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“Sounds like Beastman knows what’s he’s doing,” I say, staying neutral. Professionals don’t go looking for sexual innuendos in every work situation. That’s for amateurs.
And barista best friends.
He doesn’t seem happy about it. “We’ve told him before about not moving too fast, but it works for the creampie scenes. Makes them really pop on screen.”
Some part of me relaxes. Of course. Cooking is all about getting moving parts to work together for a perfectly timed finale. I turn around and look back at the stainless steel kitchen, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the Bertazzoni range. Oooo, a Bosch built-in coffee maker! Someone knows their kitchen design.
None of the crew is working in there. All the lighting and camera guys are moving down the hallway in this direction. Huh. You’d think the kitchen would be the center of activity at this point.
As I look around, I realize I’m the only woman here. Huh, redux. That’s weird.
“Calibrating is hard work,” I say, trying to show him I know my stuff as I make eye contact and smile. “Timing is everything.”
“Especially when it comes to the payload,” Spatula says somberly as he walks me down the long hallway. I must have misheard that, because payoff? Sure.
Payload?
He leads me into a small room, where I come face to face with a completely naked man covered in more hair than Sasquatch.
And he’s rubbing coconut oil on his decidedly hairless balls.
Chapter Three
“That’s a penis,” I gasp, pointing at the obvious. If my neck pulse was pounding before, now it’s become an angry cat trapped in a tumbling clothes dryer, screaming and clawing to get out.
“Yes.”
“A big penis!”
The man grins nice and wide. “Sure is.”
“Why are you naked?” I’ve heard of Jamie Oliver, on Naked Chef, but he wasn’t actually naked. Pretty sure, anyway. “Is this some kind of trend in the industry I don’t know about?”
Sasquatch laughs. “It’s my job.”
“It’s your job to be naked?” What kind of cooking show is this? Aren’t there health department regulations about this kind of thing? Beastman looks like a rug with arms and legs. I’m trying to imagine a cream pie made by a shedding bear.
I start to gag.
“Well.” He pauses and looks down at himself. “I guess I don’t have to be naked until we’re filming, but I like to get into character nice and early.”
“Beastman is all about method acting,” Spatula explains.
“And what method is that?” I squeak, controlling my throat muscles. This is definitely not the place to have a gag reflex.
“Not method. Meth head. Get it? Say it fast.” Spatula seems inordinately pleased with himself.
“You’re a meth head?” I ask Beastman, taking a step back.
“No.” Beastman glares at Spatula. “That’s just a stupid joke he keeps saying, as if it’ll eventually get funny.”
“It never will,” I say, shock tearing the air out of my lungs.
Beastman snorts. “See? Told you.”
Spatula shrugs. “I think it’s funny.”
“You think trampoline videos of guys bouncing out and cracking their balls on fence posts are funny,” Beastman shoots back. He looks at me as if to say, Can you believe that?
