There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(55)

“Do I want to be sexy, though?”

I’m shampooing my hair, eyes closed, trying to picture both outfits. I do love the jumpsuit, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression. The world is so much harder on women than on men when it comes to our looks and our clothing. Especially when you’re competing in a male-dominated field.

Cole comes into the bathroom, leaning up against the doorframe so he can watch me.

“Which one do you like wearing? Which feels the most yourself?”

I consider, standing still under the spray.

“The jumpsuit.”

“There you go.”

I’m not used to someone agreeing with me, supporting my decisions. I don’t feel like a fuck-up with Cole. And I don’t agonize over the little choices so much. It feels like it doesn’t really matter what I wear—everything will work out just fine.

“I’m kind of looking forward to this,” I admit as I step out of the shower, vigorously toweling my hair.

“Of course you are. It’s exciting.”

Cole is in the most energized mood I’ve ever seen. His dark eyes roam everywhere at once, and he can’t hold back his grin as he thrusts a scone into my hand.

“Eat it while it’s hot—it’s fucking delicious.”

I laugh. “Since when do you eat scones?”

“I eat everything now.” He winks at me. “Remember last night?”

It all comes back to me in a rush. I shriek with laughter and outrage.

“Don’t talk about that!”

He chuckles, grabbing hold of me and pulling me close, not caring that I’m not quite dry yet and my damp body spots the front of his shirt. He kisses me, his mouth pleasantly warm from the coffee.

“You’re going to fucking kill it today,” he says. “I can’t wait to watch.”

As always, Cole is right.

The entire experience passes by in swift flashes, like a snapshot.

We’re hustled through the studio at lightning speed, with barely enough time for me to goggle at the brightly lit stages and the bustling desks full of people, before I’m back in hair and makeup, a paper bib tucked into the neckline of my velvet jumpsuit to protect my clothes from the thick layer of powder being dusted over my face.

“Don’t worry,” the makeup artist tells me. “It looks like a lot, but under the floodlights, you won’t see it at all.”

The hosts pass by to introduce themselves. I don’t watch much TV, but I’ve seen clips of Roger Roberts and Gail Mason, who have been running the DBS morning show for the better part of a decade. Like most celebrities, they’re much shorter in person than you’d expect. Roger is barely taller than me, and Gale is so petite you might mistake her for a fifth grader if you only saw her from behind, and her helmet of highly-teased hair didn’t give her away.

Both are wearing even more makeup than I am, their microphones already clipped in place and a folder of prompts tucked under their arms.

“Where’s your beret?” Roger ribs me in his broadcaster voice.

I wondered if that was something he turned on for the camera, but it sounds like he always speaks at top volume with careful enunciation.

“She’s not a mime!” Gail laughs. Then, patting me on the arm, “We’ll see you out there in just a minute!”

The producer gives me a brief rundown of the show, including the point at which I’ll be brought onstage and a few of the questions I’ll be asked.

“We’ll show slides of your paintings on the TV screen behind you,” she explains.

“Right, yes,” I nod my head like I understand, while glaring lights, bright colors, and ten different conversations scream at me from all sides.

Cole remains calm and steady, his tall, dark figure so familiar to me that I look at him for comfort every time my anxiety threatens to explode.

I watch the show from offstage, marveling at the hosts’ ability to talk and joke with each other while their producer continually barks orders into the earpieces nestled in their ears.

“Twenty seconds till the next segment,” she warns them.

With the speed of an auctioneer, Roger rattles off, “And that’s why I don’t cook turkey dinners anymore! Up next, we’ve got a little culture for you—an up-and-coming artist from San Francisco! She just had her first solo show at the Frankle Gallery, and she’s here to explain painting to us! Let’s give a warm welcome to Mara Eldritch!”

The producer shoves me forward. I feel myself striding across the stage, my body moving like a puppet on someone else’s strings.

Even though I was warned, the overhead lights press down on me like heat lamps. I can already feel myself starting to sweat.

I forgot where the producer told me to sit. I take the chair closest to Gail, hoping I haven’t made a mistake.

“Nice to meet you, Mara!” Roger booms, like we haven’t already met before. His capped teeth and spray-on tan compete with the glittering red holiday top worn by Gail, and her matching lipstick.

“Now, I can’t draw a stick figure to save my life!” Gail trills. “How did you get your start in art?”

They’re both staring at me, eyes bright, teeth gleaming.

Under the glaring lights, with the muffled motion of the cameramen all around us—everyone trying to be quiet but making the tiny shuffles and breathing sounds that humans can never entirely contain—I’m thrust back to the last time I sat on a stage, expected to perform, while my mind emptied out like a sieve.