Stay Tuned (6 page)

I sprang into mommy-mode and ran toward the studio. Five seconds later, Drew met me at the huge double doors, breathing hard. No doubt, he’d witnessed the whole event on the huge plasma screen in his office.

At six feet tall and one hundred forty-five pounds at best, Drew wasn’t known for flying like Superman toward the scene of the crime—but then again—this wasn’t your usual crisis. With surprising force, Drew yanked the studio doors open and vaulted through, his pale face twisted into contorted control. I could guarantee his lips were barely holding back a fiery volcano of four-letter words.

Alyssa launched into full-scale sobs when she saw us. Her breasts heaved under her suit jacket, which threatened to pop an entire row of buttons. I ran toward her, reached across the desk, and grabbed Alyssa by the shoulders. Her body recoiled under my touch.

She blinked slowly when I bent down to get closer. Tears dangled on her lashes. Her bottom lip trembled like a girl who’d been stood up by her high school prom date. Alyssa looked small and frightened, her skin blotchy, black mascara running down her cheeks in rivulets. A stab of sympathy hit my chest. Beneath all of the makeup and stuck-up airs, Alyssa was just a kid. A kid with some pretty large emotional issues.

Whether or not she realized it now, the right hook she landed on Tim spelled disaster for her career. The fact that the blow was broadcast across our viewing area made the problem two hundred times worse. My mind raced with the possible repercussions. Hate letters? Bad ratings? A lawsuit? All distinct possibilities.

“Crap! Dammit! Come on!” Drew spouted all at once, trying to revive Tim.

From my angle, I could only see part of an olive pant leg and one wing-tip shoe. I let go of Alyssa and stepped back to survey the situation myself.

A closer look revealed most of Tim under the desk, legs sprawled like he’d been in a bar fight. A tiny cut slashed across his nose matched the deep burgundy of the blood smeared across his top lip and mouth.

Drew sat back on his heels, shoulders slumped. If I had to guess, he was probably thinking a full-blown, heroin-induced hallucination would be better than dealing with the fallout from these two.

I caught my breath. My brain hurt from the stress. Tim wasn’t moving. Drew wouldn’t speak.

We can’t let the show end like this. Think, think…

The only sound in the room came from what seemed the twentieth consecutive promo the guys ran to fill time.

We can do better than this. What if…

My mind started racing with options.

I started to pace. Then glanced at Alyssa. Just in time to see her make a grabbing motion at her throat and start to hyperventilate. One hand attached to the desk, Alyssa’s head lolled from side to side. For all of her beauty and practiced sophistication, she now looked no better than a fish flopping on a dry deck, gasping for its last breath.

I can’t let her do this. It’ll only make things worse.

For a split second, I contemplated slapping her cheek. I did the next best thing.

“Calm down, Alyssa! Everything’s fine.” I shouted six inches from her face, like a football coach to a losing team. “
Everything’s fine
,” I repeated.

I yanked her out of her chair, pushed her against the wall, and clapped my hands in front of her face. Once. Twice.

A flicker of recognition connected in the turquoise of Alyssa’s eyes. She inhaled and coughed, then shook her head vigorously from side to side, her blond curls bouncing. With deep, shredded breaths, she pointed to Tim, who still hadn’t come around. Her pink-tipped index finger extended in his direction.

“I’ve killed him,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “He’s…dead.”

Drew jerked his head away from Tim long enough to glare in her direction. The look was enough to freeze water. He mumbled something that sounded a lot like
stupid idiot
, but I wasn’t about to ask him to repeat it.

A few heads poked through the studio door. Finally.

Drew scrambled to his feet, cell phone buzzing. He snapped it open, slid it into the crook of his neck, and stalked off as he murmured angrily.

Okay. This wasn’t working.

“How about someone get bottled water, a couple of towels, ice, and some band-aids?” I asked. “We need some help.”

A camera guy rushed out the door to get the supplies.

One of the engineers waved an arm to get our attention. “The phones are ringing off the hook. What do you need me to do?”

Everyone’s eyes swiveled to Drew, who had just hung up. Before he could reply, Tim started to stir and moan. The sound sent a chill up my spine. Drew grimaced at the noise.
Shut up, Tim!
I bit my lip and hoped Drew wouldn’t decide to kick him in the teeth.

“Get these two upstairs to my office!” Drew roared as he stomped around the studio. “Transfer all calls to me. If I’m on the phone, it’ll go to voicemail. That’ll have to be good enough.”

 
Drew stopped pacing long enough to help Tim get to his feet. Alyssa made her way out the door, wobbling all the way on three-inch heels.

I glanced up at the clock ticking away seconds. It was 10:27. Three minutes left. Joe could run commercials until then, or…

“Drew,” I piped up before I could stop myself. “We need to wrap up the show.” I picked up Alyssa’s earpiece and cradled it in my hand.

He stopped in his tracks. Drew swiveled around and gave me a level look. “Well, what do you suggest? Joe can continue to run commercials, more promos, whatever it takes.”

“Let me handle it,” I said with a surge of determination. “It’ll look better than just to run more commercials and leave viewers hanging.” Chin up, I paused for emphasis. “It’s my show, too. I don’t want to see the newscast fall apart.”

Drew blinked at me, then rubbed his eyes like he was seeing an apparition. All at once, his face cleared. “Right. You’re right. Go ahead,” he said abruptly, and turned on his heel. He disappeared out the door of the studio, letting it click shut behind him.

The reality of what I’d decided caught me when I slipped on a spare earpiece and heard Joe’s voice. “Well, well. You gonna wrap this thing up and call it a night? That takes some guts.”

The prompter scrolled forward to the last story. I snapped the microphone to my jacket, thanking my lucky stars I had worn a tailored blazer instead of a casual top. My hands gripped the desk in anticipation. A flutter of nerves swelled my chest.

Joe chuckled at my reaction. His gravelly voice filled my head. “Relax, Mel. You only need to fill about a minute and a half. Here we go.”

The light on the camera flashed red.

Smile. Deep breath.

“Finally tonight…we leave you with an invitation.”

Pace yourself. Slow down.

“Mark your calendar and make plans now to attend the annual Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Georgia Gala.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched video of last year’s event fill the screen.

Everything’s fine.
One, by one, the lines of the teleprompter floated by.

My hands loosened their grip on the desk. I kept talking. My voice stayed even. Just a few more seconds and the show was finished.

Joe’s voice filled my ear. “Wrap it up, Mel.”

No problem.

“I’m Melissa Moore. Thanks for joining us for WSGA News at Ten. Goodnight.”

So, I didn’t have on any makeup and probably looked like I hadn’t slept in a week. Getting on set and finishing the newscast
had
been the right decision.

It mitigated the damage. We didn’t leave the viewers hanging. We didn’t look
completely
unprofessional…

Still calm, I walked into the control room and scooped up my script. My cell phone had vibrated itself right onto the floor. I snatched it up as everyone else headed for the door. My pulse sped up and slowed down.

“Don’t go anywhere,” someone warned. “Drew’s called a meeting. Fifteen minutes.”

I nodded and flipped open the phone. Eight missed calls, all from Candace. Before my finger found the screen, the phone buzzed again with the intensity of a small earthquake. Candace again. She would keep calling until I answered.

Privacy was paramount, especially in light of what just happened on set. I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation. I walked slowly and purposefully out of the room, down the hallway, and answered the phone.

“Hey—”

“
That
should have been your top story, Mel!” Candace cut in, assuming her best mock-journalist voice. “Battle of the psycho news anchors! A fight to the finish, no holds barred. We’ll have the full details. Stay turned for WSGA News at Ten.”

I stifled a laugh and shook my head, pausing at the doorway to the back parking lot of the building. With the toe of my shoe, I pushed open the heavy metal door and walked outside.

“Funny,” I deadpanned.

But Candace was right. WSGA News had a well-deserved reputation for serving up a menu of bold, violence-tinged, sometimes bordering on the edge of R-rated stories. Any shooting, car crash, robbery-gone-bad, or twisted sex scandal secured a top spot in the late newscast, provided we could get video and a great sound bite.

I helped with the arm-twisting, string pulling, and calling in favors. Challenging? Yes. Stressful? Definitely. Rewarding? Absolutely. In short, my job was to make sure everything came together in the end. My job, however,
did not
involve our own employees
becoming the story
.

Candace coughed. I hadn’t heard a word she’d been saying. Her voice was tinged with suspicion. “Melissa?” I’d missed at least the last five minutes of the conversation.

“Sorry,” I said guiltily.

“Well, what’s so funny…strange, I mean, is that Tim didn’t even try to stop Alyssa.” Candace paused. “What did he expect? Someone to swoop in and save him?”

“I think he was shocked,” I replied, the image of the fight flashing in my mind. “But, Tim’s the one who decided to have a relationship with her. So, the way I see it, no one can
save
Tim…except Tim.”

I meant it as a joke, but the comment launched Candace full-force into a complete and thorough Dr. Phil analysis.

“That is so…Life Law Number Eight:
 
We teach people how to treat us,” Candace exclaimed, rustling through the pages of a book. To my best friend, Dr. Phil’s word was like the gospel; she simply shared his wisdom.

 
“Here it is. Dr. Phil says, ‘If you’re involved in a relationship in which someone is abusive—’”

“Wait a minute.” It was my turn to interrupt. “Candace, are you carrying that book around with you?”

“No!” she answered. “It was right here the whole time. You’re interrupting.”

I usually teased Candace about Dr. Phil and gave her a hard time about being a full-fledged, dyed-in-the-wool disciple, but deep down, I loved it. His observations made sense.

“Dr. Phil would say, ‘Alyssa acts like that because Tim lets her,’” Candace continued. “And the people at the television station allow her to.”

 
“Well, maybe,” I said slowly. Alyssa
did
get her way and practically had
permission
to behave like she did because she was talented and beautiful. And because of the ratings.

Okay. Dr. Phil was right.

Candace, even before Dr. Phil, had always been gifted in the people-analyzing department. Counseling was almost certainly her true calling.

Now that she was starting to quote the man verbatim, she could probably do seminars in her spare time. “You really should go back to school,” I remarked, trying to keep my tone light. “Finish your degree.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Miss Smarty-Pants.”

“It’s true,” I protested.

“We’re not talking about me,” Candace retorted huffily. “We’re talking about your TV station and its human resources issues.”

“Fine,” I mumbled.

“Melissa! You put up with it, too. You’re forced to be a producer and find stories and check video and who knows what else.” Candace sniffed. “What’s next? Running a daycare at the station once Tim and Alyssa have babies?”

“Not in this lifetime,” I tossed back, although I could easily see the truth in what she was saying. I kicked at a pebble in frustration and watched it bounce off the cement of the building. Temper tantrum-referee did not fall under my official job responsibilities, but somehow that was exactly what I was required to handle.

“I just know Dr. Phil would tell you to make some change. Shake things up.” Candace exclaimed, defending her position. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, you deserve more, and better people to work with. You’re smart, talented—”

“Okay, okay, uncle.”

“All right.” Candace relented a bit. “And Drew needs to wake up, see the big picture, and hire adults.”

I think Drew realizes that now.

Exhausted, trying to concentrate on the sound of Candace’s voice, I found myself longing for a nap. My head started to throb. My skin was sticky to the touch. And I still had Drew’s meeting to get through. I glanced at my watch. Five more minutes.

I stretched my neck back, blinking a speck out of the corner of one eye. The stars above my head twinkled back at me in between the wisps of smoke from a restaurant down the street. The smell of golden fried chicken wafted by, accompanied by the boom-boom funk of someone’s overpriced Bose speakers pumping out trashy phrases I didn’t want to repeat.

Trying to focus, I blinked up at the station’s towering twelve stories. The structure cut an imposing shape against the sky, red brick against the deep, dark blue of night. A century ago, the building housed the city’s only hotel. It had been a respite for weary travelers on their way to Atlanta or Charleston.

Back then, ages ago, I’d be checking in to this hotel right now. Then, as soon as possible, my head would be on those overstuffed pillows.

The sound of the hip-hop driver and his stereo faded into the night.

Candace whistled long and low into the phone cradled to my ear. “What’s going to happen now? Will Alyssa and Tim get the boot?”

I shrugged and bit my lip. “Maybe. Probably,” I answered, glad I wasn’t in charge of that decision. “It’s really up to Drew.”

In most circumstances, Drew held true to the theory that any publicity was good for business. That’s because when you connected with an audience and brought in stellar ratings, as Alyssa and Tim did, bad behavior tended to be overlooked. Poor attitudes were reprimanded gently. Laziness was brushed off.

But that was nothing compared to this. No catfight, argument, or recent break up, had been quite as awful—or as public—as tonight’s fiasco.

In retrospect, we should have seen it coming. All the warning signs were there:
 
Nasty glances, inappropriate comments, black roses last Valentine’s Day. Even Drew joked that their relationship should have arrived packaged in a red bag slapped with OSHA warning labels.
Stop! Toxic Waste! Dispose of Properly!

But after months of breaking up and making up, everyone at WSGA seemed immune to the Alyssa-Tim rollercoaster. It was kind of like going to Disney World and riding Space Mountain every day for a month. The “wow” value wears off in a hurry. You just throw up and go on.

A scrape of the station’s metal door interrupted me. I spun around in time to see Alyssa and Tim fly out, both making a beeline for the parking lot. Drew stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face darkened from the light of the hallway behind him.

I shivered and took a step back.

Alyssa stormed past on her stilettos, still sniffling. Tim, band-aid pasted across his once perfectly formed nose, uttered a gruff, “Excuse me,” under his breath but didn’t make eye contact.

Both cars—his and her white BMWs—beeped open simultaneously. Tim climbed in first and gunned his engine. His broken taillight gaped open with jagged edges.

Alyssa was seconds behind. Her tires screeched as she followed him out of the parking lot. I watched the dust settle behind them.

A faint voice floated up from my cell phone. “Mel. Mel! Are you there?”

Oh no. Candace was still on the line.

“Gotta go,” I whispered and hoped she heard me. I hung up and gave Drew my most confident, everything-under-control nod.

Stone-faced, he motioned me inside. But before I could take a step, Drew had already pushed open the door and disappeared down the hallway.

I swallowed hard and fought away a tinge of anxiety.
Be rational. No need to panic.

After all, Drew had every reason to be angry. And upset. He had big decisions to make about the station. It was going to be painful. And personal.