I think I can. I think I can. Lexy Clark shifted in the grip of a skinny redheaded techie in black. He had one hand firmly clamped on her upper arm and one hand on the door in front of them, listening intently to his headset and mouthing a countdown. Ten, nine, eight . . .
At one he was going to open the door and shove Lexy out onto the set of The Stanley Skoff Show, the show that claimed to test drive everything the American consumer bought from salad dressings to phonics programs.
I think I can. I think I can. She could hear the audience laughing at the warm up patter, an audience that included her family and closest friends. Her agent Tess Gibson had put the show in the tour schedule at the last minute when Skoff, a self-proclaimed consumer watchdog, issued her one of his challenges. Tess had been excited about it. Are you kidding? Air time in the L.A. market while we’re negotiating the video deal?
Lexy told herself it was just one more appearance as a “sexpert.” She wore her signature workout clothes–black Lycra below-the-knee shorts and cropped red tank top, her currently blonde hair in a neat pony tail. She could always demonstrate some basic stretches. People tended to underestimate the value of stretching in their workouts. She knew the drill–suggestive questions from the host, flirty answers from her. That was the first lesson of her public life: No host wanted serious fitness information from Sexy Lexy.
The sound box fixed to her spandex waistband wobbled, and she reached back to secure it. Did the show have a wheel or a dial or a meter? Morning shows rarely had wheels, but afternoon shows often did. Even The Ellen Show had a wheel. In Lexy’s experience anything that spun, flashed, or rang posed a serious threat to a guest’s dignity, but she hadn’t checked out the Skoff Show. She had been too busy breaking up with Colin.
Surely, Tess would have mentioned a wheel when she insisted that Lexy do the show. If Stan Skoff has issued a challenge, you’ve got to do it. He reads the names of people too chicken to show. You don’t want that. Not when your book is doing so well. Lexy had agreed she didn’t want to harm book sales. She hadn’t dreamed that writing a book would change her life so much.
Her palms were sweating. The air-conditioning had clearly failed. The water in her water bra was super-heated by now. Escaping steam would not be good for her image. She wondered if the redheaded techie would notice if she wiped her hands on his black t-shirt.
I think I can. I think I can. Lexy squared her shoulders. Her friends, Erin and Kelly, and thousands of women like them, balanced dozens of responsibilities daily with no time to work out. Lexy had written her book for them, and readers had thanked her at book signings everywhere. Stanley Skoff might try to make a joke out of her, but her work was good.
. . . three, two, one. The redheaded techie jerked one arm back, the other forward, propelling Lexy through the open door onto a wide square stage with a functional, office-space look--black leather desk chairs for host and guest, soft gray cubicle walls on casters.
Lexy blinked in the glare of the klieg lights and fixed her best smile in place. Two banks of seats rose to the front, and the audience in them seemed to be all men. She couldn’t spot her family anywhere in that sea of male faces. The crowd clapped and whistled, and started to chant.
“Sex-y Lex-y. Sex-y Lex-y. Sex-y Lex-y.”
Lexy froze. Apparently, Stanley Skoff had invited all the hecklers from her book tour, all the men who had suggested positions or missing chapters, and offered to help her write them. Or maybe he’d gone back to her past and invited everyone she had known in junior high. She managed another step forward.
Stanley Skoff came toward her, mike in hand, and the chant subsided. He had a thin, youthful face with short spiky brown hair, big blue eyes, round, wire-rimmed glasses, and obviously no sweat glands. With his gray suit, white shirt, and red bow tie, he looked like the All-American nerd on his way to a debate tournament or science fair.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s welcome our first guest today, the guru of getting it on, Lexy Clark, author of Workout Sex, A Girl’s Guide to Home Fitness.” He held out the red paperback edition of Lexy’s book for a camera close-up, and gestured for Lexy to take one of the chairs.
“Now, Lexy, we always begin our show with a few questions. Tell us—what inspired you to write this book?”
Lexy settled into her chair. She had handled that question dozens of times. “I’ve always been interested in fitness, and when my married friends complained that they had no time to stay in shape, I had to help. One of them said that she only got her heart rate up when the baby climbed on the kitchen counter or when her husband made love to her. And that got me thinking about the perfect workout for couples.”
The audience clapped enthusiastically, and Lexy let her shoulders relax. She knew her lines well.
“You wrote the book for people with partners, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, studies show that married women with both careers and children tend to exercise less frequently than they should.”
Stan picked up the little red book. “And according to your book, the program works best if partners are in a committed relationship?”
Lexy nodded. The heat of the lights was more intense than she remembered from other shows.
“You aren’t married yourself. Did you have to do extensive research for this book?”
Lexy knew what he meant. He was trying to coax some over-sharing out of her, but she wasn’t going there. “Stan, I bet you don’t know what zinc can do for you.”
He laughed, but she caught the sly gleam in his eyes. He was setting her up. “So how has the book affected your relationships with men?”
Her smile tightened. You don’t really want me to answer that one, Stan. The book had cost her a boyfriend, and taught her just how single-minded men could be. As the author of Workout Sex she had tripped over the men lined up at her door like she was the latest thrill ride at Disneyland. “Stan, let’s just say that men like fit women.”
His eyebrows rose above the round rims of his glasses, and he leaned toward the audience. “Must be how she got the name Sex-y Lex-y. Lexy has quite a fan base. Many of our studio guests today have tried her workout routine, and some are interested in trying out for a part in the up-coming Workout Sex video.”
The audience chanted on cue. “Sex-y Lex-y. Sex-y Lex-y. Sex-y Lex-y.”
Lexy glanced at her watch. The interview segment couldn’t last much longer. She should have asked the techie how she would exit.
“Now it’s time for the test phase of our show. Lexy, let me remind you how the show works. Behind you is the Skept-o-Meter.” Two gray panels on tracks rolled apart to reveal a wall dominated by a huge painted half circle divided into pie wedges of primary colors from red to green. A black needle quivered in the red zone, labeled You Make Me Skoff.
Lexy scanned the audience. Her no-good, lying agent was out there somewhere, and Lexy had a few words for her.
“Only the response of our studio audience can move the needle on our Skept-o-Meter. Are you ready to prove your claim?” His voice rose to a shout over the Sexy Lexy chant and the catcalls.
“Give it to me, Lexy.”
“You’re so sex-y.”
“I’m ready to show everyone some great stretches--”
“On national television we can only ask Lexy to do a modified version of her workout, but we’ve put together a few things to help her keep it real.” He pulled a black silk pajama top from under his chair and held it up for the audience to see. They roared their approval.
Lexy’s mouth felt dry as a stale rice cake.
Stanley Skoff held up her book again. “Here’s our challenge: ladies and gentlemen, according to Lexy’s book you can throw out the weights and the stairmaster because the only piece of fitness equipment you’ll ever need again is”--A drum roll started and a spotlight pointed to another section of panels--“a mattress!”
As the panels parted, a California King bed rolled into view. Reclining on red satin sheets, propped on one elbow with Workout Sex in hand was a grinning shirtless hunk in black silk pajama bottoms. He winked at Lexy.
“Here we have Chip, an experienced personal trainer from Santa Monica. Chip has read your book, Lexy. Can you give him a workout with just this mattress?”
Lexy looked at Chip and heard Colin her ex. Lexy, face it, you’re the lite beer of sex. Less filling.
“Now, we never take chances with the safety of our guests, so . . .”
Another drum roll. Two bare-chested Chippendales wannabes in yellow overalls, red suspenders, and fire hats strode out onto the stage armed with fire extinguishers and took a stance on either side of the bed. Skoff grinned at Lexy and turned to the audience.
“Audience, don’t go away. We’ll be right back to see if Sex-y Lex-y can deliver a real workout.”
Lexy forgot book sales, forgot video deals, forgot her agent. She wanted to rip the needle off the Skept-o-Meter and stab Stanley Skoff in his smug heart, but she knew Miss Manners would not approve. Beyond the red sheets, the red fire extinguishers, and the red of Stanley Skoff’s tie, in the dark vastness of the studio, off to one side of the bank of audience seats, a small sign glowed red–Exit. In one word, it was a whole plan. Beyond the sign her driver would be waiting.
She unclipped the mike from her collar, and yanked the sound box from the back of her leggings. The hunk on the bed arranged himself for the cameramen, and the two fake firefighters studied their own biceps. Lexy struggled briefly to pull the wire out of her cropped top and turned to Skoff, who was having his make-up freshened by a technician. “Thanks for having me as a guest, Stan. Sorry I can’t stay longer. Bye.”
Skoff’s mouth opened. “Hey, you can’t just walk off my show.”
“Stop me.”
The hunk on the bed rolled to his feet and blocked her path. “Hey, babe, chill. Let’s work out.” His massive pecs gleamed.
“No thanks, Skip.”
“Chip.”
“Whatever.” She shoved her sound box and mike at his oily chest, and he stepped backwards, landing with a heavy plop on the bed. Lexy grabbed an extinguisher from the nearest fire guy, pulled the pin, and leapt down the stage steps. She aimed the extinguisher at two guests who came after her, dodged a cameraman, and dashed into the darkness beyond the lighted set, her eyes fixed on that Exit.
A sign on the door read Door Alarm Will Sound. Lexy hesitated a nano-second and tossed aside her extinguisher. As she pushed the bar on the door, she heard Stan Skoff say, “Guess Sex-y Lex-y is not so sexy after all. Our next . . .” Then the ringing of the alarm took over.
In the hall a uniformed security guard hurried toward her. “Hey, miss, where do you think you’re going?”
“As far away from here as I can get.”
