Per our initial agreement, I’ve booked a hotel room for you for the summer, at the W in Hollywood. I’ve also decided it would benefit the special issue if you had access to a car, so I’ve rented a little convertible for you. It’s already sitting in the hotel’s parking garage. Keys at the front desk. No need to thank me. I’ve done all of this for business reasons. All I ask is that you call me, the CEO of River Records, to let me know you’re safe and sound.
When Reed received no reply from me about the hotel and car, he sent yet another text, four hours later. This one, on Sunday afternoon.
Guess where I am, Georgie Girl? At Hazel Hennessy’s 1st birthday party! Drinking like a fish, sitting in a corner, wishing you were here. You were supposed to come with me to this shindig, remember? In fact, you were excited to come. And now, here I am, a lone wolf. Looks like The Man with the Midas Touch has lost his golden touch, huh? Sure would be awesome if you’d answer one of my fucking texts or voicemails.
Reed’s next text came an hour later, at 5:26 pm on Sunday.
I swear I’ve never wished I could rewind the clock and get a ‘do-over’ more than I wish that right now. I’m sorry, Georgie. Please, call me. XO
Fifteen minutes later, he sent this:
Georgie, I’d walk a million miles, barefoot, over the shards of my Ferrari’s shattered windshield, if it would make you forgive me. Please, call me. Scream at me. Tell me you hate me. Just call and let me hear your voice. I’m losing my mind. I’m sure you’re happy about that. I’m sure you’re smiling at my misery, and I don’t blame you. But if you ever cared about me at all, please, just call me and let me explain. I’m physically sick with the need to talk to you. XO
When hestilldidn’t receive a reply from me, Reed sent this little gem at 2:13 a.m. today (Monday):
Congratulations. You’ve now ignored me for a full twenty-four hours. Are you alive? Are you safe? Should I file a missing person report? I think the punishment far outweighs the crime, at this point. I mean, I get that you’re pissed at me. But guess what? I’m pissed at you for smashing my Ferrari as punishment for a fucking kiss! So, let’s call it even. A kiss for a Ferrari. Call me, even if it’s to tell me to fuck off and die. CALL ME.
I can’t help smirking. God, he’s terrible at this. Doesn’t he realize he should be groveling right now? Not lashing out. Not being cocky. Not telling me he’s angry with me. Jesus, he’s infuriating. But so am I. Because the pathetic truth is that I kind of like Reed’s bad attitude. In fact, knowing he’s grouchy and angry and cantankerous and lashing out... all of it kind of makes my heart go pitter pat. How screwed up is that?
When Reed didn’t hear from me, yet again, he sent me another text. Surprise, surprise. This one, about thirty minutes later.
I lied. I’m not mad about my Ferrari. Never was. I just texted that to piss you off, so you’d call me. Please, Georgie. Have mercy on me. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never felt this before. There was no way I was going to be able to do this, and to feel this, without stumbling. I fucked up. I know that. Give me another chance. Please.
But I didn’t call. Not because I have willpower of steel. Not becauseI’m heartless or the Bobby Fischer of breakups. But because... I had my phone off. Because I was in bed, wallowing in self-pity.
Well, guess what? My non-strategy strategy finally wore Reed down and forced him to do the one thing hesworein his voicemails he wouldn’t: explain the grant to me over text. In four messages, all of them sent in rapid-fire succession, he unloaded on me, as follows:
I didn’t want to explain any of this to you in a text, but you’ve left me no choice. CeeCee was going to hire you, regardless. When I called the day after the panel, she’d already fallen in love with you and your writing samples. The only problem? She never pays summer interns and didn’t want to open a can of worms by doing it for you. On the other hand, she’d heard about your father’s situation, and didn’t feel right about offering you a standard unpaid internship. I suggested a solution that would benefit all three of us: I’d donate to CeeCee’s favorite cancer charity to get you paid, in exchange for RnR doing a special issue about my label. CeeCee countered that the deal had to include an in-depth interview of me. I said okay. She suggested you as the interviewer. I said yes, because, unbeknownst to CeeCee, that would give me a chance to try to seduce you. And that was that. A win-win-win. So sue me.
You once told me you had parallel motivations the first time we met. Well, so did I. Yes, I wanted another shot at seducing you, but I ALSO wanted to help CeeCee, and you, and your dad. I regret the way the grant turned into such a big secret. That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want to steal your thunder or make you think, even for a second, you hadn’t earned your job. Also, I didn’t want you feeling any kind of pressure to sleep with me. Yes, I wanted it to happen. Hell yes. But only if you genuinely wanted it, too. Notbecause you felt a financial obligation to me. That’s the truth. On my nephew. Now, stop acting like a petulant child and reply to this text so I know you’re safe.
PS I sent the Peloton to your dad’s place. If you don’t have room for it there, let me know. Also, let me know if you want your Pilates machine. It’s much bigger than the bike, so I figured it’d be better to ask before sending.
I’m assuming you’re coming to today’s team meeting, seeing as how you’re still obligated to write an article about me. Please allow me to take you to lunch before the meeting. We’ll talk and forgive. I’ll forgive you for ignoring me for two days. And you’ll forgive me for being a stupid idiot. I’ll make a reservation at Nobu. You’ll love it. Please reply to confirm. I can’t wait to see you. XO
I look up from my phone. Damn that man. He’s persuasive. I still need to talk to CeeCee, to hear her unbiased account regarding the grant. But I can’t deny Reed’s texts have made me cautiously optimistic about that. I’m sure Reed spun some of the facts to make himself sound as innocent as possible. But, even so, I’m feeling pretty sure CeeCee wasn’t my pimp, but instead leaped at the chance to create a win-win-win with her trusted friend, for my benefit, and theirs. But so what? None of that would absolve Reed of whatever happened in that garage with Isabel. Sighing loudly, I scroll to Reed’s next text, which landed in my inbox about an hour and a half ago—at 6:13 pm this evening:
Miss Ricci, I’m sending this text in my professional capacity. I’m deeply disappointed you didn’t come to this afternoon’s weekly team meeting. Even if you despise me for personal reasons, you’ve still got a job to do, and I expect you to fucking do it. You’re a writer for the world’stop music magazine and you need to start behaving like it. Whatever has transpired between us, personally, it’s time for you to put your feelings aside and behave like a fucking professional. I’ll expect you to attend next Monday’s team meeting. I’ll also expect you to respond to all business-related texts from me, going forward, including confirmation that you’re safe and sound, within the next fifteen minutes.
I look up from my phone, gritting my teeth. Reed wants me to act like a “fucking professional,” does he? Well, all righty, then. How about this? I’ll write an article about him that kicks so much ass, CeeCee will have no choice but to publish it inDig a Little Deeper!
Determination flooding me, I hop out of bed and plop myself onto the floor next to the cardboard box and begin sifting through its contents like a madwoman. Quickly, I find the documents pertaining to Troy Eklund’s lawsuit. It was filed six years ago, against Reed and River Records, and alleges four causes of action: breach of contract, breach of the implied covenant of good faith and fair dealing, fraud, and assault.
But before I’ve gotten past the second paragraph of Troy’s complaint, Dad pops his head into the room. And the minute he sees me on the floor, surrounded by legal documents, I know I must look to him like a chocolate-smeared kid surrounded by a mountain of candy wrappers on Halloween.
“Georgina Marie. You promised not to look at whatever’s in that box!”
I grimace. “Sorry. I wasn’t lying to you. I just...forgot.”
Dad points toward the hallway. “Get your butt into the kitchen and eat the meatball sandwich I’ve made for you.Dinner is served.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I need five minutes. There’s a text for work I need to send.”
“No.”
“It’s for work. I swear. I need to send it.”
Dad exhales. “You swear on Mommy it’s for work?”
