Heller’s Decision Read online

  Heller’s Decision

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Heller’s Decision

  by JD Nixon

  Copyright JD Nixon 2013

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and locations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real locations, is purely coincidental.

  JD Nixon is an Australian author and Australian English and spelling have been used in this book.

  Discover other titles by JD Nixon at Smashwords.com:

  Heller series

  Heller (free ebook!)

  Heller’s Revenge

  Heller’s Girlfriend

  Heller’s Punishment

  Heller’s Decision

  Heller’s Regret (to be published)

  Little Town series

  Blood Ties (free ebook!)

  Blood Sport

  Blood Feud

  Blood Tears (to be published)

  Cover design by Infinity Rain

  Find her on Facebook

  For the folk at JDNFC – thanks for the laughs and the friendships (you know who you are), and for helping to keep me (mostly) sane in a sometimes crazy world!

  ~~~~~~ ###### ~~~~~~

  Chapter 1

  “You’re rather a hefty lass, aren’t you?” he grunted, the effort of maintaining my weight evenly across his shoulders bunching his straining muscles.

  “Hey! I’m not hefty, I’m just tall,” I protested, my voice muffled into his shirt, clutching on to his hair so tightly he grimaced in pain. “Everyone knows that tall women weigh a little more.”

  I said that not without some small measure of guilt. My evil, lying bathroom scales insisted I’d stacked on an unwanted five kilograms in the last few months, an unpalatable truth I wasn’t willing to swallow, even though apparently I’d been swallowing far too much of everything else lately.

  My job as research assistant to one of the nation’s top TV stars often meant long hours and no time to exercise. But surely that couldn’t be considered my fault. The fact that there always seemed to be some sort of launch or celebration at the TV studio with loads of food and booze on hand didn’t help much either. And besides, didn’t a woman always put on a bit of weight when she was as loved-up as me? Not that I was thinking of my sexy Viking love god at this particular moment in time, perched precariously on a ladder high above the studio floor, now trusting in the broad shoulders and muscular arms of the man trying to rescue me – the very same shoulders and arms I’d surreptitiously admired only a short time ago.

  It had all started so well. I’d been pleased with the line-up of stories I’d organised for Trent’s evening show. I’d planned four stories – a nice mix of celebrity scandal, weight loss, controversy and sex. We rotated the same topics so frequently I once joked to Trent that I should just use a dartboard of stories to pick which of them would feature on the next night’s show. We had no shortage of material and it wouldn’t make any difference to our loyal viewers.

  Trent had smiled and patted me on the cheek. “Predictability pays off, Tilly.”

  And who was I to argue? After all, Trent Dawson was host of People’s Pulse, one of the nation’s most regularly top rating shows. He knew a lot of viewers wanted nothing more than to watch fluffy infotainment after a hard day. And he reliably delivered, night after night.

  We were in the studio pre-recording the stories for the night’s show. Trent would later provide live linking commentary between the stories when the show aired in the early evening, his usual practice. Everything was running smoothly so far and I watched from the sideline of the set in case Trent needed me for anything. As I did, I quietly cracked open my third can of high-energy drink. Long hours at work, combined with long hours in bed with Heller every evening, were taking their toll on me. I needed a little extra help in the form of a caffeine blast to make it through the day (and night).

  I took advantage of a break after story one to dash on-set, barely dodging the steaming C-grade actor storming out of the studio in a huff after enduring an intrusive interview about his fourth drink-driving conviction. I informed Trent that the guests for his third story had arrived and were nervously waiting their turn before the cameras. Trent, never one to shy away from contention, had decided to do something rather risky with his third story – a discussion on animal rights bringing two opposing views together. In response, I’d managed to round up a fanatical animal activist and an animal trainer as his guests, virtually guaranteeing some heated words, stormy debate, and as Trent always hoped, higher ratings.

  The animal trainer had brought along with him his gorgeous spider monkey, Pei Pei. The little monkey had costarred in a recent locally produced stinker of a children’s movie, Monkey Mobster. A morally ambivalent story at best, the plot revolved around the bond between a girl and the monkey her father rescued from an animal shelter, only to force the pair into petty thievery to earn him money. The monkey turned out to be the best actor in the whole cinematic disaster, outshining every other hammy performer with its rather menacing gangster act. But for some unfathomable reason, the trainer had decided today to dress Pei Pei in a frilly dress and miniature bonnet for its big appearance on Trent’s show.

  They weren’t the only guests waiting in the wings. For the final story of the show – a puff piece – we’d brought in Warren and Chase, two firefighters also known as Mr April and Mr October. They’d been invited on to the show ostensibly to talk about fire safety in the kitchen, but really to advertise their ‘Firefighters on Fire’ calendar, each month decorated with a picture of a sizzling hot, half-naked firefighter doing interesting things with his, er . . . hose. I’d campaigned with Trent to include them in the show, fed up with all the bra and bikini stories we’d been running over the last few months. It was time to give the female viewers a treat.

  After delivering my message to Trent, to my horror I returned off-set to find Pei Pei greedily sculling the energy drink I’d carelessly left sitting on a chair. I guiltily looked around me, but nobody else had noticed. Trent was checking himself out in a small mirror, perfecting his hair; Pei Pei’s trainer was taking a phone call, his back to us; the animal activist was having more face powder applied, his eyes shut; and the firefighters were casually chatting to each other.

  “No!” I whispered fiercely to the little monkey. “Naughty Pei Pei. Giv
e it back.”

  The monkey looked up at me, spun around and chugged some more drink. I crept over and tried to snatch the can from its paws before anyone spotted us. It yanked back, its paws clasped firmly around the can. I tugged harder. We stared at each other, both of us recognising an adversary when we saw one. It pulled back on the can again. I did as well. And though I acknowledge it’s fairly undignified to struggle with a monkey, I had to admit to a small thrill of victory as eventually my superior strength prevailed and I regained ownership of the can. Pei Pei scampered over to its trainer, shooting me an unhappy, mutinous glance over its shoulder.

  I shook the can, realising with dismay that it was now almost empty. Oh dear. I knew next to nothing about spider monkeys, but I could bet that energy drinks weren’t an ideal nutritional choice for them.

  I dithered over whether I should confess to Brady, the show’s producer. I still hadn’t learnt if Brady was his first or last name, and I wasn’t going to be the one to ask him either. A sour, monolithic man with bad dress sense, he hadn’t cracked one smile the whole time I’d worked there. He also had an annoying gum-chewing habit that drove me nuts every single day. Not to mention that for some questionable reason, he’d taken an instant dislike to me. But before I could make up my mind whether to brave it and tell him or not, Trent wrapped up the second story (a video interview with the ‘CEO’ of some spurious miracle slimming tea company – hmm, mental note to self to look into that product) and it was time to start filming the next story.

  Viv, the production assistant, ushered the two guests to the set to sit at the desk, either side of Trent, wasting a few minutes fussing around them. I opened my mouth to say something to Brady, but he dismissively cut his hand through the air, signalling I should shut up, as filming was about to recommence. So I shut up and stood off to the side, watching nervously.

  Though Trent tried his hardest to keep it lighthearted, the discussion quickly degenerated. Seamus, the animal activist, a very large man with an unhealthily red face and an unpleasant sweating problem, was aggressive from the start. Julian, the animal trainer, small and earnest, was instantly defensive. They argued bitterly over the ethics of training wild animals for entertainment purposes, talking over the top of each other, neither willing to listen. Julian insisted that Pei Pei was well treated, to which Seamus responded by calling him a “cruel, exploitative monster”.

  “Gentlemen,” admonished Trent gently, though secretly enjoying the acrimony and toting up ratings numbers in his head. Despite this, I noticed him discreetly pushing the button located on the underside of his desk. This alerted Viv to his desire to have some station security on hand in case things grew out of control. I only hoped it wouldn’t be one of the meathead security men I had to pass every day on my entrance to the station who came to assist. They had about as much love for me as a supermodel did for a double cheeseburger.

  I hovered anxiously off-camera, biting my nails and hoping everything was going to be okay. A vain hope, as it turned out.

  Seamus railed again, repeatedly pointing his finger in Julian’s direction. “And I cannot believe you called this beautiful monkey Pee Pee. How degrading. It just shows how little respect you have for animals.”

  “It’s not Pee Pee!” spat Julian. “If you were paying any attention at all instead of wallowing in your self-righteousness, you’d have noticed that it’s pronounced pay pay. It’s a beautiful Chinese name, you culturally insensitive ignoramus.”

  Seamus snorted in derision. “Ha! You’re the one who’s culturally insensitive. Don’t you even know that spider monkeys come from Central and South America? Why did you give it a Chinese name, you fool?”

  “She’s not an it, she’s a she!”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” interceded Trent again, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He probably hoped one man would take a swing at the other. There’s nothing quite like a spot of fighting on TV to set tongues wagging the next day.

  Personally, I didn’t care about the others – I kept my eyes on Pei Pei. She sat quietly in Julian’s lap, her huge, soulful eyes moving back and forth between the verbal combatants. Julian didn’t notice at first, too busy arguing his point, but Pei Pei became increasingly fidgety – craning her head to look all around her, tugging on the buttons of Julian’s shirt, pulling up her dress to show her disposable nappy. Still in heated debate, Julian distractedly smoothed her dress back down again without breaking his train of argument.

  “Show me evidence my lovely monkey’s not happy,” he demanded.

  Seamus snorted again. He had an amazing collection of snorts. “Why don’t we ask her? Oh, that’s right, we can’t because she’s an animal, unable to speak up when she’s being mistreated.”

  “I do not mistreat my animals!”

  “Animals?” Seamus appealed to Trent. “You heard him. He’s not content with confining just one wild animal; apparently he has a whole bloody menagerie in his house! All of them trapped in an unnatural environment, forced to wear stupid, demeaning outfits.”

  “Pei Pei’s outfit is not demeaning – it’s extremely tasteful! My wife made it herself.”

  “Then your wife is as big a fool as you are, and an even bigger fashion disaster.”

  Julian half-rose from his seat, clutching Pei Pei. “Don’t you dare bring my wife into this, you self-important walrus.”

  “Gentlemen . . .” Trent tried again. Julian lowered his butt, still glowering at Seamus.

  Sensing the tension in the room, Pei Pei’s own agitation skyrocketed. She stood in Julian’s lap and climbed up his torso to sit on his shoulder. It was only then that he gave her his full attention.

  He patted his lap. “Come sit down, Pei Pei.”

  She ignored him, climbing on to his head, pulling at strands of his hair. Impatience flickered across his face. He reached up to pat her a couple of times and then patted his lap again. “Sit down, Pei Pei. Be a good girl.”

  She screeched at him and leapt across to land on Trent, clawing onto his suit jacket. He screeched himself, startled by her sudden move and trying to recoil from the clingy monkey. But Pei Pei had other ideas, scampering up onto his head. She rested there, eyes darting around the studio, blinking in the bright lights.

  Trent laughed nervously and shot Julian a significant glance that clearly messaged, get this frigging monkey off my head. He threw a fake smile at the TV camera and gave an even faker chuckle. “Never work with animals, folks. Always unpredictable.”

  But when Pei Pei began to comb her fingers through his hair, thoroughly messing up his carefully coiffed locks, Trent’s fake smile faded into an unimpressed frown.

  “Can someone please remove the monkey?” he demanded in a low voice, gritting his teeth together. “And we’re going to edit this out, right?”

  Horribly embarrassed, his face flushing, Julian jumped up to retrieve her. He called her name in a soothing tone. Pei Pei barked at him like a dog. He reeled back in shock. “Pei Pei!”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Trent, desperately trying to keep his head still while the little monkey twisted and turned on it, scrutinising everyone, her hands firmly tangled in his hair.

  “It’s a defensive noise,” Julian explained, concern puckering his brows. His voice became sterner. “Pei Pei, come here now. You’re being a very naughty girl.”

  Pei Pei barked at him twice, her voice rising.

  “I don’t know what’s got into her today,” Julian fretted. “It’s not like her. She’s usually so well-behaved.”

  “She’s probably sick of having to wear those ridiculous clothes,” sniffed Seamus.

  “Will you just shut up?” snapped Julian, clearly stressed and at the end of his tether by the whole situation.

  “Can you get it off my head?” Trent repeated, hissing tersely.

  “She’s a she, not an it,” huffed Julian again, holding his arms out for Pei Pei. She refused to go to him, clamping her fingers further into Trent’s hair, and pulling back on it as
if she was reining in a horse. His grimace and small yelp suggested it hurt more than a little.

  Trent started to lose it. “Get this fucking creature off my head now!”

  Maybe offended at being called that, Pei Pei leaned down so that she was looking at Trent upside down. She stuck her fingers up his nostrils. Surprised, Trent pushed his wheeled seat backwards causing it to spin. The sudden movement excited Pei Pei and she danced on Trent’s head, her fingers jammed into his nostrils like a bowling ball, rummaging around inside.

  With Trent shrieking in pain and not knowing what to do, I glanced around, catching Brady’s eye. He glared at me balefully, working the gum in his mouth, as though I was somehow responsible for the mayhem. Pushing aside the guilty thought that I was a teeny bit responsible, I fumed. Just because a few little, minor, unimportant, uninteresting ‘incidents’ had occurred since I’d started working with Trent, Brady now blamed me for everything.

  After all, I hadn’t meant to set off the fire alarm in the middle of a live broadcast on one of the rare evenings we had a studio audience, creating a mass panicked stampede to the exit. And I hadn’t planned on being caught on camera on my knees in front of Trent, my head bobbing towards and obscuring his groin as I desperately tried to fix the zip on his trousers before the show started. It had been an entirely innocent situation and I couldn’t help it if some people had dirty minds – particularly those three hundred and thirty-seven outraged people who’d immediately rung the station to complain. Trent had laughed off that particular occasion, but I hadn’t missed the slight frown of worry creasing his forehead.

  Avoiding Brady’s accusing eyes, I spotted the near-empty energy drink can sitting abandoned on a chair like a beacon of guilt. Oh shit! I had to get rid of that evidence before anyone noticed, especially him.