I shrug, giving her an out. “No pressure. Another time, maybe.”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . .
A flash of rebellion lights her eyes. “You know what? Let’s check out that gallery.”
Atta girl.
NINE
Lexi
Kayla’s text lights up my phone screen:Where are you? Vicky’s on the warpath.
I groan, shoving my phone away. I overslept and broke my perfect attendance record. Me—Miss Never-Been-Late in my three years at Vallure PR.
I burst through the doors, feeling like I got slammed by a train. Freaking Murphy’s Law—after a sleepless night, I finally crashed at six a.m., only to be woken up by Grace yelling at me. I thought SWAT was at our door.
Now I’m LATE late.
This whole mess with Deano and the car heist is throwing me off—can’t sleep, can’t eat. I didn’t even turn on my vibrator at the lowest setting, too stressed. I didn’t dare text Deano to see what happened after I fled the hotel a few nights ago. Ignorance is bliss.
But the cops haven’t shown up, and I’ve paid off my debt. Every day I feel a little more hope that it’s going to be okay.
I just have to trust Deano’s savvy enough to keep us clear of the cops. These guys have been at this game for years, it seems.
Inside Vallure,E! Newsblares on the giant TV, our biggest concern being celebs in trouble.
Abigail at reception gives me the stink eye that saysYou look like shit.
Thanks, I’m aware.
I’m sweating out the last few nights’ anxiety in this silk blouse as I race through the office war zone, phones ringing, papers flying, people yelling. This place is utter chaos 24/7. We scurry around as if brokering Middle East peace accords when really, we’re just polishing some teen pop star’s image after a DUI.
My younger self would weep at what I’ve become.
I race down the hall, raking fingers through my tangled hair, before skidding to a stop outside the boardroom. Vicky will scalp me for being late to her passive aggressive Hour of Power meeting. Where she hints she’ll fire us all while claiming we’re doing “great.”
Give me Michael Scott any day.
Inside, Vicky lords over the room from the head of the table, a venti latte cradled in her manicured claw.
“So glad you could schedule us in, Lexi,” she drawls. Thigh-high boots and a bandage dress show off her Pilates-and-cigs body.
“Sorry, got held up,” I mumble, shuffling to the back of the room so I don’t have to smell the cancer sticks’ scent.
Vicky smiles, full of ice. “By a gunman?”
I slump into the chair beside Kayla, avoiding Vicky’s glare.
“Well, if you’re done bringing your personal issues to work, let’s continue,” Vicky snaps. “Brooke, update on Gina Malone?”
Our top priority right now is managing the PR crisis around influencer Gina and her controversial new fitness app, Butt Buildr.
Brooke tosses her red hair over one shoulder. As the agency’s golden girl, she leads most accounts. “It’s handled. I secured her an exclusive tell-all withFitness Weekly. She’ll cryabout being just a girl chasing her dream who got duped by those devious tech devils. It’s not her fault the app didn’t work.”
Butt Buildr claimed to assess the structure of users’ buttocks via phone pics, and suggested tailored exercise routines based on their “analysis.” You pick your dream butt, it spits out a routine. Total bullshit, experts say.
Vicky gives her seal of approval with a satisfied sip. “Perfect. Make those geeks the bad guys. Turn it into a comeback—technology gone wrong, courageous woman perseveres, yada yada. Announce Butt Buildr 2.0 while you’re at it.”
