“I quit caffeine,” I mutter. “Gotta go.”
Turning on my heel, I slip back into the crowds and stride toward my desk by the far wall. Runners hurry past with cases of electrical equipment, and I pause as someone from wardrobe pushes a whole rack of white shirts across my path. My cheeks are hot, but at least I’m safely in the shadows.
Was that rude? Lord, I hope not, but I had to get out of there. That moan short-circuited my brain.
Besides, I could hardly tell Shelley the truth: that I quit caffeine the very first day I met her, but it hasn’t fully helped.
I’ve been on edge ever since.
Three
Shelley
Two weeks later, we’re having a bad day in the studio. Everything that could possibly go wrong has happened already today: we’ve had spilled coffees; torn clothes; a power surge that frazzled an expensive camera. The lead anchor is half drunk before noon and not hiding it well, and even the pastries on the snack table have gone stale.
It’s always hectic at work, but today everyone’s snappy and extra stressed. The floor manager keeps tugging on what’s left of his hair, storming left and right with his clipboard, while Brenda the runner has shut down the coffee machine until people stop bitching at her about two percent milk.
It’s carnage.
Days like this make me glad that my job is relatively calm. My station is set to one side, away from the worst of the chaos, and doing people’s make up is easy once they quit wriggling. If anything, folks come and plop down in my chair to get a moment’s peace, even if their powder is holding up fine between segments.
I dust ‘em all. Let them sigh and sit in silence, or chat about their day if they prefer a nice conversation. I’m the make-up girl, sure, but I’m also this TV studio’s unofficial therapist. Even Brenda swings by, despite the fact that she’s not on screen and doesn’t need powder.
“It’s just, like, whatever. It’s just coffee. Get over it. You know?”
“Sure.”
Brenda tilts her head back, eyes screwed shut, as I gently comb her dark hair. She’s a few years older than me, but she reminds me of this cranky cat that my mom used to have. Mr Butterfinger. He used to huff and puff and march around like the big boss of the house, but what he secretly wanted was a tickle behind the ears.
“I wouldn’t cut off their supply if they weren’t being such freaking babies about two percent milk.”
The comb hits a small tangle, and I frown slightly as I tease it apart. The last thing I want to do to our frazzled runner is yank on her hair.
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“And, you know, I sent Jamie for more milk cartons forty minutes ago. Is it my fault that they hired a headless chicken for an intern?”
“Nope. It is not.”
The tangle comes loose, and I keep combing with a smile. Brenda’s got gorgeous hair, thick and dark and long, though she mostly wears it scraped back in a high ponytail.
After another minute, the runner sighs and cracks one eye open, watching me from the chair.
“Shouldn’t you be doing someone’s actual make up?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” Brenda gusts out a long-suffering sigh and pushes to her feet, but bumps me with her hip as she goes past. “Thanks, Shelley.”
“Any time.”
I’m still grinning when another person settles into the chair behind me, the leather creaking audibly over the din of the studio.
My body knows what’s up before my brain realizes. It’s always the same when he’s near: my heart pumps faster, my skin warms, and my nerve endings go all tingly. Dying for his touch.
“Hey, Dallas.”
The weatherman looks startled when I turn to face him, all wide-eyed behind his thick framed glasses.
