So there I was—Omaha’s Kayla Ross—interviewing world-famous music, TV, and film stars as they made their way into the Shrine Auditorium. After I got all of three seconds of “Hey, howsitgoin’?” from Harry Styles as he walked past me, my director, Eddie—a Southern skinny-jeaned and goateed hipster dude with endless energy—told me to take a break. Only C-listers were in the queue for the next few minutes, so we were going to commercial.
As the makeup team refreshed my face, I looked up and saw Breelyn Doyle coming down the carpet with her arm in Omar Sabat’s. Though she had the same serious expression on her face as the last time I’d seen her, he was all smiles. He waved to the crowd and posed for photos as though he was a star, not a physical trainer who happened to date a celebrity’s daughter.
He caught sight of me and—after a quick glance at the cameras behind me—made a beeline in my direction.
“Hey, Kayla!” he shouted. “How’s it goin’? Are we live?”
“Sorry, Omar, we’re on commercial break,” I said.
“S’okay, we can hang!” He grinned.
I looked at Breelyn. She had on a simple white gown—the fabric was so sheer it looked computer-generated. There was a visible scar at the top of her forehead; I wondered why she hadn’t covered it with makeup.
“How are you doing, Breelyn?” I asked. “That’s not a professional question—I swear the cameras are off!”
I laughed, self-consciously, and she gave me a serene smile—like nothing could ever throw her. Her gaze drifted past me and out over the crowd. She looked at the fan mob intently, almost like she was memorizing each individual face. Without a word to me, she then started to move on down the carpet, but Omar held her back.
“Yo, Kayla,” he said, “our interview was off the hook! You know how many new Twitter followers I got after that? Maybe we could do a follow-up, huh?”
I glanced at Breelyn to see how she was taking such a crass attempt to cash in on her tragedy. She just reached out and calmly took hold of Omar’s arm—gently, but somehow I knew it was with an iron grip—and started leading him away.
“Awright, we gotta run, but I’ll check in with you!” Omar shouted to me. “Remember, I give good interviews, baby!”
He then stopped and assumed a serious expression. In a low, somber voice, he said, “‘I came over one night without calling—though I knew it wasn’t cool. Bree hadn’t answered her cell in two hours so I was getting worried…’”
He broke into a sly grin and winked. “See, I got it down, Kay-Kay!”
He waved madly as Breelyn now forcibly pulled him away. I must have been staring after him open-mouthed, because Eddie turned and gave me a curious look.
“Why the face, Kay-Kay?” he asked with a smirk.
The face must have been because I had a sudden strong sinking feeling that something was very, very wrong.
“The guy—Omar Sabat—just quoted himself from an interview he gave me. Word for word,” I said. “Almost as if it had been memorized and rehearsed.”
Chapter 16
Kayla Ross
“You look great,” a deep voice said. “You must be staying out of the way of speeding sports cars.”
I quickly tried to calculate which I could get to faster—in high heels—my car, or the exit from the Shrine parking garage. I was about to cut my losses and scream my head off, when a figure stepped out of the dark and into a pool of fluorescent light: Eric Logan.
More specifically, Eric Logan in a tuxedo. Even as frightened as I was, all I could think was that he should wear a tuxedo 24/7; he looked that good.
“Ohmygod, you really scared me!”
“Sorry! That was me trying to be funny.” He apologized with his hands up. “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you look.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, trying for frosty but probably just sounding snotty. I hadn’t seen him since the night I was hit by the car and he’d taken me to the emergency room. He’d been wonderful then—comforting and in charge. And he’d sat with me for over three hours. But after getting one text from him the next day asking how I was doing, I hadn’t heard a word since.
Although the show had only ended twenty minutes earlier, everyone had scattered to the after-parties and the building was eerily empty. I walked on toward my car, my heels clacking noisily on the cement as Logan followed.
“I’ve been wanting to get in touch with you all week. Got a lot to tell you,” he said. “For instance, you’ll never believe who drives a red Jaguar.”
“Valentina Doyle.”
He stopped dead. “Damn, I can never scoop you on anything!”
“It’s my job,” I said. “Besides, there must be hundreds of red Jags in Los Angeles.”
“Not that many. Seems weird to me.”
I stopped at my car and turned to him with a frown.
“So you think Valentina Doyle purposefully tried to run me over? Just because she didn’t like my interview with her daughter’s boyfriend?” I asked mockingly.
“So, you’ve thought about it, too.”
He had me there.
“All right,” I sighed. “It is a strange coincidence. But that’s all.”
He looked thoughtfully at the ground for a moment.
“I don’t know.…Something is off on this whole thing. Have you ever thought that Tennet’s death was just a little too neat? A little too convenient?”
“For whom?” I asked, wondering what he was getting at.
“Valentina Doyle, for one. You know she’s inheriting a fortune from him,” he said. “And his stepdaughter claims he would never have killed himself.”
“You’ve spoken to Breelyn Doyle?”
“More or less,” he said. “I think there’s more to be had here.”
“Actually, I really wanted to do a follow-up, especially after…what happened,” I admitted. “But my producers say the story is as dead as—”
“As dead as Tennet,” Logan finished with a sigh. “What if some new evidence came to light, something that proved…”
He trailed off, looking troubled.
“Proved his innocence? His guilt?” I asked incredulously. “You have something? Come on, you can’t hold out on me now!”
He chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. “I might. I don’t even know if it matters anymore. Tennet is gone; maybe it’s best just to let things be.”
I must have had a funny look on my face, because suddenly he came closer. “You think something’s wrong here, too, don’t you?”
“I always have,” I admitted. “Like, why was Tennet wandering around his house nude with no heat on the night he died? I don’t care how drunk or medicated he was, it was cold. And why was there an empty bottle of pills next to him but no drink, nothing to wash them down?”
“You’re in the wrong profession, Kayla,” Logan said appreciatively. “You should be a detective.”
“You didn’t see how terrified I was at that crime scene. Anyway, this is my first big story. I’m not in the position to be calling the shots at the station.”
“I know. But maybe we can work together,” he said excitedly. “Both of our positions could be useful in digging a little. And in some weird way, I feel like I owe it to Tennet.”
“Why?” I asked incredulously. “He was a monster. He treated you horribly. And was probably a sexual abuser!”
Logan just gave me a long look, then shrugged. “Maybe I’m just using this as an excuse to see you.”
“A phone call would have been a lot easier,” I said, achieving frost—finally.
He hung his head guiltily, then slowly reached his hand out to mine. Against my better judgment I took it, and he pulled me toward him. With his other hand he cupped the side of my face.
“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I’m kind of a jerk.”
“I think you intentionally try to be one,” I said, my heart pounding.
“Take my advice and tell me to get lost, pretty lady.”
�
��Okay…get lost.”
He nodded and turned his body away from me, but at the same time, he used his arm to pull me around to his front. I stiffened for a moment—it had been a very long time since I’d been intimate with anyone. As he kissed me deeply, I tried to let go and be in the moment.
But when I opened my eyes, I looked over his shoulder and saw another figure standing at a distance from us in the shadows. I was about to cry out and pull away when I heard the distinct click of a camera. The figure then receded back into the shadows.
Chapter 17
Eric Logan
As I ran my hand down her bare body, cupping her full breast, she sighed dreamily and pressed up against me. Then she almost immediately fell back asleep. I lay rigid for a moment. I hadn’t planned on this, and I needed to get out without her waking. I never liked playing the good-bye-will-you-call-me-later scene—and I especially didn’t want to play it with Valentina Doyle.
“Don’t mix work and play, Eric,” I’d said to myself. “Don’t do it, man.” But here I was. Deep down, I knew damned well this would turn out to be a huge mistake. But I guess I’d figured I would deal with the bill later.
I slowly inched my way out of the bed. Valentina stirred briefly but then went back under. As I pulled on my jeans, I looked down at her nightstand. It was covered with stuff usually found inside a purse: tissue, makeup, coins, and a few bottles of meds. I picked one up: clonazepam, better known as Klonopin, a tranquilizer that people use to deal with seizures or anxiety.
Huh…the same thing Tennet overdosed on.
I tiptoed out of the room and tried to recall which way down the dark hall led to the front of the house. We’d had more than a few drinks at the bar last night, and by the time I’d taken Valentina home, we were both pretty lit. I’d gone into the date with the intention of playing it cool and seeing what I could get on her. Instead, she’d bulldozed me with charm. The low-cut cocktail dress she’d worn had leveled whatever self-control I had.
As I passed the kitchen, the overhead light suddenly went on. I blinked and looked inside. Breelyn Doyle was standing there, her eyes wide at the sight of me.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped.
“Shh! Let me talk to you a sec,” I whispered as I flicked off the light. Even when confronted at dawn by the man who’d clearly just had sex with her mother, she looked phenomenally beautiful. Everything about her was so natural; her skin was so flawless it would have looked Photoshopped were it not for the slight scar just below her hairline.
“You need to tell people he didn’t kill himself!” she said, wide-eyed.
I reached out to take her arm, but in the dark my hand landed on her shoulder, almost at her neck. I meant it as a calming gesture, but I can only guess what it looked like when the lights flicked back on and Valentina stood there.
“Well, well…I don’t seem to know my lines for this scene,” she said with ice-cold fury. “Anyone care to give me a cue?”
“Hey, good morning,” I babbled. “We—I just ran into your daughter on my way out. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Why not?” she fumed. “Don’t I deserve at least a good-bye?”
I stepped forward and tried to look nonchalant; here I was with another angry woman on my hands. I was doing something very wrong lately.
“Sorry, Valentina. You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Then things have changed since last night,” she said, eyebrow raised.
It was uncomfortable to be playing this out in front of her daughter, who just stood there mutely between us. Suddenly, the front door swung open.
A muscle-bound guy with a bristly crew cut and a tanned, weathered face came in, key in hand. He looked up at the three of us, then zeroed in on me.
“Who the hell is this?” he demanded as he swung a glance at Breelyn.
“What business is it of yours?” Valentina asked as she brushed her hand lightly through her hair and, turning toward him, smiled coyly. In that single gesture her whole demeanor changed. She’d been almost shaking with anger a second ago; now she was radiating sex all over again.
“I get to know who my daughter is with at six o’clock in the morning, Val.”
Ah, the first husband, Gregg Doyle. Chronically out of work photographer, according to his ex-wife. He came toward me with a mean look in his eye. At the same time, he pushed his shirt aside so that I could see the pistol hooked into his belt. It was such a cheesy macho-dude move that I almost laughed out loud.
Valentina swiftly moved in front of me. “He happens to be my guest, Gregg. Which makes him very much none of your business. Even if it is your visitation day.”
Doyle frowned and glanced from his barely dressed wife to me to Breelyn.
“Nice example you’re setting, Val.”
“I try.” She giggled as she reached over and ran her fingers through my hair. Then she pulled my head toward her and locked her lips on mine for a brief but intense kiss. I was beyond startled—until I saw her next move.
Without letting go of me, she gazed up at her ex-husband with a taunting smile and, reaching out, ran her fingers along the gun on his hip.
“Now, put that away,” she murmured. “Before someone gets hurt…”
Doyle stared at her intensely, his face beet red with either anger or excitement or some trippy combination. These two clearly had an unusual dynamic. She seemed to enjoy pushing his buttons—and he seemed to love hating it. I wondered just how far she could go with him.
Valentina pushed off his chest, blew me a mock-kiss good-bye, and sauntered out of the room. Breelyn had already vanished.
Doyle turned to me. “You had your fun,” he said in a perfectly calm voice. “But I see you with my ex-wife or daughter again, I’ll kill you. Got that, bud?”
Chapter 18
Kayla Ross
“You know I don’t trust you, right?”
“Wise move. Never trust anyone in PR,” Logan said. “Or agents. Or producers. Always assume that people in the entertainment industry want something from you; that way you’ll always be a step ahead.”
We were having dinner at yet another incredibly swanky, exclusive restaurant. The menu didn’t even list the prices.
“Okay, so what is it you want from me?” I asked, trying to be playful but actually really wanting to know.
“Your trust, of course.” He made a silly evil face; he was maddening.
But then he reached across the table and, taking my hand, slowly brought it to his lips and kissed it. I couldn’t help it—I swooned. I’d never had a guy look at me with so much romance in his eyes.
“You weasely little shit.”
Startled, we both looked up. Standing next to our table was a very glammed-out Valentina Doyle in a sparkly dress and with her hair pulled up.
“You must be Eric’s ‘little sister,’” she said to me in a fake cheery tone. “And you’re in town on an unexpected business trip for just this one night. The very same night I had plans with Eric.”
I shot a look at Logan. His face had gone pale, but he was trying like hell to collect himself.
“Hey, Val! Um—I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said with a nervous glance at me.
“I really don’t see much of a family resemblance,” she said. “In fact, your sister looks a lot like a sleazy reporter who once tried to interview my daughter.”
I wished I could have said something witty back at her, but I was at a total loss as to what was happening. Logan and Valentina were dating? I felt like such a gullible idiot.
I stood up, almost knocking over the wine bottle on the table. I was near tears, but I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing them.
“Kayla, wait,” Logan got up and reached out for my arm.
“Kayla Ross,” Valentina said. “So she isn’t your sister after all. I’m relieved, Logan. I’d hate to think that this was you with a blood relation.”
She thrust her phone ou
t at us. On her screen was a gossip website featuring a blown-up photograph of Logan kissing me, from a few nights ago in the parking garage.
And I was looking right at the camera.
Logan stared at it in astonishment, then looked at me with suspicion.
“You knew about this?” he said accusingly.
I looked from pissed-off Logan to smirking Valentina, my mind whirling. Not knowing what else to do, I walked quickly to the back of the restaurant. My eyes flooded with tears, I barely found my way to the women’s bathroom, where I locked myself in a stall.
I don’t know how long I sat there crying. But after a while I got angry. This confirmed all my fears about opening up to a guy, a PR guy especially. And I hadn’t moved halfway across the country to get involved in a lot of over-the-top Hollywood drama. I came to become a legitimate news reporter.
I was done with Eric Logan.
When I finally came out of the bathroom, he was waiting for me.
“You should have told me about that photographer,” he said, but with no malice.
“Sorry. Stupid of me not to realize it might jeopardize your affair with Valentina Doyle!”
“Kayla, I am not having an affair with her,” he said, trying to keep his voice low. “We talked about this. I went out with her to see what I could find out.”
“She seems to have other ideas. Anyway, I really don’t care, Eric,” I said as he followed me to the front door. “And I figured the photographer was some kind of mistake. Why would anyone take our picture?”
He got in front of me and, taking me gently by the shoulders, looked deep into my eyes—but not romantically. This time more like a big brother.
“Kayla, please listen to me for just a minute. You’re in the media now. Not only are you on television, but when you found Tennet’s body you became part of that story,” he said. “Like it or not, you’re a celebrity yourself now. Privacy is a thing of the past.”
Kill and Tell Page 5
