She fixes her piercing gaze on me. “Lexi, you’ll support Brooke on this. Seems like you’ve got the bandwidth since you sauntered in twenty minutes late.”
Five minutes, max.
“Of course, happy to help,” I reply with a tight smile.
One day I’ll tell Vicky where to shove it and moonwalk out of this place.
But not today.
Outside the window, the NYU psych building gives me the evil eye. “Remember your dreams, Lexi?” it seems to sneer.
I recall, full-on teen angst–style, staring up at it, years ago. I pictured my future self—some badass psychologist striding out those doors, groundbreaking research under her arm, and slightly bigger boobs.
I had dreamed of studying psychology and becoming a therapist one day—maybe a clinical psychologist to help people with mental health issues, a school counselor working with kids, or a health psychologist focusing on wellness. I knew I wasn’t brilliant or rich enough to be a psychiatrist. But I was fascinated by human behavior and the complexity of the brain. Science was my best subject. I got accepted into a psych program in North Dakota for almost affordable tuition.
But after Dad died and Mom went into care, life derailed those plans. I deferred school, again and again, untilpoof—dream gone. Instead, I took a PR gig shilling beer in push-up bras to leering frat boys.
I eventually clawed my way into actual PR work.
PR was about as far from my dream career as you could get. Mind you, no one stands up in high school Careers class and declares they want to be a prostitute or drug smuggler either.
At least pitching beer, I was honest about selling my soul. Now my outfits are classier, but let’s not kid ourselves—it’s still soul-sucking.
Vallure PR does crisis management for celebs caught pants-down in alleys, parks, and restrooms. We’re basically a PR firm for morons who never grasped zippers.
There was the boyband member caught in a compromising position with an inflatable doll—that was “artistic exploration.”
The family-friendly comedian snapped with a sex worker was just “discussing scripts.”
The naked politician found ass-up in a fountain was “researching architecture.”
Such is life.
I carefully compose my features into polite interest as Vicky and Brooke volley tasks about rehabbing Gina’s rep. I jot down notes for the rest of the meeting, hoping to redeem myself after this morning’s lateness.
Kayla discreetly clears her throat beside me.
Vicky’s head whips around, eyes flashing. “Don’t interrupt.”
Kayla’s eyes widen. “Oh, I wasn’t! Just had a little tickle in my throat.”
Vicky’s face is frozen, but a muscle in her jaw ticks. “That’s nice. Any other bodily outbursts to share before we proceed?”
“No,” Kayla says softly, properly chastised.
I squeeze her arm under the table in solidarity. Vicky’s in rare form today, which doesn’t bode well for what I’m about to do.
“Coffee,” Kayla hisses when the meeting is finally over.
“Give me five,” I murmur, then rush ahead and call out, “Vicky, got a minute?” as the others flee.
She narrows her eyes. “Make it quick.”
I’m tempted to latch on to her ankles like a whiny toddler until she agrees to my raise. But PR pros have more dignity than that. Maybe.
“I know I was late, and I sincerely apologize,” I say, trailing after her. “It’s literally the first time since I started here.”
She waves dismissively. “Get to the point.”
