I hear Leo’s voice echoing down the hall, though.
“Daddy, I’m hungry!”
“Well, okay,” Evan answers him. “Could I interest you in some broccoli, perhaps?”
“Ew!”
“What about cauliflower?”
“I don’t want to eat flowers!”
“Ah, I see. Well, how about…”
Their voices fade as they move away from the mezzanine and make their way back downstairs.
Alone again, I consider cleaning up the disaster zone. But then my phone buzzes and, assuming it’s Lou checking in, I stoop to pick it up.
It’s not Lou, though. It’s not one of guys on the production team. It’s not even the snooty union rep they call the Hawk pestering me again.
It’s a direct message via Instagram from Barry Pelavin.
Whose business account I blocked a while ago, but apparently now he has the audacity to reach out from his personal account.
I consider ignoring it, especially after the nonsense he was sprinkling in the TikTok comments a few days ago. But they always say you should keep your enemies close, or whatever.
I swipe to open the message.
Hey, Lily. Have you seen Andrew Banks’ new campaign ads? Snazzy stuff, don’t you think? Guess who’s handling it?
“Who the fuck uses the word ‘snazzy’ unironically?” I mutter under my breath. “And my name is fuckingLila.”
He knows that, of course. He just calls me Lily because he’ll find any excuse to be an annoying asshole.
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with my instant rush of annoyance, but then I pick up on what’s been written between the lines.
Barry Pelavin somehow wormed his way into working for Station 47’s biggest opponent. I had no idea Barry was interested in pivoting to political messaging, but I figure it’s more to do with his hatred of me than any real professional interest.
My skin crawls. Why is this guy so fucking obsessed with me?
Before I can consider whether I even want to respond, he sends another message.
We’re digging up a lot of interesting stuff about Kitten Boy. Seems like he got up to some trouble in his military days. Bad move on your part taking this job, Lil. You’d think someone who is apparently worthy of an entrepreneurial grant would know better than to serve men who aren’t fit for duty.
Rage slices through me.
“I’m not fuckingservingthem, you asswipe,” I snarl, then clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself from spewing more vitriol just in case Evan’s kid is still wandering around.
A third message arrives a moment later.
Anyway, best of luck. May the best man win. LOL.
“L-O-L your fist up your own rectum.” As far as insults go, that one makes no sense, but it feels satisfying enough that I find the strength to block Barry for the second time and then chuck my phone onto my bed.
I do a few deep breathing exercises. Thankfully, visualizing myself strangling Barry to death calms me down enough that I’m able to regain my focus and get back to work.
Because I have a job to do, and now I’m even more determined to ace this.
Chapter nine
