“Let it play out, D.”
So Dev lets it play out, which means, thanks to Ryan Parker, he watches Charles Winshaw get punched in the face from thirty feet away.
Because Dev is truly a terrible judge of character.
* * *
“Well, the good news is, the nose isn’t broken,” the set medic announces to the cramped back room full of producers and cameras. Charles is sitting on a table with blood down his shirt and two cotton tubes shoved up his nostrils. “The bad news is, he’s definitely going to have some bruising, and he needs to sit here until the bleeding stops.”
“Shit,” Skylar snaps. “We’re already behind schedule, and we needed to start filming the Crowning Ceremony ten minutes ago!”
The medic shoots her a glare.
“Which is not as important as his health, obviously,” Skylar corrects herself. “I’ll just go arrange some establishing shots of the contestants on the risers.”
Skylar pushes her way past two cameras as Maureen slinks over to Charles.
“Listen, dear, I hope you don’t think we invited that man onto set.”
They definitely did.
“He showed up unexpectedly demanding to speak to Kiana. We had no idea what he was going to do.”
Oh, they definitely knew.
Maureen places a manicured hand on Charles’s shoulder. “I am so sorry this happened.”
She most definitely is not sorry.
Ryan was right: a physical altercation on night one is going to be amazing for ratings. Dev can’t even blame her for it; Maureen Scott is only doing what she has to do. The only thing audiences want more than a happy ending is drama.
Charles says nothing in response, and Maureen drops her hand and turns to the medic. “Ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes should be sufficient to stop the bleeding, but—”
“Ten minutes,” Maureen says firmly before she follows Skylar out the door.
The medic hands Charles two cold compresses and shoves acetaminophen at Dev. “Have him keep the ice packs in place for ten, then take out the gauze and give him six hundred milligrams of this.”
At the medic’s exit, Jules takes her cue to round up the cameras and lingering crew members. Then Dev is alone with the star he hates on the show he loves, unsure of how to proceed. Charles has a cold compress under each eye, bloody gauze dangling from his nose.
“You look ridiculous.”
Apparently, that is how he’s proceeding.
“Well, you smell like vomit,” Charles snaps back.
“And whose fault is that?”
Charles tries to smile, but the pain turns it into a wince. He pulls the cold compresses away from his face to reveal the bruises already forming under his eyes. “Are you also going to try to convince me Maureen didn’t pay that man to come on the show?”
“She didn’t have to pay him,” Dev clarifies. “Men like that come on this show for free.”
Charles looks wounded, which is sort of his default expression since his face is 90 percent eyes. His eyes are storm-cloud gray, the color of the sky during the North Carolina thunderstorms of Dev’s childhood. Charles licks his lips nervously. “Have I… upset you, or—？”
“You said the show is fake.” The words come out harsher than he intends, and he bites his lip. Yelling at Charles isn’t going to help. Besides, Skylar is right. Dev is the best. Unless they want this entire season to be an uneditable sequence of their star getting the literal and metaphorical shit beat out of him, Dev’s got to step up.