CHAPTER ONE
Jacine
Iscrunched the hard copy of today’s Variety between my hands as the plane landed at LAX. The jolt of the aircraft hitting the runaway did nothing to relieve my pounding heart. Flying didn’t bother me, but the newspaper’s headline did…
Three Rock Bands Trade Blows in Eatery
Not three rock groups, but key members of three of the hottest rock sensations in the US, Arcane, Clash, and Obsidian, raged at each other. The insane violence spurred customers to run screaming from the trendy restaurant, Angelo’s.
Not an eatery,I thought wryly.The Angelo family will hate that.
A few though, including the ever-present paparazzi, snapped with bacchanalian delight pics and videos that flashed through social media almost as immediately as the event happened.
Welcome to the Information Age.
Tucking the trade rag in my purse, I prepared to flee from this seat with relief. Miserably I had spent the past six hours in it scrunched between two hefty women. In a hurry to get to LA, I took an economy class seat, a mistake I will never repeat. My thoughts swirled in a mess as chaotic as the passengers trying to disembark.
PR Head Suffers Cardiac Event after Three Clients Come to Blows.
That sidebar story was the piece that made my heart race. My father was there sitting in a business meeting with a potential client when the three rockers started the ruckus.
In thirty years of public relations, Franklin Alexander witnessed untold absurdities. Some of his customers practiced little discretion. His no-nonsense wrangling of stories and clients saved many celebrities from ruin. That and a rare reputation for honesty in the land of stars made him one of LA's top spin-masters.
I sympathized with Franklin Alexander, my father, but not Franklin Alexander, the businessman. I warned him that taking on the three musicians at once would cause trouble.
But I was too professional to give him a deserved dose of “I told you so.” My father schooled me in every angle of the business and I worked hard to prove my worth as the head of the New York office of Alexander and Wells. Though he would argue, running the New York office was more difficult than the LA branch. The New York celebrity base sprang from deep roots in music and theater, with a few cultivated from the film industry. That crowd demanded stability, reliability, and solid results for their cash. It was a jittery atmosphere compared to freewheeling LA, where anything was on the table, including a few lines of pearly white coke.
I stepped off the plane in louboutin spiked heels and took the crowded concourse in quick New York long strides that outpaced more leisurely West Coast residents. Anson, the family limo driver answered my phone call immediately.
“I’m here. I’ll meet you at departures.”
“Do you need me to get your bags, Miss Alexander?”
“Not to worry. No time to pack.”
My next call was to my stylist, which went to voice mail.
“Hi, Rose. It’s Jacine Alexander. Just got back into town. Please curate a current West Coast wardrobe for night and day, including underwear as soon as possible. Oh, and I lost ten pounds, so size it accordingly. Since, I’ll be at the hospital with Dad for most of the day, just drop off the collection at the house. Thanks.”
Anson drove to the entrance, and I didn’t wait for him to open the door, but barreled into the vehicle.
“The hospital, please, Anson.”
“Yes, Miss Alexander. But you should let me get the door.”
“New York changes a person. You become more self-reliant.”
“And quicker, too,” he said with a mischievous grin.
I smiled for the first time since starting this trip. Anson wasn’t just an employee. He was family. Anson worked for the Alexander family for as long as I could remember.
His tone dropped. “Is there news about Mr. Alexander? The staff won’t tell me.”
“My father didn't fill out that form?” I sputtered with exasperation. That irascible parent of mine had promised to sign and submit the medical information release before I left for New York. My father worked long hours and was not always accessible. Anson was my pipeline to keep track of my father.
“He may have, Miss. The hospital didn’t have it on file.”
I whipped out my iPhone and typed a message to Tobias Marshall, my father’s lawyer and best friend, and put him on the case.
