Faking It

Copyright © 2023 by Lydia Hart.

Published by Lydia Hart & Star-Kin Creative, LLC.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and/or as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN:

978-1-960719-01-0 paperback (5.25x8 size)

978-1-960719-03-4 paperback (5.5x8.5 size)

978-1-960719-02-7 ebook

Contents

1. December Fowl

2. December Fowl

3. Everett Abrams

4. December Fowl

5. Everett Abrams

6. December Fowl

7. Everett Abrams

8. December Fowl

9. December Fowl

10. Everett Abrams

11. December Fowl

12. December Fowl

13. Everett Abrams

14. December Fowl

15. Everett Abrams

16. December Fowl

17. December Fowl

18. Everett Abrams

19. Everett Abrams

20. December Fowl

21. Everett Abrams

22. December Fowl

23. December Fowl

24. Everett Abrams

25. December Fowl

26. Everett Abrams

27. Everett Abrams

28. December Fowl

29. December Fowl

30. December Fowl

31. December Fowl

32. Everett Abrams

33. Everett Abrams

34. Everett Abrams

35. December Fowl

36. December Fowl

37. Everett Abrams

38. December Fowl

39. December Fowl

40. Everett Abrams

41. December Fowl

42. Everett Abrams

43. December Fowl

44. Everett Abrams

45. December Fowl

46. Everett Abrams

47. December Fowl

48. Everett Abrams

49. December Fowl

50. Everett Abrams

51. December Fowl

52. Epilogue - December

Trigger Warning List:

Due to strong language and mature, sexual content, this book is not intended for readers under the age of 18.

Explicit sexual content

Loss of job & income: shown act of being fired.

Childhood sibling rivalry: discussed from character's past.

Divorce: discussed briefly from character's past.

Bullying: discussed briefly from character's past.

Learning & developmental disability: discussed & shown throughout.

Anxiety: shown throughout.

Coercion: threats/manipulation to work with someone professionally. No sexual or romantic relationship coercion.

Language: excessive swearing.

Chapter 1

December Fowl

Mmrrrr. Mrrrr. Mrrrr .

I roll over in bed, pulling the blankets over my head. Go away alarm clock! I’m on vacation!

Mmrrr. Mrrr. Mrrrr.

I throw down the covers and reach for my phone. The white screen is blinding, forcing me to squint. A headshot of my client Sawyer Dawn blinks at me. I jerk back, my sleep-ridden brain not fully comprehending why she’s on my screen. Then, with a jolt, I realize I’m not dreaming.

Hello? My voice is thick with sleep and I clear it before continuing, Sawyer?

De…De…Decemburrrr, the singer manages between sobbing hiccups.

What’s wrong? I wrestle with the blankets until I can wiggle myself free. The hardwood floor is cold against my bare feet, and I dance to the light switch. My bedroom lights up like the Griswold’s house on Christmas. Are you okay?

Na-na-nooooo.

My head instantly goes to the worst-case scenario: Savage Song has canceled her performance. As soon as the thought is out, I smack myself on the forehead. She could have been in an accident! Someone could be dead and I’m thinking about a stupid performance! I pace the room – walking from one side and back again, trying to get a word in.

I manage to catch a few things: Late. Dress. Ruined. Mom?

My mind races to arrange the words. She’s late. Her dress is ruined? Her mom? I snap into a straight line: She’s late. Her dress won’t fit. Her career is ruined. She’s going to be a mom.

I press myself to think of how many young mothers have been on the Billboard 100. I can only think of a handful: Deya Moon, who the public adores. I recall the twelve page spread People did for the birth of her second child. Not to mention the hundreds of other articles written by other gossip mags.

I even picked up a copy and the only babies I like are of the animal variety. Her publicist did a heroic job influencing the stories that sold. I could manage Sawyer’s image like that; oversee the stories released, the photos they use. A baby wouldn’t mean ruin…

Then I think of the others, like a member of Lady Magic who was criticized for coming back four months after giving birth. People accused her of not being loving or caring enough for her child. Then there’s Michelle Drew. She had three Top 100 songs and the next year dropped off the radar to raise her twins. She never came back.

Late? I pry, taking advantage of her gasp for air. "What’s late?

My dress! She shouts, her voice astonished I hadn’t understood her.

My chest loosens. I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a tremor of relief, moving the phone away from my mouth. Not. Pregnant. Her dress is late. Not pregnant. A dress is something I can take care of.

"–shipped in from Milan. This was going to be the dress. The dress everyone was going to know me by, you know? Like Carrie Underwood has her thighs; Michelle Obama has her arms, and it was going to be me and that dress." She sighs dreamily.

Oh, I know that dress even though I don’t know that dress. I own a few too many skin-tight jeans intended to win the hottie in college, but all they ever won me was a glance and a late credit card payment; I had the hair cut that was supposed to tell my ex-boyfriend (who I was soo totally over) I’m not fine without you, I’m better without you! But all it proved was my bone structure does not coordinate well with a pixie cut.

I’m in New York, I begin, picturing the beautiful lace, bohemian dresses in the East Village. I could –

"Not just any dress will do, December," her voice is clipped, like I just don’t get it.

At twenty-two Sawyer thinks of me as an older sister. A much older sister. As if a five-year difference means I have no idea what she’s going through. Because only twenty-two-year-olds, who wear their hearts on their sleeves, can feel this way. I bite back my tongue.

This is a bad sign. I don’t think I should do the show.

I hear her words exploding through my brain.

Sawyer, you don’t want to be remembered for a dress! You’re more than what you wear. You’re more than how you look or what people think. Those are the principles you preach. I love those principles. Anyone can sing about lust or parties, but you write about reality and finding security in insecurity. You can’t let Hollywood steal that from you!

The line is silent.

I have a friend. My mind retraces my steps these last few days. I go back to standing in a narrow hallway with my college roommate. She’s talking about doing something new, starting her own fashion line. My mouth moves, She’s a designer. Very good. You wouldn’t know any of her work – which is good. It’s a good thing. You can both debut on the same night. The first person to wear a piece from Morgan Rernstein.

There’s a sharp intake of breath and I know she’s still there. I haven’t lost her yet. Finding my groove, I move around the room. The blood pumping through my body helps me think. My free hand waves around like it’s helping me bring forth ideas.

"You don’t want a dress to make you. You want to make the dress. People are going to think ‘I want a Rernstein dress because Sawyer Dawn wore it’. Not, ‘I like Sawyer Dawn because she wore this fancy Milan designer everyone else is wearing.’ Which one feels more like you?"

On the other line, I catch the creeak of a bedspring, rustling sheets as she tucks herself in. I claw my face. It would be nice if she’d say something, but this is how Sawyer is. She shuts down. Tucks herself into a ball and contemplates everything from who she is to the reason why sloths move so slow.

Alright, I say, ripping my suitcase out from under the bed. I’ll be in LA in… I glance down at my phone. 5:31 a.m…I toss my bag on the bed. No less than twenty-four hours.

I end the call and sigh. Mom is going to be furious when I tell her she'll need to find another plus-one to the family shopping extravaganza. But I am my mother's daughter. The job always comes first. I pull open my planner app and make a list:

✔ ️Wake up

○ Get Morgan on board to design the dress

○ Book flight to L.A.

○ Drag Sawyer out of this funk before it takes hold

○ Live happily ever after

I’m wriggling into a window seat. Morgan’s curvy figure squeezes in next to me. A thin older man sits on the outside and as soon as we’re seated, he pulls out his e-reader and sighs like we’ve taken lifetimes instead of seconds. I roll my eyes, my mood taking a further nosedive.

In my hand, my phone vibrates. I glance at the screen half expecting Lionel King, President of DKS, the public relations agency I work for, to be calling. Instead, I have an email notification. I quickly pull it up before airplane mode is announced.

My jaw clenches as I read. Xtreme Sports Monthly has informed me my client Everett Abrams never joined their Zoom call for an interview. This is the fifth straight interview I've set up for him that he hasn't shown up for or responded.

I pull open my mobile OneNote and begin to make notes about his behavior in the profile I've created. I've been wanting to drop him as a client for the last six months now. This will just be more kindling.

Ohmygod. I volunteer as tribute. Morgan leans into me for a better look.

On my screen is the man of my nightmares – Everett Abrams. I’ve never met him in person, but have studied his photographs. As his publicist, it’s my job to share his best headshots with journalists. But I'd be lying if I said he didn't give my heart a start, or that I sometimes find myself flipping through his media kit for a good man-candy pick-me-up.

In this snapshot, he’s captured walking through an airport, a bag slung over his shoulder, and a cart of luggage wheeling behind him. He’s dressed in a white t-shirt, blue flannel shirt, and dark jeans. His hair is a mess but in a sexy, did I mess this myself, or did someone else do it for me? sort of way.

My eyes linger on the veins in his arms. They’re prominent and he’s just walking through an airport, not even taxing himself. The neck of his shirt is wide enough to reveal a sliver of his collar bone, and it makes me tingle. I stare at the lump in his throat, swallowing. There’s something about him that makes me drool. Maybe it’s his neck, or the scruff along his sculpted jaw; the freckles spattered in large spots and dusting his cheeks. It could be the way his dark, dark eyes seem to say: I'm intense.

Get a good look while you can, friend. The man refuses to do interviews, meet-and-greets – anything!

He can have me forever in exchange for a few interviews. Morgan smiles wickedly as she rests back into her seat.

I laugh, her words reminding me why I accepted him as a client. I specialize in musicians and actors, not snowboarders. But, I glance again at his image, the man is gorgeous. He makes women think naughty thoughts – myself included.

Everett could be the next David Beckham if he'd let me channel his raw sex appeal into dollars.

But he refuses. And he's a dick for wasting my time.

I finish adding my notes to his profile and sit back to watch Morgan work as the plane lifts off.

Working from her tablet, she begins to sketch dress designs and potential color schemes. When Morgan declared she’d be coming with me, I thought my head might explode, but she insisted she meet Sawyer, or no deal. And if I turn up in L.A. with no designer and no alternative, I know Sawyer won’t do the show.

And she needs to do the show. No performance, no career. For either of us.

Chapter 2

December Fowl

M r. King, you want me to be the new Public Relations Officer? I am so honored.

I practice my encounter with the CEO weaving in between traffic. I’ve always been told the power of visualization and positivity can shape reality. This morning, I’m going to test it.

I really want this fantasy to become reality. So badly it hurts. Over the weekend, I received a meeting invite with the CEO and President, himself, Lionel King. It can mean only one thing, news about the position I applied for and killed in the interview: DKS' Public Relations Officer. Now, the day is here and I'm channeling everything I have into getting this promotion.

My stomach turns as I pull into the towering iron giant that is 801 Grand. I park my car in the back and gaze up at the little sparkling windows at the very top. My hands grip the wheel. I will have a corner office with a view. I will, I will, I will.

I draw my bag over my shoulder and step out into the early morning light. The sun has yet to breach the skyline.

I catch my reflection in the glass pane of the building and new confidence spreads through me. My soft cashmere sweater in crème is tucked neatly into the red pencil skirt I bought myself in New York. My Dad’s old pocket watch, now repurposed as a necklace, dangles against my chest. Earlier this morning, I pulled my long ashy brown hair into a taut ponytail. Dressing extra professional makes me feel extra powerful.

At my cubicle, I fire up my laptop and begin sifting through my emails and schedule for the day:

Monday, November 26th

9AM: Meeting with Todd. Discuss:SNL performance, upcoming press releases & hosting the children's banquet.

10AM: Meeting with Lionel King. Discuss: Possible interview #2??

12PM: Meeting with Sawyer. Discuss: Follow up with Savage Song & her dress. Make sure she's not sulking!

1-?: Available & on-call for clients. Work on updating media kits, press releases & further media training.

I take a breath and repeat in my head: I choose to believe this meeting is about the Public Relations Officer position, not flying to L.A. I begin to organize my notes, pulling up footage of Todd alongside Tom Hanks and quotes from reviewers. All the while repeating mantras in my mind: it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. I made the right choice. My client needed me, and I stand by my decision. I am powerful. I am bold. I can do this. I can do this.

You're salaried, Fowl. Getting here early won't earn you anything. The male voice makes my skin crawl.

I swing around in my chair. Ryan Dawson leans his hip on my desk. He picks up my stress ball and tosses it between his hands. He’s dressed in a gray suit, freckled with brown specks. His jacket is tweed, of course. I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Tweed jackets are so 1900s.

Do you mind? I drawl, already bored with him.

He shrugs, Not at all.

Glaring, I snatch the ball out of his hands. I squeeze it, imagining it’s his head. His face quirks up, his eyes gleam. Ryan is the equivalent of Disney’s Scar in human form. If given the chance, he’d let go instead of pulling me off a ledge.

He squints, You look like you have something to say.

I have lots to say, but nothing to you.

You look nice, he says, eyes laughing at me in the way they do when he’s not telling the truth.

I straighten, remembering my power, I have a meeting with Mr. King this morning.

What for?

That’s none of your business.

He slaps his hands together and leans in, Oh, I bet you're finally having a follow-up interview for the PRO position. I had mine before the holiday. So, he stands, adjusting his suit, best of luck.

Before he completely exits, he turns and flashes me a magazine cover. His client Mimi Aldo is on the cover. In bright red letters the headline reads: I was the other woman.

By the way, did you see this cover? This is how you spin an infidelity story, December. Unlike how you buried Todd’s affair last year. Cheating is practically expected. Now I’ve just made my client relatable and redeemable. When I’m the PRO, I’ll give you some pointers.

He winks and stalks away, and I shrink in my seat. Ryan had a second interview last week?

I shake my head, trying to get Ryan out of it. I know this is what he wants. Get in my head and under my skin to scare me so he can win. I busy myself with tidying my desk. Moving my pen jar here instead of there; restacking my pile of paperwork.

Enough. I force my hands to stop moving. I walk from one side of my desk to the other and back again, lecturing myself. Actionable. I must be actionable. I didn’t get here by being scared. You can do this.

I swing my arms, roll my head from side to side like a boxer readies herself for a match. Because this is war. I zero in on my emails. I shoot one off to Sawyer to remind her of our meeting; another to the NBC Executive in my back pocket, thanking her for giving Todd a chance. I weed through the others, scribbling invites, events, publication dates beneficial to my clients.

With five clients, I have the fewest in the company – but they yield high. The devil is in the details, and I get the details just right. My strategy is to keep my client pool small. Personable. And it's worked. While Ryan Disgusting-Dawson and my other coworkers are managing twenty clients, juggling meetings and knotting schedules, I can communicate with my clients every day.

My mouse hovers over an email. I narrow my eyes at it, trying to figure out which client this could be referring to. I scan the little information I can gather without opening it:

You’re invited to the EMPIRE Gala!

Thank you for the response – We’re sorry not to host you in Las Vegas

A lightbulb switches in my brain. I click on the email and sure enough Everett has declined their offer to attend the Gala. I throw my head back and let out a monstrous growl.

You don’t know how many strings I had to pull!

I pull up a fresh email. My fingers type feverishly on the keyboard. Click-click-clickclickclick.

"Or how many favors I owe just to get you an interview with Sports Illustrated," I rip the magazine out of my stack and flip open the pages. There’s a photo spread of the three athletes and four pages of discussion. Thirty-five questions and he only peeps up for two. Two!

"Ooo-oh," I let out a dangerous laugh and the clickclickclickclick-ing commences, egging me on. You will not ruin my reputation, Everett Abrams. I raise my finger in justified fury, about to slam SEND when my email dings. A notification flashes across my screen. I quickly grab the little blurb, not sure if I read it right, and my angry email shrinks.

Calendar Notification: Todd Taylor has canceled your 9 a.m. meeting. Click to reschedule.

Weird. I click to reschedule, and another message pops up:

Scheduling Error: Cannot connect to contact. Please contact program administrator for more information.

I make a face, Scheduling error… I shut down my email and open it again. All you need is a little reboot. I click to reschedule and the error pops up for the second time.

Ding. Another notification flows in. Next week’s meeting with Cheryl has been canceled. Ding. And Ricky’s for three weeks away.

What the hellll… I squint at my screen.

Ding: Sawyer Dawn has canceled your 12 p.m. meeting. Click to reschedule.

Suddenly my computer is dinging like Nanna’s doorbell on Christmas. My screen floods with canceled meetings, one sliding in right after another.

Suz! I shove my chair back and stomp towards the tech group, four cubicles down.

She looks up from her desk, What's up roomie? I was thinking about making sloppy joes tonight – thoughts?

I bulldoze on, My computer has gone mad! Do you hear that? I jab my finger back towards my desk.

She cranes her neck, putting her bagel down and wiping the corners of her mouth. I lead her back to my desk so she can take a look. She pauses a moment, taking in the sound of notifications as events continue to cancel.

What sort of pervy site were you viewing? Suz teases, moving into my chair.

You’re about to find out. I cross my arms and glare down at my misbehaving computer.

Chapter 3

Everett Abrams

Luc sits at the edge of the hotel bed. His knee jigs as we scroll through the presentation again.

We’ve run through this a thousand times. So many times, my dreams were in PowerPoint last night.

Sweat prickles at my brow and upper lip. My mouth moves as I recite my parts over and over in my head. I’ve had it memorized for days, and Luc is doing most of the presenting anyways. He’s the people-person. I’m worried I’m going to walk into the room with sweat spots so huge they can spot them from space.

My eyes twitch to him now. His hand is cupped over his mouth, eyes staring at the screen as if there’s a chance it'll tell him his future. I let out a shallow breath and he turns his head to me. I offer him a small smile, but it’s more shaky than sure.

Luc slaps my shoulder, Relax man. You do scarier shit than this every day.

I nod. It’s true. Riding up a twelve foot vert at high speeds and twisting my body in all sorts of directions isn’t safe, but it feels like it to me. Even when it’s scary. When the spins make me dizzy, I know I can get through because I always have. This is totally new territory.

I rise and step to the desk to mess with the gloves we’ve brought as a demonstration. We brought two pairs of each: one we rode in yesterday and thoroughly soaked, the other dry to show the difference. We did the same with our mock pair. The difference between the dryness of our gloves and our closest competitor is striking and I’m hoping it will sell them.

I allow myself a moment to dream that the investors accept our proposal. We’ll start with the gloves, then other outerwear, eventually to boards and boots. I’ll still compete, but when I do retire from competitive riding, I’ll have Elevate to fall back on. I’ll ride every day; travel the world with our brand on showcase. I won’t ever have to find a regular job. I won’t ever have to be anyone but me.

We’ll source environmentally friendly materials from fair trade suppliers. We’ll produce it right here in the United States. It’ll be more expensive than the average glove, but people won’t have to buy five pairs just to keep their fingers warm.

And Elevate will only endorse riders who care more about riding than parties; riders who don’t spread the poison of ‘snowboarding’s only for the young and wild.’ The way the culture is now, it excludes riders over the age of thirty. I rarely see riders even my age. It’s like as soon as snowboarders reach a certain level of maturity, they no longer fit in. On the mountain there’s plenty of retired folk spending their time skiing, but it’s so rare to see snowboarders of that age.

Elevate won’t be like that. We’ll be there all life-long, not just for the youngsters trying to be cool and get mountain cred; not just for the adults trying to cut lose and escape from the every day. I want Elevate to be for more than one generation. Just like riding should be.

This could mean having a ‘retirement’ plan. This could mean Luc sending his sister to the best adult home instead of mediocre. This could mean having a lasting impact on snowboarding – even long after I retire.

No pressure or anything.

Hey, Luc whistles from across the room. Let’s get going.

We pack the gloves up and double-check that our presentation is saved to the cloud. I tug my suit jacket on, spikes of nervousness ravaging my gut. My throat feels like it’s closing. Especially in this suit and tie but Brett told us to dress nice, so here we are.

Brett Callenger was once my most ferocious competitor when I first joined the circuit, but after a bad fall and back surgery he retired. Now he’s part of Stanley Investors, one of the West Coast’s largest venture capitalist firms. And our point of contact in this deal.

I run a hand through my hair, wishing more than anything I could be on the mountain, but I know this is a necessary pain to get someplace better. I just wish I could snap my fingers instead. But I know better than most, you can’t get far without doing shit that scares you.

As we step to the elevator, I notice I have two new voicemails. One from a number I recognize as DKS, my publicist – I grit my teeth. I don’t want to talk to December. Without listening to the message, I delete and move on to the second one from UnderLayer’s Talent Agent:

Hi Everett, this is Laura Tolli, director of endorsement coordination with UnderLayer. I just wanted to inform you that, unfortunately, we will not be renewing our contract with you. Good luck in your upcoming events. Happy Holidays!

I slip my phone back into my pocket and jam the button for the main floor. My head is reeling. I’ve lost another sponsor. The second in a month.

What’s up? Luc nudges me.

Nothing. I throw him a smile. Nerves.

Internally my brain is screaming, oh shit. Why is this happening to me? I can’t tell Luc, not now. He’ll flip out and we need cool, confident Luc today. The money sharks can’t know I’m unstable with endorsements. It’s not a vote of confidence when long-time sponsors are pulling the plug – especially approaching a big Olympic year. I should be hot right now, but I’m selling even less than usual.

I swallow down the angry, sad lump in my throat and pretend everything is alright.

Chapter 4

December Fowl

S houldn’t you be preparing for your interview? Ryan Dawson clicks his tongue, staring at the back of Suz's head as she works on my computer, and then glances at me.

Shouldn’t you be sniveling at Mr. King’s feet?

He laughs, You’re worried I had my interview before you, aren’t you? You should be. He practically offered me the job then. But, you know, formalities and such.

The only thing I’m worried about is who will hire you once you lose this job? No one else would deal with you like Mr. King does.

He snorts, "Coming from the woman who just had to embarrass our biggest investor in front of everyone? It's called decorum, December."

For a moment I stiffen. DKS executives Meredith Sally and Lionel King were the only other people from our office at the DKS Board Meeting in New York that night. Our biggest investor had been bloating key performance indicators all evening. I put up with it for a bit because he’s a big investor, great for networking, and I thought he had just misspoke. But then he kept doing it. Misquoting some of our most important metrics like our client’s share of voice and media coverage compared to our competitors. Something like that – without correction – could give the board completely the wrong impression.

But Ryan shouldn't know anything about that. On the flight home, King sat me down, red-faced, and told me while Mike Gibler had misquoted our figures repeatedly, I had no right to correct him in front of the entire board. I embarrassed Gibler and the agency tonight by speaking out of turn.