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“Don’t rush on my account. Besides, don’t you want to spend time with all your adoring fans?”
I look left and right to make sure the coast is clear before grabbing her ass. “We both know what I’d rather be doing with that time.”
She giggles softly. “Get ready, silly. She’s about to announce your name.”
Alexia Erwin in her big hair, candy-pop color palette glory shouts to the five-hundred seat audience, “Please give a warm welcome to Hunter Stride!”
The applause is deafening, the studio lights blinding, and the music from the live band feels way too chipper. I walk out, remembering to smile as I wave at the sea of faces. I try to go in for a respectful handshake, but Alexia goes in for the double-cheek kiss. The only reason I endure it is because the cameras are rolling and there are hundreds of witnesses here. I don’t want to come across as difficult.
The ruckus dies down when I take a seat. It’s an understatement to say that I want this done and over with.
“Well, aren’t you just a scrumptious man!” Alexia exclaims. She’s way too loud and show-boaty, but that’s what makes her such an ideal late-night show host.
I’m not sure what to say to that. I’m perfectly comfortable with my appearance, but it’s her leering and blatantly lip licking that I don’t appreciate. Were I a woman and Alexia a man, there’d likely be an outcry on Twitter. That’s not the case, though. Sometimes I really hate the internet and its hypocrisy.
“Thank you,” I say as politely as possible. I just need to keep our conversation light and breezy, but that’s easier said and done.
“Thank you so much for coming on the show. I have to say, I’ve been dying to have you on for ages now. What’s taken you so long, handsome?”
“Apologies, Alexia, I’m afraid your invites may have gotten lost in the mail.”
The audience chuckles. The host takes it in stride. “Tell you what, my birthday’s coming up next month. Make sure you don’t lose that invite, as well.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She laughs a little too enthusiastically, like I’ve somehow said the funniest thing in the world. I don’t know why she’s pushing her reaction so hard, but I guess it’s far more entertaining than having a strait-laced personality running the show.
“So, I hear you have another project in the works. Are you able to tell us anything about it? There’s been so little information. Do you think you can give your adoring fans a tiny little taste of what’s to come?”
“No,” I say flatly.
The audience loses their shit. I really don’t understand them.
“You’rehilarious,” Alexia practically squeals. “We stan a man with dry humor!”
“Who’s Stan?”
Another wave of laughter. I’m already so done with this place and the interview hasn’t even fully begun.
“All I can tell you,” I say once it’s quiet enough to get a word out, “is that you’re really going to enjoy it.”
“Annabeth Spencer has been cast as the lead, correct?”
“Yes. Her performance thus far has been phenomenal.”
“I’m sure it’ll be quite the treat. I’m personally very excited to see—”
There’s a sudden clamor just off to the side in the wings. It’s too dark to see exactly what’s going on, but I squint against the lights overhead and make out the gathering of people, all speaking in hushed and frantic whispers.
“Oh?” Alexia interrupts herself. She grimaces, facing the camera. “It appears something’s going on. Is everything alright?”
A confused murmur lifts from the audience. One of the show’s producers rushes over. The cameraman points the end of his lens at the commotion, and I see her.
Eden.
On the floor.
Passed out.
