“The photos were doctored. How can you prove that some horny little shit in his parents’ basement in Connecticut didn’t just Photoshop their heads onto some random porn stars? You can’t, can you? Therefore, you’re just spitting vitriol into the ether, in hopes that some sex-starved moron will actually be dumb and desperate enough to believe you,” I say into the receiver of my office phone, while simultaneously tapping on the keys of my cell. Get rid of the original photos!!!! Wipe every fucking phone & computer NOW!
The journalist—which I say with sarcasm because no one at TMZ gives a fuck about journalism—snickers and pulls a trusted source out of his ass. I call his bluff, challenging him to reveal this close family friend that supposedly has proof. At that, he stammers an empty threat and I hang up on him.
I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the first pricks of a migraine creep into my temples. I really should’ve grabbed something to eat. God only knows how long I’ll be here at the office, which usually isn’t a problem, considering it’s my home away from home.
My office is fashioned much like my luxury high-rise condo. The walls are coated in a clean dove white, as is the upholstery, with just a touch of metallic color lent by stainless-steel accents. It’s modern, chic, and painfully orderly, yet somehow it exudes warmth. That could be attributed to the massive windows that make way for brilliant bursts of sunlight to peek through, and for me to indulge in a killer view of the city.
I love my life. However, on days like this, I have to constantly remind myself of that fact.
There’s a soft rap at my door and it opens before I can muster up an answer. I look up to see my assistant, Tamara (formerly Thomas, but that’s neither here nor there), sashay in with a small stack of papers. She juts out a narrow hip and rests it on the edge of my desk, before gazing down at me with pursed lips.
“Mmmm hmmm. Honey, I told you about working these long hours without taking a break. What happened to that yogurt and granola parfait I brought you?”
I arch a slender brow and flick my gaze to a side table a few feet away where my now warm yogurt and soggy granola begins to decompose. Tamara rolls her mink-lashed eyes.
“It is three in the afternoon. No wonder you ain’t but a tiny, little twig. Girl, that fine husband of yours wants to knock boots. Not knock bones. If he wanted little chicken wings, he would go to KFC, ok?”
She goes full on sista girl, complete with a neck roll and Z-formation snaps, leaving me in a fit of weak giggles. “Ok, ok. Have one of the interns run down to the deli on the corner and grab me a half turkey sandwich on rye and a banana. And someone needs to make a Starbucks run too.”
“Done. Now, after you get some food between them ribs of yours, People needs a comment on the Allison Elliot pregnancy rumors, Page Six wants you to verify some info that surfaced about a potential Destiny’s Child reunion album, Bravo needs an answer about you joining the cast of Real Housewives of NYC next season by the end of the week, and Caleb Berke had some documents delivered by messenger.”
She sets the hand written messages on my glass-topped desk, along with a standard-size manila envelope. I go for that one first. The first thing I notice is my company’s header. Then I realize what I’m looking at.
A contract.
Signed by Ransom Reed.
My trembling fingertips let the contract tumble from my grip and then float to the ground like paper parachutes. Tamara gives me a narrowed look before scurrying to pick them up as I sit wide-eyed and speechless.
He signed them. Ransom wants me to represent him. Even after what went down between us. I can’t deny that it is a complicated conflict of interest, but it’s not like I can explain the whys of that decision. And even if I did take him on as a client, how could we ever work together without it getting awkward?
Tamara finishes gathering the documents and leaves them in a neat stack on my desk. “Mmmm hmmm. Look at you. Too weak to hold a piece of damn paper. Let me go send someone before you pass out on me. I love you, girl, but I ain’t mouth-to-mouth resuscitating a goddamn thing.”
I shoot her a nervous smile as she walks away, fat-injected hips swaying. Then I look back down at that chicken scratched signature, running my fingers over the scrawled letters. Only two Rs are legible, but I can clearly make out his name. Why did he sign it? Because I slept with him? Suddenly, I’m pissed, and I pick up the phone to let someone know it.
“Caleb, what the fuck is this?” I spit out as soon as he answers.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking, Heidi. Now if you’re quite done being a rude bitch, might you elaborate on your dilemma?”
I huff out my frustration. What exactly had I meant to say when I called? “The contracts, Caleb. They’re signed.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, but, why did he sign them?” Shit. What if Caleb knows exactly what persuaded Ransom? My reputation would be as laughable as Shaquille O’Neal’s music career.
“Well, you went to the party. He got a chance to hang out with you, and he likes you. End of. Geez, Heidi, if this is your version of gratitude, you are in serious need of an attitude adjustment. Maybe that sex doctor of yours can teach you some manners.”
“Well, did he say anything?” I ask, ignoring his comments. He always manages to bring up Justice whenever we talk. Mostly because he’s hoping I’ll reveal that JD’s secretly gay and wants to bang him. I guess being delusional doesn’t interfere with Caleb’s work as a top entertainment agent.
“Nothing.” I can hear the shrug in his voice. “He said you were cool, and told me he’d sign. Fuck, Heidi don’t tell me you have a pitiful little crush on the kid, because that would be—”
I hang up on him. I’m actually surprised I didn’t do it sooner.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still looking at the contracts in disbelief, but I have nourishment to counteract the swarm of butterflies in my belly. I take a bite of banana and contemplate my next move.
I can do this. I’m a professional, goddammit. So what—tons of industry pros have slept with their clients. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last. And since he technically wasn’t my client then, I should feel zero guilt about this.
I hurriedly wrap up my meal, take a swig of caffeinated crack, and get down to what I’m good at—launching careers to the next level. The plan of action is simple. Ransom needs to be on every talk television show, promoting the album and the upcoming tour. We need to show that the guys are united and there are no signs of discord within the ranks. And while I don’t represent the rest of the band, I’m sure I can get them on board with this plan.
I shoot Caleb a text and tell him to send over Ransom’s schedule for the week so I can get a few appearances lined up. He replies with a smart-ass comment and a set of numbers that tilts my world off its axis.
Tell him yourself, bitch.
555-844-6730
I don’t call. But I save it under my contacts and assign it to RR. That’s all I need to see—those two little letters, and I know it will all come rushing back to me.
Chapter Nine
It’s Wednesday. And I’ve decided to put my big girl panties on and meet my newest client for lunch.
As unprofessional—and quite frankly punkish—of me as it is, I reach out to him by text, extending my invitation and relaying my intent. The text takes me nearly half an hour to generate, and another ten minutes to gain the nerve to just press fucking Send. He responds with two letters, five minutes later.