Rise of the Blood

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“Diminutive. DIMINUTIVE? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m five-seven, for gods’ sake.”

I was staring down at a national tabloid “newspaper” that Jesus—part-time office assistant (when no auditions demanded his attention) and full-time diva—had just thrown onto my desk. My very own face stared back at me. Or, more accurately, gazed across a dinner table at Hollywood hottie Apollo Demas. The photographer had used some kind of filter or something to make the whole thing appear dreamy. A filter or magic, because I knew exactly where and when the pic must have been taken, and I’d been mad as hell at the time.

“Really?” Jesus asked wryly. “That’s your take-away from this?”

“My take-away is that if the rumors about me and Apollo won’t die, someone has to. I’m perfectly willing for it to be him.”

Jesus looked at me in horror. He lived in hope that he could matchmake the two of us and that, in gratitude, Apollo would launch his acting career…at which point he’d bid me a sayonara sister and leave me entirely without office support. It was a terrifying thought, considering he was the only one who understood his filing system.

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