Late Night with Andres (3 page)

Gage looked disappointed she was alive and hissed, “Couldn’t you’ve played dead a few more seconds?”

“I was dead for a while!” Milla countered. “Up yours.”

Famous people were always smiling in pictures, leading you to believe they liked you. Gage Daxson clearly hated her.

“Stop talking! Next time I’ll shoot one of you.”

Gage helped Milla up while she held onto her clothes. He pushed her arm aside and zipped up her dress after she’d put it in the right place.

“Thanks.” Her head was killing her, and her slapped cheek still throbbed. She looked forlornly at the crumbled remains of her muffin on the floor. Life had been so much better when she’d been about to take a bite.

“I’ll shoot you!” The Devil’s Fart had done a lot of sweating in the time Milla was unconscious.

“Are you sure about that? Looks like your own foot was your target.” Gage motioned with his chin at the small hole in the floor.

“If I blow my foot off, I’ll replace it with yours.” Fart flared his nostrils.

Milla spoke out of the side of her mouth. “He’s crazy.”

Gage looked at her like she was the insane one. “You’re just figuring that out?”

“My head hurts.” She rubbed her scalp and winced. There would be a bruise for sure.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up! Kiss her again. Stop talking!” The Fart was intent on his forced porn.

“I think I might puke.” Milla moved her hands to her belly and groaned.

Fart bent down and screamed like a wounded animal. When he went silent, so did Gage and Milla. In the new quiet, they all listened intently as the ceiling and walls seemed to groan. Obviously, they were not alone in the building. Fart looked around frantically, as if the room was closing in on him. In his fear he farted. He expelled a long, sputtering cacophony of digestion-related noises.

All three looked at each other and then down at the floor. Milla willed herself not to laugh. This was so much worse than laughing at a church fart. In the desperate silence Gage’s phone’s vibrations were suddenly audible, sounding like a set of bees doing the samba in his pocket.

“You traitor! Give me that. Give me the phone!” Fart stood and pointed his gun at Gage. “You’re hiding the police in your critchy crotch! Girl! Get the police out of his pants!” Fart flung spittle from his lips like it was his job.

“What now?” Milla tried to focus on the gunman’s mouth. Between his crazy and her mild concussion, nothing made sense.

“Get the phone out of my pocket and toss it to him.” Gage was saying so much more with his eyes. He arched a high pattern with his line of vision. Milla had no idea why.

She reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You smoke? That’s horrible. Do you know the cancer rate for smokers?”

“Give me those!” Fart was excited. “Does he have a lighter?”

Milla shrugged and reached into Gage’s deep pocket. She flopped her hand around and squeezed. Something was in there, but it wasn’t coming out.

“That’s my dick. And it can’t start a fire—on a cig, at least.” Gage pulled her hand out and went into a smaller pocket just above the one that led to his genitals. He flicked a book of matches high in the air and to the left of Fart.

“Oh. I get it now.” Milla finally understood Gage’s eye commands. He’d wanted her to toss the pack wildly.

Gage rolled his eyes and turned his attention to Fart, who was angry because of the wacky throw.

“NO! YOU ARE DISRESPECTFUL! HORRIBLE WOMAN STEALER!” Fart lunged and wedged his gun under Gage’s chin.

The men joined in a tight, tense embrace, eyes bulging and necks straining. Milla scurried around them and dug her hand in Gage’s other pocket, where she encountered a phone that was still buzzing its ass off.

“Here, here! It’s for you. Answer the phone!” She held it toward Fart.

As if those were the magic words, Fart stepped back. Gage inhaled deeply and leaned forward.

“You will speak to me!” Fart screamed into the phone. It continued vibrating.

“Unlock it, Dickwad.” Gage glanced up with tremendous hatred glowing in his eyes.

He seemed to be coming down from an extremely testosterone-filled primal place in his head.
Okay, fine, he looks hot.
The gunman tossed the phone to Gage who ran a finger smoothly over the screen and tossed it back.

“Speak!” Fart growled.

Gage obviously had the phone preset on speaker or had really quick fingers.

“This is Detective Brun with NYPD. Sir, I’d like to talk to you. We know you have two hostages, and we’d like to find out exactly what you want.”

Fart seemed to try to find the button to quiet the speaker, but he was unsuccessful. Exasperated, he began shouting his demands at the phone. “I want one woman. She’s the reason I’m not owning all the things. She’s evil on this earth and needs to be silenced.”

“I understand. Maybe if you tell me what this woman’s name is I can get her on the phone.” Detective Brun sounded very calm.

“She’s supposed to be here—in this building, tonight. Milla Kierce. The woman who uses words like knives to cut me from the things I own. I want Milla Kierce at my mercy.”

Milla sat right where she stood because her knees gave out.
Oh shit.

Chapter 5

His Moment

T
HERE
W
ERE
F
EW
T
HINGS
Andres tolerated. Being the host of his inane late night show was one of them. He stretched his old legs in the back of the Hummer limousine. There’d been a time when he was the news. His aristocratic mannerisms and slight accent had been the trademark of expert journalism back when women were great at getting coffee and giving blow jobs and not having an opinion. He could smoke where he ate, fuck where he worked, and drink when he drove.

Then the goddamn Internet had usurped all his ratings like a gluttonous bitch. People had stopped tuning in for his glorious hour as the top-rated anchor in the business. Now they just clicked and got their news in little snaps on their computers or phones. No heartfelt delivery or hard-hitting questions necessary. Andres was on his fourth wife. She was ridiculously young. Really, he didn’t even have the stamina for her. She liked money and sucked hard to earn her keep.

When the meeting had come, the thinning of the herd, the trimming of the fat at MVP TV, Andres never saw his own career coming to an end—until some pompous little bastard had read off his name and handed him a generic-looking packet on severance pay. Andres had thought he was golden. Luckily his years in the business had taught him well. He always had a backup plan. He threw the packet back at the bastard and called a meeting with the studio bigwigs from his cell. A few well-chosen words and Andres had a crew of some of the richest men in television sitting in his office.

After airing clips from surveillance videos featuring each and every one of them, he was assured he would always have a job. Just to be a dick, Andres had demanded the move to the
Late Night
television show. A popular ginger-haired comedian was ousted so Andres could pack up his hard hair and sit behind a desk. His pay was tripled for far less work. And it was all okay. At his age, to have a job at all was probably stupid. He should be in Boca getting a tan. But Andres craved more. He wanted the attention back. He wanted to teach all the reality-TV-watching assholes what true journalism looked like, show them how it felt to be on the very edge of their seats, watching Andres’ lips as he announced news important enough for history books.

Asking questions of actresses and the occasional politician just wasn’t cutting it. His real dream now was to go out with style—to go out with a gut-wrenching, spine-tingling news story that would have the entire nation on edge for hours. Or even days. As the Hummer pulled up to the curb, Andres got out before the chauffer could make it to his door. His three assistants waited for him at the entrance of the building. They each held a different beverage because Andres liked to have a choice. Today he took a black coffee from Peter without thanks. As he and his entourage traveled to his office, he was fed details about tonight’s guests: a spunky blogger with a sharp tongue and a rock star. Typical day. Nothing to write home about. The guests were waiting in the next building over, along with the set for his show.

When Victoria ran breathlessly into the prep meeting, Andres looked up from his interview questions with a sneer. He hated being interrupted.

“There’s a gunman shooting up the studio!” she panted. Andres stood and swallowed his smile. He snapped at Peter, who quickly cleared the others from Andres’ spacious office.

“Boss. We gonna tap into the surveillance?”

Andres didn’t dignify the underling with an answer. Of course he would tap into surveillance. Watching people when they were unaware of a camera had proven so useful in the past. Using the remote, he flipped through the feeds until he found what he liked.

The dressing room held three people. In a bit of chaos, the girl was thrust forward and clocked her head soundly against the standing lamp in the room. She went down like a sack of potatoes. The gunman was holding himself, and the other man in the room hovered over the prone woman.

“Peter, get a camera up here right now. We’re going on air as soon as possible. And I’ll be reporting live the whole time.”

The assistant ran like a gazelle on fire. Like a newsman hot on a lead. Andres closed his eyes and patted his hair. This might be his moment. The old man smirked and bit his papery lip. It was almost as if he had planned it.

Chapter 6

What a Great Day

S
YDNEY
W
ANTED
O
UT
of the building. But Gage was still here. And they were friends. Better yet, they were family. Their past cemented their bond. Officially he was a bodyguard. But the same could be said for Gage. They watched each other’s backs. And he wasn’t leaving without his friend. Which would explain why his huge body was jammed in a crazy old air conditioning duct. The police would find him soon, which might suck, if they mistook him for an accomplice. Sydney was trying not to get shot today if he could help it. He could see his friend through the slats in the vent. He needed a plan, and from the looks of things, he needed one quick.

Andres was in full newscaster mode. It felt like heaven to be analyzing, bravely reporting the incendiary events with the experience and deft touch no one had anymore. He was running deals with other networks, pulling up pictures and information on both victims. The rock star had plenty of material for them to work with, but the girl was harder. Peter eventually tracked down her yearbook picture. Though it was dated, it would suffice. Andres even had the pleasure of calling the girl’s parents to send them his condolences on air. The mother’s breakdown was a sound bite that would chill parents for ages. As of right at this moment, all the major networks were airing Andres’ version of the events going down in a dressing room in his studio. What a great day.

Milla looked up from the floor. Somehow this insane person knew her name. Something she’d written had set him off. Her first reaction was out and out fear. It pooled in her stomach like poison. She held her head in her hands and looked at her feet. Gage Daxson was trying to get more information out of the gunman. Maybe become his buddy? He had an angle, but on the floor, Milla couldn’t process him and the revelation that her words had hurt someone at the same time. She flipped through her blog mentally, trying to remember a moment when she’d been unkind. She’d been snarky. She’d been harsh at times, but she wrote from her heart. Coming up empty, she finally just asked the Devil’s Fart. “What column?”