At the heart of the story stood Jack Shore. By luck and chance—and a ton of Fox advertising money—he’d become the national poster boy for change. Everyone knew who he was again.
Now he was on the edge of his seat. Literally.
Sally sat beside him, her foot tapping unevenly on the floor as she pawed through the fruit basket on the coffee table. “You’re going to be great,” she said for at least the fifteenth time in as many minutes.
To be honest, he needed her to say it, again and again. That was a big part of why he’d hired her. She was great for his ego—and, of course, she was a damned fine assistant. She’d organized every nuance of this opportunity, hadn’t she?
There was a knock at the door. In walked Avery Kormane, the woman who’d shown him to the small, windowless waiting room and conducted his pre-interview. “How’re you doing?”
“Has anyone ever puked on the Tonight Show, or will I be the first?”
“A bird caller from Kentucky took one look at the audience and fell face-first onto the floor.” She smiled. “Everyone’s nervous in this room. I’ve seen your tapes. You’ll do fine once you’re in front of the camera. Just focus on Jay if you get nervous. He’s a nice guy. He’ll catch you if you fall.”
Sally had chosen Leno for that very reason. When the offers started pouring in last week, Jack had instinctively gravitated toward Letterman. It was Sally who’d reminded him that Leno was a hell of lot easier.
Avery consulted her clipboard. “As I told you earlier, your seat is the one closest to Jay. The others should be empty. George Clooney has to catch a flight to D.C. for the next leg of his press junket.”
Jack glanced up at the television monitor on the wall. On screen, Thea Cartwright was laughing with Jay. She was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood, bar none. “What about Thea?”
Avery looked up sharply. Behind the world’s ugliest black frame glasses, her eyes narrowed. “Do you know her? I don’t have that in my notes.”
Sally was frowning at him.
“No, no. I just think she’s great. That’s all.” He felt like a complete idiot.
Avery’s nose crimped up. “Oh, that. Well, she’ll be long gone. She has an opening tonight. You just shake Jay’s hand, wave to the audience, and take your seat.” She glanced at her watch. “Follow me.”
Jack did as he was told. Sally stuck to his side like glue. They walked through the industrial maze of backstage hallways, passing several closed doors that had red on air signs above them. Finally, they came to the edge of the stage.
A narrow vertical sign lit up the word Hollywood beside him. The lights buzzed softly.
Jack’s palms were sweating like geysers. He was wetter than the goddamn Man from Atlantis.
“You’ll be great,” Sally said again.
He wished Elizabeth were here. It only took a look from her, a feather touch, to calm him. He’d wanted this—national exposure—for years, but now that it was here, he was as jumpy as a rookie on the starting line.
This wasn’t like reading the news from a teleprompter. He was supposed to be relaxed and witty. Avery had mentioned funny personal anecdotes as a good thing.
Had anything even remotely funny ever happened to him?
My wife dumped me last month … ba dump ba. Funny enough?
Applause thundered, shook the soundstage. On the wall, a red light flashed.
Avery tapped his shoulder. “You’re on, Jack. Break a leg.”
He mumbled something—he had no idea what—and stumbled around the corner. The lights were Broadway bright and aimed at his face. He could barely make out the stacked rows of people. He blinked suddenly, realized the lights weren’t aimed at him; he was staring right into one.
Idiot.
His smile felt awkward, as if he’d borrowed it from a bigger man.
Jay was coming toward him, hand outstretched.
“Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” he said, smiling.
And just that easy, Jack’s nerves dissipated. He’d forgotten that: he was The Flash. “Hey, Jay.” He waved at the crowd, who applauded wildly.
He followed Jay across the brightly lit stage. He was at the big wooden desk when he saw her. At the same time, he heard Jay’s voice.
“… Thea wanted to stay. She says football is her second favorite sport.”
There was a whoop of approval from the audience.
Thea got up from her seat and walked toward him. Her thin, leggy body was barely covered by a strapless black top and a hot pink miniskirt. She wore almost no makeup; her wheat-blond hair looked as it if had been hacked with a Weed Eater. It was sexy as hell. In heels, she was as tall as he.
For a split second, he was sixteen years old again, a kid pinning Farrah Fawcett posters to his wall.
Thea grinned at the crowd. “Now, this is a good-looking man, am I wrong, ladies?”
He almost passed out, honest to God. The lights overhead felt interrogation-hot all of a sudden. He smelled her perfume, musky and sweet at the same time. He nodded and forced himself to turn away, afraid he’d look at her too long.
He took his seat.