Page 4 of The Holiday Fakers
“I found out about these photos ten minutes ago, and have noideawhat’s going on. And now, becauseyou’reso famous and important,myface is all over the internet.”
I’m shaking so badly that the phone slips from my grip and falls onto the table.
Brody stares blankly at me, frozen.
“I have a career, friends, my ownhappylife,” I say. “The last thing I want is to be famous, orinfamous, because of you.”
There’s a flicker in his expression, as if my words have touched a nerve, and guilt needles my gut. My words are a low blow, but I’m still hurting too much to take them back.
Then Brody’s head slowly swivels toward Marv, like a serial-killer cyborg zeroing in on his prey.
Marv’s hands shoot up in surrender. “Bud?—”
“You’re fired.” Brody’s voice cuts like a knife through the hum of voices around us.
Marv ignores him.
“You told me to think outside the box,” he says, his words clipped and urgent. “Well, I didn’t just think. I brainstormed. I had a cerebral cyclone. A mother-fucking thought tornado. I tore that box to shreds, and then the sun burst through the clouds, and I couldsee!”
I blink at the marketing-executive-on-steroids declaration, already picturing how I could draw it as an infographic.
Marv stabs his index finger in the air, emphasizing each point. “I’m talkin’ rainbows, choirs of angels, the aurora-freaking-borealis.”
In my mind I’m now adding colors to the drawing as my imagination takes me away from the weirdness of my reality.
“And guess who’s shining down from heaven with the answer to all our prayers?”
Suddenly all his fevered attention is on me.
“Sheis.”
“Whoareyou?” The words stumble out like I’m a one-line extra in a bad soap.
“Marv DeVille. Brody’s agent.” He flashes me a toothpaste-commercial smile and extends his arm towards me. “But you can call me Marv.”
This time, I don’t take his hand.
“Exagent,” Brody growls, and all the tiny hairs on my arms lift in excitement.
“But why would you dress Brody’s girlfriend up like me?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Brody mutters.
My heart skips several beats and now I don’t trust myself to reply without it coming out as another squeak.
Why, ohwhy,does he still have such an effect on me? He’s not the man I rememberorwho I’ve built up in all my fantasies. The real Brody King is an arrogant, surly, ego-centric asshole.
I’m saved from having to speak by Marv, who addresses me as if presenting a pitch.
“Here’s the deal, Piper. Can I call you Piper?”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond.
“Great, thanks, Piper. So, here’s the lowdown. No time for an NDA, and besides, you’re like family to Brody.”
Iam? Then why hasn’t he reached out to me in the last twelve years?
“This is inner-circle shit, Piper, and we trust you. The?—”
