Dating You / Hating You
Page 17
Warily, I approach the table and catch the attention of the blonde wearing a headset. Through my nerves, I attempt my best smile. “Hi, this is going to sound crazy, but—”
She’s all business: “You’re with CTM?”
I nod.
She looks down at her list. “Name?”
“Aaron,” I say, giving her my last name, then quickly clarifying, “Carter Aaron.”
She hums, flipping through a few pages. “Here we are, Aaron Carter.” She hands me a clipboard with several pieces of paper trapped there. “Did you know you have the same name as a Backstreet Boy?”
“Actually, you’re thinking of Nick Carter,” I say. “Aaron Carter is his younger brother. My name is Carter Aaron, not Aaron Carter . . .”
I can tell she’s already lost interest as she looks up at me beneath a set of gravity-defying false lashes. And who could blame her? I should not know the name of a Backstreet Boy’s younger brother. Except I do, because it’s something I’ve had to explain at least a dozen times in my life.
I push on, covertly glancing down at her list. There are a few names I recognize. Cameron from Literary, Sally from Foreign Rights, and a handful of others.
“Can you tell me why I’m here?” I ask.
“Fill out those forms,” she says, nodding to the clipboard in my hand, “then head to the second floor. Oh, and sign in, here.”
She hands me a badge with my name written across the front, and I reluctantly fill in the log. With a bland smile, she points me in the direction of the elevators. A guard swipes his badge to let me past the security gate, and once inside the elevator, I press the button for the second floor.
Pulling my phone back out, I send a quick message to Evie.
I think I’m in your building?
Something weird is going on.
Call me?
After a moment, a vibrant elevator chime tells me I’m on the next floor, and when the doors open I’m met by a smiling middle-aged woman and another set of matching security guards.
Okay . . .
I’m instructed to have a seat in the lobby, and, after peppering the woman with questions, I’m assured that someone will be along shortly to explain everything. The space is bright and expansive, with a number of plush chairs in small clusters that line a long bank of windows overlooking Beverly Boulevard.
There are already a handful of people milling about; I recognize only a few. Nobody seems to have any idea what’s going on. The lobby slowly fills and yet somehow manages to remain almost eerily quiet. Someone will walk in, invariably make some sort of squeak on the floor or some other noise that draws everyone’s attention, and then nothing. It feels a lot like we’re all thirteen years old and waiting around to be called into the principal’s office.
“Carter.”
I turn to see Kurt Elwood from Features walking toward me, hands in his hair and the usual grim expression on his face.
“I thought I saw your name downstairs.” I take in his appearance. “You okay, man?” He’s a little on the green side and there’s a hint of perspiration dotting his upper lip.
He pulls a roll of antacids from his pocket and pops one in his mouth, grimacing as he chews. “You know what this looks like to me?”
I follow his gaze and survey the room. Everyone looks confused, but nobody seems on the verge of outright panic. “No?”
“Like a company-wide layoff. Get us out of the building, away from our computers, where we can’t access our files.”
“What?” I say, a bit taken aback by his suggestion, and look around the room again. I’ve just assumed we’re moving. We’ve been hiring like crazy; layoffs have been as far from my mind as they could be.
“You don’t think they’d do something like that?” he asks. “Features aren’t paying the bills anymore. People aren’t going to the movies like they used to. Pirating is up, profits are down. Not even you guys in TV are safe—P&D are packaging monsters.” He stares at me. “What? You think they’d hand us all parting gifts and send us on our way? No, they separate us from everyone else to keep the drama to a minimum. Why do you think not everyone’s here?” He pulls another Tums from the foil wrapping and looks at it before putting it between his lips and biting down. “The signs have been there for weeks.”
I’m torn between wanting to look away from the chalky pink antacid coloring his teeth and wanting to hear more. Every odd, unexplained event plays through my head, and I wonder if there could be some truth to his words. Emil Shepard has been less than thrilled with CTM for a while now. If he somehow got wind of this, he could move to me and when I was let go he’d have the option to transfer to someone else, or leave altogether. Only a few boats rocked and he’s free. If Blake knew about this, it would explain his surprising nonreaction to everything with Emil so far.
Kurt breaks into my thoughts. “Jesus Christ, I am forty-two years old. Nobody wants a middle-aged, mediocre agent these days. They want sharks. They want agents as good-looking as the actors. I can’t compete with that! Oh my God,” he groans, “I just bought a boat!”
“Okay, let’s take a breath.” I hope I sound calmer than I feel. “We don’t even know what’s happening yet. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Why would they bring us to P&D if they’re laying us off? Why not just hold us in our own lobby?”
I try to steer him away from the rest of the group and he laughs, clapping me on the back of the shoulder.
“Young, hopeful, naive Carter. Maybe you should take one of these,” he says, turning my hand over and placing the last of the Tums in my palm. “You mark my words: we’ll all be out of a job by lunch.”
Chapter seven
evie
With my phone to my ear, I cross the parking garage and search for my badge in the bottom of my purse. I’m running late and this call has gone on longer than I expected, but if I can make everything work, it’ll be worth it.
“So then let’s talk seriously for a minute,” I say into the line, badge finally in hand. “I have no problem getting Tyler out to see you, but you’ve got to promise me it’s to sit in front of a director. He’s not back until November and aside from all the work stuff he’ll have scheduled, he’ll want a little reconnecting time with his wife and kid. Tell me there’s an actual meeting and I’ll get it on the books.”
I pass through the glass doors and head straight for the elevators.
“Okay,” I say into the phone, swiping my badge at the security bars in the lobby. “Take a look at your schedule. I’ll have Jess follow up this afternoon.” My assistant usually silently sits in on every call, but this morning she’s oddly MIA.
The security gate doesn’t open, and I slide my card through the reader again. Nothing lights up, nothing dings. “We’ll talk soon. Thanks, Nev.”
With my phone tucked back into my purse, I walk across the lobby to the main security post, warily eyeing the makeshift table off to the side, where two security guards stand stoically.
I lean across the broad marble counter and look at the familiar guard sitting there. “Hey, Jake, what’s with the table over there?”
Jake looks up and back over my shoulder toward the elevators. “Ms. Abbey, is your card not working?”
I hand it over, shaking my head.
She’s all business: “You’re with CTM?”
I nod.
She looks down at her list. “Name?”
“Aaron,” I say, giving her my last name, then quickly clarifying, “Carter Aaron.”
She hums, flipping through a few pages. “Here we are, Aaron Carter.” She hands me a clipboard with several pieces of paper trapped there. “Did you know you have the same name as a Backstreet Boy?”
“Actually, you’re thinking of Nick Carter,” I say. “Aaron Carter is his younger brother. My name is Carter Aaron, not Aaron Carter . . .”
I can tell she’s already lost interest as she looks up at me beneath a set of gravity-defying false lashes. And who could blame her? I should not know the name of a Backstreet Boy’s younger brother. Except I do, because it’s something I’ve had to explain at least a dozen times in my life.
I push on, covertly glancing down at her list. There are a few names I recognize. Cameron from Literary, Sally from Foreign Rights, and a handful of others.
“Can you tell me why I’m here?” I ask.
“Fill out those forms,” she says, nodding to the clipboard in my hand, “then head to the second floor. Oh, and sign in, here.”
She hands me a badge with my name written across the front, and I reluctantly fill in the log. With a bland smile, she points me in the direction of the elevators. A guard swipes his badge to let me past the security gate, and once inside the elevator, I press the button for the second floor.
Pulling my phone back out, I send a quick message to Evie.
I think I’m in your building?
Something weird is going on.
Call me?
After a moment, a vibrant elevator chime tells me I’m on the next floor, and when the doors open I’m met by a smiling middle-aged woman and another set of matching security guards.
Okay . . .
I’m instructed to have a seat in the lobby, and, after peppering the woman with questions, I’m assured that someone will be along shortly to explain everything. The space is bright and expansive, with a number of plush chairs in small clusters that line a long bank of windows overlooking Beverly Boulevard.
There are already a handful of people milling about; I recognize only a few. Nobody seems to have any idea what’s going on. The lobby slowly fills and yet somehow manages to remain almost eerily quiet. Someone will walk in, invariably make some sort of squeak on the floor or some other noise that draws everyone’s attention, and then nothing. It feels a lot like we’re all thirteen years old and waiting around to be called into the principal’s office.
“Carter.”
I turn to see Kurt Elwood from Features walking toward me, hands in his hair and the usual grim expression on his face.
“I thought I saw your name downstairs.” I take in his appearance. “You okay, man?” He’s a little on the green side and there’s a hint of perspiration dotting his upper lip.
He pulls a roll of antacids from his pocket and pops one in his mouth, grimacing as he chews. “You know what this looks like to me?”
I follow his gaze and survey the room. Everyone looks confused, but nobody seems on the verge of outright panic. “No?”
“Like a company-wide layoff. Get us out of the building, away from our computers, where we can’t access our files.”
“What?” I say, a bit taken aback by his suggestion, and look around the room again. I’ve just assumed we’re moving. We’ve been hiring like crazy; layoffs have been as far from my mind as they could be.
“You don’t think they’d do something like that?” he asks. “Features aren’t paying the bills anymore. People aren’t going to the movies like they used to. Pirating is up, profits are down. Not even you guys in TV are safe—P&D are packaging monsters.” He stares at me. “What? You think they’d hand us all parting gifts and send us on our way? No, they separate us from everyone else to keep the drama to a minimum. Why do you think not everyone’s here?” He pulls another Tums from the foil wrapping and looks at it before putting it between his lips and biting down. “The signs have been there for weeks.”
I’m torn between wanting to look away from the chalky pink antacid coloring his teeth and wanting to hear more. Every odd, unexplained event plays through my head, and I wonder if there could be some truth to his words. Emil Shepard has been less than thrilled with CTM for a while now. If he somehow got wind of this, he could move to me and when I was let go he’d have the option to transfer to someone else, or leave altogether. Only a few boats rocked and he’s free. If Blake knew about this, it would explain his surprising nonreaction to everything with Emil so far.
Kurt breaks into my thoughts. “Jesus Christ, I am forty-two years old. Nobody wants a middle-aged, mediocre agent these days. They want sharks. They want agents as good-looking as the actors. I can’t compete with that! Oh my God,” he groans, “I just bought a boat!”
“Okay, let’s take a breath.” I hope I sound calmer than I feel. “We don’t even know what’s happening yet. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Why would they bring us to P&D if they’re laying us off? Why not just hold us in our own lobby?”
I try to steer him away from the rest of the group and he laughs, clapping me on the back of the shoulder.
“Young, hopeful, naive Carter. Maybe you should take one of these,” he says, turning my hand over and placing the last of the Tums in my palm. “You mark my words: we’ll all be out of a job by lunch.”
Chapter seven
evie
With my phone to my ear, I cross the parking garage and search for my badge in the bottom of my purse. I’m running late and this call has gone on longer than I expected, but if I can make everything work, it’ll be worth it.
“So then let’s talk seriously for a minute,” I say into the line, badge finally in hand. “I have no problem getting Tyler out to see you, but you’ve got to promise me it’s to sit in front of a director. He’s not back until November and aside from all the work stuff he’ll have scheduled, he’ll want a little reconnecting time with his wife and kid. Tell me there’s an actual meeting and I’ll get it on the books.”
I pass through the glass doors and head straight for the elevators.
“Okay,” I say into the phone, swiping my badge at the security bars in the lobby. “Take a look at your schedule. I’ll have Jess follow up this afternoon.” My assistant usually silently sits in on every call, but this morning she’s oddly MIA.
The security gate doesn’t open, and I slide my card through the reader again. Nothing lights up, nothing dings. “We’ll talk soon. Thanks, Nev.”
With my phone tucked back into my purse, I walk across the lobby to the main security post, warily eyeing the makeshift table off to the side, where two security guards stand stoically.
I lean across the broad marble counter and look at the familiar guard sitting there. “Hey, Jake, what’s with the table over there?”
Jake looks up and back over my shoulder toward the elevators. “Ms. Abbey, is your card not working?”
I hand it over, shaking my head.
