Gloss
"Thirty seconds to air!" the stage manager skipped over the wires strewn about the floor and jumped behind the row of semirobotic cameras."Shit!" The frail makeup artist rushed forward, armed with a powder puff, and dived for Ken Klark's shiny, pert nose. The white dust settled and she was gone, out of the shot.
"Ten seconds!"
Klark stroked his chiseled chin, smoothed back what there was to smooth of his ever so trendy, close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, and ran his tongue over his neon-white teeth. Four thousand dollars in caps right there. He had expensed them to the network, which did not contest.
"Five seconds!"
He tugged his dark blue blazer behind him once more and sat up cocksure.
"Three! Two!" On the unspoken count of "One" the stage manager mimed a gunshot at Klark, who smiled, leaned a bit forward, waiting a beat for the zooming camera lens to settle on him. "Good morning, ... read full excerpt from Gloss ebook
