“I’m on it.”
The entire time Carl is typing, he’s muttering curse words, his face growing redder and redder as his anger escalates.
Finally, he sets down his phone, but as he’s about to speak, he clutches his stomach.
Not this again.
I rush the trash bin over to him. Luckily, hardly anything comes up.
“It’s actually super common for men to get sick around pregnant women,” I tell him. “You’re totally leeching my hormones.”
“Don’t you ever tell anyone about this,” Carl warns.
“My lips are sealed. It’s Armando you should be worried about.”
“Enough about this. Do you have any other advice?”
“Not advice, but a worry.”
“Just great.”
“Remember how you asked me to investigate the former Hunk the other day? The one that complained about you online?”
“Priest? What about him?”
“At around the same time the article dropped, he became active again. I think that whoever is making the allegations, researched your show and found Priest’s complaints.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that whoever is accusing Prince may have reached out to Priest, and they could be working together.”
“Jesus Christ,” Carl mutters, his chest deflating as his head tilts forward.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay on top of this, day in and day out. Tonight I’ll craft a statement for you to give to the Hunks, telling them to keep their mouths shut.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, and one more thing.”
His brow lifts in question.
“Get every friend, every venue owner, every person who owes you a favor, and have them post about you. Daily. We want to be louder than the opposition.”
“I guess it’s a good thing we have a lot of friends.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Toxic
One WeekLater
With my debt and my relationship situation, I didn’t think things could get any worse.
I was wrong.
As a traveling strip show, the very last scandal you want to encounter is allegations of sexual abuse. And for as long as the show has been around, it’s avoided such accusations, because Carl is damn good at taking out the trash.
Which is why what’s happening with Prince is baffling.
