Page 5 of The Fake Play

Maybe she’s surprised he’s giving me another chance. Truth is, I still can’t believe it either.

I tapped my fingernails on my steering wheel the entire drive over, trying to burn off my nervous energy. Michael had gotten me my first gig, at the aquarium, but I had botched it by coordinating a charity seafood dinner. I thought it was a good idea but the management staff strongly disagreed and that was that.

When I worked directly for Michael, things got worse. His restaurant chain, Beats & Wings, had taken off like wildfire all over the Atlanta area shortly after he opened. Within a year, it had expanded across the southern U.S. and things were going great. Adding another person to his PR team seemed logical since the business had grown quickly.

But my boyfriend’s fraternity thought it would be funny to make their pledges protest the main location, wearing chicken costumes and throwing fake blood on patrons. Needless to say, he’s now myex-boyfriend. The scandal garnered enough attention that keeping me on was impossible. I didn't blame Michael, I blamed my ex.

Blame, however, was not what mattered right now. I was two for two. My track record sucked. I remind myself there was only one way to go when you’re at the bottom.

I give his executive assistant a weak smile and sit down, picturing a hundred different ways this could go wrong: I mispronounce Whitney's name; I’m so nervous that I cut in whenever she tries to speak; Michael teases me about some childhood shit that I haven't let go of yet; there’s a huge stain on my blouse that I hadn't noticed before; as I walk in, I trip and fall face-first into her cleavage, my skirt is tucked into my underwear.

For fucks sake, get a grip, girl!

Unrealistic nightmare scenarios are my anxiety’s specialty.

Moments later, Cindi buzzes me in.

I’ve checked my image a dozen times. No stains on my shirt. I’m wearing ballet flats, so there’s a very slim chance of me tripping and falling. I practiced several times how to say her name so I am confident I won’t botch the pronunciation.

Whether Michael teases me is out of my control but I will handle it with poise and grace and show Whitney I know how to deal with an uncomfortable situation if he does. Public relations is my specialty. If anything goes wrong, it’s merely a chance to show her I know what I’m doing.

I’ve got this.

When I open the door, Michael is sitting behind his desk with Whitney in his guest chair. My brother smiles and stands as I enter the masculine space. I used to tease him that he had made his office into such a bro room that nobody could ever mistake it for a woman’s office. Dark wood furniture sat upon hardwood floors, the walls covered in sports memorabilia, a wet bar in the corner.

“Keke, come in,” he says, friendly as ever. My brother and I have our red hair and green eyes in common but that’s where the similarities end. I’m still not sure how he manages to get a golden tan. All I have to do is step outside and I turn into a lobster. He has almost a foot of height on me and a huge,muscular build like a Viking, whereas I am nothing but short softness. There’s a fourteen-year age difference between us but he’s always looked out for me.

“Michael, thanks for inviting me,” I say as I bump his offered fist.

“Of course. This is Whitney Dobson. I think you’re familiar with her work,” he casually says as if he hadn't carefully orchestrated this meeting.

It’s hard not to stammer in front of a former supermodel. Maybe it’s one of their powers. But sitting next to a person who might have been described as the perfect female specimen at one time makes me feel like a toad. Whitney is tall and thin, with perfect black hair and sparkling blue eyes. She looks as if she just stepped straight off a magazine cover, which, in her line of work, she might have.

As much as she’s a public relations guru, she’s also a popular get in the modeling world, even after semi-retiring from the industry. She still does some work for beauty products, and rumor has it she has a line of skin care coming out next year along with a catalog of mastectomy fashion. She helped her mother survive breast cancer and found there was no one making reasonably priced, attractive clothing for patients so she decided to create some.

Whitney Dobson was a force of nature.

“A pleasure to meet you.” I extend my hand.

“Likewise,” she says as she shakes it, her eyes matching her smile. “Your brother has told me so much about you.”

“Uh oh,” I reply facetiously.

That earns an even bigger smile out of her. “I'm sure you know you’re here for an interview.”

“Michael said you were looking for someone, but he never said this was a formal interview.”

She gives him a confused look. “Is that so?”

“I never like to assume,” he replies, half-smiling.

She returns her gaze to me. “Since Michael mentioned that I was looking for someone, can I assume you areprepared for the responsibilities? You know who I work for, right?”

“The Atlanta Fire.”

She nods once. “Yes. And I am currently on the market for a team member who can get one of our players in line.”

“Whipping men into shape is a specialty of mine.”

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