Excerpt
Cutie Pie
JC Halverson © 2026
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
My ass was still raw from the verbal beating I’d just taken from Jon Jon Holiday.
And not in the good way.
The newsroom had that postshow quiet—keyboards clicking, phones chirping, producers pretending they hadn’t heard every word through the glass. Jon Jon’s corner office was supposed to be soundproof. It wasn’t. Not when he wanted to make a point.
I could see him through the glass, pacing like a caged animal. He spotted me crossing the newsroom floor and waved frantically, that theatrical gesture he used when the cameras weren’t rolling but he still needed an audience.
I took my time. Finished the conversation with the graphics coordinator. Checked my phone. Let him stew. Managing talent was like training horses; you couldn’t let them think they were in charge.
By the time I reached his office, he’d worked himself into a proper state. Perfect.
The walk to his office was fifty feet of exposed territory. Every desk I passed, every monitor I caught in my peripheral—they all knew. Jacob’s getting his ass handed to him. Again. The new kids watched with barely concealed fascination. The veterans kept their heads down, grateful it wasn’t them.
Jon Jon stood behind his desk, still in full makeup from the show. At fifty-three, he had that ageless quality that made network executives wet. Not young, not old—just television. His suit probably cost more than most people’s rent. His watch definitely did.
“Close the door,” he said as I entered.
I did. The glass frosted instantly—his favorite privacy move.
“We need to talk about tonight.” He moved behind his desk, creating distance. Power positioning. Old habit from when he thought furniture arrangement meant authority.
“What about it?” I sat without being invited. Another small reminder of the hierarchy.
“You want to tell me what that was?” He didn’t specify. He didn’t need to.
“Technical difficulties with the prompter. Lighting preset got switched. And Marcus Chen bailed.”
“Chen.” He said it like profanity. “That prick promised us an exclusive.”
“His publicist swore—”
“His publicist lied. They all lie. That’s why we verify.” He loosened his tie with sharp, angry movements. “Twenty years in this business, and I looked like an amateur out there. Reading from paper like some local market rookie.”
He wasn’t wrong. The show had been rough. When the prompter died in segment three, Jon Jon fumbled the transition. His hands shook as he held the backup scripts. For a man who could interview warlords without blinking, paper defeated him.
“The lighting made me look like I have hepatitis.” He moved to the window, Atlanta’s skyline glittering behind him. “You know what they’re saying online?”
I knew. Twitter had been brutal. Something about him looking like a corpse that got reanimated midbroadcast.
“It won’t happen again,” I said.
“You’re right. It won’t.” He turned back to me. “Because if it does, we’re both gone. You understand that? The network isn’t patient anymore. They’re looking for reasons.”
I understood. Ratings were good—we owned the 9 p.m. slot—but good wasn’t bulletproof. Not in cable news. Not with streaming eating our lunch and podcasts stealing our thunder.
“We’ll fix it,” I said.
“We.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “There is no we, Jacob. There’s me on camera and you behind it. I take the bullets. You’re supposed to make sure they miss.”
Fair enough. That was the job.
Jon Jon dropped into his chair. The anger was fading, replaced by something heavier. “You know what’s exhausting? Pretending I don’t see them waiting for me to implode again.”
Two years ago, his ex-wife went nuclear. The View, Good Morning America, every platform that would have her. She brought receipts: text messages, Grindr screenshots, a Greatest Hits of Jon Jon’s secret life. The bathhouses. The apps. The carefully maintained heterosexual facade that cost three million a year in alimony to maintain.
He’d vanished for a year. Most thought he was done. Then he resurfaced here, primetime slot, openly gay, twice as sharp. The comeback story everyone loved to hate.
“They’re not waiting for you to implode,” I said. “They’re waiting for you to get boring. Different thing.”
He studied me. Jon Jon had a way of looking at you like he was deciding whether to trust you or destroy you. Sometimes both.
“You know what I hate most about you, Jacob?”
“My youth? My title? My ability to stay calm?”
“That you’re right. Usually.” He loosened another button. “I hate that I need you to fix these things. I hate that you’re good at it. I hate that the network trusts you more than me.”
“They don’t trust me more. They just trust me differently.”
“Bullshit. When contract time came, who did they call first?”
I didn’t answer. We both knew.
“Exactly.” He laughed, short and bitter. “The Marine from nowhere running the show while the face of the network throws tantrums.”
“Tom Kellner took a chance on me. That’s all.” Tom, the network president who’d hired me straight from Dartmouth. Who’d seen something in the kid with the military record and the Ivy League degree that didn’t match the rest of his resume.
“Tom’s good at taking chances,” I said. “Sometimes they pay off.”
“From where I sit, his chance paid off pretty well. Small-town Pennsylvania to running the number-one show in cable news.”
“Clearfield County’s finest.” I kept my voice flat. The coal country background wasn’t something I advertised, but Jon Jon had done his homework.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his face darkened. “Fucking Robert.”
Robert. Twenty-eight. White. Yoga instructor. Currently Jon Jon’s biggest PR nightmare after getting caught on video making out with someone who wasn’t Jon Jon at Blake’s on Piedmont. The video went viral. Black Gay Twitter had a field day. The memes were savage.
“You need to go,” I said. “Deal with that.”
“I need a drink. Several drinks.” But he didn’t move. “You know what the worst part is? I knew he was cheating. I’m not stupid. But I thought he’d be discreet.”
“Discretion’s a lost art.”
“Everything’s a lost art.” He stood, gathering his things. “Tomorrow’s show better be flawless. I mean it, Jacob. Bulletproof.”
“It will be.”
“Good.” He moved toward the door, then stopped. “You know, when they brought you in, I had run off three EPs in six months.”
“I heard.”
“I made their lives hell. Questioned every decision. Fought every change. Thought if I was difficult enough, they’d let me run my own show.”
“But they brought in the Marine.”
“They brought in the one person who wouldn’t break.” He laughed, short and bitter. “You never took the bait. Never made it personal.”
“That’s all it is. A job.”
“No,” he said. “For you, maybe. For me, it’s everything.”
He hit the button, and the glass went clear. The newsroom pretended not to watch.
The newsroom watched him leave—the king exiting his chamber. Then they watched me follow, maintaining the careful distance that said I was in charge but not in charge. Executive producer was a weird spot. All the responsibility, none of the glory.
I made it halfway to my desk before Sonya intercepted me.
“Rough night?” She’d been here since the Clinton years. Nothing surprised her anymore.
“I’ve had better.”
“Haven’t we all.” She glanced behind her. “Hey, quick intro. Stefan, this is Jacob Cohen. One of our EPs. Jacob, Stefan Morris. Starting Monday on the assignment desk.”
I turned.
Stefan Morris had presence. Not the manufactured kind you saw in on-air talent. Something quieter. More deliberate.
He stood a little under six feet. Athletic build without the vanity. Light skin, perfect fade, beard trimmed with precision. His shirt fit like he paid attention to details. Everything about him suggested control.
“Jacob.” He extended his hand. Firm grip. Direct eye contact. No nervous energy.
“Stefan. Welcome aboard.”
“Appreciate it.” His voice had weight to it. Bass that settled somewhere deeper than expected.
“Stefan recently moved here from Detroit,” Sonya said. “Though he was in Florida before that. Small market outside Tampa.”
“Detroit to Florida to Atlanta,” I said. “That’s a journey.”
“Life’s a journey.” He smiled. It was a good smile. Dangerous smile. “Sonya says you’re the one to know around here.”
“Sonya exaggerates.”
“I don’t think she does.”
Sonya’s phone buzzed. “That’s my cue. Stefan, don’t let Jacob scare you off. He pretends to be tough.”
“I’m not pretending,” I said.
She laughed and disappeared into the chaos of the newsroom.
Stefan and I stood there. That awkward post-introduction moment where you either find an excuse to leave or a reason to stay.
“I should let you go,” Stefan said. “I know you’re trying to get out of here.”
“It’s fine. I’ve got a minute.”
“Actually, I was hoping…” He paused, recalibrated. “Mind if I ask you about the show? The operation here? I’ve been in small markets, but this is different.”
I glanced at my watch. Made it obvious. But something about the way he asked—direct, no games—made me reconsider.
“Walk with me,” I said. “I’ll give you the short version.”
“I’ve got to be back upstairs in ten. They’ve got me shadowing the overnight desk before I start.”
“That’s enough time.” I nodded.
We fell into step toward the escalators. He moved with the controlled, purposeful finesse of an athlete. No wasted motion.
The escalator was empty. Stefan stepped on first, one hand on the rail, casual but steady. I followed, ending up one step behind him. The position gave me a view I didn’t ask for but didn’t avoid either.
His shirt was tucked just right, not too tight, not trying too hard. Quality fabric that moved when he did. The kind of fit that came from knowing your measurements, not showing off. His slacks hit at exactly the right length, a clean break over polished shoes. Everything intentional but understated.
I caught myself noticing the way he stood, his weight evenly distributed, shoulders relaxed but straight. Someone who understood his body. The overhead lights hit the fade at his neckline, precise enough to be recent. Maybe yesterday, maybe this morning. The kind of detail that suggested he paid attention.
“Sonya mentioned you served,” he said, turning his head slightly. The movement shifted his weight, a subtle adjustment that drew attention to lines I was trying not to notice.
“Marines. Five years.”
“My uncle was Army. Said Marines were all crazy.”
“He wasn’t wrong.”
He smiled at that, still facing forward. I caught his reflection in the brushed metal beside us as we descended, both of us in profile. We were nearly the same height, same build, different styles. His beard perfectly shaped where I stayed clean-shaven. His movements fluid where mine were precise.
“Infantry?”
“Yeah.”
“Iraq?”
“One tour.”
He nodded. Didn’t push. I appreciated that.
The escalator hummed beneath us. Twenty more seconds of descent. Twenty seconds of trying not to catalog the way his clothes fit, the way he occupied space without claiming it. A professional observation, nothing more. The kind of assessment you make about someone who might matter.
“What made you get into news?” he asked.
“Seemed like the next battlefield.”
“Is it?”
“Different kind of combat. Less honest.”
We reached the bottom. He stepped off smoothly, no hesitation. I followed, matching his pace as we crossed the lobby. The security guard looked up from his desk.
“Nice show tonight, Jacob.”
“Thanks, Clarence.”
“Tell Jon Jon my wife says he looked good. She never misses him.”
“I’ll pass it along.”
We kept walking.
“How long you been here?” Stefan asked.
“Six years. EP for one.”
“That’s impressive.”
“I’ve been told.”
We paused near the revolving doors. Outside, Atlanta’s humidity was visible, like the air itself was sweating.
“Sonya says you run a tight ship,” Stefan said.
“I run a functioning ship. That’s harder than it sounds.”
“I believe it. Jon Jon seems…”
“Complicated?”
“I was going to say intense.”
“That too.”
Stefan shifted slightly. The movement brought him closer, not invasive, just…closer.
“Any advice for the new guy?” he asked.
“Don’t take anything personally. Don’t trust anyone completely. And don’t date anyone in the building.”
“That last one from experience?”
“Common sense.”
“Sometimes common sense is overrated.”
I looked at him then. Really looked. He held my gaze, steady and sure.
“I should get going,” I said.
“Right. Of course.” He pulled out his phone. “But maybe we could grab a drink sometime. Compare notes on the city. I’m still finding my way around.”
Professional. Appropriate. Smart.
We exchanged numbers. His fingers brushed mine as I handed his phone back. Brief contact. Could have been accidental.
“I’ll text you,” he said.
“Do that.”
He headed back toward the escalators. I pushed through the revolving door into the humid night.
My phone buzzed before I even made it outside.
Stefan: Nice to meet you, Jacob. Looking forward to that whiskey.
I typed back: Welcome to the thunderdome.
Stefan: I like a challenge.
The parking garage was mostly empty. I drove home in silence, tomorrow’s show already building in my head. Marcus Chen’s exclusive that wasn’t. The prompter failure. Jon Jon’s inevitable morning follow-up.
And Stefan Morris, starting Monday.
That was going to be interesting.
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