Dirty Deeds

by Lauren Landish

  Following at a distance, I grab a few things totally at random as cover while I try to scope out what he’s buying to see if there’s anything interesting that’ll tell me his secrets.

  Bread . . . boring, it’s not even fancy, just plain old wheat bread. Steaks . . . no surprise, although I wish I could afford a nice rib-eye every now and then. Speaking of USDA prime beef, God, I could take a bite of his biceps. Yummy. Milk . . . so 1990. Wait, not milk. He’s buying milks, two different kinds of milk . . . skim and whole, a half-gallon each. And the skim milk is that special type for people who are lactose intolerant.

  That’s unusual, right? I mean, if you drink milk, you’re not likely to go for two drastically different fat contents. Unless he cooks? Maybe the skim is to drink and the whole is to cook?

  Hmm, could be. But then, why the lactose intolerant one? I’ve tasted it myself, and no matter what the makers say, it’s crap compared to the real thing.

  I keep following as he walks . . . into the feminine hygiene aisle. Jackpot.

  Why would a notoriously single man, one whom women literally throw themselves at and are routinely rebuked, be buying tampons and pads? Because he’s not single anymore! The little news ticker in my brain rolls by . . . Hearts break all across America as Keith Perkins confirms he’s off the market, ladies. News at ten o’clock.

  He’s stockpiling his house. By the looks of the third box of goodies he tosses in the basket, he’s got damn-near a full medicine cabinet in there. I sneak another pic for proof and follow him up toward the front of the store.

  Choosing the line behind him, I consider maybe taking a chance to say something. It’s risky, but I might be able to tease some nugget of information out of the potential encounter. After setting his items on the conveyor belt, he looks at me.

  I smile my biggest, flirtiest smile, expecting him to see stars. This smile has gotten me into more private rooms, parties, and information trades than I could say . . . unless you’re paying.

  But from Keith, nothing. Not even a returned smile. His eyes slide over me and then back to the conveyor belt as he watches the little display show each item as it’s rung up.

  How rude!

  The whole encounter, Keith ignores me and barely speaks to the cashier. Most of the noise is grunts and mmm-hmms coming from him in response to the cashier’s chatter. She doesn’t seem to know who he is either. I get that we’re not in a country town, but do none of these people listen to country music? Or music period?

  You wouldn’t think he’d be able to take off his hat and be incognito, but apparently, he can. Clark Kent, eat your fucking heart out. He pays—cash, I notice—and grabs his bags, disappearing out the door in a hurry. Shit, did he make me?

  I pay for my mismatched bread, soda, and candy bar and hustle out behind him, wishing I hadn’t grabbed that bag of tater tots as part of my cover for going down the frozen food aisle because it wasted precious time telling the cashier I’d changed my mind about them. I’m so busy looking left and right down the sidewalk, trying to find his bald head above the crowd, that I don’t notice when he steps out right in front of me.

  His chest is like running into a brick wall, bouncing off a slab of iron hard muscle that barely gives. I cry out in surprise, more of a startled squeak really, but before I fall, he captures my arm in a tight grip. For a split second, we’re in tight proximity and I can feel the thrum of hot control resonating from him, and it makes me drunk. Suddenly, I’m aware of where my hand is, and it’s cupping something big, warm . . . and I bet it would get even bigger if I had a chance. I feel my face heat and am momentarily thankful for the caked-on makeup to hide the flush racing along my cheeks.

  The makeup can’t hide the shiver that rushes through my body though, straight to my core as I’m reminded once again how fucking sexy Keith is. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I finally squeak out in a voice that’s about an octave higher than I normally have. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  It isn’t until I’m finished that realization hits me, and I start praying this was accidental. The last thing I need is his figuring out that I’m part of the press and that I’ve been following him.

  Keith looks down at me, no small task considering I’m five seven in bare feet and usually feel part Amazon by the time I get high heels on. Even in running shoes, I can stand eye to eye with the average man.

  As I look up, though, I realize I could wear my highest heels and he’d still be taller than me, still be able to bend me over and fuck me senseless. God, every thought I have of this guy is about sex. Either I’m really that desperate to fuck, he’s that sexy, or both. Either way, I need a new vibrator. Hello, Amazon Prime, you are amazing. Two-Day shipping? Yes, please!

  Luckily, my traitorous eyes are covered in sunglasses so he can’t know what I’m thinking, but regardless of whether he can catch my vibe or not, he doesn’t seem impressed.

  “Well, maybe you should watch where you’re going then,” he half growls, steadying me for a moment. “This isn’t the sort of place for daydreaming.”

  Without another look, he strides off down the street. I stare at him, too shocked to even stammer a reply.

  What an asshole! I think for a split second before I realize that yeah, I was following him, but he didn’t know that for sure!

  A tiny thought jumps through my mind, reminding me how hard his body felt, how strong his grip on my arm was as he kept me from falling. And yes, the feeling of what’s inside his jeans, even if it was only for a microsecond. For a moment, I’m torn. Should I keep following him? Or now that he’s had eye-to-sunglass contact with me, would that be too suspicious? I decide the risk isn’t worth it. Besides, I think I have exactly what I need.

  There’s a woman in Keith’s life. It isn’t me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to tell the world about it.

  Get ready, Keith. Your dirty laundry is getting hung out to dry.

  Keith

  “What the fuck, Todd?” I explode into my phone as I do my damndest not to hurl my computer across the room to shatter into a million pieces against the wall. “Have you seen this shit?”

  Through the phone, I hear Todd, my manager, trying to placate me. “I know, Keith. And I’m sorry. I’m looking into it as quickly as I can.”

  Quickly? I’m paying Todd a lot of money to make sure this isn’t something that needs to be handled quickly. In this particular matter, I’ve made it clear that this should never be an issue. “Todd, the headline is ‘Keith, who’s the girl?’” I fume as I keep reading. “Fans want to know who’s captured the heart of the rogue country star. Why would they even think there’s a girl? I’m not dating anyone. Everyone knows that.”

  Todd sighs, and in my mind, I can see him now, sitting at his antique oak desk, the little vein in his left temple pulsing to his heartbeat. “That’s just it, man. Everyone knows you don’t date, and that’s . . . odd for a celebrity of your success. I tried to get you to do some image work . . . show up for a few awards shows with another star, but nooooo, you didn’t want to hear it. So people get curious.”

  I’ve heard all of this before, but I hate being fake. There are too many wannabes and fake ass people in this business for my liking as it is. I refuse to be one too.

  “Well, fuck everyone’s curiosity. My private life is my own. I sing songs, I make records, ones that have won some pretty sweet awards. I put on concerts, and we’ve done some damn good shows, I think. But that’s it, I’m not available for public comment on my private life. I don’t ask what they do with the life-sized posters I sign for them, and they don’t get to ask what I do in my home.”

  Todd clicks into business mode, no longer trying to appease me, beginning the same conversation we’ve had over and over again for all the years we’ve worked together. I didn’t hire him because he’s a friend but because he knows the damn business. “Keith, there’s nothing to be ashamed of here. You went grocery shopping and bought supplies for your daughter. Maybe it’s time yo
u tell the truth.”

  I inhale deeply, counting to ten before I let it out, willing it to calm me. It’s maybe only slightly successful. “We’ve talked about this. No. Carsen is only twelve years old, and I want her to have as normal a childhood as she possibly can. If people know about her, she’ll get hounded nonstop. She’ll need a security detail to go to school, for Christ’s sake, and never be able to grow up on her own. Never mind the fact that people are going to do some simple math and figure out that I fathered a child when I was still in high school. That’ll start a whole other heap of questions, ones I don’t want to fucking go into. The public isn’t entitled to know about her, to have an opinion on what she’s wearing or how I’m raising her, or fucking bring up her mother. No.”

  I can hear the resignation in Todd’s voice. We’ve had this argument too many times. “I know. And I understand. It’s gonna happen at some point, though. She can’t stay hidden forever.”

  I chuckle darkly. “The hell she can’t. If Hannah fucking Montana could pull it off for years, so can I.”

  Todd groans. “That was a fictional Disney show. And let’s face it, I doubt you want your daughter doing what Miley Cyrus is doing in the real world now.”

  “I know it’s fictional, dumbass. But I’ll make sure Carsen has her fairytale Disney ending. She deserves that.”

  “Fine, fine, I can see I’m getting nowhere with you,” Todd says, the exasperation with me obvious. His tone changes to one intended to be more placating. “Really, Keith . . . is Carsen okay after all of this?”

  “Some bitch reporter made my little girl’s first period into an expose about how I’ve supposedly got some new fucktoy. Ten million people now know what brand of fucking maxi pads I bought for her!” I growl, pissed off. “How do you think Carsen is doing?”

  I hear Todd gulp and have a little mercy on him. He’s kept my situation secret for nearly five years, a century in celebrity terms. “Sorry, man.”

  I shake my head, sighing. “No, it’s okay. She’s doing fine, mostly. She didn’t realize that the feminine shit was what brought up the questions. Thinks it’s just the usual speculation.”

  Todd hums, and I can hear the steel in his voice. He’s a damn good manager, a good man overall, really. “I’m gonna fix this. I’m not sure how, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Do your best. And do it fast, Todd.” I grunt as a goodbye before I hang up. As soon as I do, I realize Sarah, my older sister, is standing in the doorway and likely heard everything I just said.

  Sarah’s leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, her long brown hair hanging down nearly to her waist, the same color as mine if I didn’t keep my head shaved by choice. “Little rough on Todd there, weren’t you?”

  I can see the disapproving look in her eye, reminding me so much of Mom. We both got our height and physique from her, although thankfully, I inherited Dad’s wide shoulders, or else I’d look like a ripped string bean.

  “Not really,” I reply evenly. “It’s his job to handle things, to make sure nothing like this happens. But it did, so now he can fucking fix it. Fast.”

  Sarah sighs, giving me an amused eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just call me? I could’ve gone to the store and there wouldn’t have been an issue. You know, if I go buy maxi pads, nobody gives a shit.”

  I sigh, feeling trapped. On one hand, I know she’s right. On the other hand, every time I’d have to do it, I’d feel like the world’s shittiest father. It’s a no-win situation. “I know, Sarah. And you know how much I appreciate everything you do . . . for me and for Carsen. But I’m her dad, you know? She needed something, and it’s my job to provide it, so I went to the fucking grocery store. It shouldn’t have been a big deal.”

  I plop to the couch, elbows on my spread knees and my head hung low. It’s been hard, raising a little girl without her mother, no help from her grandparents, and only my big sister to turn to. I can’t even ask more from Sarah. She’s a beautiful young woman with her own life to live. It’d be unfair for me to demand she be even more of a surrogate mother to Carsen. And no matter what . . . “I just didn’t want to be a failure of a father.”

  Sarah sits beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder like she did when we were little and I had to turn to her for comfort in the bad times. “You take good care of her, Keith. No doubt to anyone who knows you two how much you love that little girl. She has everything she needs right here with you, but you don’t have to do it alone. I love that girl like she’s my own. Damn-near raised her right along with you, remember?”

  I place my hand on hers, patting it. “Thanks, Sarah. I know you love her, and I don’t know what we’d have done without you all these years, but I hate that something that should be simple, like getting groceries, just isn’t anymore.” I sigh. “Hell, maybe I need a break. Just step away from the spotlight for a few years until Carsen gets older?”

  Sarah shakes her head. “No chance in hell. You have worked your ass off to chase your dream, Keith. ‘All those years’ you’re talking about? I remember them too. I remember you working days at shitty job after shitty job before singing nights. I remember my working a full-time job and bringing Carsen to some seedy places to hear you sing when she was just a toddler. I remember you holding her to your chest with one hand, writing songs with the other while you hummed her to sleep at night.”

  I smile slightly, remembering those nights too. “She couldn’t sleep as a baby unless I was holding her.”

  “And she still loves you just as much,” Sarah reminds me. “So all that hard work? You made it, Keith. You got your dream, and you need to grab onto it with both hands and hang on tight for as long as the ride goes. Because you know what the rap god says.”

  I nod. Sarah’s always been more into hip hop than I am, but I know the lyrics. “When the run’s over, just admit it’s at an end.”

  “And in the meantime, get as much as you can out of it,” Sarah adds. “So yeah, it’s awkward right now, and the fact that something happened that is beyond your control is killing you . . .”

  I try to interrupt to disagree, but she talks over me. “Please, Keith. You’re the biggest control freak I’ve ever met. And this hit you out of left field and you don’t like it. But suck it up, buttercup. It’ll blow over, and trust Todd to make sure it does. In the meantime, you know you’ve got a moment, maybe two or three. Hang onto them and give you and your daughter the rest of a life together afterward.”

  I huff, knowing she’s right. “Fine. You’re right. As hard as I’ve worked to make a career singing, I’ll give it all up in a split second if it’s bad for Carsen though. You know that.”

  Sarah smiles, reaching up and rubbing my head like she used to when we were kids. “Of course you would. But look around you, Keith. She’s fine, goes to a great school, has great friends, lives in a gorgeous house like nothing we could’ve ever imagined when we were kids, and is happy.”

  I smile, looking around. You could probably fit our childhood home in just this room. Hell, this house has more bathrooms than we had rooms back then. We’ve definitely moved up in life since those days.

  “Thanks, Sarah,” I finally say, leaning back and relaxing some. “You know how to make things sound right.”

  She nods, and I’m struck by how far we’ve come, brother and sister against the world. Needing a lighter moment before those childhood memories take over my brain, I tease her a little. “You sound just like Mom.”

  She grins, sticking her tongue out at me. “Well, thank you. I’m choosing to take that as the compliment I’m sure you intended it to be.”

  I laugh, giving her a side hug. “Yeah, definitely a compliment, Sis.”

  Elise

  I can’t quite be sure, but it feels like I’m floating into work as I walk down the sidewalk. It’s only been two days . . . but what a two days. I knew that story was going to be hot. I was ecstatic when Donnie agreed to give me the top header with the biggest page square footage and a big byline on
our site’s homepage. I’ve already snapped screen grabs of it for posterity. It’s tabloid trash, but one day, those disguises and stalker skills are going to land me my dream job as a real investigative reporter.

  I’m not picky, obviously, considering what I’m doing now. But I would like to do more than tabloid celeb hunting. Still, it was some damn fine surveillance if I say so myself. Well, other than when I ran into Keith. That was some newbie shit there, but he didn’t seem to figure out I was a reporter, at least. If anything, he probably thought I was just a fan girl trying to get an autograph or maybe cop a feel . . . which I certainly remember, even if that was a tidbit I couldn’t publish in order to cover my ass.

  Wonder if he’s still trying to figure out who at the grocery store scoped him out for the expose?

  I pause for coffee, greeting my coworkers Maggie and Francesca as they linger around the pot waiting for refills. They look like a study in opposites. Maggie is tiny, a deceptively curvy blonde who rocks the nerdy-librarian look while maintaining an appearance much younger than her twenty-five years. She’s a little shy but a total sweetheart once you get past her armor.

  Meanwhile, Francesca is an exotic and willowy brunette who carries the practiced presence of her younger years in pageants. She never fails to mention she was second runner-up Miss Teen New Jersey. No wonder I detest the bitch sometimes.

  So they’re polar opposites in personality, with Maggie being more shy and reserved to Francesca’s extroverted cockiness, but coffee is the eternal common denominator.

  Francesca sips her coffee, toasting me slightly. “Congrats on the country singer story, Elise. Got everything you could want with that one.”

  The words are right, but there’s a cattiness to her tone that’s always there with her. She’s always a bit chilly with anyone she perceives as a threat and sometimes an outright bitch if she doesn’t get her way.