by Lee Winter
Lauren stared at him. He did not just insult her intelligence by educating her that her beat was actually lightweight crap? Like she didn’t live and breathe several layers of offensively shallow craptitude every night? For god’s sake.
And a tagline? In tiny seven-point? Saying Additional reporting by Lauren King like some insulting pat on the head? Not even a joint byline?
She gaped at him. “You’ve gotta be kidding!”
“No? Okay, well then, your choice. Now, I ’spose that’s everything. We’re done.” He gave her a dismissive wave and, without looking up, added, “One more thing. Get that crap video off our website. I won’t have one of my reporters looking like a clown even for the hits. And get it down before Harrington Jr. spots it and wants it on every news outlet in the state.” Frank glanced at his wall clock. “You’ve got ten minutes before he turns up for the meeting. If that ass Wolf puts up a fight because it’s trending or whatever crap he goes on about, tell him to take it up with me.”
He began to flick through his papers, effectively dismissing her. Lauren climbed to her feet, her cheeks flushed with anger. She took two steps toward the door, indignation now in full burn.
“Oh—and King…” Frank said and then paused as if confused.
Lauren barely turned, not trusting herself, and waited, hand on the door handle, clenching it tightly.
“What in the hell are you wearing?”
Chapter 2 –
That Way There Be Dragons
Saturday morning
Lauren was tired of staring at her bedroom ceiling. She’d been brooding for hours now. Well, two weeks if you wanted to get technical. Now it was D-day, and time to face whatever had been done to the story. Her story.
She’d started thinking of the grandstanding, credit-swallowing hack as Smug Daley. It seemed everywhere she’d turned in the office in the past two weeks, he could be found regaling someone with the genius of his corrupt parking officer story.
Just yesterday she’d seen him spouting his magnificence to a purse-lipped Ayers as she silently stirred her coffee in the office kitchen. She looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.
It was the last straw. The bastard hadn’t even had the good grace to look sheepish when he caught Lauren’s outraged expression. He just smirked and turned back to Ayers, only to find she’d already disappeared.
Lauren slid her bare feet to the worn, polished floorboards and grimaced as one met a balled-up sock and the other a gritty something. Hopefully just a dust bunny.
Note to self—clean some time before Christmas.
She headed to the bathroom. Once she’d finished her morning routine, she found herself staring into the rust-stained mirror. A wild-haired brunette with slightly puffy eyes stared back, and she couldn’t resist poking out her tongue. It still looked relatively healthy.
There was that at least.
She headed for the kitchen. It wasn’t a long trek—the entire apartment was small enough to swing a cat and give it a migraine when it hit every wall. She opened the fridge door. Oh.
Note to self—do shopping before scurvy sets in.
She sniffed at one blackened shape at the back and recoiled.
She rearranged her six beers, three bottled waters, and tub of margarine, searching hopefully until she came across a hard lump of cheese. Her fingers lingered over it, considering, before she rolled her eyes and moved on and then located a small protein bar that had come in a swag bag from a new active wear launch. She tried to remember when that had been. Eight months ago? Nine? She examined the wrapper dubiously. It’d do.
She grabbed it and a water and thunked them on her chipped white breakfast counter.
Right. Breakfast was served. She just needed her paper. Time to face D-day.
She hunted around for her flip-flops and trench coat to hide her sleepwear and then shuffled downstairs.
She skulked around a wall, avoiding anyone who might give her that judgy LA “Oh honey” fashion-disaster stare, and hunted the tiny front yard for her copy of the Daily Sentinel. She came up empty.
Goddammit.
Note to self—have the building’s paper thief found and killed.
Swearing, she mounted the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the peeling white paint in the stairwell. It was best not to linger, anyway. The not-cleaned-since-Elvis-died smell would get a person every time.
It was only when she reached the top of the second flight that she realized she hadn’t taken her keys with her. Lauren cursed herself and tested her door. It didn’t budge. A bit of good luck was too much to hope for, obviously. Now she had some major sucking up to do.
Lauren gingerly knocked on her neighbor’s lime-green door and prayed Joshua was in a mood to be accommodating. The young wannabe accessories designer had a rather…fluctuating…set of emotions to go with his eternally creative soul. And he was no morning person.
“Whoever you are, you’d better be dying, filthy rich, or a Calvin Klein model,” was announced through the wood before she heard the slide of a chain and the door swung open.
“Oh,” he pouted. “None of the above. I suppose I don’t have to ask why you’re here.”
He paused, distracted, and studied her outfit archly. “Really—how is it you write about the glitterati and yet have the style sensibility of a hillbilly bombed on moonshine? What is that outfit supposed to be anyway? Ode to a Floridian nanna?”
“The just-got-out-of-bed-looking-for-my-paper-but-some-bastard-stole-it look?”
Joshua harrumphed and turned, adjusting his silk crimson robe tighter against his lean, toned torso, and went in search of Lauren’s spare key. She had locked herself out five times in the past three months. It was getting old for both of them.
He returned and dangled it at nose level. “It comes with a price this time, my dishevelled peach.”
“Seriously?” Lauren reached for the key, only for it to be snatched away. “What do you want?”
“Isn’t the blockbuster Wolverine vs Predator premiere soon?” he purred.
She rolled her eyes. Joshua’s Hugh Jackman fanboy fetish was the worst-kept secret.
“Why ask if you already know?” Lauren made another quick grab for her key, which he deftly evaded.
“You’ll be needing a plus one,” Joshua grinned. “Besides I hear the designer Monique Hertford’s going. I have a new Joshua Bennett Original handbag that will be perfect for you to accidentally-on-purpose thrust in her line of sight when you’re on the red carpet. And since Monique and I are both going through our BeDazzling phase, this could be my big break.”
“Ugh, Josh, come on, I can’t think about this now. I just need a shower and to do my laundry and not think about work for five minutes. So gimme my key.”
“A night in the orbit of the dishy Aussie and my soon-to-be BFF designer to the stars—that’s the deal. Come on, I promise to be a dashing date. You know I will,” he said with a winning smile of perfect teeth he’d probably paid more for than her Chevy was worth.
There was a reason so many artistic types in LA were starving.
“I won’t even try to hit on anyone cute while your back is turned,” he continued, his brown eyes pleading. “And I’ll go secondhand threads shopping with you again to update your glad rags. You’re way overdue for a closet overhaul. So what do you say?”
“It’s still two months away—guest lists aren’t even firmed up ’til three weeks out,” Lauren reasoned. “I don’t get every VIP event invite; I don’t even know if I’ll be on that list.” She looked longingly at her key. “Come on, can we not make my getting into my apartment a hostage negotiation?”
She let a bit of steel in her voice, and he relented with a dramatic sigh.
“Fine.” He dropped the key in her hand. “But if I hear you took anyone else to that premiere, I will throw a spectacular tantrum.”
He inspected her once more and tapped his bottom lip with his index finger. “While we’re on the topic, if you ever want to update that frighteningly basic ’do, I know some friends who do hair for all the stars. The A-listers, the B-listers, the C-listers who blow the B-listers…”
“And by ‘update’ you mean go bottle blonde?” Lauren suggested. “Marilyn again? When will your fixation end?”
“Am I so predictable, dearheart?”
“Just you and everyone else in this town. No one appreciates the classics,” she said, running her fingers through her brown strands. “For all you know, Cedar Rapids chic could be the next big thing.”
“Such a lost cause.” Joshua tsked sadly. He leaned against his doorframe and watched her unlock her door.
“All right, I tried. Lord knows I did,” he added. “And seriously, sunshine, do remember me for that premiere. It’s exactly the place for a poor, struggling accessories designer to make his mark. Say the word, and I’ll be there with bells on. And that may or may not be merely a metaphor.”
He smiled so hopefully that she found herself laughing as she closed the door.
Ichiba Sushi, 1 p.m.
Lauren stretched out her legs under the table at Mariella Slater’s favorite sushi bar. She had agreed to this lunch catch-up a month ago, and if it had been anyone else, she’d have cried sick, stayed in bed, and pulled the covers over her head. But just not being in the mood didn’t fly because Mariella wasn’t just anyone. She was a publicist to LA’s top celebrities, and one of the few people who’d been exceptionally kind to Lauren in her early days on the job in Los Angeles.
Sure, it had been in Mariella’s best interests to pocket a new journalist, and that’s how their business relationship had started out. Of course they both knew that Mariella befriending Lauren meant she would be considerably more likely to cover the events and famous clients Mariella wanted shining in the spotlight.
But since the hard-headed publicist didn’t bother showing most newcomers how the LA circuit worked, Lauren had always considered it flattering that Mariella thought she was worth the effort.
Mariella was a woman of a certain age, contemplating her first face-lift—“talk me out of it, be a dear”—and married to a gentle, if not eternally dazed, government office worker whom Mariella adored. They had no children, and Lauren secretly suspected the extroverted redhead got some sort of maternal satisfaction in following her growth.
After many long lunches and galas spent together, these days they were good friends with professional benefits.
Lauren found it useful to get the inside track on the up-and-coming stars and people to watch. Mariella’s battered, black contact book was fatter than a phone book and bulged with business cards that plopped out like confetti when she flung it open too fast.
Little got past her about the underbelly and goings-on of her town, and there was no A-lister who didn’t know her on a first-name basis.
“All set for the big gala next week?” Mariella asked as she breezed in, flung her chunky bag onto the seat next to Lauren’s, and air-kissed her. Lauren leaned up reluctantly and subjected herself to the jolt of one of Elizabeth Taylor’s less stinky signature perfumes. Her nostrils flared with displeasure.
“Which one?” she asked as she reached for the mineral water she’d been nursing. “Aren’t they all big?”
“Which one?” Mariella replied in faux horror and slapped a hand over her heart. Red silk fluttered on her immaculate, in-season dress. Lauren peered at it for a second and tried to identify the label but gave up. She still failed to pick the designer more often than she succeeded. Mariella waved her hand. “Mine of course.”
Lauren looked at her blankly and tried to recall any recent invitation landing at work from Mariella. The publicist sighed and signalled for a waiter.
“Martini, extra dry, hold the olive,” she declared, barely taking her eye off Lauren. “SmartPay USA’s Californian launch? Any bells?”
Lauren shook her head, baffled.
“Oh come on, sweetie,” Mariella sighed. “Two state governors will be there. Admittedly, one’s from Nevada, but beggars can’t be choosers. But our very own gov will be there, too. He’s always good for a boozy quote or three when the drinks are flowing, which I know you reporters just love.” She laughed and paused expectantly.
Lauren gazed back at her at a complete loss. “Um…Mari, I have no memory of this event. No press kit, nothing. Never even heard of SmartPay USA.”
“Oh, you must know! The Nevada start-up company ‘revolutionizing the way we do business’?” Mariella prodded. “And I’m not saying that because I’m paid to. Well, okay, not just saying it for that reason.” She smiled, her wide scarlet lips turning up in amusement. “No? Nothing?”
Lauren frowned and shook her head.
Mariella sighed and ticked off a list with her fingers. “It’s the way of the future, California signed on and added all its government workers to the scheme, groundbreaking, stupendous, best thing since sliced bread, yada yada. Come on, sweetie, how can this possibly be news to you?”
Lauren shrugged helplessly, feeling a little stupid.
“Well, I can see I’m failing miserably at promoting it,” Mariella said with a dramatic huff. “Okay, hon, so the basics for you are that it’ll be A-list, top-tier VIPs on deck—governors, assorted lower-rung politicians, plus fancy, glammed up wives and girlfriends.
“There’s a lot of buzz about this thing going national, maybe even global—and that’s not spin. Now, now, I see that look, but I mean it. There’ll be a who’s who of business writers there, too. I’ll just,” she paused and rooted around a purple leather carryall the size of a small television, “re-send you the full media kit.”
She tapped furiously on her iPhone, then looked up brightly.
“Done. So naturally I expect you and that adorably frosty arch nemesis of yours to be front and center, notebooks out, and no whining about it being ‘boring’ or, god forbid, ‘some finance crap from Nevada.’”
Lauren chuckled at the directive. Mariella loved to instruct journalists that they had to attend her events and implied that failure to do so would be some form of social travesty, if not journalistic suicide. The irony was that adding a business angle to the story made Lauren far more eager to be there, not less. She knew that made her a rarity in these parts. She was about to say as much when Mariella’s martini arrived.
She took a long sip and exhaled in exaggerated relief. “Oh thank god, I can’t tell you how much I needed that. I swear handling those irksome boy band children who think they have talent is the worst. Concentrated sacks of hormones. I’ve been run off my feet all morning for one client—an impossible youth whose name I shall not speak…”
Lauren shot her a sympathetic grin and let her vent. It’s probably why Mariella liked her so much. None of their lunch chats ever wound up as blind items on celebrity gossip sites. They both knew without saying that this rant, like all the others in the past year, was off the record.
“Anyway,” Mariella continued as she ran a glossy red talon up her glass stem. “I caught the pre-pubescent dweeb lighting up a joint in the hotel bathroom when I ducked out to corral the world’s entertainment media in the outer room for his first press conference since The Incident.
“He didn’t even have the balls to admit he was high as a kite when I went to get him, despite reeking like a hippie’s glove box. He looked me straight in the eye and said it was his cologne. His cologne! The little monster doesn’t even shave yet.”
Lauren laughed. “Well, you could threaten to tell his mom on him.”
“Oh don’t think I didn’t think of that, but she’s the worst. Worse than him. For all I know, she supplied him with the weed. I swear, as long as he’s famous, she wouldn’t care if he was caught screwing a herd of goats.”
“Goats?” Lauren regarded her susp
iciously.
“Why yes,” Mariella said with a twinkle in her eye. “I did so enjoy that video. Everyone in my office did. How nice of Ms. Ayers to post the tell-all story for us.”
“Yes,” Lauren said, scowling. “How very thoughtful.”
Mariella chuckled. “Oh don’t be so pouty, sweetie! You’ll be laughing about this one in a few months. And never forget you’re just starting out. The whole world is at your feet. A few minor scandals like this make you more interesting, not less. Keep this up, and I finally might be able to find someone willing to go on a second date with you.”
“Not this again.” Lauren groaned. “No more blind dates! Five and all nightmares!”
“Were they really so traumatic? That last one, Natashyia, she seemed to be…”
“She was hitting on the director at the next table before we even got to the main course. And I swear she stole my watch. It was there when the salads came, gone by the coffee. And that fake accent? French, my ass! No more. I mean it, Mari. Seriously, if you keep this matchmaking up, I’m thinking of joining a nunnery.”
“Well, that’s one way to improve your dating pool,” Mariella agreed with a sage nod. “I hear The Sound of Music is very popular with you ladies who like the ladies.”
Lauren slowly banged her head on the table. “Oh god. You can shut up anytime now. Don’t make me regret telling you.”
“Fine. Okay, but now that I have your attention, lock in May 11th.” She looked at Lauren intently, instantly all business.
“May 11th?” Lauren lifted her head.
Mariella tapped the table impatiently. “The SmartPay USA launch. Two governors? Make a note or something. I really cannot believe you didn’t get the invitation. You should have gotten it last week. There were even balloons with it, attached to my fabulously compelling press release you are claiming ignorance on.”
“Oh right,” Lauren said vaguely and screwed up her face. “You’d think I’d remember something coming with balloons.”
