Page 84 of Torrid Passion
The amusement in Dad’s hazel brown eyes is unmistakable.
Bliss was supposed to walk the red carpet with Philip Barnaby. That’s until shocking photos were leaked to the press early yesterday morning. Philip, a clean-cut actor with a wholesome aura and the poster child of Hallmark and Netflix romance movies, was living a lie. He was caught in Miami partying in an underground club. Someone knew his secret and ousted him. There he was in a fairly compromising situation––on his knees servicing not one, not two, but three cocks. Turns out Philip was in the closet. He lost all movie and sponsorship deals. Not because he wasn’t upfront about his sexual orientation, but because of photos of him snorting cocaine like it’s nobody’s business. And of course, nothing screams wholesome like a filthy orgy with three hairy Bear Dads covered head to toe with tattoos. So, I’m standing in for Philip.
“Please, work with me, Bliss,” Mom implores. “Your agent hired me because I know what I’m doing.”
“All right,” Bliss concedes.
Mom is a former beauty queen and model. She won the Miss America crown when she was twenty and she was second runner up at the Miss Universe pageant a few months later. On the heel of winning the Miss America title, she became one of the most sought-after bikini models in the industry. She was even named in the Top 20 Sexiest Swimsuit Models of All Time.
“We need to erase last month’s interview,” Mom tells Bliss.
“It’s not like I’m a walking encyclopedia and,” Bliss retorts, “honestly, I don’t know why people are making such a big deal out of it.”
“The interview went viral,” Mom deadpans.
“So I improvised,” Bliss argues. “It’s not like I could Google the information since they told me not to bring my phone on the set.”
“You should’ve kept it to ‘your best possible self’ shtick,” Mom tells her.
She’s right.
Bliss is in desperate need of an image rehab. In her quest to be seen as more than just a pretty face and break into show business, she’s been on a PR fast train, jumping from one interview to another. Last month, her interview on Wire News Network's Enews program became a liability. Live TV can be a cruel bitch. Her whole spiel on that interview was about living your best possible self. Most of her answers were pretty comical, but the last ones were her demise.
The questions?
‘Who is Confucius? And which countries are most likely to believe/practice Confucius?’
Her answers?
‘Confucius was a Catholic priest and created confusion way, way, way back. He was born in a hut at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro in Nepal. For the second question, I believe it’s France. Clearly people there are confused. Remember a few years back when all those angry French people were running around Paris in those ugly neo-yellow vests? What ever happened to Paris being the fashion capital of the world? That’s the best example of Confucius I’ve ever seen.’
I kid you not. Those words came out of her mouth. I’ll let you Google the number of grotesque stupidities in Bliss’s statement. I have no idea how the reporter didn’t burst out laughing. After that, the media had a field day. No matter how much coaching from her team of publicists, Bliss was a loose cannon during interviews.
That’s when her agent brought in the big guns.
You have publicists. You even have stellar publicists… and then you have Jordana Hudson Berkshire. She takes over when a publicist isn’t enough. She’s a tough as nails behind the scenes image-maker. In other words, Mom specializes in forcing you to get your shit together on and off camera. Her clients range from celebs, to singers, to dot com rich kids and politicians. Don’t let her sophisticated exterior fool you, Mom won’t hesitate to crack the whip and put you back in your place faster than you can blink.
For the rest of the ride, Bliss sulks. Fine by me. I swear another excruciating word out of that woman’s mouth and I was going to jump out of the limo.
In no time, we arrive at Building 22.
As the limo comes to a crawl behind a long line of stretched black vehicles, Mom’s phone rings.
“Shoot,” she says looking at her screen. “I need to take this. Dad and I will meet up with you. You two go ahead.”
“See you there,” I say.
“Show time!” Bliss cheers.
God, give me the strength to survive this evening.
I meet Bliss at the front of the car and wait for a red-carpet doorman to help her out. I extend an arm, inviting her to go first.
“Aren’t you going to hold my hand?” she asks as if we didn’t just talk about it.
“No, that would be misleading.”
“But, we’ll look like strangers,” she argues.
