by Max Henry
So, when I am, I stumble.
“I’ll call you later.” Cassie slings her purse over one arm and steps away. “We can do dinner later in the week if you’re still in town.”
“Sure.” I flop to my back again and wave her off.
I came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to visit my sister—although I would have eventually anyway. I came because she declared war.
I have had something on my mind, which made me ponder Rey’s care and how we treat him. More specifically, how I treat him. A fucking article. A handful of goddamn words that cut me right to the fucking core. No motherfucker has managed that in all the years that we’ve had bullshit speculation published about us. She thinks she lies, but that Jeanie bitch got it more accurate than either of us could have predicted.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and then raise it over my face where I lie. Her article fits nicely in my messenger; the sentences well-structured so that the fucking blue bubble of bullshit isn’t too overwhelming. I read over her story once more, intent on finding another little nugget I’ve missed—something else I can use against her.
Because this will become her worst fucking nightmare—mark my goddamn words.
She thinks she can sell the story for a pretty penny. That she can get me one back like a fucking child because I refused to bend to her whim and spill my brother’s secrets for the world. No good would have come of it, no matter how she angled the reason for the story. “Do it for others like him,” she had said. Sounds so gallant at face value, but that’s not what would have come of explaining the devils that haunt my brother’s dreams. Nope. The fans would have got a hold of it, the media dissecting and itemizing the points they wanted more of. Rey’s life would have been consumed and spat out, laden with acid regurgitated from the public’s stomach once they realized they don’t like the aftertaste of truth.
I navigate to the Google app, punching in her pathetic publication’s name to search out where they’re based. The results flash up, but I don’t get time to read the answer before Rick’s name slides across my screen, blocking my view.
I tap Accept. “Got anything halfway decent to tell me?”
He sighs. “And a lovely day to you too. I have the source of your leak narrowed down.”
“To?” What slimy fucker thought money meant more than honor?
“It’s deep. We’re talking one of the lifers.”
The people who’ve been with us from the start. Incidentally, the ones who know the most. “Fuck it.” I rest the phone on my chest and then scrub a hand down my face. “You better have the fucking lawsuit drafted.”
“Solicitor works on it as we speak. The contracts cover privacy breaches in great detail; there’s no way they’ll get away with it.”
“Good.” Rey’s trip-ups aren’t fucking entertainment. If they were, we’d film the fucking meltdowns and play them on the big screen behind us. But we don’t. And not because we want to deny that he hits those lows, that we all screw up, but because as human fucking beings, we’re allowed the goddamn right to wade through our shit without the judgment of the masses.
“I got a postcard from Kris,” Rick says with a chuckle in his tone. “A fucking postcard.”
“Bet it didn’t say where he was.” I smirk.
“The postmark didn’t match the location on the card, no.” He snorts. “Wasn’t even the same country.”
Fuck I love Kris. He’s quiet and thinks far too intensely on a lot of stuff. Emotional and unpredictable. But when you’re honored with being a part of his inner sanctum, you get to see the real guy: funny, thoughtful, and a damn born artist.
“I’ll check in with Em later. Rey told Mom he’s written some stuff already, so signs are good we’ll pull this off.”
“I’ll believe it when you’ve done the hours,” Rick states. “Call you when we get an answer on who the asshole is.”
“Talk then.” I let him disconnect, opting instead to continue staring up at the leaves overhead. Fading sunlight makes the underside a deeper green; the sun slides behind a cloud.
I lift my phone and return to the search results, my breath hitching in my throat when I read that the Better Beats offices are in fucking town—here. That fucking bitch is within walking distance of where I currently lie, pondering her fate. If only she knew.
Perhaps I need to make sure she does.
TEN
Jeanie
“Dark Nights” – Dorothy
“Devon,” I call out, stalking my boss through the office. “Did you get a chance to look over that proposal I sent you for feedback?”
He turns, iced drink in hand. “I need to proofread the latest articles before they go live tomorrow. After that, I’ll get to your bonus piece.”
“Sure.” I stay rooted to the spot as he strolls into his corner office and shuts the door.
I’ve managed to give Charles a couple of hundred to reduce what I owe, but the money I paid for that useless info from Mole nicks at my subconscious day-in and day-out. I invested in his bullshit, and because I’ve refused to give him the final installment, he won’t return my calls. I’m out of cash and desperate if I want to make rent next month.
I can’t shake the feeling that buying Toby’s number sealed my fate as an entertainment journalist. I gambled my last dollars, and I lost it all. The jerk never replied to the final message I sent him—my article with a bullshit promise that it goes live with all the other new content this Friday. An empty threat.
“Chin up,” Devon’s assistant, Kaitlyn, coos from her spot on an enormous floor-cushion. Yep—we’re a progressive employer.
“Easy for you to say.” I spin on my heel and deny her the chance to respond. She gets paid a fair amount to sit on her ass—literally—and do the most basic tasks. It doesn’t matter if her head is in a fog. As long as Devon’s digital calendar is kept organized and he’s supplied a steady stream of various coffees, then she gets paid.
Unlike me.
I drop into my seat with a dramatic sigh, satisfied when I spot Charlie take note in my periphery.
“What’s the problem, buttercup?” he drawls.
“There’s nothing interesting going on in the music world right now. I need someone to crash a car, or get divorced, or something so that I don’t have to drag my name through the mud to make rent.”
“Such a ray of sunshine,” he taunts.
“News doesn’t fall in your lap, you know.” I scowl. “I can only report on what happens out there.”
“Really?” He lifts one eyebrow. “The last article of yours I saw had no real basis.”
I incline my head, jutting my chin forward. “Case and point. I can’t publish that and lie straight in bed.”
The door in the downstairs entry slams hard, echoing up the short staircase. Charles frowns in the general direction. “That courier needs his ass handed to him. I can guarantee if he breaks the glass, he won’t pay for it.”
“Fuck no.” I chuckle, spinning toward my computer as the guy storms up the stairs. “I wonder what Gianni bought today.”
“Probably some incense to stick in Devon’s ass,” Chuck quips out the corner of his mouth. “You know, having a moral compass will be the thing that cripples you in this business.”
I snort, bending double to push the power button on the tower under my desk. “You aren’t wrong there.” I straighten, and the smile falls from my face. “Oh, shit.”
I feel Charles move to my back before I register the wheels of his office chair scratch across the polished concrete floor. “What the fuck did you do?”
It’s not the courier. Well, not the courier we expected. Nope. This guy brings a message of his own, and I can guarantee every last dollar I owe Charles that it isn’t a pleasant one.
“Which one of you is Jeanie?” Toby hollers from his formidable spot at the top of the stairs.
Kaitlyn shoots to her feet. “Excuse me, but you can’t just come in—”
“I can, and I fucking did.” T
oby takes a step forward. “Are you Jeanie?”
Charles grips my forearm. “Honey?”
“I’ve got this.” I push to my feet on shaky legs. “I’m Jeanie.”
Eyes the crisp blue of an arctic iceberg flick my way. I come closer than I’d like to peeing myself at the sheer anger that radiates off him. Toby Thomas cuts an imposing form on stage at over six feet. But that’s bent double behind a drum kit. Standing in the foyer of my shitty office, he’s damn terrifying. Broad shoulders cloaked in a black woolen coat; the shirt underneath unbuttoned just far enough to catch sight of the honed planes of his chest. His sharp jaw tics, the shock of blond hair that partially shields his right eye, adding to his menace.
“You’re fucking small for somebody with such big ambitions.” A salacious grin splits his lips. “Not at all what I expected.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint.” The entire office watches me.
“Bullshit, you are.” Toby cuts a path across the open-plan area to stand on the opposite side of my desk. “If you didn’t want to disappoint anyone, you wouldn’t have a job as a fucking vulture.”
All that divides us is two feet of timber and a second-hand cloth-covered partition. I sure as shit don’t feel they’re adequate for this.
“Pull the story.”
Any rational person would admit the opinion piece won’t be published at this point. But I’m not rational, and I sure as shit ain’t any normal person. “No.” I lift my chin.
His lip twitches into a snarl. “If you dare make a single word of that vomit public, then I’ll—”
“Is there something I can assist with?” Devon stands at the door to his office, Kaitlyn off to the side after clearly gaining his attention.
Toby spins to take in our metrosexual boss. “You are?”
“Devon Wainwright, the owner of this publication.” He takes a few steps forward, hand outstretched before him.
Toby’s cold gaze flicks down to the gesture of friendship and then back to Devon’s face. “Hell, you must be proud.” He turns to face my employer, arms folded over his chest.
I run my shameless eye over the cut of Toby’s physique from my vantage point close behind him. A career behind the skins has given him quite the broad chest, his shoulders well defined beneath all that bulky fabric. I drop my eyes down to his black jeans; the denim is somehow classy with his choice of perfectly polished boots. He could walk onto the set of a fashion shoot and not look amiss, unlike at least two of his bandmates who opt for more worn and weathered threads.
“Proud of what?” Devon asks, reeled in.
“Trading your ethics for a slice of what you wish you had.” I don’t need to see Toby’s face to understand he looks at Devon with utter disgust. “All you two-bit publications are the same—you all want to make a buck off our suffering.”
The frown on Devon’s brow spells war. “I don’t know what grounds you have to walk in here with this attitude, but if you don’t state your purpose for visiting my building, you can leave.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course, I fucking know who you are,” Devon snaps. “I didn’t start this publication because I thought it would make me millions, unlike you assume, Toby.” He snarls, shaking his head. “That doesn’t give you a right to come in here and upset my staff.”
“But they have a right to upset me, huh?” Toby throws both arms wide.
I want to hide. Fucking open-plan bullshit. Devon hasn’t seen the story; he has no idea what this is about.
“I can’t come in here and sort my issues with your employee,” Toby continues, turning briefly to point directly at me. So much for making a hasty exit. “But she can write bullshit about my family that will fucking destroy my brother?”
Devon shifts his attention to me. Hell, the whole office turns their attention to me.
“What?” I stare everyone down.
“Jeanie,” Devon barks. “In my office, now. Toby. If you’d join us.”
Walk. Of. Shame.
Charles gives me an encouraging pat on the shoulder as I weave my way from behind my desk. To my absolute horror, Toby and I end up neck and neck as we head toward Devon’s office. I drop back, slowing down to let him go ahead. He does the same. God, help me. I’m going to perish if I spend too long in an enclosed room with this man.
“Devon,” I start the second I’m through the door. “Let me explain.”
“Send it to me.” His sculpted brows sit in a dangerous line.
I tug my phone from my back pocket and Airdrop him the Note with the article. “This was never—”
My boss lifts a single finger, head down, and phone in his other hand. “Let me finish this.”
Toby closes the door and then opts to stand in front of my only exit. The two of us stare one another down while Devon reads. The guy’s eyes are incredible up close. Piercing, as though they could cut through to the very heart of who you are. I flick my attention to his mouth briefly, not keen to be caught staring at his lips, but damn, I wanted to see if they were as full as I remember. Sure are. Goddamn it. Assholes don’t get to be this pretty. It’s just not fair.
“Who asked you to write this?” Devon breaks the tense silence.
“Nobody,” I whisper. My heart thuds heavily, hands clammy. I should have known I took this a step too far when Kelly gave me that horrified look last week, but no, I had to let my selfish ambition take the lead, didn’t I?
“Where did you get your facts?”
I can’t even face Toby as I answer. My back burns with his awareness. “I surmised them.”
“Surmised them?” Devon repeats with a lifted eyebrow.
Toby grunts as though amused.
“So, none of what you’ve written here is based on fact?” Devon refuses to look away from me.
I feel two feet tall. “Partially.”
“It either is, or it isn’t, Jeanie. Did anyone you mention in this article tell you these things in their own words?”
“You know the answer to that,” I mumble.
“Louder for those in the back,” Toby taunts.
I suppress the urge to show him my middle finger.
Devon looks around me, addressing the rock star in the room as though I’m not even there. “I didn’t commission Jeanie to write this article, and despite what she might have told you, we don’t plan to publish it. I’ll instruct her to remove any trace of it from her drives, and I give you my word we won’t share any part of it.”
“And what happens to Jeanie?”
Hello? Right here.
“She’ll be dealt with accordingly.”
“You can’t let her set a precedent for your other journalists.” Toby spits the last word as though it’s impossible to tolerate.
“She is still here,” I snap.
“She forewent her right to have a say in this,” Devon retorts.
My nose twitches. The two jerks agree to touch base in a week to ensure all’s done as promised, and then Toby leaves the room. I wither under the weight of my employer’s stare.
“What?”
“That was fucking stupid, Jeanie.” He leans back in his ergonomic chair. A farce, considering he barely uses it to warrant such luxury. “If you’d let me read it first, we could have massaged the anger out of it and come up with something a lot less in your face but equally as effective.”
I can’t believe the Joneses on this guy. “I did send you the proposal to read over.”
“And you sent the full article to him.” Devon gestures to where Toby stood seconds ago. “Now I have to think extra hard about how you can do this under the guise of common knowledge.”
“You’d still publish it?” I mutter.
“Not in its current form.” Devon grins. “But you saw how it affected him. How can I let that go?”
“I changed my mind.” I make for the door. “I don’t want to put out a story on Dark Tide.”
“Too late.” His smug reply slows my exit. “You gave me the draft.
Now it belongs to all of us.”
“You can’t take my story as your own.” I spin and stride back into the room. “That’s theft.”
“You wrote it on company time, I bet. A quick search of the document history will clarify the facts. Ergo, the piece belongs to my business.”
Fucking. Asshole. They’re goddamn everywhere, pretty or not.
ELEVEN
Toby
“Shame Shame” – Foo Fighters
“Wait.”
I’ve barely made it a block from the building when she catches up.
“Toby.” My name leaves her lips as a breathless plea, the woman jogging to a stop in front of me. “Can we talk?”
She’s cute in an unassuming way. Decked out in an oversized knitted sweater that hangs off one shoulder, her legs clad in sheer black pantyhose, a black denim skirt doing nothing to hide the gentle swell of her ass. If I didn’t hate the air she breathes, I might consider giving her something real to write about.
“Didn’t we talk in your office?”
She rolls her eyes, fidgeting with her wayward hair. “You missed the worst part.” I note her long lashes as she searches the street. “There.” Jeanie points to a hole-in-the-wall bar. “Not many people go there this time of day. It’s relatively private if you don’t want to be recognized.”
She’s worried about my privacy—now? I laugh, loud and obnoxious, drawing her curiosity.
“What’s so funny?”
“Woman, I’m out on the fucking street with my damn face here for all to see.” I gesture a circle around my mug. “You think I give a shit who spots me?”
She blushes and fuck it all if it isn’t cute on her. You hate her and what she is, remember. Still, I can appreciate her.
“I meant somewhere private to talk without being overheard.”
With one stupid sentence, she reinstates my hate for her. “You were the one who threatened to share a story about my family if I remember, and now you expect me to believe you respect my privacy?”
