How had he gotten here, though, so fast?

No … how had it gotten so light. Pale red along the edges of the cloud cover. It shouldn’t be this light for half an hour yet.

Inside his house.

No … inside Fayne’s house.

The wall clock.

Six minutes past six.

Impossible. He was at her apartment not a minute ago.

He stood naked and dripping in the hall. Was it raining outside? No, the trail of wet footsteps led from the bathroom. The clock said six-nineteen.

“No,” he said.

The dawn whispered, “Yes.”

He turned to run but his cheek moved against the cool pillow and his legs tangled in the sheets.

“Please, no.”

He stared at the brightening shadows in the room. They were so pale, so empty and featureless. There were no colors in them. No secrets.

He tried to smell them.

Nothing.

“This is not who I am,” he said to the empty shadows. “This is not what I am.”

But it was.

Michael Fayne stared through the open window and was surprised that he did not see the flickering fires of hell.

“Oh, God,” he whimpered. “What am I?”

"LOVE LESS" PT.1

John Everson

— 1 —

“And that is why you should never let a plumber look at anything but your pipes,” Danika Dubov concluded, flashing a row of perfectly white teeth and strikingly ice-blue eyes at the camera. The audience followed the cue of the stage manager hovering just behind Camera 2 and exploded into instant applause. Danika held the knowing grin for exactly ten seconds while the camera pulled back, and then she rose from her seat on the set and shook hands with her guests, a swarthy guy with a blonde crew-cut and a petite girl with hair almost as dark and long as Danika’s.

The credits rolled as the talk show host smiled and chatted and led her guests off-stage. But as soon as they stepped off the stage and her producer, Lon Lawrence stepped up to meet them, Danika’s smile evaporated. “I need five,” she said simply, and Lon nodded. They had worked together at the Chicago ABC television affiliate for a long time, and had a code between them. Lon knew that when ’Nika needed five, he needed to shepherd the guests away ASAP. Or something bad would happen. Something for media columnist Robert Feder to feed on in tomorrow’s newspaper. The show didn’t need that kind of publicity. For “talent,” Danika wasn’t too difficult to work with. But everyone had their moments.

Danika flashed a half-smile at the plumber and his mistress. “Thanks again,” she said, and then walked away, moving fast to her small office at the other end of the hall.

It wasn’t much of an office for a popular morning talk show host, but it was private and held a desk and a small couch she could escape to. She shut the door behind her and leaned her back against it, staring out at the grey day outside. “Shit,” she whispered, holding a hand to her belly. Something gurgled inside. She could feel the skin tremble beneath her palm.

Danika lay down on her couch. It was too small for her to totally stretch out on, so she kicked her heels off and rested her calves on one couch arm as she propped her head on the other. Then she swore again to the empty room.

“I’m tired of feeling like this,” she complained. Deep inside her, something shifted and the nausea came again. She’d managed to keep it under wraps on camera, but now … now she wanted to go puke her guts out.

Someone knocked on her door three times. But didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, the door opened before the echo of the last knock had faded and Lon walked in. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “I thought the show went well today, though the next time you ask a plumber about the subtext of Shakespeare, I promise I will walk onstage and slap you.

“C’mon,” Danika grinned. “It was fun to watch him sweat. I mean, how often can you get someone to compare A Midsummer Night’s Dream to a Jenna Jameson movie?”

Lon grinned, in spite of himself. “Good TV, baaad talk show host.” He walked across the room and knelt in front of her at the couch. “Now what’s the matter? Same thing as yesterday?”

Danika nodded. “Every morning. It feels like my intestines are trying to slither right out of me.”

“Ah yes, the dreaded snake gut disease. Sounds like the flu. Maybe you should go to the doctor and get some antibiotics.”

She shook her head. “Not to be gross, but … nothing’s coming out. At least, nothing unusual. And by mid-afternoon today, I bet you I’ll be perfectly fine again.”

“Hmmm … maybe you’ve finally developed a healthy dose of stage fright. It’s about time; have you watched your reels?”

Danika slapped his shoulder and stuck out a tongue at him.

“Keep that in your mouth unless you’re going to use it on me,” Lon grinned.

“Oh, I’ll give you a tongue-lashing alright,” she said. “But it’s not going to be the kind you want. Wait ’til Legal hears about this sexual harassment case: Producer bursts into a sick girl’s office without permission, and then takes advantage of her loose tongue …”

“I think Legal has other problems with your loose tongue to worry about. You know the Catholic Church is not letting go of the transcript from the ‘Downtown on their Knees: Nun Prostitutes’ episode.”

Danika shrugged and flashed her trademark wicked smile. “Sisters are doing it for themselves!”

“You’re incorrigible,” he laughed and got back to his feet. “Remember, we have pre-production at 2:00 p.m. Call me if you need anything before then?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, and smiled as she watched him leave. He really cared about her, and it was sweet how he worried. She knew that his sexual innuendoes and jokes were meant to sound funny, but in reality, they were all serious. He wanted more with her. But she just didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive. Lon reminded her a little of the character Stephen Keaton from the old Family Ties TV show. He was probably five-foot-ten and looked in decent shape behind the business shirts and green ties. (He always seemed to have a green tie, even when the shirt didn’t call for it. She thought it was his way of being obnoxious. A statement against the corporate uniform, when he’d rather be in sandals, old jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt.) His hair was thinning a bit and going a little grey, but he had a good, warm face, and behind those black-rimmed glasses, he had sea-grey eyes that seemed to see right into your soul when he listened. Maybe it was the beard — a thick but close-trimmed brown halo around his mouth — that made her feel more sisterly than sexual towards him. He reminded her of her older brother.

She shifted on the couch as her insides moved again. The past couple days she’d run to the bathroom every time that happened. But nothing ever came up. Or out. So she wasn’t budging now. Eventually the feeling would pass. Maybe then she could eat something. She was constantly hungry, but whenever a plate was in front of her, her insides turned to snakes.

Danika closed her eyes and thought of her favorite, the Southwest Chicken Salad from the corner bistro. But somehow, just before she drifted to sleep, the image of the grilled chicken somehow transformed in her mind into a rare, bloody steak …

— 2 —

The lights on set felt hotter than usual. Danika was sure her makeup was running. They didn’t need to put too much on — she had naturally high, Slavic cheekbones and her skin was flawless. The makeup girl always accentuated her bone structure with a touch of rouge and shadowed the electricity of her eyes with a dark liner. But right now, Danika felt beads of sweat popping up all around her hairline.

“Remember, we promised that we wouldn’t ask any questions about him being gay or coming out,” Lon was saying. He pointed to a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Stick to the Chicago Northside boy-makes-good-in-Hollywood angle. Ask him about how he’s gotten along with Rob Lowe and Mel Gibson and Jennifer Aniston on set. Ask him what it’s like to live in Los Angeles after growing up in the Midwest. But no gay stuff. This is his hometown, and he just doesn’t want to accentuate that here.”

“It’s not like his family and friends don’t see People and the National Enquirer,” Danika pouted.

“Play nice, huh?” Lon walked off the set as the assistant director called out “One minute!” to the crew. Danika stepped up onto the stage and settled into the host seat at center stage. Lynnie, her makeup girl, rushed out and cottoned her forehead quickly before disappearing again as the count began: “in 5, 4, 3, 2 …”

“Well good morning, Chicago!” Danika smiled. She held up a mug of coffee and said, “I hope you’ve had your caffeine fix for the day. If not, no worries: we’ve got a great show for you, so we’ll wake you up no matter what! First, we have Brian James, that amazing North Side sensation who’s been taking Hollywood by storm. It’s summertime, so you know what that means — another Brian blockbuster. Later we’ll talk with Heather West, the former adult dancer from Wrigleyville who has launched a line of energy snack bars. She recommends keeping them in your night stand, because sometimes after a long late night, you need a little boost to go one more round.”

Danika raised an eyebrow at the camera in mock surprise. “I have no idea what she means, do you? But we’ll find out later in the show. Right now, let’s catch up with Brian James!”

The band kicked into the “intro guest” music and the thin, dark-haired actor walked on-set, grinning at the audience with those heavy lips that had been making women swoon for the past three years. Danika rose to shake his hand, and barely stifled a look of horror as her guts twisted again. She prayed the mic didn’t pick up the sound. It was worse than ever this morning. Her whole body ached. Even her gums felt tender. They’d bled when she brushed her teeth this morning.

“It’s great to see you,” she said, beginning the usual pleasantries. Inside, she began to panic. What if she couldn’t get through the show?