Dirty Deeds

by Lauren Landish

  I pour myself a mug and make sure to keep my voice neutral. “Thank you. It was hard work so I’m glad it paid off.”

  She laughs, putting more meaning to words than I’d intended. “Oh, trust me, I do plenty of hard work for my stories too,” she says as she almost disgustingly slurps down a mouthful of coffee, hinting at her meaning. “It pays off in some ways more than others.”

  With a wink, Francesca refills and sashays to her desk. I shake my head as Maggie half chokes on her coffee as she finally gets the meaning. Leaning in closer, she stage-whispers. “Did she just mean . . .?”

  I smirk, giving Maggie a glance. “Of course. She’s totally been fucking Donnie to get the prime stories. Has been for months. Why do you think her reports are always from fancy parties, galas, and red carpet events? Hello, preferential treatment. You seriously didn’t know?”

  Maggie blushes a little and shrugs. “Well, I knew she was doing something to get Donnie’s attention, and the rumors are always flying. But she’s so casual about it, just throwing it out in conversation.”

  I grin, smacking Maggie’s arm. “You’re so cute when you go Dorothy Gale on me. Remember, hun, this ain’t Kansas. Besides, I can’t say I’m jealous. I’d rather work for my stories than get them by giving Donnie blow jobs under the desk. Can you imagine the dust bunnies under there? And eww on sucking his gross dick. I like my facials at the spa, thank you very much.”

  I half-feign a full-body shudder of disgust, and Maggie laughs. “Ew. Now I’ll have that image in my head all day. Thanks a lot, Elise. You suck!”

  I grin, blowing Maggie a kiss. “Well, in the right circumstances, yes, I do suck. Even been told I’m pretty good at it. But I think we’ve established that it’s not happening here.”

  I scan the room with a pointed finger. “Yup, not happening, not happening, not happening, and never, even if he was the last male on Earth and we needed to repopulate the species. So . . . what are you working on now?”

  Maggie laughs again, brightening my day. I love making Maggie laugh and blush. She’s so easy since she’s a bit innocent, and I’ve got no shame in my game and generally give zero fucks. “Nothing great. I’m currently looking into a senator who’s supposedly cheating on his wife. But I’ve been undercover as a copy-making volunteer in his office for two weeks and haven’t seen anything other than a man who works too many hours. Seems like a bust.”

  “Sorry about that. At least he’s not cheating. Hell, that alone would likely make me vote for him, considering the options lately.”

  Maggie grins, nodding. “Yup. He’s even polite. I’ve been wearing my cutest tight skirt and blouse whenever I go by, and he keeps looking in my eyes.”

  “Maybe you don’t have the equipment that entices him?” I ask, making Maggie laugh. “What? He wouldn’t be the first politician to reach across the aisle for entertainment.”

  “Nah,” Maggie says, smiling. Waving fingers at me, she walks off. “See you later, babe.”

  Refilling my coffee to the top, I head to my desk too but am sidetracked by Donnie’s yelling. “Elise! Get your ass in here!”

  Damn, you’d think a great prime story would at least get me twenty-four hours of peace, but apparently not. I consider saying as much as I sit in the chair across from Donnie, but when I see how red his face is, I decide to leave it be. Fuck it, I don’t need the headache. “What’s up?”

  Donnie’s in a pissed off mood for some reason. “You’ve got proof on the Perkins story?”

  I nod, confused but answering anyway. “Of course. Pics of him in the store, putting things in the shopping cart, including maxi pads in the hygiene aisle, and then again at the register for a close-up. Why?”

  Donnie sighs, running his fingers through his thinning, greasy hair, and again I’m reminded why I could never get to the top the way Francesca does. I might be a girl who enjoys sex, but I’ve got standards. Donnie ticks none of my boxes. “I just hung up with Perkins’ people. They want a retraction and correction.”

  My jaw drops open. It happens in our business from time to time, but it’s never happened to me. I’m too damn good at my job. “No way. I followed him legally, pics are in public places, thus legal, it’s obviously him, and I didn’t say anything that could be libel. It’s all true.”

  Donnie smiles, relieving me a little bit. “I know. That’s what I told the guy who called too, but I just wanted to check.”

  “I appreciate that you had my back,” I tell him honestly. Donnie’s a sleazeball, but he’s a dedicated sleaze. He won’t back down from a story he prints unless he has to, and that usually involves lawyers. “So, what now? We’re obviously not pulling the story, right?”

  Donnie shakes his head, reaching for the bowl of jellybeans he keeps on the corner of his desk and popping three into his mouth. “No, actually, when I told him that wasn’t going to happen, he had another idea that’s pretty interesting. He proposed a series of interviews, probably three or four at least—but maybe more—with Perkins himself.”

  Perkins himself? At the words, my pulse quickens. I can’t seem to keep my thoughts about him not tied up in how fucking sexy he is. “Really?”

  Donnie nods. “They’re doing some damage control and wanting to write their own narrative about his life. Control the narrative, you know?”

  “That sounds great!” I exclaim gleefully, and not totally professionally. “When do I meet with him?”

  Donnie laughs, almost like he’s amused I’d ask. “I’m thinking Frannie can take this one, Elise.”

  My jaw drops. Oh, hell no! Giving the best initial slots to Francesca because she’s giving you her slot? I get that . . . but to take a story from me? “Like hell! This is my story . . . a follow-up from my expose. It should go to me and you know it, Donnie.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, not liking that I questioned him, but I’m right. This is my story. A small piece of me wants to stamp my foot and yell Mine! but since that’s not likely to get me what I want, I quickly figure out a different tactic.

  “Donnie, look. This story should go to me, and I know you . . . appreciate Francesca’s work,” I choke out, almost gagging to have to say that, “but she’s going to be busy with red carpet events for the next two weeks when those new blockbusters come out. You know those comic book movies make big bucks and get big stars at the premieres.”

  Donnie makes a humming sound in the back of his throat, seemingly in no hurry to hand down his decision while I’m waiting on pins and needles. Do I need to bring up the fact that the whole office knows Francesca’s using her . . . assets to get ahead with head? Finally, Donnie speaks. “Okay. You can do it. Interviews with Perkins, and I want all the dirty details, ins and outs of his life, all of it. Can you do that?”

  I nod, relieved. “Of course!”

  Getting up to leave before Donnie changes his mind, I stop at the door when he calls my name. “Hey, Elise? Just FYI . . . Perkins is pissed as fuck for the story because everyone knows he’s majorly private. And he’ll know who you are from the byline. You might have six feet three inches of raging cowboy to deal with. Be ready. And get those secrets.”

  I nod, my mind focusing on the words inches and raging. “Yes, sir.”

  Keith

  “I can’t believe you think this is the best way to deal with this,” I growl at Todd through the small screen on my phone. He cringes slightly at the vehemence in my voice, even though he’s a thousand miles away and probably thanking the fates for inventing FaceTime. It’s not really his fault. It’s the upper management at the record label that decided on this hair-brained scheme. He just has to play the messenger, and he’s the only person available for me to take out my frustrations on.

  So I do, copiously. I need to hit the gym and relieve some of this stress. “Really? How is an interview going to make my life more private? Sing songs, play music, go the fuck home . . . that’s all I ask.”

  Todd sighs at the repeat of the mantra that’s been the driving force for
my career for the last few years. Yeah, I tour, but always in the summer when Carsen and Sarah can come along. During the school year, I play one-shot TV appearances or so-called “secret shows” where it’s marketed as a last-minute gig and usually stuffed with radio personalities and listeners who win tickets. It works for me because I’m usually only gone for a weekend before getting back home to Carsen and my quiet life.

  Todd calls it ‘keeping my name out there’ . . . like I need more promotion. I’ve got the career I’ve always dreamed of if the nosy paparazzi would just leave me the hell alone.

  “Do we need to do this when I can be there to wrangle you?” Todd asks, deciding to just say fuck it and ignore my protests. “Or can you do this on your own and not be an ass? This is happening, like it or not. The label’s already told the paper, and if you back out—”

  “Then the shit really hits the fan,” I growl. I’m this close to calling his bluff. What stops me is the fact that if I don’t talk to this paper, the label will, and not everyone there understands my need for privacy. “Fine, fuck it. I’ll be a fucking gentleman.”

  “Good,” Todd replies. “So make sure that you represent yourself in a way that won’t make the label folks shit their pants. Okay?”

  I sigh, feeling like a deflated balloon. “I’ll be fine. You know I can bullshit and be charming when I need to be. I get it . . . follow the party line. No woman in my life, obviously. Stick to promoting the new album and next tour. Nothing too personal.”

  Todd winces, and I can feel the other shoe about to drop. “Well, not exactly. We sold them on the idea that this is an all-access interview series, and—”

  I cut him off, nearly losing my shit again. “All-access? How the hell am I supposed to keep Carsen a secret if it’s fucking all-access?”

  Todd rolls his eyes. “As I was saying, we call it all-access because then it seems like you’re giving them everything, but then you corral them some. There are going to be personal questions. Answer them as honestly as possible without giving anything away that you want kept secret.”

  “And if they pry into areas that I don’t want to talk about?” I ask.

  “It’s called playing coy, for fuck’s sake. Every actress in Hollywood has been doing it since they invented film! You give a smile, a deceptive answer, and let your charm deflect. But by telling them and viewers that it’s you completely uncensored and open, they’ll hopefully quit asking questions. Especially when they see you’re just a nice guy who wants to keep to himself, living out his dream of country music.”

  I laugh. He’s got a few points. “That actually is true, so I think I can sell that. Okay, honest . . . to a point. Charming and genuine. Promote. That it?”

  Todd claps his hands together, satisfied. “I think that’s probably a tall enough order for today. You good? Really?”

  I take a big breath, trying to focus. “Yeah, Todd. I’m good. Thanks for talking me off the ledge. You know I hate attention like this already, and with Carsen, it’s hard to keep from freaking the fuck out.”

  Todd, who’s kept my secret well, nods. “I know, Keith. Everything you do is for Carsen and for the music. That always shines through, even when you’re being an ass. That’s why I’m still working with you.”

  I laugh. “Naw, that’s not it. You just like those platinum albums on your resume and my pretty-boy face.”

  Todd barks out a laugh, getting up from his chair. “Yeah, that’s it, of course. Your mug. Speaking of, you’d better get cleaned up. The reporter will be there at four. Dinner service arrives at six for you two to take a break, and then interview number one ends at eight. I’ll help you arrange a few things for steering, but if you think you’re good, I’ve got a decent trio that’s looking at becoming a bunch of solo acts.”

  “Why?” I ask as I run through a mental list of what I need to do . . . starting with locking Carsen’s room. Thank God she’s got her own bathroom.

  “Same shit as always. One thinks she’s better than the others . . .”

  “Damn. Good luck,” I reply, thinking about one thing. In four hours, a reporter will be asking me questions, digging into my past, my thoughts, and my heart.

  It sounds like hell.

  As soon as I hang up with Todd, I work like a madman, calling in for an emergency cleaning from my housekeeper as I scrub every trace of Carsen from the common areas. After that, I plaster a smile on my face and get dressed to kill, hoping that at least my country boy charm can carry me through some of this train wreck.

  When the doorbell rings promptly at four o’clock, I force myself to inhale deeply a few times, attempting to calm my nerves. The most important thing is that Carsen is over at Sarah’s for the night and I’ve got a plan in mind for an ‘all-access’ grand tour that goes nowhere near her room.

  You never know just how eagle-eyed and sneaky reporters can be. Carsen’s door is locked, so if the reporter checks it, she’ll probably think I’ve got some red room of pain hidden upstairs. But honestly, I’d be better with that than if she exposed Carsen.

  I open the door and am immediately struck stupid. The woman standing on my front doorstep is gorgeous. She’s tall and lean, but with curves in all the right places, barely contained in the slim-fitting dress she’s wearing.

  Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, fully exposing her high cheekbones and the graceful length of her neck. Her blue eyes hold a hint of amusement at my obvious freeze, and something tickles the back of my mind. She seems familiar, but I think I’d remember a woman this beautiful, even if I only glanced at her for a moment.

  “Mr. Perkins?” she says after a moment. “I’m Elise Warner from The Daily Spot. I’m here for the interview.”

  I nod, but I’m still checking her out, if I’m honest, blood rushing to my cock instead of my brain, so it takes a second for what she said to sink in.

  “Wait. Did you say Elise Warner? As in the reporter who started this whole clusterfuck in the first place?” I fume, and she nods. “Oh, fuck this.”

  Before I even think about it, I slam the door and walk off into the house. She should know to leave it alone, walk away and maybe send someone else. Someone I don’t want to crucify for fucking with my life. But does she?

  Of course not.

  Instead, she starts ringing my doorbell over and over like a damn five-year-old. Ring-ring, ring-ring.

  I snarl in frustration, turning around halfway down my hallway, and stalk back, yanking the door open. “What?”

  In her defense, she doesn’t look cowed by my grumpy assholeness, instead lifting her chin up defiantly. “You’re right, Mr. Perkins. I am the one who reported that you seem to have some interesting things happening in your life. That’s my job . . . to report on things our readers find interesting. And now it seems our jobs align. Mine to interview you and you to be interviewed . . . by me. Or perhaps there was some misunderstanding with your record label? Maybe you should call them? Or I could, if you’d rather.”

  I narrow my eyes, taking her measure. She’s bluffing, but somehow, she hit on the one thing I don’t want to do—call the label and tell them I’m not doing this. That happy bunch of assholes would probably just put out a fucking press release saying I’m off the market and probably start selling tickets to some fake engagement party they set up for PR. Instead, Todd’s voice echoes in my ear. Charm her, tell some stories, get on with life. I can do this. I can wrap her around my little finger, no problem. It’s gonna suck big hairy balls, but I can do this.

  “Fine. Come on in.”

  I leave the door standing open and walk to the living room, not even checking to see if she follows. But she does, of course, closing the door with a soft click, and then her wedge heels swish on the tile floor until quieted by the rug.

  She gestures to the chair opposite where I’ve claimed the expanse of couch, and I simply raise one eyebrow, but she takes it as permission and sits down daintily before taking out her phone, a small notebook, and a pink sparkly pen. Serio
usly?

  “Okay, Mr. Perkins, I’d like to go over my thoughts for the interview series first so we can make sure we’re on the same page. Is that okay?”

  She smiles like she’s trying to soothe an angry bear, and hell, I guess she kinda is. I lean back, letting my arm stretch out over the back of my couch, relaxing a bit.

  “Keith.”

  Elise, who’s checking her notes, looks up. “Excuse me?”

  I chuckle, rubbing at my head. “For the love of fuck, call me Keith. Not Mr. Perkins. That was my dad.”

  I see her mouth twitch a bit and she mouths, ‘for the love of fuck’ before shaking her head, seemingly amused at my random turn of phrase. Still, she blushes just slightly, and I find it . . . well, she looks even hotter now. “Okay, Keith. And please call me Elise. Does that sound like a plan?”

  I nod as graciously as I can muster, which is basically not at all. Hot or not, she’s in my private territory, and I’m doing my best to just be polite. “Sure.”

  “So, I’m thinking that you’re obviously an enigma and your fans want to know more about you, especially since you tend to shun the spotlight. That’s really rare in this day and age, when most stars can’t seem to hog the spotlight enough.”

  “I like having my privacy, that’s all. Always have.”

  Elise nods, leaning forward. “And I think a series of interviews will give us a nice peek into your life. I understand your point of view.”

  “Is that so?”

  Elise gives me a heartstopping smile, nodding. “I know you don’t believe me, but yes. So maybe a past, present, future setup or something more along the lines of your professional life and personal life mixed in with tidbits about your history in each? All in all, just a bigger, better picture of who you are. It’ll satisfy the fans and keep reporters like me, but with a lot less morals, off your doorstep. I’ll know about the structure as we see where the interviews naturally lead. Anything you want to add or that’s off limits?”