The Publicist Book One and Two

by Christina George

  “Kate,” Iris, the twin who had supposedly masterminded her parents’ murder, was getting impatient, “Did you hear us?”

  Kate took a deep breath. “I did hear you, but we just ran through the marketing outline, so I’m not sure what you are asking.”

  Sara nudged her sister out of the way. Like Iris, she had light brown hair that hung in an uneven cut around her face. Kate could tell that at one time the twins had probably been quite attractive, but a few years inside a women’s prison with minimal access to the sun had turned their once California sun-kissed skin almost grey, matching their eyes and the interior walls. Kate wondered if everything in the prison turned grey eventually. Everything except the frumpy bright orange jumpsuits the twins were wearing.

  “What we’re asking,” Sara said, taking control of the meeting, “is how much do you plan on giving us for our story?”

  “What do you mean?” Kate paused. “We’re not here to negotiate this deal, Sara, that’s been done. The book pubs in sixty days.” She fought the urge to let her expressions show on her face. She hated video chats with authors and having to suppress the juvenile urge of sticking her tongue out at the phone.

  “We want a better deal,” Iris said from behind her sister. Her face was determined. These girls really weren’t kidding.

  “And,” Sara added, “we want the publisher to print fifty thousand copies, at a

  minimum, because that’s how many letters we’ve gotten.” Sara jutted her chin out in defiance. Clearly, the girls were feeling like rock stars and this was their one chance at glory. All because they’d gunned down their parents. Lovely.

  Kate wished for a power outage as she collected her thoughts. They were negotiating with her? She pondered calling Mac in, then decided to try to rein them back in herself, or at least try.

  “Ladies,” the word sort of stuck in her throat, “I have no control over how many copies we will print, and that’s not what we are here to discuss.” Kate wanted to shake her head, or shake her fist, at these delusional women.

  “We want a movie deal,” Iris piped up.

  Since a power failure wasn’t going to save her, Kate debated ripping the DSL cord out of the wall.

  “Listen, we’re here to talk about publicity, that’s it. If you have questions about your contract, you should take that up with your editor.”

  “What about the book copies?” Sara asked again, clearly getting impatient. She wasn’t the only one.

  Kate took a deep breath. Remain calm, she thought. Between Sasha and these two, it had already been a long week.

  “Look, as I said, I have no control over the number of books we print, but I will tell you this: The correspondence you’ve received is no indication of how many copies people will buy, so I wouldn’t mention this to your editor.”

  “Why not? It seems logical to us.”

  Of course it does, they murdered their parents. Their ability to negotiate even the most absurd ideas must be a finely tuned skill. “Because people who write to prisoners are often poor and illiterate and certainly don’t care about a book you wrote.”

  “You’re wrong! They love us, and they understand what we went through.” Both girls looked pissed off. Kate was pretty certain they believed their own delusional rants.

  Kate nodded. “I’m sure they do, but they still aren’t going to buy your book. Now let’s talk about the marketing and publicity.”

  “We want to talk about our deal.”

  The Shenkman’s attorney, Michael Presso, finally stepped into view of the webcam. He had been sitting in the background, quietly observing. “I think we should take this up with the editor, girls. Kate really can’t negotiate this.”

  Kate felt like her head was going to explode. She tapped her foot against the Internet cable. Tempting.

  “Ladies, I think I have everything I need. Let’s chat again soon.”

  Kate pushed her mouse button quickly, ending the call. Another reason she preferred calls by phone, you could slam the receiver down, which she found very cathartic. It beat tossing the phone out the window, which her office generally frowned on. Their attorney watched over them vigilantly and believed that forgiveness of their sins was largely overdue. No doubt after this less-than-stellar meeting, he’d place a call to Edward or Mac, though Kate knew he wouldn’t get far with Mac. Kate knew there would be some sort of ramifications from the attorney who protected these girls as if they were his daughters. He’d better hope they weren’t his kids. He might wake up one morning with a gun to his head. Kate put her head on her desk. God how she hated these types of books, and she hated the authors even more.

  Chapter Seven

  “Mac, do the Shenkman twins know they signed a contract with us?”

  Mac looked up. “Excuse me? Of course they do. Why? How did the call go?”

  Kate dropped herself in one of Mac’s leather chairs. “The call went about as well as the Lee Harvey Oswald prison transfer.”

  Kate watched Mac’s expression turn into a frown. “These two were trying to negotiate with me on the call. Their attorney finally stepped in and said that he’d be in touch about their ‘deal.’ Mac, what the hell is going on here?”

  “Fuck. I have no idea. I’ll get in touch with Presso.”

  “Kill this, Mac. Seriously. These girls are delusional.”

  “I can’t kill this, Kate, much as I’d like to. You know that. Besides, isn’t Diane Sawyer interested in doing an interview from prison?”

  Kate nodded. “She is, and that’s what worries me. I have some credibility here, too. I think these girls are totally off their rocker.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.” He threw her one of his impossibly sexy smiles. All of her anxiety over the call ebbed away. How on earth did he do that?

  Kate took a deep breath, fighting off the urge to throw herself at him. Very unbecoming.

  It took all of her effort, but she turned to leave.

  “You ready for the conference?” Mac asked, trying to keep her from leaving his office. He felt it, too. That familiar urge. The attraction that hung between them.

  “As ready as I can be. See you in the morning?”

  Mac smiled, and his eyes were soft. “Yes, I will.” There was a promise in his voice that prickled Kate’s skin.

  Kate returned his smile. “California here we come.”

  “I’ll fix this, Kate. I’m sorry the twins got so out of control.”

  “Not your fault, Mac, but someday I think we should stand up and revolt against these tabloid titles.”

  “What? You mean no sex tips from a former porn queen or a memoir written by a drunk, aging rock star?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “We should keep the sex tips though,” Mac said in a low voice.

  Kate smiled, shook her head, and went back to her office.

  Chapter Eight

  The Writers Digest Writers Conference was held at the Hyatt in Downtown Los Angeles. When Kate and Mac arrived, the sun was shining and it was a balmy seventy degrees, smack dab in the middle of January.

  “I could live here, Katie,” Mac said when they emerged from the terminal and were met with a warm, refreshing sun and air that was slightly tinged with salt water.

  Kate shrugged out of her suit jacket and draped it over her arm, on top of the overcoat she’d needed for the near zero temperature in New York.

  “No, you couldn’t. You’re a New Yorker through and through.”

  Kate balanced her purse and rolling bag with her jackets. Suddenly she wished she’d remembered to pack a pair of shorts. Her black boots felt awkward, everywhere around her people were in t-shirts, shorts, and sandals.

  “Does it ever get cold here?” she added before Mac had a chance to protest her New Yorker comment.

  “Never,” Mac said, raising his hand to hail a cab, “and did you notice we’re the only ones here in black? We either look like we’re New Yorkers or we’re going to a funeral.”

&n
bsp; A red vehicle came to a smooth stop. Mac noted the name of the car company. “Blessed Taxi Company,” he smiled to Kate, “could you imagine a cab company with that name in New York? I think Yellow would kick the shit out of them and then steal their milk money.”

  Kate laughed as the driver hopped out of the cab with a broad, welcoming smile. “Hi. Where are you going?”

  “A happy cabby?” Mac grinned as he handed his bag to the driver. “Dorothy I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” He paused. “I swear, I could live here.”

  The cab sped past the harbor dotted with boats and rimmed with palm trees.

  “You’d get bored, Mac.”

  “Me? Never. I’d always find something to do.” He slid his hand over to her, gently grazing her thigh. Her breath caught and the shiver was unmistakable.

  Kate took a deep breath, trying to fight off the urge to rip off his shirt. “New York challenges you in a way that California never could.”

  “New York puts up a fight; maybe I’m tired of the battle.”

  Kate regarded him for a long moment. “You love the battle.”

  “Maybe,” he said somewhat mysteriously, “but maybe I’m ready for a change.”

  Kate’s breath caught in her throat. There it was again, that unmistakable need to read more into his words than was likely there. It was getting harder and harder to keep herself reined in and she knew that crossing over to the dark side meant living this lie with Mac for God knows how long, maybe forever. Or maybe she’d end up like Grace’s mother. Pregnant and discarded.

  “You seem deep in thought, Katie.” Mac leaned over to her, his eyes bore a wicked gleam, and his breath was warm on her skin, combusting deep within her belly. Kate reached for her phone, trying to focus on something other than picturing Mac naked and devouring her.

  “What’s on tap for this afternoon and tomorrow?”

  Mac straightened. “The usual—sessions, networking, yadda yadda… What’s up, Katie?”

  Kate looked him straight on. “When you talk about leaving New York, part of me gets excited, thrilled even. I start thinking about things I shouldn’t. Like you and me here, in this place, thousands of miles from our lives and starting a new life here, just the two of us. And I know that not only is that the deal breaker, but impossible. So I am trying to do whatever I can to shove that fantasy to the darkest corners of my mind where it will hopefully die a quiet death.” She threw him her best smile. His face grew serious.

  Mac’s gaze fell to the window, as the city continued to slip by. “I know,” he said quietly.

  The hotel came into view.

  “We’re here.” The driver smiled, and their conversation ended, though Mac knew from experience these types of conversations had a way of weaving their way back around. He hoped the trip to Whistler would go a long way to giving Kate more of what she needed, if only for a little while.

  Chapter Nine

  The conference was in full swing when they arrived. Having gained three hours in flight, Mac and Kate arrived well in time to attend the luncheon.

  Kate dropped her bag in her room, changed into a skirt and blouse, and tossed her boots into the closet. She planned to register and try to attend a few of the afternoon sessions to get a sense of what level of information this conference was doling out. From her prior experience speaking at author conferences, Kate knew that each one attracted attendees with different skill sets, especially when it came to promotion. Some events were packed with savvy authors who already had websites, Facebook Fan Pages, and tweeted their conference experiences during the entire event. Then, there were other conferences that attracted authors who struggled to understand why they needed a website and had no idea what an author platform was, or how to build one.

  When she arrived downstairs, the lobby was bustling with authors. No doubt several sessions had just ended.

  “Kate!” a voice called out from across the room. It belonged to a literary agent she’d known forever, one of the best in the industry. She also had a reputation, of sorts, one that involved men and sex. Lots of both.

  “Delia, how are you?” the women hugged.

  “Great, and hoping my next book earns me enough to move out here.”

  “I know,” Kate smiled, “Mac was saying the same thing on the way from the airport.”

  Delia arched one of her delicate eyebrows. “You flew out with MacDermott Ellis, the legend himself? How delicious for you. I didn’t know he was going to be here— suddenly I have a new reason to live.”

  Kate smiled and tried to look nonchalant, but she could feel her cheeks warm. “Funny, Del, it’s just Mac.”

  Delia leaned in. “It’s never ‘just Mac,’ Kate. He’s the most delicious man in publishing. Please don’t tell me you’ve become immune to his charms.”

  Just then, the legend himself appeared next to them. He had changed into a pair of snug tan pants and a pale blue dress shirt that set off the color of his eyes. Delia was right. He was so handsome it was derailing. If she only knew. Kate fought the ever-present urge to climb him like a tree. She watched the fabric of his pants move as she inched closer.

  “Why, if it isn’t the best editor in the world.” Mac approached Delia and pecked her lightly on the cheek.

  “You flatter me, Delia, but there are many editors far better than me.”

  Delia clucked her tongue. “Now, now Mac, you’re too modest. In fact, I was just telling Kate here how good you are.” A smile overtook Delia’s flawless face and for a moment Kate wondered if Mac…

  “So, how’s the conference so far?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

  “It’s good,” Delia smiled. “There’s some talent here, which always makes the trip worthwhile. But some guy tried to pitch me his alien memoir and was shocked when I told him I don’t represent aliens.”

  Mac laughed, “No, please tell me that didn’t happen.”

  “And please tell us who it is so we can avoid him,” Kate chimed in.

  “I’ll point him out to you when I see him, but you can’t miss him. He wears sunglasses—even inside—and he kept them on during our entire consultation. It was downright creepy. The only thing missing is his tinfoil hat to help him communicate with the mother ship.”

  Mac started laughing and said a little too loudly, “No doubt the sunglasses are to keep you from seeing the death rays in his eyes.”

  People were starting to turn their heads. Kate elbowed him. “Ssshh, Mac!”

  Delia leaned in. “He told me that aliens landed in his backyard and wanted him to tell their story. I am not kidding. How the hell are these people running around in public?”

  “It’s California,” Mac offered, “they’re sort of zoned for that here.”

  “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have another consultation. God I hate these things. One more alien memoir and I’m heading for the beach. I’ll catch you two at lunch, okay?”

  Delia kissed Kate on the cheek. “You look beautiful, my dear. You must be having great sex. When we’re back in New York, we’ll have drinks and you’ll tell me who it is. I want details!” her voice trailed behind her. Delia was nothing if not outspoken, a trait that helped her as a literary agent. It was no job for a pushover.

  “Great sex, huh?” Mac smiled, looking down at her face.

  Kate was distracted by a petite blond woman who was seated on one of the couches in the lobby. She nudged Mac. “Does that woman look familiar to you?” Kate nodded in her direction. The woman was looking out the front doors, as if she were expecting someone, or afraid of something.

  Mac shook his head. “No, I can’t say that she is.”

  “I swear I know her from somewhere.”

  “Well, look, you figure it out and let me know. I need to go check in and see what time I’m speaking tomorrow.”

  Kate turned to him. “Sure, okay. I’ll see you later.”

  “Kate, how about dinner tonight, somewhere by the beach?”

  “You mean skip
the networking dinner?” Kate grinned. She knew Mac hated the evening networking events; authors and alcohol were often not a good combination.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean, especially since we know we have the alien guy here. The less I see of him, the happier I’ll be.”

  Mac headed off, and Kate returned her attention to the blond woman. Her eyes darted around, often stopping at the front door. Something compelled Kate to talk to her.

  She strode over and sat down. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  The woman nodded, a tentative smile tugged at her lips. “Not at all.”

  Kate noticed her clear eyes; she also saw the fear in them.

  “I’m Kate Mitchell with Morris and Dean Publishing.” Kate held out her hand. “Are you here as an author or speaker?”

  The woman took her hand; her grip was as tentative as her smile. “Author, I hope.”

  Kate nodded, and curiosity overtook her. “I’m sorry, I know this is coming out of nowhere, but you look so familiar.”

  The blond looked away. “I don’t think we’ve ever met,” she said quietly, “but my name is Madeline Masters.”

  Suddenly it all clicked. Madeline Masters, once wife of Tim Masters, former Navy Seal and one of NFL’s brightest stars. That is, until he’d driven through three states on a random shooting spree. He had killed fifty-four people, all innocent bystanders. Some were pumping gas, and some were coming home from grocery shopping. Kate remembered a picture she saw of one of the shootings. An elderly man had just come from shopping, and his bags were scattered everywhere. There were a few melons scattered around him, which made for an eerie and almost surreal contrast to the dark tarp the police had placed over his body. A person just going through his day, buying groceries. Then dead. The memory wove through Kate’s mind and made her stomach churn.

  Tim Masters had “cracked,” though no one ever determined why. Some thought it was because Madeline had divorced him and threatened to take their kids from their home in suburban Texas and go live with her parents in Florida. The divorce had made headlines along with Tim’s random and often-violent outbursts during games. Once when he disagreed with a referee’s call, he had grabbed the official and beaten him unconscious before anyone on the field could pull him off. Tim was put on a suspension from the NFL pending a psych evaluation, but that never happened. The NFL loved their stars and often turned a blind eye. According to reports, Tim had recruited some kid—many say it was a fan—to drive the car while he sat in the trunk and shot at people through a small hole he’d cut into the metal. Just big enough for him to see through, aim a gun, and fire. Tim had started shooting in his home state of Texas then ventured into New Mexico and Colorado, where he was finally caught. The papers had said that his Naval training had been a terrible asset to him, making him an unfortunately accurate shot. The case had been national news for months. Even now, almost six years later, markers were still up where the victims had died. Fifty-four markers, all senseless deaths. The only theory people came up with for “why” was that Tim was divorced and angry.