Bratty Diva Briar Saint Called ‘Ungrateful, Rude, and Condescending’ By Ex-Manager.
I look up at Colette, incredulous. “You want us to work withher?She looks like a nightmare.”
“Who’s Regina George?” Glen asks. “Is she famous?”
Colette rolls her eyes.
I flip through some more press clippings, scanning over the photographs of Briar scowling at the camera. Yes, she might be beautiful, but in most of these photos, she’s sneering at the camera like she’s just smelled something bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so openly snobby.
I glance over another article. “Hey, there’s one about her previous security guard. Apparently, she fired him a few days ago for using the bathroom whilst he was on shift,” I read. “Wow. She sounds delightful.”
Colette gives me a flat look and pulls the file back. “Matt, this is tabloid trash. There’s a good chance it’s all just made up so magazines can make money off the girl.”
“And if her security guardsold a story to a gossip rag, he was clearly shit at his job anyway,” Kenta points out.
I shake my head. “I don’t care. I told you. I’m not working for another celebrity. Especiallynot one with a reputation of acting like a spoiled child.”
Our last celebrity gig was a total nightmare. The girl was a seventeen-year-old Instagram model who spent all day snorting drugs and trying to stick her hands down my pants. When we finally dumped her in rehab, I swore I’d never touch another celebrity case again.
I don’t know why Colette is wasting our time with this. Glen, Kenta and I are the best-trained guys in the company. We’ve been working here for five years, ever since we got discharged from the SAS. Last month, we recovered the daughter of a British billionaire who’d been taken for ransom. The month before that, we were protecting an American presidential candidate after she got shot at a rally. We don’t work for young, spoiled celebrities, shoving back overzealous paparazzi and carrying their shopping bags through the mall.
“I think we should at least check it out,” Kenta says. “It’s only fair.”
“Me too,” Glen chips in. “It’s shitty to refuse to protect someone who’s in danger, just because of their reputation.”
I frown. “But—”
“C’mon,” Glen rumbles. “Just a preliminary meeting. Face it, you owe me.” He shoots me a crooked grin. The thick scar slashing down his cheek stretches, and guilt slams into me like a freight truck.Without meaning to, my eyes drop to his arms, taking in the matching scars around his wrists. They’re a few inches thick, raised and red. Even though we retired half a decade ago, they never really healed right. Spending months in shackles will do that.
Kenta shifts on my other side, and I can’t help but envision the scars that I know are slashed into his back. My fingernails grip hard into the wooden table as memories flood through me.
“Matt.Matt.” Glen claps a hand on my shoulder, and I blink, snapping out of it. I don’t even realise how hard I’m breathing until Colette passes me a bottle of water with a sympathetic look. I stare at it in my hands.
“I didn’t mean it like that, mate,” Glen says roughly. “I just meant, you’ve put me on the night shift for the last three jobs in a row. Not…” He pauses, redness climbing up his neck. “YouknowI don’t blame you for what happened.” He gestures vaguely at his face. “Neither of us do.”
I shrug him off and rub my eyes. He’s right. I owe him and Kenta. I owe them both a Hell of a lot more than this. If they want to meet the girl, we’ll meet with her.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But she better have a real damn problem.”
Three
Briar
?
I’m in the middle of a design meeting about my upcoming nail polish line when Julie comes whirling into the room, panting.
“Textured lids on the bottles can really help with accessibility,” my product designer is explaining. “If we use a glossy plastic lid for the regular polishes, and a matte finish for the mattes, visually impaired users will be able to identify the products they want a lot more easily.”
“Great. Let’s do that, then,” I murmur, turning my fingernails under the light. The shade I’m wearing right now isBritish Bitch;a blood-red colour, full of flecks of crimson glitter. We’re currently in the product testing phase, and I have a slightly different formula of the shade on every one of my fingers.
“What’s the point in that?” Julie asks loudly. “Why would blind people paint their nails?”
“Aren’t PR people supposed to be politically correct?” I wonder, as she saunters into the room.
She snorts. “I’m supposed to keep you in the headlines, babe. That’s it.” She drapes her fur coat on the back of a chair and sits down opposite me.
I glare at her. “Didn’t you hear? You’re fired.”
