I Swear I’ll Beat Up Eric Simonds

Tiffany Najbreit walks into the studio with her bodyguard, Elias, close behind her. She takes a look around the cluttered series of rooms and the ‘art projects’ contained within them, and lets out a low whistle.

“Nice space,” she says.

There are rusted pans, old chairs, half-broken skateboards and a bunch of other ‘found’ items laying around. Most of it is scavenged from dumpsters, back alleys, and other places that respectable citizens would feel squeamish visiting.

I, having lived in some of these locations before, experienced no such qualms in collecting these items.

“It’s not a place that I normally invite visitors to,” I say, giving a smile to Tiffany, and then I slowly shift my gaze to her bodyguard.

Tiffany catches on quickly enough, saying: “Do you mind giving us some space, Elias? The weather outside today is pleasant.”

“Ma’am, leaving you alone here would be a security risk,” he says, giving me another sharp glance.

“Claude is fine, there’s nothing to worry about,” she says.

“Let me just make a circle around the studio, make sure that there’s nothing dangerous,” he says.

“Alright,” she says, smiling and shaking her head.

As Elias sets off on his trip around my studio, Tiffany springs forward and gives me a quick hug. She looks me over, up and down.

“You know, the first time I saw you, I thought you had a bit of a dad bod,” she says. “But wow! I know I said it last time, but you look good.”

“Thanks,” I smile. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

Tiffany’s wearing a tan top with blue shorts, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, the faintly visible black bra straps completing her classic innocent-yet-fuckable teenage look that made her famous in the first place.

“Yeah, but that’s kinda my job,” Tiffany laughs, and I smile, about to say something when I spy Elias returning.

He gives Tiffany a gruff nod, and then leaves the studio, saying: “I’ll just be outside.”

“Shall we head over to the other room? I’ve got a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice,” I say, nodding my head at the other end of the studio.

“Marvellous,” she says, and we make our way to the back room.

Sunlight streams in from the skylights above, casting soft shadows over a dented fridge, half a car-engine, and the centrepiece of the room: a king-sized bedsheet hanging from the ceiling. There’s a small table with two chairs set by the side, the orange juice in the pitcher fresh and ready to go.

“You think Elias taste-tested the OJ first?” I ask, pointedly taking out my phone and resting its on the table.

Tiffany sees me and mirrors my action, saying: “Oh, certainly. He might have taken an extra swig out of it too.”

“Well,” I say, glancing around the floor and chairs, “there goes my plan to poison you.”

“Poison is a coward’s tool,” Tiffany sniffs, feigning a sudden British accent. “There are much more elegant technologies that one could use to end a life.”

“Oh, and what might that be?” I ask, crouching down low to inspect the underside of the table. Nothing yet, but he only had a minute, so it couldn’t be anywhere else but…

I silently lift one of the chairs off the ground and turn it about. There it is.

“Bombs and the like and so forth…” Tiffany says, slightly losing her train of thought as she follows my finger to the silver disc, no larger than a penny, stuck under the surface of the chair.

I put the chair back into its original position.

“Care for a glass of OJ, and then I can take you on a full tour of the place?” I ask.

“You only had to ask,” Tiffany says.

Moments later, we’ve stepped out of the bedsheet room, each carrying a glass of orange juice, our phones left behind on that table.

“Was that a microphone?” Tiffany whispers, glancing back at the room.

I hold a finger up to my lips and begin my search of this room. It takes less than a minute; there’s only some canvases and easels with a dab of paint splashed on each of them.

“That would be my bet,” I say. “I set up that room as the easy target to bug. Looks like he fell for it.”

“How did you know to do that?” Tiffany asks me, a hint of admiration colouring her voice.

“You pick up a few things after being surveilled non-stop for two decades,” I say. “But you’re not here to listen to those old stories of me and Vidocq being asses to each other. If memory serves, weren’t we just talking about Eric Simonds when you were whisked away on some important task a few days ago?”

“All my big brother cares about is my dating life,” Tiffany says, rolling her eyes. “Promise me you won’t beat him up after I spill the tea?”

“I promise,” I say, “that I’ll only do it if he really deserves it.”

“He’s not that bad a guy,” she says. “He just… you know how Madison Merrygold’s supposed to be the ‘other girl’ on Lightly? Well, when they were filming her bits two weeks ago, she mentioned how she was craving Italian that day. We usually just cater sandwiches—like good sandwiches, not the Subway kind—and it works well, people can munch and work and it’s all taken care of neatly. But then Eric hears Madison saying she wants Italian, and then all of a sudden the sandwiches just ‘aren’t good enough’, so he goes and cancels the order from the catering company, and tries to sort out the order from an Italian restaurant, but they all have policies like ‘must order at least six hours in advance’, and he tries throwing his name and money around, but nobody’s biting, and then, long story short, we don’t get lunch that day.”

“So you’re saying that he’s into the blondie,” I say wryly.

“I mean… who wouldn’t be?” she asks, sounding a little insecure. “She’s hot, she’s famous, she’s got a twin who is apparently is down for threesomes…” I try not to betray any of my own excitement at that latest revelation. “And meanwhile, I won’t put out for him.”

Ah. I see how that could be an issue.

“He’s not giving you pressure, is he?” I ask.

She gives me a look like I’m stupid.

“That bad?”

She shrugs, giving me a sad smile.

“He says he gets it elsewhere. And then he tells me it could never be as good as I could be…”

“I’m going to beat him into a pulp,” I growl, fist clenched into a fist.

“I don’t even know why I’m still with him. I never liked him that much in the first place.”

“So dump him,” I say. “It’s not going to be that big of a scandal. People will understand when he shows up with that Merrygold girl a week later in public. Especially if you have evidence about his… other trysts.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Tiffany says, but she seems to be considering it more seriously now. “But the Getty Ball is in two weeks, and it’s going to be a big problem if I don’t show up with him… actually, it’s a big problem if I break up with him at any point in like, the next year…”

“You mean before the STX deal wraps up?” I ask.

“That’s supposed to be top secret!” Tiffany yelps. She looks at me like I’ve got supernatural powers. I look back into her cute brown eyes, grinning.

“Big brother knows everything,” I say. “MGM Studios wants to take over one of the other mini-majors? Lionsgate and their Rothschild backers are in a bidding war with you for STX? Of course I’m in the loop.”

“No, but seriously, how do you know? It’s supposed to be kept under wraps until…”

“You really want to know?” I say. “You’ll have to be able to lie to Father if I tell you.”

“Father’s a human lie detector! I’ve told you before that I can’t do it…”

She shuts her eyes, burying her head in her hands. She eventually groans, and looks up at me, biting her bottom lip.

“I can do it,” she says. “Gonna have to lie to him eventually about you anyways.”

“Okay. If you’re certain—” Tiffany nods. “Remember that video I got you to forward to him? It contained something nasty whipped up by Erin’s boyfriend. It gave me access to all his text messages,” I say.

“Seriously?” Tiffany asks.

I nod.

“That’s insane! That only happens in movies!” she exclaims, and then she laughs and hugs me, again, tighter this time. “Smug bastard deserves to be taken down a notch.”

“You know what else is insane,” I say, patting her on the back, enjoying the squish of her breasts against my chest a little too much. I take a breath. This one’s going to hurt. “He wrote you out of the will too.”

“WHAT?!”

“Quiet,” I say, putting a comforting hand on the small of her back. “That mic will pick us up if we’re too loud.”

Tiffany looks into my eyes, and I see the fury writ there.

“What do you mean, wrote me out of the will,” she says, her voice just a hair above a whisper. I see the sense of loss in her eyes. Billions of dollars, evaporating into the air. That shit fucks you up like nothing else can.

“Yeah, it’s a real shitty thing,” I say. “Welcome to the club.”

“But… but why?” she practically spits, looking off to the side. “What more does he want from me? I’m dating this prick of a man just because of some stupid buyout, and he doesn’t even…”

I stroke her back, feeling her press closer against me. She’s practically shaking in anger, confusion.

“I have a guess as to why,” I say gently, “but it’s going to hurt some to hear it…”

She shakes her head.

“I know why. It’s because I couldn’t… Elianne… ah fuck,” she says, and I feel a wet teardrop splash against my shoulder. “I can’t do what she does!”

“You’ve got me, and Erin too, and who knows, maybe the others, sometime soon,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. But it’s not easy. I’ve got my own doubts.

“You know what? Fuck Father. I’m breaking up with Eric. His deal can go to shit, for all I care,” she says, glaring at a canvas featuring three blobs of brown paint. She sticks up her middle finger at it, projecting that anger onto my shitty little painting.

“There might be another way to go about this,” I tell her. “Break up with Eric, he’s a dick who's got it coming for him. But let’s keep this STX idea in play…”