I’m well aware of my hypocrisy, seeing as how I’m on my own proxy account.
A moment later, a text bubble appears.
Toxic:Woman, if you’re confused by BB’s fan base, it’s only because you’ve never met a man worth being loyal to.
Oh, he’s feisty!
Trista Kinney:Woman? Of course, megalomaniac BB-8’s biggest fan would be named and act Toxic. Makes perfect sense.
Toxic:I’m not his 1 fan. I’m just not a hater.
Trista Kinney:Just admit the droid is willing to roll over anyone on his quest for fame.
I rub my stomach absentmindedly, stopping when a sickening feeling overwhelms me as I realize soon it will resemble BB-8.
It’s hard to quantify the amount of fear coursing through my veins, because it’s not an emotion I often feel.
And it’s making me nonsensical.
Rushing to the kitchen, I throw open the pantry in search of carbs. Just outside the back window, I see Josh with Jordan, which isn’t at all surprising.
“Do you need me to cook you something?” Carmen, my stepmother’s maid, asks. Even though I’m in my own wing of the house, my stepmother insists she come over to clean each day.
“No, I got it,” I say, as I tear open a honeybun wrapper and practically unhinge my jaw to consume it. Carmen’s eyes bulge, but I’m not sure if it’s because she’s impressed or horrified.
I throw the wrapper in the trash, feeling queasy as I bend to close the cabinet door.
Oh, no…
Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath and slowly let it out.
I won’t let my stomach situation own me.
I’m going to ignore it.
Avoidance isn’t something I practice often, but I’ve never been pushed to the brink of insanity before.
My phone pings with a message from a Cassie Hoffman, one of my most annoying clients.
Not content being a C-list celebrity, she’s been hounding me for opportunities to push her up the list.
Unfortunately, I don’t see her climbing any higher. She’s pretty, but that’s simply not enough. You have to be memorable, clever, and all the things that make you stand out while not making it look like that’s the goal. She’s a good actress, but once again, good doesn’t get you A-list status. In Hollywood, you have to be exceptional.
Taking on a few indie films could help, but she can’t afford the slim paycheck. When I tried to set her up with a comparable partner to boost her gossip score, she turned her nose up at my every suggestion.
Now, she’s got it in her head that she should write a biography, but I can’t imagine who would read it. She’s an obscure relative of a mid-level producer that’s had everything handed to her.
And somehow, I’m supposed to make her appear less mediocre than she really is.
Cassie:I need you to arrange a meeting for me with Clint Cannon.
My eyebrow ticks up in surprise.
Samantha:You mean the Clint Cannon, whose father owns an NFL football team, three small islands, and has some kind of knighthood.
Cassie:That’s the one!
Samantha:I’ve told you before, I don’t have that kind of reach. I specialize in lower-level media. I can easily set you up with a reality television star and get you offers to be on several shows on notable streaming platforms, but I only have access to a few A-listers, and he is definitely not one.
