‘As soon as I get back, I promise. Though you could always ask Kim for that drink…’
‘Ha, maybe I will.’ Gareth clears his throat. ‘Do you think this is a coincidence? I mean, after what happened with Mia?’
I pause for a heartbeat. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘No, I thought not,’ he says.
One Zoom meeting and two bourbons later, the crisis is certainly not averted, but we’ve twisted the story into something more manageable. Unfortunately, it’s meant I’ve missed Chloe’s arrival, but this is important. This is my reputation on the line.
We’ve agreed Naomi’s PR team will announce her engagement to her childhood sweetheart in the next few days which should further divert attention. But nothing about this whole sorry saga sits comfortably with me.
You don’t just find a sex tape. It takes knowledge, skill, or money. Or all of them. And if Mia’s drink was spiked, like she says, then whoever is behind this is dangerous.
I slam my laptop shut and check the security cameras at home through an app on my phone. Everything’s in order. Colton’s Mustang is in the driveway next to Lula’s Prius. He lives in the summerhouse for most of the week. If there was a problem, he’d have called, but it’s reassuring to have extra eyes around the place at times like this.
It’s not the first time I’ve been threatened, but it’s the first time my artists have been targeted this way and I’m taking it personally.
It’s no secret in LA that I give priority to artists who come from nothing over those acts born and raised in the wealthy Hollywood suburbs. They need the break so much more than some mediocre rich kid.
Plus, the demos they send are always more passionate. They always have more fire and raw talent than the ones handed everything on a plate by their Porsche-driving, hummus eating, pseudo vegan parents.
Aurelia Arlington was right when she said I’m no hero, but I try to offer the underdog first chance. After all, I was one myself not that long ago.
It hasn’t made me popular amongst Hollywood’s elite, but I pick my own acts, and I refuse to be swayed by politics. Or bribes. I hate this ‘you scratch my ass, I’ll scratch yours,’ crap. I’ll scratch my own, thank you very much. The thought of being beholden to someone churns my stomach.
God, I wish Chloe was here right now, but of course, there’s no shagging sign of her.
I flip my phone back and forth in my hand, and eventually cave in and text her. I assumed she’d come to me. I should have known better. Even with the silver spoon removed from her peach-perfect backside, she’s still as stubborn as a mule.
Playing hard to get? Or are we checking off sex in a public place from your list?
I send the message, then discard the phone on the bed.
It vibrates with a response before it touches the duvet.
A picture of Chloe and Sasha in the hotel bar, pink cocktails in hand, fills my screen. Her grin could light up the city. Fire spreads through my core.
Desire or irritation?
Both, if I’m honest. Tomorrow night will be manic with the concert, so why is she wasting what little time we could have together? No, that’s unfair. She needs time with her sister, but a ripple of something flickers through me. This time, I recognise it for what it is. Jealousy.
The royal blue dress she’s wearing dips ridiculously low over her pert, tanned cleavage. Loose curls bounce over her shoulders, framing her striking face. And her eyes glint, bright and daring. I’ve never seen a come-to-bed-call like it.
Three tiny dots appear on the screen as she types.
Will find you later. Don’t worry, Ryan’s security is keeping an eye on us.
I bet they are.
Don’t make me come and get you.
Three dots appear again.
Don’t you dare.
Oh, I dare alright, Princess. After talking the talk on the phone all week, what is she playing at?
The need to see her consumes me. I’ve missed her, and not just her body.
