Late Night with Andres

Cover

Title Page

Late Night with Andres

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Debra Anastasia

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Omnific Publishing

Los Angeles

Copyright Information

Late Night with Andres, Copyright © 2013 by Debra Anastasia

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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Omnific Publishing

1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

Los Angeles, California 90067

www.omnificpublishing.com

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First Omnific eBook edition, October 2013

First Omnific trade paperback edition, October 2013

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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Anastasia, Debra.

Late Night with Andres / Debra Anastasia – 1st ed

ISBN: 978-1-623421-01-4

1. Suspense—Romance. 2. Humor—Romance. 3. TV Show—Romance. 4. Celebrity—Romance. I. Title

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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

Dedication

This book is for a little boy named Alex.

Chapter 1

Muffin

M
ILLA
H
ADN’T
E
XPECTED
to see herself on TV in her lifetime, and surely not as the featured subject. But tonight her life was going to change. She’d been an author for a while—it was a comfortable place with sweatpants and ponytails. Tonight she’d dressed to the hilt, and her ridiculously expensive little black dress and strappy heels left her feeling exposed.

When security showed her to the dressing room, she nodded gracefully and closed the door. But once she knew she was out of sight, she commenced a butt-slapping, hair-swinging dance of excitement and victory. She had no way of knowing she was being taped for the late night television show’s blooper reel. Not even a little hint. She added her pretend-I’m-a-drunk-stripper dance, complete with toe drags. Eventually, she petered out and chicken-danced over to her welcome packet the people from
Late Night with Andres
had thoughtfully put on the coffee table.

She was to follow a long list of rules, including, but not limited to: no cursing on air; always cross your legs if you’re wearing a skirt; please don’t flush any feminine hygiene products; and of course, never ask the host about his bulletproof hair. Milla snorted to herself. That’s
exactly
the sort of thing she’d be tempted to ask about. Her online advice column,
Milla Bites
, had blown up recently when a troubled socialite on a downward spiral began quoting Milla’s snarky answers to her questions on Twitter. After magazine interviews, radio spots, and some pretty exciting meetings with publishing bigwigs, Milla was poised to appear on tonight’s show, billed as writing’s new, young face.

She unleashed an unattractive
squee
when she saw a basket of baked goods sitting by the mini fridge. She unwrapped a muffin and smiled, but just before she could sink her teeth into her first piece of swag, a noise ripped through the air and sent her mind into a primal scream. Cowering, she fell to the floor, clutching her crumbling muffin like a good luck talisman.

There was so much screaming! Milla crawled to the door, intent on locking it, when another gunshot shook her brain and her hold on reality. Her sweet taste of fame was being poisoned by what must be a weapon in the building. She had just about reached the door when the knob began to turn. She froze for a moment, and as the door began to open, the fire alarm also went off, so a piercing, flashing noise announced her new visitor. There was nowhere to hide as he slipped into her dressing room. Milla stupidly held her muffin in front of her face and closed her eyes. After a few moments, it became apparent—since she was still alive—that the man had not killed her.

Milla peeked around the muffin and watched her visitor lock the door. He turned and took a quick scan of the room’s interior. His eyes widened when he spotted her crouched on the floor. He didn’t appear to be the one with the gun, because the gunshots were still sprinkling through the building—and her nervous system. The man stepped over her and frantically searched through the room. The best weapon he could come up with was a huge can of Big Sexy Hair mousse. The blaring fire alarm cut out, giving way to an ear-piercing silence. New guy set down his beauty product and began pushing the couch in front of the door. Milla set her muffin remnants down and moved to help him. They lifted the couch on his silently mouthed
One, Two, Three.
Then they stepped back and crouched down.

The flimsy lock and the bargain basement couch did not instill any confidence, but Milla was glad she at least had what seemed like friendly company. He soon had the can of mousse clutched in his hand again. He eased down to his belly and motioned for her to do the same. Their shoulders touching, they watched the door and listened. Minutes passed like hours, and every move made way too much noise—including their breathing. The silence was just as bad as the gunshots because the madman could be anywhere, could want anything.

Milla bit her lip as the tears began, doing her very best not to become hysterical. She sniffled, and her companion nudged her with his elbow—hard. He mouthed,
No you don’t,
while shaking his head. She tried to swallow her panic. It certainly would not help. She looked at him earnestly to prove her intentions of holding her damn act together, and she realized he was
him
. The famous him. The man next to her was wearing a hoodie, but his face was the one all over magazine covers and many women’s sexiest dreams.

Gage Daxson was a singer by trade, but his hard-partying bad boy image made him a hot topic of many blogs and entertainment shows. She watched his face register her knowledge. She could almost hear his internal sigh:
this again
. He didn’t seem to have any idea who she was, and she tried not to let this bust a hole in her ego.

Loud footsteps outside their door scattered her petty concerns to the wind. Both Gage and Milla flinched when they heard the sound of a door being kicked in. Then they heard crashing and banging in the room next to them and a man screaming about retribution. Milla closed her eyes. She didn’t sob, but her tears fell, wetting her cheeks as she began to pray.

Chapter 2

The Devil’s Fart

F
IGURED
. G
AGE
H
ADN’T
A
GREED
to do a show like this in years. His luck lately had been crap—most likely because of the horrible gloom he’d been carrying around like a dead dog for months. He was sick of it all. Being famous had run its damn course a couple million times over. He’d drunk himself silly, fucked girls until he was numb, and stopped singing for the sheer joy of it so damn long ago it hurt. There was no more rush from writing a new song, no pulling over on the side of a road and scrawling lyrics on his arm with a pen he’d stolen from the bank. All the people he’d been dying to reach with his songs were reaching back. They’d grabbed at him until he couldn’t even breathe, and no disguise was thick enough to hide. Between Twitter, Facebook, and cell phones, he was tracked as if he were marked for it. He’d even cut his distinctive locks, but still they found him. A horrible Grizzly Adams beard had also failed to give him back his anonymity. And no one wanted to hear a rich and famous person bitching about being rich and famous. It was supposed to be a dream come true.

Tonight, while looking for a vending machine with a Coke in it, he’d been confronted by a crazy freak show. In response, he took off running and tried three doors before he found this open dressing room. Now the girl next to him was crying, and he had not one damn way to get out of this room. No freaking windows, no doors leading to anything else. Finally he might soon be put out of his miserable depression, but in the worst possible way. The girl was doing her best not to make any noise, but he could tell she wouldn’t be any help. So, unarmed and far from his bodyguard, he decided to write his obituary in his head.

The dressing room next to this one had been locked, but now the freak show was stomping around in there. The flimsy lock had not kept him out for a second. Gage felt his pocket vibrate and pulled out his phone. Cell phone!
Damn it, why hadn’t I thought of that?
The text was from Sydney, his huge, streetwise bodyguard:

Where u at?~S

On 3rd floor in a dressing room.~G

Stay put.~S

Gunman next room over. Tell mom I luv her. Luv you too, big guy.
Get the hell out.~G

He clicked send and turned his attention to the girl. They would have to work together somehow. He leaned as close as possible to her ear and whispered, “When he comes in here, we’re both going to jump him. Kick, punch, bite. Do everything you can. I’ll try to knock him out.”

She wriggled and brushed at her ear. “I’m ticklish there. What do you mean when he comes? Maybe he won’t find us.”

She faced him instead of whispering in his ear, but at least she was quiet.

“Plus, I can’t do shit in these heels.”