“He is, but they’ve chopped the clip to him telling her he’s a big fan and asking for just a minute of her time. They’re going to say she’s a man-hater and only likes her female fans.” I close my eyes and sigh at the true ridiculousness I have to deal with on a daily basis. “I need you to contact them and kill the story in the next twenty minutes. Once you’ve completed that, send confirmation that the task is done.” Despite the demand, she sounds bored, and irritation bubbles to the surface of my currently roiling emotions.
“I don’t work for you, Jackie,” I remind her. “I do not have to complete a task the second you request it, nor do I have to report to you when I’ve completed an assignment you give me.” I, of course, will be doing it regardless because I’m good at my job and protect my clients at all costs, no matter the headache their team gives me, but I find it vital to continuously remind Jackie of that line. A sigh fills the line, and her voice goes sweet in a way that sounds completely unnatural on her.
“If you don’t have the time, you could share your contact info forFan Magazine,and I’ll do it myself. I know you’re on your little break or whatever, but these things need to get done.”
There is no universe in which I would give her my press contacts, and despite her giant ego, she knows it. I don’t trust the woman as far as I could throw her.
“Send me the details, and I’ll make some calls,” I say.
“Are you sure? I don’t?—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, cutting her off. She doesn’t speak for a moment, and I can picture her pinched, irritated face. Her annoyance brings me a spark of joy, though it also sets off an alarm in my mind, a whisper of a question that this was all a ploy to get my info. A setup, maybe?
I brush that aside as the nonsense, conspiracy-theory-type shit it is.
“Fine. Please let me know once you’ve finished,” she says, irritation clearly in the words, as if I’m her assistant. I open my mouth to argue and remind heronce againthat I do not work for her, but the line is dead before I can get a word out.
With a sigh, I sit back and stare at the sky. A minute later, my phone beeps with a new email from Jackie with details and two video clips. One is edited, with clips spliced together to make Willa seem like a stuck-up snob, but the other, an original from an angle other than the tabloid one, makes my stomach churn.
Her smile when she steps out of the coffeehouse is glowing, a coffee in her hand, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side as she moves. Like she always does when paparazzi gather, trained to do so, she steps carefully, moves slowly, making sure everyone gets the shot they need. She waves and smiles, a black tank top and leggings set hugging her curves as she moves toward the camera. A paparazzi I don’t recognize, wearing a Fan Magazine lanyard, calls her name and says something I can’t quite catch. Willa gives him a soft smile and shakes her head graciously, but unease is clear in her eyes. The man continues to harass her, and Gabe steps in, but the man doesn’t stop, going so far as to try to grab her arm before Gabe successfully gets her into the car.
When she slides in, the camera gets a glimpse of her face, and the smile is gone, fear and panic written plain as day across it, and anger blooms in my chest.
Before the videos hit my inbox, I thought I would feel frustrated she didn’t take my advice, didn’t stay out of the cameras, but instead, it’s anger that some asshole put that look on her face.
I let that fuel me as I tap on the screen of my phone, calling up my contact, the editor-in-chief atFan Magazine.
“Leo Sinclaire, how are you, man?” Jackson Smith says, but I’m not in the mood for small talk and niceties. Unfortunately for him, I made this call already pissed the fuck off, and I have no other outlet for it.
“Kill the fucking story, Jackson,” I say, letting my voice crack like a whip along the line. I’m known for my temper, my sharpness, and my lack of mercy when it comes to protecting my clients.
He sighs, then answers, clearly already knowing what story I’m speaking of. “I can’t do that, Leo.”
“You can, and you will,” I tell him. “You and I both know that story is bullshit, and your man is in the wrong. I want confirmation that the story has been killed within the hour. Then I want that man fired, and I want a formal apology printed on your website in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Leo—”
“An hour, Jackson.”
“Come on, Leo. Don’t be rash,” Jackson says, the good old boy out of his voice and tinged with a hint of panic, but clearly not willing to throw in the towel just yet. We both know a story like that could sell hundreds of thousands of copies and rack up millions of views on socials. “You know I can’t do that. It’s a good story.”
“There are a million stories out there. A million celebrities, more than happy to be followed around. It’s clear that Willa did not want to be. She politely declined talking to him, and he decided to verbally harass her and tried to put his hands on her.Now, if I don’t hear that you’re letting him go in the next twenty-four hours, you will no longer be on my short list of magazines to send intel to. You had the exclusive of Wes and Harper’s wedding. I gave you the info on Willa’s breakup before anyone else. You knew Courtney was pregnant first and got the baby announcement before she even told her fucking parents. That will all end.”
“Come on?—”
“Is this one story worth a dozen more?”
There’s silence before he speaks. “I could go to Jefferson.” Irritation flares within me, but it’s the jaded kind, the kind that makes me want to ruin his career just to prove I can. “We both know he doesn’t have the same qualms about morals that you do.” I push down that feeling and force myself to think rationally.
“And we both know that Jefferson’s clients are not Willa Stone or Atlas Oaks. We both know that Jaime at Wilde Security fucking hates his guts. We both know that he hasn’t given you a tip in at least a year, because he has nothing to give you. Now give me what I need, Jackson, or you’re done. I want confirmation in an hour.”
And then I hang up.
When I do, my chest tightens, and I work to lower my heart rate by taking deep breaths. I stare out at the trees, trying desperately to find that peace I’d had not long before, but realize it’s a lost cause. Instead, I stand and head inside to keep working and distract my mind.
Thirty minutes later, I get a text confirming the story is killed, and he’s running the firing through HR right now. With a sigh and a healthy amount of satisfaction at putting the fear of god into yet another scumbag tabloid owner, I pick up my roller and continue my effort of priming my guest room. I only get one wall finished when my phone rings again. Since my phone is ondo not disturb, it means one of the few people who’s allowed to get through is calling.
“Oh, come the fuck on,” I grumble, setting the roller in the paint tray and sliding my phone out of my pocket. My earlier irritation flares brighter when I see the name on the screen.
