I always told her to. She never did.
Her neatly penciled eyebrow spiked. “Does he actually think he beat you into work?”
“Maybe. He is delusional like that. The better question is: does he even know what time it is?” I was teasing. Chaz had meetings this morning, too. He worked his ass off, almost as hard as I did.
Suri just smiled her easygoing smile and wiggled her fingers at a row of neat stacks of paperwork along the edge of her desk. “First stack’s for you. Lizzie’s out on the go-see for the bridal line,” she reminded me. “Kyle is on an errand. Everyone else is in.”
“Great. Thank you.”
Suri gave me the lowdown like this every time I walked in the door, because she knew I cared. I’d been here longer than anyone who currently worked here, including Janelle, and my coworkers counted on me. I felt like it was my personal responsibly to know where everyone was and what was happening, make sure we were on top of things. You know, like a good manager.
And yet my job title simply said: agent.
Not bitter.
Suri’s phone rang and she answered brightly, “Superior Talent. Vancouver edition.” She met my eyes and I couldn’t help rolling mine ever so slightly. She smiled and shrugged. Of course, it was hardly her fault that the giant, obnoxiousSuperiorlogo was hanging over us right now.
I gathered the mail and paperwork she’d laid out for me and scanned through it as I headed up the hall. Along the way, I passed the faces of some of the talent we’d represented over the years, glossy eight-by-ten headshots and magazine spreads framed and lining the walls.
When I stepped into my office and shut the door, I tossed my tote on the couch and dropped my umbrella. The forced breeziness evaporated as I pulled out my phone, and I immediately tried to call Janelle. I got her voicemail. Of course.
I hung up without leaving a message. Did I really need to tell her she was running late? It was two-and-a-half minutes until we were supposed to have our monthly goal-setting meeting.
Or did we not have goals anymore?
Was there any chance in hell she’d actually be here on time? Or would she leave me waiting, wasting my time and throwing off my schedule for the day, like she usually did?
I tossed the paperwork on my desk and dropped into my chair. There were images on the walls in here, too. Some beautiful scenics of beaches and urban skylines, places I’d traveled to or still wanted to see. And a select few faces that were special to me.
Inspirational images.
Right alongside my office door, where I could see it clearly from my seat, was a large photo of my best friend, Katie. A black-and-white portrait, just her head and shoulders; in the photo, she was losing her shit laughing.
Gorgeous.
My best friend was never all that keen on actually being a model, yet I’d begged and pleaded with her to do a proper photo shoot so that I, as her agent, at least had some images on hand to properly represent her. Whether she wanted to be a model or not, Katie had become famous for modeling in a rock music video with her future husband, four years ago. So, much of the world saw her as just that: a famous model.
I’d launched Katie’s modeling career, as it was, from this office, the day she was cast in that video. That was definitely a highlight of my career: seeing my best friend’s life take a wild turn that ultimately helped launch her career as an artist—her dream come true—and landed the man of her dreams.
Since then, I’d advised Katie that she should seize the opportunity to “model” in any way she could, while she could, and use the platform and the attention any way she liked. What could I say? I was an agent. This was my life blood. And because I was tenacious about it, I could occasionally scare her up to make a special appearance, usually with her famous husband in tow, at some worthwhile event for charity. I kept telling her the opportunity wouldn’t knock forever. These days, though, it was still knocking. Her rising fame as an artist, and of course her status as the wife of rock star Jesse Mayes, kept the requests flowing into this office.
And Suri sent all those requests straight through tome.
As much as Janelle liked to take credit for everything that happened within these walls and I generally let her, that one was all mine.
And last night? Last night took the fucking cake.
I’d been at an industry event, a fundraiser, with Katie and Jesse and much of his band, Dirty. Unfortunately, Janelle was there, too. And after drinking more than her share of alcohol, she made an obnoxious comment to Jesse—about discovering Katie. As ifshediscovered Katie.
Fuck. That.
If anyone discovered Katie Mayes, born Katie Bloom, it was me—when I was ten years old and marched into my sixth-grade classroom on the first day of the school year. I took a seat at the front of the class in my on-point sundress and sandals with the matching daisies on them, and Katie wandered in wearing a retro Wham! T-shirt, cutoffs and turquoise Chucks; she asked if she could sit next to me, I decided on the spot that she was fucking adorable and we were going to be besties, and that was that.
When I heard Janelle oozing her self-congratulatory bullshit in Jesse’s face last night? I’d never actually felt the urge to slap someone like that before.
Okay, well, except for the night of my high school graduation party, when a certain privileged, entitled, A-hole in my senior class got even more full of himself than usual, and got handsy. And yes, when his tongue met mine without permission, my palm met his face. Hard.
Not a highlight of my life.
