Page 38 of All That Glitters

Craig turned his head and hollered back out the open door. “Hey, boys! This here’s the place! Bring in them props!”

A moment later, Roy entered, leading a very confused-looking sheep by a leash.

It bleated pathetically, leaving small pellets of evidence on Preston’s expensive carpet.

The sheep was followed by Carl, who was carrying an inflatable sex doll under one arm.

Then came two heavily tattooed biker chicks, dressed head-to-toe in black leather, who looked like they could bench-press Preston’s desk.

Craig did a quick headcount and frowned.

“Hey!” he yelled back toward the hallway. “Where’s them dudes dressed like chicks?”

From the hallway, faint but unmistakable, came the gentle “moo” of a cow.

Preston stood up, his heart racing, sweat beading on his forehead. “What the hell is this? How did you get past security?”

“Oh, you mean Bert?” Craig asked, picking up an expensive-looking crystal paperweight from Preston’s desk and tossing it from hand to hand. “Nice fella. We told him we was here for the shoot. He seemed excited to see the sheep.”

Preston lunged for his desk phone. “I’m calling the police.”

Craig didn’t even flinch. “Go ahead. I’m sure they’d love to hear about your little tax situation.” He set down the paperweight and pulled a manila folder from inside his jacket. “Or maybe they’d be interested in how you’ve been skimmin’ money off production budgets for the past five years?”

Preston froze, his hand hovering over the phone. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin’ about the shell company you set up in the Cayman Islands,” Craig said, flipping open the folder. “LightHouse Productions? Ring a bell? You’ve been sendin’ inflated invoices through it and pocketin’ the difference. The IRS gets real interested in that kind of thing.”

Preston’s face went white. “How did you... Who are you people?”

“We’re Rif Raf Produkshuns,” Craig said with a wolfish grin. “And we want our equipment back.”

Just then, there was a commotion in the hallway. The sound of scuffling, then a loud crash, followed by more urgent mooing.

“For the love of God, somebody control that cow!” shouted a voice.

“I thought you had her!”

“I was dealing with the drag queens!”

Craig closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for strength. “Ignore that,” he told Preston. “Focus on me.” He tapped the folder. “We got copies of all your shady financial records. We got witnesses willing to testify. Hell, we even got your ex-wife on our side.”

Preston’s jaw dropped. “Marjorie?”

“She was real helpful,” Craig nodded. “Especially after I told her about them photos on your secret Instagram account.”

“You’re bluffing,” Preston said, but his voice wavered.

Craig pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and turned the screen toward Preston. “This your account? ‘HotProducerDaddy69’?”

Preston’s face crumpled. “What do you want?”

“Like I said. Our equipment back. Plus,” Craig consulted a piece of paper he pulled from his pocket, “fifty thousand dollars to cover lost production time.”

“Fifty thousand?!” Preston spluttered. “That’s robbery!”

“Nah, robbery’s when I have Roy here hold you upside down and shake you till your wallet falls out,” Craig said conversationally. “This here’s just business.”

One of the biker women cracked her knuckles menacingly. The sound was like walnuts being crushed.

“I... I need to make a call to my bank,” Preston said weakly.

“Good choice,” Craig nodded. “Oh, and one more thing. We want a personal apology to Carrie Thompson. On video.”

“For what?”

“For gettin’ grabby with her on some robot movie. Ya see, Carrie’s kinda become a little sister to all of us at Rif Raf. That’s when she ain’t tryin’ to kill us.”

Preston’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kiddin’?” Craig asked, his face a mask of deadly seriousness.

There was another crash from the hallway, followed by the distinctive sound of something expensive breaking, then a bovine bellow of triumph.

“Okay, okay!” Preston agreed frantically. “Just get that... whatever that is... out of my building!”

Craig smiled, all teeth. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Mr. Jordan.”

Tony and Carrie were deep in the weeds of their Monaco spy thriller, index cards spread all over the floor like a mosaic of plot points.

“Okay, so she’s placed the micro-tracker on his yacht,” Tony was saying, “but he knows. He’s been playing her the whole time.”

“And instead of exposing her, he invites her to his private island,” Carrie added, her eyes sparkling with inspiration. “He wants to know who she’s working for. It becomes this intense cat-and-mouse game of psychological warfare!”

Ding.

This time it was Carrie’s cell phone that dinged with an incoming notification.

“Hold that thought,” Carrie said, quickly pulling out her phone and clicking the notification icon. She tapped the link, and Rif Raf’s Instagram page pulled up with a video of Preston Jordan they’d just uploaded. She clicked the icon to let it play, and slowly her face broke into a warm smile.

“Aww... bless their little criminal hearts,” Carrie said fondly.

“What’s the video?” Tony asked, leaning over her shoulder to watch it. Carrie clicked the play button again and let him watch. It was a thirty-second apology from Preston to Carrie for the way he treated her on the robot film, and several before that.

“They extracted an apology from that scumbag,” she said, still barely believing it. “Oh, and look at this hashtag they added, ‘Little Sister’. I’m sharing this with Eli.”

Tony gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze and sat back down.

“I guess the negotiations worked,” Tony said.

Carrie nodded. “I should probably forgive them for blowing me up, shouldn’t I?”

Tony laughed. “They’re good to have on your side in a jam, that’s for sure.”

Ding. Ding. Ding.

A rapid succession of notifications lit up Tony’s phone on the coffee table. Carrie glanced over at him. His face had already adopted the familiar, slightly pained expression she now knew so well.

“Let me guess,” she said, not needing to ask. “Debbie again?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, picking up the phone. A cascade of tagged photos appeared, all of Debbie on a date with Jeff in a movie theater.

“Same guy?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. It’s the other guy I gave her number to. Did I mention I’m an idiot?”

Carrie looked from the phone to Tony’s frustrated face, and a decisive, mischievous gleam entered her eye. “Okay. That’s it.”

“What?”

“We’re fighting back,” she declared, standing up. “Operation: Make Debbie Wildly Jealous is a go.”

Tony looked up at her, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s playing checkers; we’re about to play chess,” Carrie announced.

“We are going to post a picture of us. Kissing. A deep, passionate, ‘this is the love of a lifetime’ kind of kiss.” She started walking toward her bedroom.

“Just give me a couple of minutes to do my hair and makeup and put on something nice.”

“What for?” Tony asked.

“Ahem,” she said, gesturing to herself in the sweatpants and ponytail. “This.”

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

“What’s right with it?” she said.

“Everything. Look, I know you’ve convinced yourself you need all that stuff for your superpower to work, but you don’t.

Your superpower is the you I’ve gotten to know these past couple of weeks.

The part that’s funny, and smart, and creative, and protective of her friends. The rest of it’s just decoration.”

She stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. The noisy, insecure thoughts in her head went quiet. He wasn’t just placating her; he believed it. Every word.

“You really believe in me, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

“I do,” he said simply.

“You’re gonna make me cry, too, aren’t you,” she said, a warm smile sparkling in her eyes that had grown misty.

He smiled. “Probably. You ready to ‘out’ yourself?”

She blinked back the tear and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.” She took a deep breath. “But if this Debbie girl doesn’t see these pictures, realize she’s in love with you, and immediately drag you to the altar, I’m personally going to fly to San Diego and hit her.”

He laughed, a sound full of relief and gratitude. “Deal.”

“Alright, Hollywood,” she said, stepping closer and striking a dramatic pose. “Get ready for my closeup.”

She cupped his face in her hands, he wrapped his arms around her waist, and they angled themselves toward the phone’s camera.

It was a perfectly staged, melodramatic, soap-opera-worthy kiss for the lens.

But underneath the performance, in that small, quiet moment, was the solid, undeniable truth of their friendship.

Tony, holding the phone out, snapped the shot. Without a second thought, he posted it to his Instagram, the caption simple and deadly.

‘Working late into the night. #writerslife #newproject.’

And, of course, he tagged Debbie.

Debbie hurried from the theater to the sidewalk out front, followed by the boys still locked in their heated, stupid argument.

“Dude. You touched me,” Jeff grimaced. “I felt your hand on my shoulder. It was weird and clammy.”

“You touched me first,” Matt shot back, shoving his glasses up his nose.

“That’s because I thought I was touching Debbie!”

“I thought I was touching Debbie!”

“Dude, it’s my night to touch her! You already had your night! We have a schedule!”

“It’s nobody’s night to touch Debbie,” Debbie shouted, coming to a screeching stop and spinning around to face them. “And there is no schedule. I’m not a timeshare you can book for two-hour stays.”

The boys looked at her, momentarily startled into silence by her outburst.

“This whole thing is insane,” she continued, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I’ve spent this entire week pretending to have fun, pretending to like terrible movies, trying not to face-plant into mushy lettuce, trying not to choke on questionable hotdogs. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.”

As she paused from her rant to take a breath, her phone buzzed with an incoming Instagram notification. She looked at the screen.

‘Tony Harding tagged you in a photo.’

She just stared at it for a moment. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But maybe it was an apology. She tapped the notification.

The image loaded. It wasn’t an apology. It was a photo of Tony.

And Carrie Thompson. Kissing. Not a friendly peck, either.

It was a full-on, hands-on-face, Hollywood-movie-poster kiss, the kind that screamed, ‘we are madly in love and probably just did it on the kitchen counter.’ The caption read: ‘Working late into the night. #writerslife #newproject.’

The world around Debbie went silent. The sounds of the city, the bickering of the guys, her own breathing, it all faded away. There was only the glowing screen and the sharp, shattering pain in her chest. It was worse than she could have imagined. This wasn’t just a date. This was serious.

“Whoa,” Matt breathed, and to Debbie’s horror, she noticed him and Jeff looking over her shoulders at the photo.

Jeff squinted, then his eyes widened in recognition. “Holy crap! Is that Carrie Thompson?”

“Yup,” Matt said, giving a big nod. “That’s her.”

“No. Way. Tony’s kissing Carrie Thompson?!” Jeff said. “Damn! I need to learn how to write screenplays.”

“Me too!” Matt exclaimed.

This sudden ‘guy-brain’ exchange between the boys definitely wasn’t helping things. With a snarl, Debbie shoved the phone back in her pocket. Her whole ‘make Tony jealous’ thing had just backfired spectacularly, and she was torn between wanting to cry and wanting to hit something.

The hitting something won — the closest target was Matt’s arm.

“Ow!” Matt said, rubbing his arm where Debbie just hit him. “You hit me.”

“That’s for being a guy!” Debbie said.

“What about Jeff? He’s sort of a guy.”

Debbie hit Jeff too.

“Ow!” Jeff exclaimed, rubbing his arm. “You should hit him again for ruining our date.”

She did.

“Hey!” Matt said, rubbing his arm where she just hit him again. “He ruined my date first.”

“Luke’s diner doesn’t even qualify as a date,” Jeff said.

“And car chase movies do?”

They were so wrapped up again in their ridiculous argument that they didn’t see Debbie race over to a waiting taxi, climb in, and slam the door. The taxi pulled away from the curb and disappeared down the street.

“Besides that, you stole my tires!” Matt said. “That means I get a do-over!”

“Dude, this is real life!” Jeff countered. “You don’t get do-overs!”

“Let’s ask Debbie.”

The guys stopped and turned, looking at where Debbie had been standing just moments before. She was gone.

“Where’d she go?” Matt asked, looking up and down the sidewalk.

“See!” Jeff said. “You scared her off with all your arguing and weird, clammy shoulder-touching!”

A beat of silence passed. Matt exhaled, some of the fight leaving him. “I think we both did.”

Jeff thought about it for a second before giving a reluctant, defeated nod. He looked back toward the theater entrance. “We should sneak back in and catch Faster and Furiouser.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, his earlier frustration forgotten. “I heard they added four new car chases and a helicopter scene.”

The boys hurried back into the theater, their argument forgotten.