,” and it stayed with me. Actually, I hated people talking about me behind my back, so I wouldn’t do it to others. Treat others as you want to be treated—not that it worked, but I stuck to it.
“Mirelly said you called and said you were running late due to a family emergency.”
I just stared blankly at her for a few seconds before remembering to open the door.
“Wonders never cease, and it is actually true.”
Although I hadn’t called, there had been a family emergency. Mother developed wedding jitters, and the steadfast woman almost turned tail and canceled everything—not that I would have worried much, as her fiancé wasn’t my cup of tea. This was a day for uncharacteristic behavior.
“Are you kidding me? The lady can’t have you fired. Who would do her work?” Sherise followed me. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Are your boobs without a net?” the English woman asked, and I turned to her.
“Yes, Sherise, I’m obviously late and not wearing a bloody bra.” When I glanced to her left, my gaze connected with the mesmerizing azure orbs of the sexiest man I’d ever seen.
Laughter danced in those endless blue depths as my mouth snapped shut, and I prayed the ground would tear open and swallow me whole. Those sinfully delicious lips pulled into a smile that melted my insides and brain.
“Are you alright?” Sherise asked while I watched Dean Crowther stalk off, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter. The light glinted on that thick dark head of hair that made me want to run my hands through it.
What the heck? Since when did I think shit like that?
Pardon my French.
Would that hair be as soft and luxurious as it looks?
Stop. Get a grip, woman!
“Mercedes?!”
I stared at Sherise, feeling like I had just returned from another planet.
“Dean Crowther heard me say I have no bra on,” I muttered. Heat seared my cheeks, ears, and neck.
“Well, these are very nice,” she responded, reaching out and patting them as if there was nothing wrong with touching another woman’s assets in public.
Scandalized, I caught her hands.
“Some days, you worry me. What would a man like him see in a woman like me?”
“Perhaps he likes chubby ladies. Some guys do,” she suggested naughtily.
Most days, Sherise was a hopeless romantic and a human being with no filter installed, which was why I liked her. Words tumbled from her mouth without thought, and she didn’t bother to hide anything. Sometimes she’d shut off, become almost aloof, and turn into a stranger, but today wasn’t one of those days.
“Oh, Sherise, only in your flights of fancy.” I sighed, back to thoughts of my predicament as I opened my locker to find nothing inside.
Dammit.
I’d taken my clothes to the dry cleaner and hadn’t fetched them.
I would probably bang my fist against the locker if I were alone.
Calm down. It is not the end of the world.
No, it isn’t.
I squared my shoulders and raised my chin. Buck up, Buttercup.
“What made you so bitter?”
Sherise’s moments of perception were rare but accurate, and I was in no mood for being psychoanalyzed.
“Years of being bullied by skinny, rich kids whose daddies indulged their every whim while I had to keep my head down and pray my way through each day. When Mother started her business, things were tight.” I closed my locker and stared at it blindly for a full second.
What now?
“Why did they bully you?” she asked, and I stared incredulously at her.
“Because I’m fat, and I had a scholarship.”
The bitterness in those words caught me as unawares as it did her.
“But it was a long time ago.” I shrugged, only half distracted from finding something to wear. Thinking about those days stirred many dark emotions.
“Honey, they bullied you because you’re smart and didn’t bow at their feet.”
An argument with her was pointless, and I walked right into that one.
“Get this through your head, please: you are curvy, not fat—”
“Miss Benson? Mr. Porter wants you to fetch these lunch takeout orders and buy Bonita a dozen red roses. Write her a nice card that says he’s sorry for calling her fat,” Mirelly interrupted, clipboard in hand, hair slicked back, and headphones half off, looking like she just stepped off Vogue Magazine.
Was she in her thirties or forties?
An arched brow and a look of distaste left me with no illusions about her opinion of my attire, and I folded my arms over my breasts.
“Go to the wardrobe and get decent clothes if you don’t want Harris to have a fit. Remember, we have special guests today. And let Sherise do your makeup—you look like a bum.” The infuriating woman stalked off without bothering to wait for a response.
“Ouch,” Sherise said, her lips set in a thin line and her dark orange-red brows furrowed in a mutinous frown.
Sometimes, she kind of reminded me of Hermione.
“Mirelly’s not wrong.” Humiliation scorched through me, and I sighed.
“Darling, I’m not even going to answer that, but I’ve been itching to do your makeup for years. Let me accentuate your stunning gray eyes, high cheekbones, and sculpted nose,” she chirped. “I will ask Sheryl to do something with your luscious chocolate hair.”
Excitement brightened her sea-green eyes, and she almost seemed to vibrate in place. She’d been dying to give me a makeover since we met, while I had staunchly resisted her. So, why give in now? A flash of a handsomely chiseled face in my mind’s eye almost made me scoff. As if a man like that would look at me twice.
