11
Cliff
“Ouch—what the fuck, Cliff?” Kris bemoans as I smack a cigarette out of his hand.
“You tryin’ to get a sexual harassment charge slapped on ya?” I huff. “You told me to step in. What are you goin’ on about?”
“Kissing her? Really Kris? I thought better of you.”
“It was her fucking cheek—man. You need to loosen up. What happened to that tall Cuban boy you were crushing on last fall?”
“Leave it and leave her. I came to you to work with her and help her because out of all the producers I could have come to, you are the one I know deserves this. Deserves to take this raw clay and not mold it, but reveal the shape it needs to take.”
“You came to me because you trust me? Yet here you are accusing. You can’t have it both ways.” He lights another smoke.
“I can if you don’t sober up. We need Kris King, not Kris Kingsman.” I give him a pointed look. “Kingsman needs to dry out and take better care before he’s totally broke and has to sell his car for the rent.”
Kris nods, flicking the butt. “You never know. Remember what they say, be careful what you wish for.” He looks back toward the shit—kicker hall. “Tell Mitty to lock up, would ya?” With a hand wave, he walks toward his car.