Various States of Undress (4 page)

The what? Code phrase—like a security code or something? “Got it,” Georgia responded automatically. Quickly, she pulled her head back through the window, whipped out her phone, and typed “monkey around” into a notepad app. It seemed inane, but she wasn't about to be caught off guard. She'd had enough of that over the past twenty-four hours. Today was a fresh start, and Georgia intended to begin by setting the record straight with Joan Crisp. Georgia was here to learn about TV news, not to chase after baseball players like a pathetic B-list celebrity running amok on a reality show. She didn't want to be used. She didn't want special treatment, either.

The gate buzzed and then slowly rattled open. As the SUV rolled forward, Georgia put her phone back in her briefcase and touched the knot of hair on the back of her head. When she'd daydreamed about this moment, she'd always envisioned professionally dressed people darting around, too busy dealing with deadlines and schedules to get freaked out about meeting her. She'd hoped that the people at WHAP would be just like her—completely and seriously focused on reporting the news. But work was probably going to come to a screeching halt while a virtual red carpet was rolled out for her—the very last thing she wanted. Why didn't she get to be a cog in a high-functioning wheel once in a while? She sighed. She was getting all worked up over something that hadn't even happened yet, and maybe it wouldn't. Right?

When Ernie pulled the SUV up to the back of the building, a glass door flew open and a tall, thin woman stepped out onto the sidewalk. She had steel-gray helmet hair and wore conservative pumps, a severe suit, and an intent expression. Georgia raised an eyebrow. So far, so good. But then a crowd of people spilled out behind her and stood in a ragged line along the sidewalk.

A skinny guy in jeans with a headset looped around his neck immediately lit a cigarette but then turned to stare at the darkened windows of the SUV. Several other people squinted at the windows too, all of them dressed in business casual clothes, except for the two people in front. A handsome man in a slick suit and tie flashed a confident grin, and Georgia realized that he must be one of the anchors. The woman who stood next to him probably was too. She wore heavy pancake makeup, a tight fuchsia dress, and a carefully arranged expression of disinterest.

“Okay,” Georgia said, expelling a breath. “Stan, do you have the rose petals ready?”

“What for?”

“To scatter on the sidewalk before I get out, of course,” Georgia responded.

Ernie chuckled. “You're outta luck, Cherry Blossom. But I can do you one solid. We won't be following you all over the place once we're inside because Courtney and Jim have already been by this morning and done a security check. After we've scoped the place again, we'll do our best to blend in guarding the exits.”

“Tell them thanks for me, Ernie.” Georgia didn't know Jim very well—he was a new agent—but she was fond of Courtney Evans. Courtney had no trouble speaking plainly and had sat through many college classes with Georgia. Whenever Georgia had been stressed out, Courtney had been the one to talk her down. It was too bad she was off duty right now because Georgia wouldn't have minded a security blanket. But she didn't
need
one, did she? She could do this.

“Georgia?” Stan asked.

“I'm ready.”

Stan nodded and got out. A few seconds later, Georgia's door opened and Stan moved subtly in front, blocking the crowd's view of her exit from the vehicle. Even so, Georgia took a fistful of skirt and kept it from scooting up as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Before she could reach back and grab her briefcase, the tall woman stepped forward, her hand stuck out.

“I'm Joan Crisp,” she said—crisply.

Georgia had to look up—way up—to make eye contact, and she shook the woman's hand. “Georgia Fulton.”

“Yes. Welcome.” Joan swept her hand toward the motley crew of people on the sidewalk. “Our WHAP news team.” She pointed at the man in the suit. “Dave Burrows, morning anchor.” Dave grinned and saluted her.

“Nice to meet—”

“Simone Flowers, coanchor,” Joan interrupted. Georgia nodded at Simone, who gave her a guarded smile. “And then we have our producer, our director, and our floor manager.” Joan's wrist snapped as she pointed to three people in rapid succession. “Any questions, ask me first, and if I'm not available, ask them.”

Georgia wished she could have at least gotten their names. “Nice to meet all of you.” She cleared her throat. “I'm looking forward to learning from you.”

Some of the people murmured in response, but not many of them made eye contact. Yay. Awkward.

After a moment, Joan let out a quick sigh. “Shall we?” she asked impatiently—almost as if Georgia's presence were a bother, which was ridiculous, considering the fact that Joan was gleefully planning to use Georgia to pump up the ratings. Well,
gleefully
might not be the right word, given the woman's militaristic bearing, but damn. It didn't take much extra time to be
polite
.

“Miss Fulton?” Joan prodded. “We're on a commercial break, so time is of the essence.”

“Of course.” Georgia reached back into the SUV for her heavy bag and hauled it out. It bounced against her hip and sent her stumbling forward a step. “Let's go.” She smiled at the group of people, not really seeing them, and followed Joan and Stan into the building; through a dark, cool hallway; and directly onto the edge of the news set.

A young woman with perky bobbed hair sat behind the anchor desk, looking nervous. She nodded at Joan, who gestured to the skinny smoker guy. He walked to a large camera and made some adjustments. The floor manager stepped onto the platform of the news set and grabbed a headset from the edge of the desk. Two more people—the producer and director—scurried into a glass-fronted booth. At ceiling level in several places on the set, boxes lit up with the words “On Air.”

Georgia froze behind a line of yellow tape on the carpet, watching the floor manager count down five seconds with his fingers. The young woman smiled broadly and began reading from a teleprompter, enunciating every word carefully, her eyes wide with expression. When she stopped talking and folded her hands, Joan strode right past the tape, stepped up onto a low platform, and stopped near the edge of the desk. “Holly, do you
not
remember what we discussed?”

Oh shit. Wasn't Joan interrupting a live broadcast? Georgia glanced around. Simone looked bored, and Dave, the anchor, watched Joan with a grave expression.

Georgia caught Simone's eye, but Simone just smiled. “We're not live. Holly was doing a fifteen-second teaser between commercials,” she said in an almost condescending tone, as if Georgia should have realized that even though she'd been in the studio for only thirty seconds.

Holly stood up. “I'm sorry, Joan. You told me to take a breath after every sentence to keep myself from rushing, so I tried that. I guess I was, like, still talking too fast?”

Joan sighed. “Why would I worry about your pace when the obvious problem is your pitch? It's so juvenile. Are you at a sorority meeting or a news station? You need to start taking your internship more seriously.”

Ouch. When Holly hung her head and stepped off the platform, Georgia winced in sympathy. Holly had sounded cheerleader-esque, but nobody deserved to be dressed down in front of everyone like that. If Joan tried that with her, Georgia would tell her to piss off. Well . . . not exactly. But that woman rubbed her the wrong way, and—

“Georgia!” Joan snapped out.

Georgia turned her head slowly and met Joan's imperious stare with one of her own. “Yes?”

Joan gestured toward the desk. “Your turn. You're dressed for the camera, so you can read the copy for the next segment. Let's see how you handle it.”

“Excuse me?” Georgia's eyes went round. “You want me to . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “On live TV? Won't it look strange if another reporter takes over midbroadcast?”

“You'd hardly be taking over,” Joan said. “It's just a little feature segment.”

Georgia shook her head again. She'd only had one on-camera class in college because she intended to
write
the news, not report it. Joan knew that because Georgia had listed all of her classes on her internship application. Even so, Georgia had suspected that Joan was going to try to push her in front of the camera to milk the First Daughter angle but not
today
, and not in front of everyone.

“I see.” Georgia said, but she didn't move.

“Why the hesitation? Do you need to check with the White House first?” Joan asked.

Georgia gave the woman a brittle smile. “No. Thanks for asking.”

“Hmm. But you must have a reason for thinking you can't do it.” Joan shrugged. “That's okay. Some people need to start on a remedial level.”

Remedial?

Georgia dropped her briefcase on a nearby desk and stepped up onto the platform, fueled by anger and her ever-present desire to prove herself. “Oh, I can do it,” she said. But as soon as the words came out, fear raced through her. Her reading the local news would be all over the national news by noon, wouldn't it? Maybe nobody would be watching this segment of the morning broadcast. She could only hope.

“Good. Get settled,” Joan ordered. Georgia sat behind the anchor desk. “Be still,” Joan commanded.

Georgia raised her chin. “Not a problem. I'm ready.”
I despise you already
, she added silently.

Joan gestured to the teleprompter a few feet away. “Pay attention, look there, and, when Wagner's ready, the words will start to roll. Read them.”

“Who's Wagner?” Georgia asked. She shaded her eyes from the studio lights.

“Me.” The skinny smoker stepped over a mass of cables attached to the camera and snapped his headphones into place. Within seconds, the cameraman had made an adjustment to the teleprompter, and words appeared on the monitor. Georgia watched, her eyes wide, as the floor manager held up his fingers and mouthed the words “Three . . . two . . . one.” Then he swept a finger at her and nodded.

She froze for just a second as the “On Air” lights flashed bright, and then she smiled, focused, and began to read a story about new baby animals at the zoo. Somehow, “furry,” “cuddly,” and “artificial insemination” came out of her mouth as if she'd fully intended to string those particular words together in the same sentence. She didn't even stumble over “Son of Binky-boo,” the name chosen by the city for the newborn lion-tailed macaque, one of the monkey species in the zoo.

At the end of the story, she smiled and nodded, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. The teleprompter stopped rolling, but, because she always went the extra mile, she added, “This is Georgia Fulton, reporting for Channel Nineteen, W-H-A-P news.” There was dead silence in the studio as she sat completely still, waiting for the On Air light to go off. When it did, she turned her head and looked at Joan, who stood off to the side, shaking with silent laughter.

What the hell?
Georgia's mouth dropped open, and when it did, there was raucous laughter from the studio. Joan laughed hardest of all, slapping her hands on her storklike legs.

“Was I that bad?” Georgia asked loudly, trying for self-deprecating humor. She didn't know what else to do. Poststress adrenaline pumped through her veins, and her mind was blank.

“You were fine,” Wagner offered. He nodded and ambled off the set.

As the rest of the crowd scattered, Dave strode forward. “Actually, you were pretty good. You even pronounced
macaque
correctly.” He perched on the edge of the desk and held out a hand. “Gimme five. Hope you enjoyed monkeying around.”

“Monkeying . . . around.” Georgia groaned but reached out and slapped his hand. “That wasn't a live segment, was it?”

“Nope. Consider yourself initiated.” Dave leaned in closer. He smelled like cheap aftershave. “For future reference, it's not W-H-A-P. It's just
WHAP
. Like . . . whapping a baseball or something, okay? WHAP News.”

“WHAP.” Georgia nodded. “Whap Memphis to the bone with amazing reporting?”

Dave burst out laughing. “Something like that. We almost decided to hold off with the hazing this time, considering that you . . . that your dad . . . you know.” He coughed. “Hope we didn't make you mad, but we all look forward to fresh intern day around here. Scaring the crap out of them helps break up the monotony.”

Monotony? How could TV news be monotonous? “No, no. I'm not mad. Just surprised.” And in a messed up kind of way, very gratified. She'd wanted to be treated like everyone else, hadn't she? Well, she'd gotten her wish and then some. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joan loping forward and instinctively sat up straighter, just as a thought occurred to her. A wonderful thought. Maybe the baseball assignment was a hoax, too?

“Sorry about that,” Joan said, still chuckling. “But it gives me a great idea of how people perform under pressure. I'm happy to say you passed with flying colors.”

“I usually do,” Georgia said without thinking. “I mean, it was a bit of a shock, but it's really nice of you all to treat me just like every other intern.” She smiled. “Not that I'm the right choice to be in front of the camera, though. So, that being said, I was wondering. About the baseball assignment—”

“Oh, don't worry. Putting you in front of the camera will work out just fine, especially with the baseball feature. We're even going to have you do some live pregame interviews just to round it out a little.”

Georgia's heart sank. “What about your sports anchor?”

“Billy Schmidt? He's fine with it, and he'll be doing all the statistical reporting. You get to do the fun stuff.”

“Fun stuff,” Georgia echoed. Fun stuff like what? Whether the players wore boxers or briefs?